#crochet lace curtain

[onlinesweetheart]

<3

[continuitygrievances]

After a year and a half, it's finally done! A vintage pattern off Etsy, I was just looking for something to cover prying eyes but still let in enough light for my poor Christmas cactus. It's the smallest thread I've ever crocheted with and now that I'm back to testing a pattern on size 10, I kinda wanna go back to smaller lol. Maybe I'll find another pattern for like, size 30 thread or something. I did get a doily pattern book recently...

[torifoolery]

I'm terrible with plants and I don't even know what this one is (I think maybe my mom gave it to me?) but it's blooming and it's pink

[leclerckiss]

prince of monaco ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, est. relationship, suggestive content, alcohol, insinuation of nudity (bathing) but no explicit details or sexual activity.

a/n: i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

[jasmines-library]

hello darling🤭i live here now, hope you don’t mind🤭🙏

I was wondering if you would mind writing smth with the batfamily having a danish sibling, or maybe jason or dick having a gf who knits/crochets a lot, and then the gf shows up with personalised gifts for everyone?

this is oddly specific and you don’t have to do either but i’m addicted to your writing😞🙏

love, ur robin <3 !!!

Arts and Crafts

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Note: Hello my lovely! sorry this took a hot minute...I have so much in my inbox right now it's insane, but you guys are awesome. I hope this is okay, I tried my best with the Danish words, there aren't many of them and I also had to use online sources so I hope they're correct. Please tell me if they're wrong. I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 0.9k

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

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“Move out of the way!” Dick barged past his brother who was clearing up the room much too slowly for his liking. He took the pile of books out of Damian’s hands and began placing them back on the shelf, making sure that each of the spines lined up perfectly.

“Tt.” Damian rolled his eyes. “I really don’t think she's going to notice if the spines aren’t matched up, Grayson.”

“You don’t know that.” Dick practically snapped as he darted across the room to adjust the curtains for the fiftieth time that day. 

You were coming over for dinner, and Dick felt the need to make sure that everything was perfect. It's not like you hadn’t met his family before. In fact, you often asked after his brothers and had spent countless hours chatting away to them over a good book or a movie. However this was the first time you had been around: you had caught a rather nasty cold and so had decided to stay home. But, being the perfectionist he is, Dick felt the need to make everything perfect for you. It was overkill in Damian’s opinion, but he just shrugged and let him get on with it. 

The doorbell rang and was shortly followed by the sound of Dick’s shoes against the wooden floorboards as he raced to beat Alfred to open it. When he did open it he was greeted by the sight of you smiling. You were bundled up in a coat and a scarf that covered the lower half of your face as you sheltered from the biting cold, but as you gazed up at him, he could see the corners of your lips turned up in one of your smiles that he loved dearly. 

"Min elskede.” You greeted him as he removed and hung up your coat as you unwound your scarf to hand beside it. 

“Hi my lovely.” He placed a kiss on your forehead softly. “What’s all that?” He asked, gesturing to the neatly wrapped gift parcels that were poking out of your bag.

“Gifts.” 

Dick turned it head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrugged, picking up the bag with one hand and lacing the fingers on your other with Dicks. “I know, but I wanted to. Besides, I had plenty of time to do it.”

He kissed you again as he led you into the living room. “You’re too good for me.”

“Y/N!” Tim called out from across the room, standing up to hug you. He had grown rather fond of you. “How have you been? It’s so nice to see you again. I was beginning to think that Dick was going to go mad if he had to go another day without constantly seeing your face.”

“Hej, Tim. It’s good to see you too.” You chuckled.

Deciding to take a seat next to Dick after he informed you that dinner would be a little wait, you settled the bag between your legs, propping it up with your feet so that it didn’t fall over. At your arrival, the rest of the Wayne’s slowly made their way to the living room to catch up.

You pulled out the first gift from the pile. It was oddly shaped, wrapped in brown paper and adorned with a silk ribbon tied into a large bow. The gifts caught the boy’s eyes and they leaned closer as you handed them out: First to Damian, then Jason, Dick and Tim. You even had one for Bruce and Alfred, who were both out of the room for the moment, so you made a mental note to make sure you gave them theirs later. 

Damian tore into his first, peeling away the paper to reveal a black scarf, neatly stitched together with rows of red and green in interlocking loops. He unravelled it to reveal its full length and grinned at the delicate handiwork. 

“You made this?!” Damian exclaimed, turning it over in his hands. 

“Yep.” You hummed “I hope you like it.”

“I love it!” He ran over to embrace you in a hug.

Then came Jason who pulled out a red beanie you had crocheted, and Tim who you had crocheted a pair of fingerless gloves and a sleeve for his coffee cup to keep it warm. They were also both very appreciative and their smiles warmed your heart. 

Finally, Dick took time and care to untie the ribbon and peel open the wrapping paper. Inside was a black jumper that you had crocheted for him, on the top was his nightwing logo which you had surface crochet on the top of it. Along the sleeves, you had also added a strip of blue to add a pop of colour. You had been working on it for a little while now and had had a hard job trying to hide it from him whenever he came over. 

“You made this for me?” He asked.

“Of course.” You nodded. “I hope it fits-”

“It’s perfect.” he told you, slipping it on. It fit like a glove. “You didn’t need to do this, Y/n/n… you’ve outdone yourself.” he tugged you to his side tightly. 

“I’m so glad you like them.”

“We love anything you make. They’re amazing.”

“Tak.” You smiled, settling into his side, savouring the feeling of the soft wool against your cheek. He held you close, not quite believing how he had come so lucky to have a girlfriend quite like you.

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BATFAM TAGS

@aestheticdaisies @hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff

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[simlicious]

I've actually been really inspired and productive thanks to your numerous suggestions. Here are some screenshots of them! I made some thick cozy fleece blankets, a crochet blanket, a quilted star blanket, a plush/fur pattern, then a few allover florals, several clothing fabrics (striped jersey, eyelet lace stripe, textured synthetic fabric, and twill), a soft cord pattern that is also great for rugs or blankets, a diamond weave wool pattern (used as wallpaper), and the colorful carpet pattern I used in the screenshot with the crochet pattern. The lace ruffle curtain fabric is older but I think I have never shown it before. Those who made suggestions, I hope some of these meet your expectations :) of course, everything can be recolored as always.

This is just the stuff from the last few days, I was really super productive! I don't know if I can keep this up but I'm happily taking the creative streak and will continue as long as it allows and I have several suggestions and ideas yet to make 🙂

[treemaidengeek]

you've probably seen this zigzag trim called ricrac/ rick rack, especially if you do craft supply thrifting or work with vintage materials (or grew up between the 1950s & 1980s).

(image from a 2022-23 article touting a rick rack revival)

✨️🧵🪡 Did you know rick rack was invented in the 1860s? 🧵🪡✨️

First known as “waved crochet braid” (catchy huh?), rick rack first appeared in the 1860’s but didn’t take on its modern form or name until around 1880. During the 1890’s rick rack sewing trim was imported for use by American sewists as a decorative edging for dresses, aprons, and lingerie. It was also incorporated into lace and then used to decorate curtains, bedding, and other home linens.

After a brief slump in popularity, rick rack ribbon once again came into vogue during the 1910’s when American manufacturers began to produce it. One of these was William E. Wright & Sons, which was founded in Massachusetts in 1897.

Cotton rick rack was in high demand from the 1930’s through the 1950’s when home sewists were upcycling cotton sacks used to pack commodities such as flour, cornmeal, and livestock feed to make dish towels, aprons, and clothing for their families. Wrights rick rack was prized because it was durable; it would tolerate rigorous laundering. The many choices of Wrights rick rack colors complimented the bright flour sack prints. Adding a bit of rick rack helped alleviate the stigma of having to use the feed sack fabric that was available.

After another lull during the 1960’s, rick rack experienced a resurgence of popularity during the 1970’s thanks to Laura Ingalls’ influence. But rick rack hasn’t ever really gone out of style, and it is available in a rainbow of currently popular colors.

