#grandmas button tin

[badseedsorsha]

[columboscreens]

columbo - fade into murder

[ladamedusoif]

Cookies (Tim Rockford X F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 26

Pairing: Tim Rockford x F!Reader

Word Count: 1455

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI

Warnings: Established relationship (Reader is Tim’s wife); workplace sex; fingering; unprotected but safe PiV sex (Reader is on birth control); no use of Y/N; no physical descriptions of Reader; strong language; when we say “fuck the police” this is what we mean

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Pedro Boys Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist!

Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to keep up with my work.

Tim kisses you on the cheek as he heads down to the precinct on Christmas Eve, overcoat in hand.

“I hate leaving you all, baby, but…”

You wrap him in a tight embrace and return his kiss. “Tim, you’re a good man. I’m sure Corinna appreciates you taking the Christmas Eve cover, so she can be at home for her baby’s first Christmas.”

Your husband’s ears pink up a little at your praise. “I guess. And older cops did it for us, too, when the kids were tiny.”

He looks over your shoulder into your mother’s kitchen, where your daughters are excitedly asking their grandma whether the Christmas cookies are cool enough to decorate. You turn and smile at the scene.

“I love you, Detective Rockford. We’ll save you some cookies. Come home safe.”

***

The cop at the front desk is thanking his lucky stars as he sips his umpteenth cup of filter coffee. It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve, and - other than a couple of minor call-outs for the guys out in the patrol car to break up bar fights - he hasn’t had to book a single person into the cells.

It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.

And then the door buzzes. He sighs in exasperation and checks the CCTV. A woman, wearing a winter hat and carrying a tote bag. He presses the button to let her in.

“Hello there, ma’am. Now, I have to warn you, as it’s Christmas Eve we don’t have a full complement of officers in tonight and - oh! Hi there, Mrs R!”

You smile as you take off your hat and scarf, and hand him a small tin. “Hey, Bryan. Tim in his office?”

“Sure is. Hey, these some of your famous cookies?”

You’re already climbing the stairs to your husband’s office. “Maybe. Open it and see if Santa thinks you’ve been a good cop this year.”

***

Tim’s at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie slightly loose, flipping through some papers with his glasses on. The desk lamp bathes him in a warm light, highlighting his handsome features, and you pause for a moment to take him in before you knock on the door.

He looks up in surprise before a broad smile spreads across his face. “Hello there, miss. What brings you to the precinct on a Christmas Eve?”

You carefully close the door and turn the little lock on the handle, before pulling down the blind. You reach into your bag and produce another cookie tin, sauntering over to Tim’s desk and placing it in front of him.

“So, everyone was tucked up in bed at home, and would you believe it? I met Santa Claus, leaving gifts for the girls.”

Your husband chuckles and pulls you onto his lap. “That so?”

You nod. “The man himself. And you know what he said?”

Tim shakes his head, eyes twinkling. You lean in and kiss him softly.

“He said that Tim Rockford had been a particularly good boy this year, and he should get an extra special gift.”

Tim’s eyes turn to the cookie tin. “The cookies?”

You shrug, reach for the tin, and open the lid. “You could say that, I guess. They’re part of the gift.”

He bursts out laughing when he looks inside and takes out a gingerbread man perfectly decorated to resemble - well, him. White shirt, black pants, dark hair and moustache, tie, and even a pair of shoulder holsters.

“Your handiwork?”

You throw your head back and laugh. “Damn right. Why wouldn’t I make cookies that look like the most delicious man I know?”

He eyes you up suspiciously, but a smile plays on his lips. “You said the cookies were part of the gift.”

You stand up and move his paperwork out of the way, clearing enough space on the desk so that you can sit up on it. “The other part is under my coat.”

Tim’s eyes widen as he reaches for the buttons on your knee-length woollen coat, unbuttoning them eagerly and pulling the coat open.

His mouth falls open. “Holy fuck, baby.”

“You like what you see?” You fight against all the anxieties and insecurities that haunt you about your body, focusing on the look of astonished desire that’s burning in your husband’s eyes.

Tim’s eyes roam over you, taking in the dark red bra and matching, high-waisted panties trimmed in black lace, the sheer black stockings. He carefully eases off your coat and throws it to one side, running his big hands gently over the soft skin of your shoulders as he slips down the straps of your bra.

“I love what I see.” His voice is a rapt whisper.

He slips his hands to your back and waist and pulls you tight to him as he kisses you deeply, moaning as you twine your fingers through his dark, grey-streaked curls. You bring your hands to his belt buckle, working it open and undoing his pants so you can palm his cock, already hardening under your touch.

Tim brings his mouth to the side of your neck and begins to softly bite and lick the sensitive skin, working his way down to your breasts as one hand holds you in place while the other tugs aside the lacy fabric that covers your pussy. “I fucking love what I see,” he grunts, pulling down the cups of your bra to expose your breasts. “I love you. My sexy fucking wife.”

You whine as two thick fingers trail across your folds before settling on your clit, working it steadily in the way only he knows. “I’m going to get you good and wet for me, my love,” Tim murmurs, encouraging you to lift your hips so he can ease off your panties.

“Mmmm… and then what are you going to do to me, Detective?”

He slips his fingers into your cunt, pulling a delighted gasp from you. “And then, Mrs Rockford, I plan on fucking you hard right here on this desk. But only if you come for me first.”

A hook of his fingers and you’re squealing with pleasure as Tim spreads you out in front of him, standing between your thighs as you continue to stroke his dick. He fucks you over and over with his fingers, watching you writhe and buck as you near your climax.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “You look so beautiful like this, all spread out and ready to come on my fingers. Can’t fuckin’ believe you’re mine, sometimes.” Your pussy tightens around him and he knows you’re about to come.

“Tim…Tim, fuck, I’m - oh, fuck, baby.” He keeps fingering you through the orgasm, sucking on your nipples as he extends the wave of pleasure running through you.

You reach up and undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, hitching up his under vest so you can feel the soft, warm skin of his belly against yours as he pushes himself inside you and begins to fuck you. You hitch up your legs around his waist to hold Tim in place, slipping your hands under his shirt and gripping his broad shoulders firmly as he takes you on his desk.

“Feel good?”

“Fucking incredible, Tim - you?”

He leans his head against your chest and flicks his tongue over your nipple. “Baby, you always feel amazing but this - fuck, this is so fuckin’ good. Feels so tight and wet for me. Listen to that.”

For a moment the only sound in the office is the lewd wetness, skin on skin, and your pants and moans.

“Can’t believe you did this for me, baby,” Tim grunts, speeding up his rhythm and making you whine, arching your back. “Came down here in nothing but lingerie, ready to fuck me…fuck, you’re incredible.”

You giggle