(Missouri Star Quilt Co. on Wright's Rick Rack)

more interesting details on early-20th-C history, from Wikipedia...

During the 1910s, rickrack experienced a resurgence in popularity, and American manufacturers began producing rickrack to supply to the domestic market. Among other uses, this rickrack was incorporated into crocheted lace. Books of designs, such as Nufashond Rick Rack Book, helped to popularize the craft.

In rural America in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, rickrack was used to decorate feed sack dresses. These dresses were worn as everyday attire, and were constructed from the large cotton bags that flour, chicken feed, and other goods were shipped in. Since the food had to be shipped in fabric bags anyway, the flour mills competed with each other by using attractive, colorful fabrics that the buyer could either resell or upcycle into dresses, aprons, nightgowns, dishtowels, and other clothing and household items. Adding trim like rickrack was a way to reduce the stigma around needing to use whatever fabric was available, rather than buying it from a store.

I fell down this rabbit hole when I saw Anna wearing this hat in the early 1920s of Downton Abbey s3:

though on closer examination I see that her hatband accent is not actually ricrac, but rather velvet ribbon woven into a ricrac-style zizag pattern. given Downton's notorious attention to historical set & costume detail, & ricrac's contemporary popularity, I wonder if more "fine family" types & their staff picked up the visual trend in higher quality materials. Very cool!

[fennopunk]

Okay, here's the "traditional" post for

What I'm planning for Solarpunk Aesthetic Week (and def won't do all of them):

I'm spending the entire week in the middle of nowhere, without most of my supplies, so that kinda threws most of what I had in mind out of the window

LOT'S OF CROCHETING! I'm making a pocket belt, working on my backpack and cardigan and possibly some other stuff like a curtain 👀

Might start knitting another set of mismatched knit socks, this one ankle length

I still want to learn how to weave my own shoelaces, so more rigid heddle weaving! Also I want to make a small heddle to use when my first one is too big, but that is a massive maybe. Might also crochet some laces

I want to learn to identify all edible and medicinal plants at the cottage, so I'll start on that

Some gardening will happen whether I want or not :P

Ginger syrup for Midsummer Eve👀

Wild salad!

And flower/herb butter!

[sweaterkittensahoy]

How various Masters of the Air characters crochet, the list no one asked for:

Ken: Makes everything out of twine because no one cares if it gets smudged. Half the containers holding small hardware is little buckets he's made. He also makes standing mats so the boys get some sort of foot cushioning when they work. He swaps squares the size of the farm ladies's dining chairs for their pretty lace work, which he passes over to the fellas to send their girls. The boys pay him in cigarettes. He swaps the cigarettes for sweets when he goes into town, keeps a couple of pieces for himself and just happens to have a couple of pieces every few times he sees the kids around.

Robert: Technically proficient but makes him sleepy.

Bucky: Always trying a new technique. Cannot be trusted not to jab you with a hook if you're sitting next to him. Will say "Hold your hands like this" to Buck and use him as a yarn swift.

Buck: Tiny thread master. Makes very intricate doilies and curtains because he will be the best goddamnit.

Curt: He will make a granny square. Then another granny square. Then more granny squares. Other motifs, too. Never joins them. Just has piles of them everywhere.

Dickie: Is the only reason Curt's motifs are ever turned into blankets or bags or anything else. Can crochet but prefers the putting together part of it all.

Hambone: Fastest stitcher of the entire 100th. Will shout at you if you try to talk to him while he's counting.

Brady: Hats. Nothing but hats. Doesn't give a shit to make anything else. Everyone has a Brady hat.

Everett: Sweater expert. Made matching flying sweaters from him and Douglass.

Douglass: Great at socks. Made socks to match the sweaters.

Jack: Scarves and fingerless gloves. He likes matching stitch patterns. He's pretty sure he can find a good stitch pattern for each fella in his command. He's right.

Chick: Every chair set in his office (and there are several styles) were made by him. Filet crochet King.

Harry: Edgings because he can't concentrate for more than five minutes at a time without thinking about four other things. Towel edgings are perfect.

Bubbles: Blanket King. Coziest field hospital in the whole Air Army thanks to him.

Demarco: Toys for the kids (and Meatball). Comes up with a Meatball plushie on the fly, and then all the kids want one.

[c-l-y-d-e]

The crochet adventures continue:

I've been making do with a grand total of three hook sizes (3.5, 5, 10). Already feeling a bit limited by these options but not wanting to let my new hobby spiral out of control by buying excessive new shit, I called up my mom and asked if she had any crochet hooks kicking around. She is exclusively a knitter, but also a borderline hoarder, so no surprise when she said YES. She has all my nanna's old hooks (plus others that she's accumulated over the years, still unopened with prices like 35 cents):

RIGHT. I was not prepared. I remember watching nanna crochet extravagantly delicate doilies and napkins (and curtains, and tableclothes...) when I was little, but seeing anew all those minuscule hooks for lacework has me reeling. LACE. by HAND. I have a newfound appreciation for the skill involved (and patience? and irrepressible strength and conviction to preserve ones sanity?) that cannot be understated.

(though I'm intrigued by the idea I left the tiny lace hooks and took only biggest hooks there were to bolster my collection - I now have a full range of 2.5 to 6mm hooks!)

[leviiackrman]

TAG CATCH UP: PERSONAL PICREW, QUESTIONS + URL SONGS;

Heyyooooo I’m back (even tho I never left) but these illnesses have been kicking my ass and I FINALLY feel better! I’ve been tagged in a bunch of fun games recently that I’ve been neglecting, but thank you so much to everyone who tagged me! Have an oversized post to suit my oversized fashion taste tehe

Tagged by: URL Tag: @rolangf @carrionsflower @timdownie @thedeadthree || Questions 1: @rosenfey || Questions 2 + Picrew: @binatalia

Tagging: @bbrocklesnar @risingsh0t @statichvm @marivenah @confidentandgood @unholymilf @florbelles @simonxriley @shellibisshe @roofgeese @aezyrraeshh @faerune @tekehu @arklay @jackiesarch @minaharkers @captmactavish @carlosoliveiraa @queennymeria @shadowglens @nightbloodbix @riikugan @heroofpenamstan @fenharel @alexxmason @malefiicarum @gearvmac @gwynbleidd @delzinrowe + @binickmiller

|| hair colour is not accurate cus I’m a brunette but I bleached it recently so it’s a lot warmer than this! Wolf cut going strong tho and not this long but anyway ||

L: Liar Liar - Dylan, Bastille

E: ERA - The Faim

V: Vampire Disco - Friday Pilots Club

I: IDK How to Talk to Girls - Beth McCarthy

I: I Don’t Like You..OK - The Hunna, Kelsey Karter & The Heroines

A: AmEN! - Bring me the Horizon, Lil Uzi Vert, Daryl Palumbo

C: Conquer - Marshmello, Space Laces

K: Kick Back - Kenshi Yonezu

R: Rise (Redux) - The World Alive, League of Legends

M: Make it Out Alive - ONE OK ROCK

A: Animals - Nickelback

N: Not Alone - New Rules

last song: Stormy Weather - Kings of Leon (my saved songs was playing while doing my chores lmao)

currently watching: I’m FINALLY watching American Horror Story (after my bestie pestered me for years aha) and I LOVE it!! I’m also watching The Kardashians cus it’s good background noise when I’m working lmao, and on going critical role etc

3 ships: I’m gonna choose 3 of my oc ships cus brain no function: Margot x Levi, Rin x Dabi + Mineyo x Rin

favourite colour: mustard yellow! Just such a pretty colour and so cheerful!

currently consuming: the daggerheart one shot hehehehe! So now I’m planning ideas for a daggerheart oc for when me and my sister make our characters!

first ship: anakin x padme…. forever a precious ship to me

place of birth: South England, UK

current location: 30 mins from my birth place lmao, I’ve moved a lot tho

relationship status: single pringle as always but my brain clearly is pining cus I keep having dreams about having a partner…

last movie: oh daymn… uhhh idk I don’t really watch films anymore! I think it was Suzume!

currently working on: oh BOY so many things! I’m making the invites, seating plan, table decorations and other bits for my sisters wedding, I also need to make a curtain for our stair window cus it freaks my dad out lmao, more crochet designs for my Etsy shop (critical role characters and Disney princesses are in progress), timelines for my ocs which is taking FOREVER cus i ain’t no writer, more drawings for my ocs, my oc publication, MULTIPLE ideas for oc art and just never ending odd projects cus i CANT. STOP. OH and all the planning for mummas fundraiser/birthday! So it’s a lot aha

are you named after anyone? Not my first name, but my dad went to a garden centre the day my sister was born and chose 2 flowers for our middle names, so she’s Molly Jasmine and I’m Jessica Rose!

when was the last you cried? Uhhh idk I cry a lot, half the time I don’t even realise I am. Probably on the weekend when I was feeling shit

do you have kids? AHAHAHA no. I have 0 intention of having my own children but whenever I’m financially stable (and potentially with someone) I wanna adopt/foster as many kids as I can!

what sports do you play/have you played? When I was younger I played football, hate it now. I play games at work with the kids a lot but nothing legit

do you use sarcasm? I’m British. So what do you think?

what is the first thing you notice about people? Their eyes and smiles! I can tell when someone isn’t smiling genuinely tbh

what is your eye color? Hazel but got a lot of green in them

scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies. That way I can create my own happy endings while enjoying the carnage hehe

any talents? I don’t really believe in ‘talents’, I prefer to think that anyone can CREATE a talent through practice and dedication. I guess you could say my art skills are a talent, but again I practiced for my whole life so it’s not really a talent more than determination. I can also cook decently, dance/sing okay, but they’re not talents to me, just passions

where were you born? The shit hole called England.

what are your hobbies? Oh FUCK I have way too many… drawing, crocheting, editing, writing, reading, watching anime, creating characters + content, puzzles, painting, diamond painting, organising and SO MANY MORE

do you have any pets? I doooo! I have 1 doggo named Harley and she is my pride and joy, I love her sm

how tall are you? 5 foot 11 and a half, so I just say 6 foot

favorite subject in school? Art, history, dance, drama and IT

dream job? Freelance artist or concept artists. Tho the latter is less likely nowadays cus yknow… everything is fucked from AI…

[halljavalge]

Source: pinterest.com

ℍ𝐚𝓵ｌ נ𝐀 𝔳คĻǤẸ

[taylalauren]

NANNIE.

When I was little, I dressed up as a witch for halloween. What they don’t tell you when you’re that small, is that magic isn’t real - spells and potions are just mess you’ll get in trouble for making in the kitchen and pointy hats don’t suit your face shape. Luckily for me, I didn’t get much bigger. Magic could still be found in my mind. 

There’s one spell I frequented that I think you might like, I’ll share it with you today. A time travelling charm. The only catch is, there’s only one person I’ve ever dared to locate, only one place in time I could ever go.

To begin, close your eyes, take a deep breath and then combine the following:

Black tea, two equals with a small pour of milk from a glass jug covered in geese wearing bowties. 

Fabric scraps, sewing pins pulled from between lips. 

Burnt rissoles, deconstructed salad on a plate, freshly made biscuits.

Brown fuzzy carpet, lace curtains and green vinyl furniture - the kind that sticks to your legs when you try to stand. 

Flowers from the garden, wrapped in damp paper-towel and alfoil. Windchimes, morning dew, Heritage calendars and ticking clocks. 

Kerosine fires, crocheted blankets, and brown lounges. 

Swarovski crystal, electric blankets, and newspaper clippings from between glass. 

Combine these well with a warm washcloth for your eyes in the morning. 

When I’m here there’s a few things I like to do. In the morning I get up early and tiptoe down the hall, careful not to trigger the booby-trapped creaky floor before her bedroom door, and crawl up into her bed. She wraps her arms around me and tells me to go back to sleep. In later years, I wake up in our bedroom and peek around the corner to find her in the kitchen flattening out the morning paper, drinking her first tea of the day with a bowl of porridge. Sometimes I even visit the arguments over finishing her puzzles with Ashlee in Take 5 while Mum gets updated on the news of the week over whatever baked goods were stored in the shelves behind her. But more often than ever, I simply sit in the sewing room by her feet pulling scraps of fabric from the bin for my dolls, and just watch her work. If the distance in my spells become troublesome, I call her number and hear her voice with that same three tone chime of ‘hello’, and I let her talk until she has to let me go. 

I’m afraid to tell you my spell may be counterfeit, that the illusion is only temporary. When I was locked up for processing in the early hours of the morning, my one phone call made me grow up. The magic in my mind faded with time, and I can’t go back to her anymore. In my bargaining, I’ve borrowed and stolen little trinkets, talismans and enchantments that once belonged to her, twisting the broken spell to bring her with me instead. I wrap them around me every day and it’s just like travelling through time. 

[palmofafreezinghand]

under the apple trees

Charles Evenson searches for his wife in 1920 and finds something haunting under the apple trees, or Charles thinks he killed his wife. on ao3 here. content warnings: references to domestic violence, sexual assault, burying alive, murder, and alcohol abuse.

June 16, 1920.

Charles Evenson awoke to the feeling of an ice pick piercing his skull. The sip of bootlegged whiskey he presumed to be water, had last night’s dinner threatening to make itself known. As the wrinkles in his face deepened — making him look like his father more each passing day — his tolerance for the drink that once sustained his youth deteriorated. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, tripping over his own feet as he squinted to avoid the rising sun peeking through the blinds. He had asked his wife to replace the flimsy lace curtains to something more substantial. She refused, whining she had spent hours crocheting them while he was away. He didn’t have the energy to fight her. 

The bathroom door was closed, a sliver of light telling him his wife was holed up in there, again. The same sight and pain in his head had greeted him the morning prior, and the one before that. 

Naively he had presumed she was avoiding him, throwing one of her hysteric fits after a disagreement. The memory of their fight had evaded him, the cause long forgotten. What remained was dried blood caked to his knuckles, pools of rust-colored stains on their bedsheets, and a knife lodged in the kitchen countertop. 

That morning, unlike the two previously, he twisted the doorknob. His shoulders straightened, preparing for one of their early morning fights. It was a habit of theirs. The oak door creaked open to reveal an empty room. 

“Hello?” He muttered. The only response he received was the flicker of the overhead light. 

The impending disagreement escalated. He let the anger simmer as he went about his routine; using the restroom, showering, cooking himself a breakfast he burned, smoking a cigarette without opening a window. 

He half-heartedly searched the rest of the house, paying closer attention to her typical hiding places. She was nowhere to be found. The impending battle jumped another pitch, his nails dug into his palm. 

She had insisted on publicly embarrassing him before. Less than a month into marriage, after she had pushed him too far, she had run off to her parents. A weekend with her cousin for Christmas had turned into a week. He was forced to traipse all the way out to Milwaukee. He refused to acknowledge how exhilarating those fights had been. The hours spent sitting in ugly silence as a train engine chugged along, a tea kettle at a near boiling point for an uncomfortable, unnatural amount of time until the kettle nearly exploded. A shrill scream as a room was drowned in blinding steam. 

A thrill ran down his spine as he began to think of the hunt. It was cut abruptly by the realization she may not be hiding but hidden.      

———————   

He pulled his automobile off the dirt farm road, parking in between dense rows of fruit trees he knew well. Despite its density, Charles knew the orchard had not turned a profit in nearly a decade. The peaches were never quite sweet enough, the apples never red enough, the plums too tart. 

The Platt’s grove had made a brilliant hiding place for Charles over the years. In the few months they courted, they had secretly met in the orchard a handful of times, away from her mother’s grating inquisitiveness. 

Once they were married, many months in, he had met another woman among the trees. One less stubborn, who did not pester, a woman whose name he could not, nor cared to, remember. He had met a half dozen forgettable women thereafter. 

A little over a year into their marriage, in the middle of the night he had raced to the grove. His wife wrapped in a bed sheet lying lifeless on the back bench seat. Frantically he had dug a grave under the apple trees, under the light of his headlights and the full moon. Four scoops of dirt had been thrown into the shallow grave —  making a point to cover her face first — when she screamed. He helped her out, and they went home and never spoke again. 

Less than a month later, after one particularly loud argument, he snuck back onto the property, spending most of the night digging the small hole into a proper grave. He covered the grave with a board and leaves, telling himself it was a precaution. He would never need it.  

When he returned from the front the times he thought he would need it were countless — countless fights and snide remarks — but he had never used it, at least not as a grave. An occasional barrel from his friends in New Straitsville had been stored in the hole to avoid his wife’s nagging. 

The engine shut off as he stepped out of the car, scanning the night. It smelled like rain and wet soil. The cicadas screamed, a deafening incessant buzz. 

He looked for the heart he had carved in the trunk of an old apple tree; hoping if someone ever discovered the symbol they would suspect adolescent antics, not a morbid gravestone. The trunks looked as if they went on for miles, rows, and rows of evenly spaced trees taunting him. 

He walked further into the grove, twigs crunching under his boots, his step quickening. The sun was almost done rising, the old farmer was undoubtedly moving about his routine, unaware of the potential disaster lurking in his yard. 

Charles could foresee one of the old hounds digging up the grave, dropping her femur at the front door. He shook his head violently, the ice pick returning to its familiar place in his skull. 

She was hiding, throwing a fit, mocking him. She was not buried hundreds of feet from her childhood home at the hands of her husband. 

His search was a precaution, he would not kill his wife. 

The boy’s face flickered across his mind. He shook his head. That was different, war. His life had been on the line, anyone would have done that. 

He was not evil. His wife’s screams echoed in his brain, her pleading, the words ‘no, God no,’ beat in his brain like a pulse. The blood, hers, under his nails, on his knuckles, the bruise on his forearm. Disagreements, like any other married couple. 

They had disagreements, but it wasn’t the only thing they had. The happy moments. Summer evenings were spent watching the neighborhood as they sat on the porch swing, nursing a drink. The feast she had cooked when he returned home after sixteen months. The taste of apple pie, the promise he made to do better, her genuine smile. The first time he had brought her to his house, she had prattled on about decorations and Christmas stockings. The moment they learned she was expecting, and every moment after, the bump, the kicks, the nursery that would never be used. 

The light of his lantern fell on a mound of fresh dirt, five feet long, and three feet wide. Shit. Shit. Shit.

No. 

She was not dead. 

He did not kill her. 

He had not held a pathetic burial for a pitiful woman, and forgotten entirely. 

No. 

Excuses for the public began racing through his head: she ran in the middle of the night, it was a complete surprise. No, that would lead to questions about why she would leave him. She could not handle the grief any longer. She slipped on the stairs. 

He could move, let her slip from everyone’s memory as he lived a life without her. 

“Charles?” A deep voice called out through the trees. 

Charles's head snapped to attention. “Hello, George,” he called to the father-in-law he had not seen in nearly four years. 

He needed an excuse, now, because she was, he did, and he had. Or at least that’s what he believed. 

[black-occamy]

Remadora Microfics - Day 1: Haunted

Written for @remadoramicrofics October prompts, 916 words I almost failed in writing it on time...

Written as part of my Occamy-verse AU, so: everybody lives, everybody lives HAPPILY, there will be insane amount of fluff and cuteness, there will be mentions of polyamory.

The carousel began to rotate, children’s shouts overlapping with the merry music. Remus stood on the side with a bunch of other parents, watching the oversize teacups begin to swirl. He searched for Teddy’s blue hair with his eyes, noticing the boy was happily shouting something to the other kids in his cup. It wasn’t like he would be leaving them alone, he reminded himself.

“C’mon, Rem,” Dora tugged on his arm, much like a giddy kid herself. “They’re not gonna disappear if you stop watching for a bloody second.”

If anyone had bothered to ask him before, Remus would have a number of arguments as to why having a date night at the Muggle amusement park would not be his personal choice. Unlucky for him, neither Dora, nor Sirius bothered, instead arranging to take him and all the kids from Grimmauld Place to spend an evening out as a surprise. He didn’t even have his regular supportive voice of Gemma, who was out on the Auror business this week. Faced with a bunch of pre-purchased tickets, and the pleading eyes of Teddy and Lenore, he could hardly refuse.

Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 ❤

Remus spotted his daughter in another carousel vessel. She was completely focused on drawing more tattoos on Sirius, who was seemingly dozing off, one of his arms casually thrown over the edge of his seat. On the previous ride, it was Scorpius who had won the opportunity to ride with “Uncle Pads” and diligently drew even more rune-like symbols on Sirius’ palms than there was already. The boy apparently didn’t notice that as soon as the ride ended, all the drawings mysteriously disappeared.

“Rem, for Merlin’s sake,” Dora finally managed to pull him away, leading him through the crowd of people towards some other carnival attraction. “Sirius offered to look after those little monsters, stop worrying.”

“You know how I don’t like you two ganging up on me,” he complained half-heartedly, following her. His wife cast him a smug look over her shoulder and grinned.

“Cheer up, love. You’ve been spending too much time working lately, you deserve a break.”

Remus sighed. She wasn’t wrong there. Between preparing for classes and finishing his second book, he hardly had enough time to spend with the family and often he would just excuse himself and fall asleep before Dora was even done putting the kids to their beds.

“I know, I’m sorry for…”

“We’re here!” She interrupted him gleefully. “What do you think?”

He raised his eyebrows quizzically. They stood in front of a dilapidated construction that tried to pretend that it was a mansion of some sorts. Tattered curtains swayed on non-existent wind from broken windows. Front door, with remnants of torn-off wooden boards, was wide open, leading off to a dimly lit corridor. An older lady in black laced gown was sitting on a small chair next to it.

“Welcome to the Haunted House,” she sighed as they approached, shooting them a bored look from above the crossword puzzle. “Two tickets for you, lovelies?”

“Yes, please, ma��am!” Dora beamed, scooping the tickets from the crooked fingers. Remus fought the urge to roll his eyes.

The inside was no less cardboard-looking as the front, with flickering electric light pretending to be candle flame and artificial cobwebs covering almost every surface in amounts and patterns that somehow made him think of a really crochet-oriented spider. Dora snickered to herself, passing from room to room, while several jump-scare mannequins kept popping from left or right. There was an old bed linen with holes for the eyes, a skeleton with a few missing ribs, something that was barely resembling an old-school Dracula and a scrawny-looking furry creature that made Remus snort in amusement. He watched Dora as she wrapped her arm around the vampire-like mannequin and turned her face pale white to match it.

“Behold, overvorked mortal,” she called in an accent that didn’t resemble anything in particular, but somehow did indeed sound like a vampire should. “Vor I am Baroness ov dis mansion and I ‘ave cometh vor your blood!”

“Oh, woe on me,” Remus gasped, hiding a smile. “I’m all out of blood at the moment. Will cotton candy outside be enough, your baronessness?”

“Vot is dat cotton-candy ye speaketh ov, mortal?” Dora abandoned the mannequin and ran in his direction, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She flashed him a smile, showing off she transformed her teeth into pointy fangs. For some reason it looked really good on her.

“Someone will see, Dora,” Remus protested weakly, not sure if he was thinking about her morphing ability or the sudden display of affection. She scoffed and rose to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He didn’t oppose that.

“You’re no fun sometimes, Remus,” she murmured, rubbing her nose against his. “Who cares if someone sees us? We’re bloody grownups, with kids, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Well, we’re also in public…”

“We’re in a public haunted mansion, big deal,” she gave him another kiss. “I have an idea. Let’s hide in that coffin, make out, and then scare the shit of some non-magicals, yeah?”

“Hmmm, yes to the first and to the second, but hell no to the third.”

“No fun, this one,” Dora sighed, pulling his arm. “C’mon then. We have about twenty minutes before Sirius gets nauseated from all the cup spinning and loses one of the kids. I hope it’s Teddy.”

“Mother of the year, my wife, everyone.”

“Shut up and kiss me, werewolf boy.”

[sabraeal]

Rarely Pure & Never Simple, Chapter 9

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2023, Day 6: Free Day

Bright and early comes and goes with no sign of Obi.

Shirayuki nurses her morning tea at her usual place, hips braced against the sink and eyes fixed somewhere out past Nanna’s curtains. Or they would be, had any of her concentrated efforts to grow extrasensory powers in elementary school panned out the way she’d hoped; instead she’s stuck staring at ninety-percent frill, all that crocheted lace and starched lawn an impenetrable barrier to the outside, even if it only covers three-fourths of the glass. Nothing a quick bounce on her toes wouldn’t solve, but there’s no casual way to pop on tip-toe, no elegant way to stretch up over that homemade horizon that Nanna won’t immediately read as nerves.

And so she stands there with both hands wrapped around the mug, Felix the Cat tick-tick-ticking behind her. The reflection of his tail shimmers across the glass, a ghost of itself where the sun shines through. As long as she keeps her palms pressed against ceramic, it’s impossible to tell if they tremble.

But when the long hand gives one, tenuous tremble past nine o’clock, Shirayuki finally has to admit: he’s late.

“Oh, don’t wear that face,” Nanna chuckles, shuffling up to jog her elbow. And steep her own cup of tea, but that seems a secondary errand next to giving Shirayuki a hard time. “There’s no world under this sun where that boy stands you up. He’s just running a little behind, that’s all. Your father couldn’t read a clock to save his life either.”

Ah, she’d been hoping the furrow between her brow made her look serious and concerned, not…pouty. “I’m not worried about that.”

She might have been a few months ago, back when all this was new, and Obi’s interest seemed at best mystifying and at worst circumstantial. But with almost half a year under her belt, Shirayuki’s firmly aware of where she sits in the hierarchy of Obi’s personal cosmology: disturbingly close to the top, well above his own personal well-being, but somewhere just below food. Or, well, at least below Funyons.

“It’s just…what if something happened to him?” Her stomach clenches considering what sort of grim misfortune could befall him in the three miles between their houses. “You know, they say that the worst accidents happen just outside your own home. What if he—?”

Nanna clucks fondly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “He’s a growing boy, honey. The only thing that’s gone and happened to him is hitting the snooze button too many times.”

“No one presses buttons anymore, Nanny,” Shirayuki sniffs, taking a long sip from her mug. “Everyone’s got phones now, and there’s apps where you can even—”

There’s no time to inform Nanna of sleep rhythm tracking or blue light-induced wakefulness; no, she can’t even express that there’s different alarm sounds before reality frustratingly, inevitably resolves to favor her grandmother.

An ill-tempered groan is all the warning Shirayuki has before Obi’s jeep heaves to a stop at the curb. With a few more metallic grunts, it spits him out on the front walk, whole and intact, at least from where she stands. There’s a chance he might have a scratch or two beneath the thin fabric of his vintage tee, or maybe a skinned knee where the flames at the bottom of his trunks cast a shadow, but well— she probably shouldn’t hope that her boyfriend’s hurt himself, even if Nanny’s going to be unlivable over it.

“Well, would you look at that.” Grandad rests his arm right across the top of her head, squinting right over the curtain. “Positively occult, that’s what I say.”

“Oh, come on,” Nanna huffs, giving her tea a showy little stir. “That’s hardly anything at all. You should see what I can get up to when there’s a baby involved.”

“Not any time soon, I hope,” Grandad snorts, using his arm to tip her head back and remind her, “Don’t get any ideas there, pumpkin.”

Her tea hasn’t cooled a jot, but with one hand clapped to both, her cheeks are still the hottest thing in this kitchen. “Pa!”

It’s no use, Grandad’s already strutted right across to the front door, look all satisfied with himself for a joke well-executed. His hand settles on the knob for a long moment, tentative, like he’s waiting, and then with one swift turn, opens it with a flourish.

“Ah.” Obi’s hand drops from where he’s raised it, hooking it right around to scrub at the back of his head. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, young man.” Shirayuki rarely pities her father, but seeing Grandad turn that grin on Obi, she understand why he might have elected for windows as the main source of entry to this house. “Are you here to pick up some precious cargo?”

“I think cargo would be better behaved.” Obi’s head cranes around the corner, gaze sweeping the kitchen it can reach. “Is Shirayuki here?”

“And waiting!” Nanna’s wrinkled hand presses against her back, guiding her right to the door, tea mug and all. “You two have a good time now. Do you need me to put that in a cup for you, honey, or—?”

“I-I can leave it.” It squeaks out of her, nervous, and ah, last night had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now when she looks at him—

God. Even now the scrape of his voice leaves tingles racing beneath the frail barrier of her skin, like static electricity waiting to be unleashed on the nearest metallic surface. I would have come for you anytime.

Shirayuki’s cheeks are already flushed, but she could swear the next flood of heat could sear them from the inside out, like a sunburn in reverse.

“Not too good a time,” Grandad tells them, a little arch, but she can see how a smile clings to the corner of his mouth, more teasing than warning. “Don’t need to hear about any trouble after the fact.”

Nanna swats his shoulder. “Oh, really! There’s going to be a hundred kids at this thing at least. How would they even manage to get up to anything in a crowd like that?”

“You must be getting old, Nan.” Grandad hangs from the door just like Shirayuki’s seen boys lean against lockers, giving her a cheeky grin and a wink. “Can’t remember the sort of things we used to get up to when we were eighteen.”

“Oh, hush!” Pink dapples her wrinkled cheeks, and she shakes her head. “All right, off with you two. I don’t need you getting any ideas from this old lecher.”

Grandad only smiles wider as they shuffle past him to the stoop. “I don’t think they’ll need any of my help with that, dear.”

The last thing she heard before the door shuts is Nanna’s huff, that sharp cluck of her tongue before she issues a warning, “Now, Dad…”

And just like that, the sound muffles, leaving only murmurs of her grandmother’s discontent— and the high points of Grandad’s laughter. It’s not long until she hears Nanna’s too, breathless and consternated, the last bastion against his charm. Shirayuki ducks her chin down, burying her smile in her shoulder. Nanna won’t hold out long.

“Man,” Obi sighs, a laugh bubbling under his words. “They’re exhausting.”

“Tell me about it,” she agrees, tucking a chunk of hair behind her ear. It’s only just long enough for a ponytail, and the front pieces keep trying to make a bid for freedom. “I think my heart stops every time they say we might be…”

Having sex. She can’t make herself say it. Can’t even make herself look at him, not when just last night she’d taken that picture he’s sent her and— and—

Please. It’s strange how vividly she remembers the words when she hadn’t ever spoken them out loud. All of it happened strictly in the confines of her own head. I want you. I want you inside—

Fingers slide between hers, gently squeezing as their palms come to kiss. “Hey,” he murmurs, his other hand reaching up to rub at his shoulder. “We’ll do whatever you want when you’re ready for it. I don’t care about what anybody thinks but you.”

It should be easy to tell him that it’s not about other people, and it’s certainly not about what popular opinion has them do behind closed doors, but— but about her. About what she had managed to imagine last night, all on her own, with only his chest and the hint of his erection to spur her on. About what she might be ready for if there was some way to— if only she could—

But she can’t. Not when she can’t even decide what it all means in terms of, er, readiness. So instead she just squeezes back. “I know.”

She dares a glance up at him then, taking in the faint circles around his eyes, the way his hair sticks up wildly from every direction. He must have just rolled out of bed and straight into his car.

“Sorry.” He scuffs his boot shyly on the stoop before hopping down, using their tangled hands to guide her after him. “I, uh…overslept.”

Shirayuki blinks at him, concerned. “Did you forget to set an alarm? I thought that you usually—?”

“Yeah, well, kinda slipped my mind,” Obi mutters wryly, stare pointed even from just the corners of his eyes. “I kinda had a big mess to clean up right before I hit the hay.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks prickle with heat, matching the tingle up her neck, and it’s a good thing he has his back to her to open her door. She doesn’t think she would survive if he could see her too. “That, um…makes sense.”

“And let me tell you, it was an even bigger one this morning,” he continues, so casual as she slips into the seat. “After I woke up to this.”

She glances up right into his phone’s screen, open to their messages. And there it is, in gray and white, I’m stuck

“O-oh,” she breathes, whole face so hot she’s sure it’ll crack to show magma beneath. “I, ah, forgot I sent that. I didn’t think you’d…”

See it, she doesn’t say. Because of course he would; even if he wasn’t awake to get it hot off the presses, Obi would never ignore her texts. And from the way he bends down, one hand braced on the back of her seat and the other on the dash, he’s not in any mood to forget it either.

“Too bad I missed it. I would have loved to help you.” He leans close enough her eyes cross to keep him in focus. “Only would’ve been fair after you gave it to me to so good last night.”

Ah, if he keeps that up, she might just erupt, the way kids in elementary school used to tease her. You got lava for hair, they’d always say, which suited her just fine. That’s how they drew Madame Pele in the books after all, and if it was good enough for her, then—

Obi’s gaze drops down to her lips, and, oh, well, that’s enough for her higher cognitive thoughts. “Did you…?” She licks her lips, nervous. “…Um, like that?”

“Kid,” he breathes, and that’s as much warning as she had before his mouth presses against hers, capturing her bottom lip between both of his. His tongue traces the shape of it, a gentle tease, a promise. Her fingers scrabble against the center console, trying to gain some purchase before she leans in, scraping them over his scalp.

“Jesus.” He pulls back, flushed. “Just…one second. Okay?”

She has enough presence of mind to whimper out, “Uh-huh.”

Obi jerks upright then, spine stiff and limbs loose like a marionette with a poor puppeteer, the tension of his strings all tangled. He shuts her door— gallant, like always; a gentleman, Nanna would hum, too pleased— but when he crosses in front of the grille to make for his, there’s none of his usual swagger. No flirtatious winks, no cat-like prowl that makes her flush, remembering the way those muscles feel like between her thighs. No, now there’s only a sense of urgency, a scramble to throw himself gracelessly into the driver’s seat.

He coaxes the car to a cough, its frame shuddering beneath her feet, still so stiff, not even daring to look at her.

“If you were a cat I’d take you to the vet,” she says, mild. “But I think they’d just tell me you had gas.”

That gets him to blink, to swing his head toward her. “What did you just say?”

“I was just wondering if something was wrong. I mean, if you were…” She hesitates, scrolling through her mental thesaurus until she settles on, “Upset? About something?”

“Upset?” It’s not a question, but a giggle, one that doesn’t so much bubble up as purr out of his throat, and ah, that probably shouldn’t make her toes curl or stomach drop, but here she is. “Kid, I��”

It’s with a sinuous shift that he leans over the gap between them, one hand cupping her jaw and coaxing her up to him. She doesn’t need much convincing; the second his fingers brush over the soft skin behind her ear she’s already reaching up, tongue darting across the space between them. He gasps against her; she drinks it down greedily, and the groan that follows, until he—

He pulls away. Again.

This time it’s not far, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, breath scattering enticingly over her lips.

“Last night,” he hums, breathless. “That was really good for me. So good. Distractingly good. All I’ve been thinking about this morning is how I wouldn’t mind if we” —he hisses, pained, and squirms back, hands gripping ten and two— “Ah, nope, never mind. That’s…we’ll talk about this later.”

Shirayuki blinks, head too clouded to keep herself from blurting out, “Am I in trouble?”

It’s no giggle when he laughs this time, throwing the car into drive. No, that one comes from a deeper place, one that thrums at the same pitch as something just beneath her skin, turning the space beneath her belly molten.

“Yes.” The gaze he turns on her is scorching, enough that every inch of her feels burned. “A lot of trouble. But…” He clears his throat, dragging his attention back out the windshield. “That conversation is going to have to wait.”

Her mouth is so incredibly dry. “Why?”

He snorts, like it’s funny, but she sees his grip shift on the wheel. “Because I can’t drive this car and make you come at the same time.”

“O-oh.” Her thighs clench tight, but that’s not help at all, not when he’s right here. “We could pull over…?”

“Kid. As tempting as that sounds…” The look he slides her makes her skin feel two sizes too tight. “We’re already gonna be late as it is. And the last thing we need is someone speculating what we needed the extra half hour for.”

It’s a reasonable reservation; the kind she should be concerning her with. The kind she would have been, if her body hasn’t suddenly informed her it’s been over two weeks since he’s touched her, a whole sixteen days since he last put his fingers insider her, and— “I don’t think anyone would notice if we’re only a little late.”

His narrow brows pitch toward his hairline. “That so?”

“I mean, we’ve been together for a while now,” she reminds him, voice only quivering with the barest tremble. “We’re old news. I’m sure that, er…”

“A certain friend of your will have an extremely detailed estimate of just what we could have accomplished left to our own devices?” he offers, a grin tugging at his lips. “One that, might I add, assumes quite a a few very complimentary things about my stamina.”

Shirayuki deflates, defeated. “Does that…bother you?”

“That Kihal thinks I could make you taste colors? Are you kidding me? I knew I always liked her for a reason. It’s just…” His grin doesn’t exactly fade, but the mischief leeches from it, leaving it a pale shadow of what it once was. “As happy as everyone is for us, I know some people…maybe didn’t think it would fall out this way. And I don’t want to…to feel like I’m rubbing it in.”

Zen, he means. Who had thought— who everyone had thought would, ah…

“All right.” She reaches over, squeezing his knee. He jumps, ticklish where she presses in. “Let’s behave, then.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “Can’t believe I argued for this.”

“It’s because you’re a good person,” she tells him. “A good friend.”

“No, he’s the good friend,” he mutters, pulling off onto the main road. “I’m just trying to deserve it.”

*

“Well, well, well.” Kihal slinks up jeep-side, taking the cooler Obi hands her from the back. “What’s this? Twenty minutes late and looking refreshed? Wonder what you two were up to.”

“Refreshed?” Shirayuki pants as she swings her beach bag over her shoulder, sweat dripping down her back like a popsicle left in the sun. Obi may not be old enough to drink, but by the title in the glove box, the jeep was. A pity that cars tended to age in dog years. It would have been nice to have the AC on a day so muggy not even the windows couldn’t cut the heat. “That’s a…bit of a generous read.”

“What did I tell you? Complimentary.” Obi snorts softly, shutting the hatchback. “Nice to know the girl thinks I could fuck comfortably on a Slip N Slide.”

Ah, now there’s a picture. “Could you? I mean, in theory.”

His eyebrows waggle in a more certain ‘no’ than any he could put into words. “Wanna find out?”

It’s the sort of tease that should have made her stammer and flush, pressure like a hand on her neck no matter how obvious he made the joke— or it would have, only a month or so back. But now she meets his mirrored lenses and just shakes her head, stifling a giggle. Her hair doesn’t budge from where it’s plastered to her neck and shoulders. “Nope.”

“Aw, kid,” he sighs, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they step under the trees. “Where’s the sense of adventure?”

It’s a short walk to where the seniors— former seniors; or if she really thinks about it, upcoming college freshman— have made camp on the shore, coolers and camp chairs taking up the small stretch of sand where the pine cover relents. It’s packed; if there’s not all two hundred plus of their graduating class here, then it’s close, most of them spread out on towels or splashing in the shallows

“Fyi, stay away from those coolers.” Kihal points toward four hard plastic coolers the size of a car trunk, cozened up under two extra-wide beach umbrellas. “Student Council’s covering drinks— at least as long as they last in this heat— but those aren’t ours.”

“Oh yeah?” Obi’s narrow eyebrows hike over his frames. “Who’s catering?”

Her mouth curls into a sneer. “Beer Barons.”

“Beer Barons?” There’s only a few restaurants in town, but Shirayuki’s pretty sure she’s never heard of that one. “Who’s that?”

Kihal huffs, arms crossing right over the band of her bikini top. “Oh, you know, the idiots who have been stealing from their parents’ mini bars and think that makes them master thieves?”

“What?” She stares at the coolers, nearly as large as the one in the pub’s basement. “That’s all alcohol?”

“Kid.” Obi’s mouth twitches. “Did you not know about this shit? It’s all anyone could talk about for months. This must be their big finale.”

“Their parents have got to know, right?” Kihal cocks a hip, skeptical. “I mean this is too much booze to be a coincidence.”

He snorts. “Oh, they’ve known the whole time. You think all those surgeons and stock brokers couldn’t put together why their mini fridges haven’t been stocked since October?”

“Mm. Good point.” She shakes her head. “Rich kids.”

“Pot,” Obi hums, mouth curling into a smile. “Kettle. Black.”

“Hey.” Kihal whips out a finger, prodding it into his chest. “I’m comfortably upper middle class.”

“I…” Shirayuki’s mouth works, but there’s nothing to say, not when she can’t recall a single thing about it. She’d been more concerned with passing in projects and sitting in on rehearsals and the brief moments Zen would scrounge up to talk to her; it’d been easy for everything else to just blur away like some aesthetic backdrop on a Christmas card. And then she’d slipped into Obi’s car and asked for kissing lessons, and well—

Well, sometimes it felt like her whole world could be just the two of them, if she let it. Less so now that he’s going to Lyrias— no need to try to fit a whole relationship into six months when they have another four years to fly or flounder— but it’s hard not just reduce her attention down to just those moments that are him and her and the way he can make her feel.

“People have been stealing alcohol?” she squeaks out, finally, weathering the wide-eyed stares Obi and Kihal turn on her. “From their own parents?”

Kihal’s quiet for a moment before she snorts, shaking her head. “You really do live in your own world sometimes.”

*

“So…” Shirayuki sits back on her heels, surveying the rumpled edge of her beach blanket. A few more tugs and it might lay flat, but she can’t muster up the gumption when getting it this far has sweat pouring down her spine, drenching the back of her cover up. “Is there anything besides alcohol to drink?”

“Uh, yeah, duh,” Kihal chuckles, spreading her legs out in front of her. “Student Council brought a bunch of soda and some Capri Suns. Should be right over there.” Her chin swings over to where there’s a couple of chest coolers— larger than what the Beer Barons have dragged out, but not nearly as nice— sweating in the sand. “But if that doesn’t move you, your jolly giant friend brought water or whatever. That’s in the bag over there, the soft one— yeah.”

Shirayuki flips open the lid, and there it is— probably twenty or so bottles fit so snugly together the ice has no place to go but on top, scattered in the small crevices between them. Heavenly, in this heat.

“Speaking of tall drinks of water,” Kihal hums from behind her, head propped up on her towel. “How’s yours?”

She blinks down at the Aquafina in her hand. “I…haven’t opened it?”

“Shirayuki, I don’t mean” —a hand flies up to Kihal’s forehead, accompanied by a groan— “I mean Obi. Your boyfriend! The guy with the great ass!”

That gets her to jerk up, scanning the crowd until she finds him crouched over a cooler. One of the alcoholic ones, she realizes, his grin wide as Mitsuhide warms up to the lecture he’s launched into, and well— she hadn’t noticed before, but now that he’s bent down, shirt shucked and swim trunks draw tight over his, ah, backside, it’s clear that they don’t leave much to the imagination. It doesn’t help that for all the stylized flames licking up from the bottom, the top is just a grayer shade of tan, and with it pulled so taut against him…

Well, even though she hasn’t seen him without his pants, she can take a pretty good guess at what he might look like under them now. Skin tone and all.

“So tell me.” Kihal rolls to her side with a smirk. “Is he proportional, or…?”

“Proportional?” She stares down at her, confused. “I haven’t measured, but it looks like his legs might be longer than his wing—?”

“Shirayuki,” she groans. “I mean, his dick.”

Her jaw drops, so dry not even a sip of water soothes it. “I don’t— I wouldn’t know! It’s only been a few months, we haven’t even…”

Seen each other naked. That’s what she means to say, except it gets stuck in her teeth, refusing to budge. Because Obi has, hasn’t he? Between taking off her shirt and getting her off with his mouth, her nakedness is a technicality. But she—

“Really?” Kihal stares at her over the rim of her sunglasses. “I know you said at graduation that you hadn’t done anything but…seriously? He walks around looking like god’s gift to women and you still haven’t torn off the paper?”

—She hasn’t returned the favor. Every glimpse of new skin from him makes her temperature rise ten degrees, and yet here she is, with some…dickphobia convincing her she won’t like the rest. It’s silly, she knows it is, but…

But it’s impossible to explain to someone like Kihal. To someone who knows how to want things.

“I’ve wrinkled the edges a little bit,” she admits slowly, twisting the bottle in her hands. “But I’m, um…savoring it, I guess.”

Kihal huffs, but it’s not judgmental, like she expects. Instead it’s playful, accompanied by a roll of her eyes and a grin. “I should have known. You let your ice cream melt before you eat all of it too.”

“Well, but that’s better warmer!” she protests, crawling back onto the blanket. “Isn’t it?”

“It really isn’t.” Kihal gives her a fond smile before she sighs, “Fine, take your time with him. But you better report back when you have answers. We’re best friends, you can’t hold out on me.”

“I will.” Even if they might be thirty when she does. “I mean, within reason.”

“No, no reason! I want to know every freckle or whatever. I should be able to picture his dick fully formed in my mind, no—”

“If you’re so desperate to know about proportions,” Kiki drawls, dropping down beside them. “Then you should know, Mitsuhide is.”

“God,” Kihal sighs. “I knew it.”

*

There’s a point— later in the day, of course, when some of her fellow former seniors have finally stated to filter out and the crowd thins— where it all becomes a little much. Where the sun and the heat and the nostalgia starts to tire her out, making her feel faded, like she’s bleached at the edges, frayed. This may have been her first year at Wisteria High, but she’s lived in this town her whole life, walked these woods more times than she can count. She even has pictures of herself standing in front of this very lake, baby fat still clinging hard to her cheeks.

The water laps around her legs, sun sinking from afternoon to evening, and all at once, she knows: it will never be like this again. That some of these people will say their goodbyes, and they’ll be gone from her life, forever. There will be high school reunions and chance meetings at the grocery store and social media posts, but—

But this is it. The end of an era. And here’s her, sitting at the end of the dock, tenaciously trying to cling to the last of it. Lingering like if she saves a few sips at the bottle of the bottom, her childhood will never truly be over.

At least, that’s what it feels like before something tan and lean surges up out of the pond, cold water splashing all over the tender skin of her thighs.

“Hey, Kid,” it says, tossing back wet hair with a predator’s smile. “Carrying something heavy there?”

She’d love to wrinkle up her nose at him, to give him a good, honest frown the way she used to when her wayward ASM would get up to no good, but for as much as there’s chaos in that grin, there’s concern too.

“Do you remember when we last came out here?” she murmurs, looking out across the water. “You dared me to skinny dip.”

Most of Obi’s submerged, his arms folded across the dock like a bowline around a cleat, but what she can see— every bit of it goes tense. “Yeah,” he rasps out, turning his head out toward the water. “Kinda…hard to forget.”

She blinks down, practically boring a hole through the whirl of his cowlick. “Really? You were…? Even then?”

“Why d’you think I was so eager to go in after you?” he grumbles, shoulders oddly flushed. “I kinda…listen, I didn’t really get what was going on with me when it came to you, but when you shimmied out of that skirt of yours—”

“You said you weren’t going to look!”

“I wasn’t looking! I was peeking.” Obi does a little bit of that now too, though his eyes skitter away before she can catch them. “It’s different. Anyway, I figured it out real fast. Too fast! Thought that freezing ass pond water would help. Which it did. Mostly.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Mostly?”

“Well, I might have caught a nipple too. You bobbed up a little when you splashed me, and uh…” He casts her a guilty look, though not an ounce of it seems sorry. “Well, it helped with things later. On my own. More than a couple times.”

There’s a prickle of heat between her thighs, enough that she has to clench to keep her head from spinning. “So you…? To me…? Then?”

“Ah, we don’t have to talk about me.” He lets his mouth hook into a smirk. “I think we should talk about you. And how you got stuck last night.”

“Oh!” That had been a conversation she’d meant to have on the ride here, a small victory she thought he’d be happy to celebrate, but now that his cheek rubs against the outside of her thigh, casual like he’s just wiping off a drip of water from his eyes, well— “You don’t need to, um…worry about that.”

“Hm?” His lips linger against the smooth flesh of her hip. “But I have been. All afternoon. Haven’t been able to” —her breath catches as one of his hands drops, tracing over her ankle— “stop thinking about it.”

A sigh trembles out of her, thin and helpless as his thumb smooths over the skin there, so sensitive she almost squirms. “You didn’t…have to…”

“Of course I do,” he hums, playfully taking the edge of her suit between his teeth. “It’s my job to make sure that you don’t get—”

“It’s fine,” she blurts out, hardly able to hear herself over the blood rushing through her ears. “I handled it.”

His jaw goes slack, her suit snapping back against her skin. “Come again?”

“I, um…” She swallows, ever part of her tingling under the intensity of his stare. “I got stuck, but then I, ah…got myself unstuck?”

“On your own?” he asks, strangely distant.

“Ah…” She nods, hoping he can’t see the way her hands tremble in her lap. “Y-yeah.”

A grin breaks out across his face, as bright as the dawn itself. “You wanna show me?”

Shirayuki stares. “What? Now? But there’s people—”

“We can solve that.” His hands wrap around her waist; her only warning before he drags her down, pond water splashing up around her shoulders before she can think to swim.

“Obi,” she yelps, hands scrabbling for his shoulders. She manages to hook one on her own, but he guides her to the other, pulling her close enough that her feet can rest right on his thighs. The muscles tense beneath her toes, hard as the pylons that serve as the dock’s mooring, and haah, well, the water’s a little warmer now that she’s got that in her head.

“See?” he hums, one hand gripping the dock to steady them. “Nice and private.”

She’d like to argue, but there’s no line of sight to the shore from this side of the dock; she’d have to bob up to even see the other one, positioned right across the lake, and well—

“We shouldn’t,” she gasps, fingers clutching tight enough her nails leave little crescent on his shoulders. “Not…not right here. Anyone could just…just swim over…”

The arm around her tightens, and Obi’s grin smooths to something more serious. “You don’t have to, kid. If this doesn’t feel good, then I’ll tease but not touch.”

Her toes curl against the flex of his thighs, and, ah, each lap of the water makes her aware of how close he is, of how much she would like to be touched. “I…um…”

“But…” He leans in close, his grin so wicked her heart skips a beat. “I think you’re into it.”

“O-obi!” It’s hard to hold the moral high ground when she’s so flushed it’s a surprise water doesn’t boil when it touches her. “That’s not…I’m not…um…”

“We’re not going to get caught.” It’s a promise when he says it, a certainty. “But…it still feels a little wrong, doesn’t it? That we could get caught. That someone else could see me touching you, and they’d know how good you get it, how good I can make you feel.”

She hadn’t thought it was possible to tremble like this and be so hot, for her to be fully submerged and yet know that she’s wet.

“Come here.” He parts her legs, wrapping them around his waist, leaving her wide open to him and yet still hidden from view. “Now no one can even tell, even if they do look this way.”

“Obi…” It’s not a no. God, it’s not even a yes; it’s a please.

His grip tightens around the dock. “Show me what you were doing last night. I want to see it.”

His free fingers drop between them, pulling aside the strip of nylon blend that covers her, and haah, the caress of the water against her folds has her hand diving between them before he can ask again.

“Jesus.” Black eclipses gold until only a thin rim of it remains, trembling the way his arm does as he holds them steady. “Kid…”

The pond’s hardly clear enough for him to see the way she drags her fingers over herself, so slick and ready that she tumbles into his hand more often than she manages to brush her clit, but it’s— it’s working, a few strokes bringing her close enough to that painful edge that she whines, head thumping back against the dock.

“Fuck, wait,” he gasps, mouth slack. “Tell me…tell me what you were thinking about. Last night.”

“Obi.” How can he expect her to talk when every bit of her longs to be consumed, when all she can think about is that she’s empty, and she could— he could— “You.”

“Good.” His grin is insufferable, but there’s something about it that makes her gasp, that makes her think about him laying next to her, just watching as he— “What about me?”

“Your picture.” She should be embarrassed, mortified that she’s even admitting to getting off just by looking at him, but it’s hard to remember when he’s so warm under her hand, when he’s looking at her like he can’t decide whether to kiss her or devour her whole. “It was— you were— hard. I wanted…”

A lot more than she’s ready for, she knows that even now. “I wanted it to be you,” she manages instead. “Touching me. In my bed. I thought about good your fingers are, and I—”

She nearly comes right there from the way he groans, forehead resting against her shoulder. “You like that? Me touching you?”

“Yes. And I thought about how I could— how I might—” She whimpers, frustrated, chasing that elusive high round and round, but finding no relief. “Obi, I need— more, please—”

“Fuck. Yeah, okay I” —he laughs, the sound muffled in her shoulder— “I got you.”

Two fingers thrust between her lips, but he doesn’t bat away her hand, like she expects. Doesn’t take over. No, after that first thrust he slows, following the rhythm of her slower strokes, fingers pumping into her with a languidness that has her whining against his throat.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, so low her skin shivers. “What were you think you could do?”

“I”—she’s so close it hurts, her voice barely eking above a whisper— “I want to touch you.”

It’s not the pace of his thrusts or the teasing of her fingers that pushes her over, oh no— it’s his face, the way his mouth goes slack and he flushes straight down to his shoulders, every bit of him vulnerable, every bit of him wanting. A whine escapes her, threatening a keen, but he swallows it as she trembles, pulling her closer even as his fingers never still, pulling each last thread of pleasure out of her.

When she’s done, they’re adrift. Or, well, at least no longer hanging off the dock.

“Well,” Obi chuckles lowly, letting her tortured swim suit snap back into place. “You didn’t do that alone, but I think an assist counts.”

A laugh bubbles out of her as she presses her head into his neck, self-conscious. “It’s just…better when you touch me.”

“Haah.” They’ve floated shallow enough that he can stand, and he does, nearly dropping her straight back into the water. “I’m glad to hear it, but uh…” He squirms, trying to unwrap her from his waist. “I think I got to, er…”

She blinks up at him, only clinging closer. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing! Nothing. That’s was…” His mouth curves, utterly satisfied. “That was great. I just…have something I should go take care of.”

“What do you—?” Something twitches against her, and ah, it’s an answer. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His flush has faded to pink, but it’s still there, lingering. “And unlike you, it’s, ah, a little more obvious when I handle myself. So I thought I might…”

His head jerks toward the wooded part of the shoreline, lingering just a few elementary backstrokes away.

“Oh, you mean…?” It’s far enough from the beach that she doubts anyone else would be wandering through, but still, she frowns. “In there…?”

“Yeah.” He disentangles himself from her limbs, setting her down gently. “I’ll only be a minute.”

He draws himself up, water coming just under his hips, and ah, it’s not just his butt that those trunks don’t leave to the imagination now.

“Wait.” She catches his hand. “Obi…”

“Really, kid.” His eyebrows raise, emphatic. “It’s not gonna be long. You, ah…did a good job out ther.”

“No, it’s just…” She licks her lips. “Can I…come?”

He blinks at her, eyes so wide she’s sure they’ll fall out of their sockets. “I thought you just did.”

“I mean…” She stands up too, only up to her waist here, shivering when the wind blows over her. “I’d like to see you come again. Maybe even…help?”

His breath catches. “Ah, yeah.” His fingers squeeze tight around hers. “Yeah, I think that would be, uh…fine with me.”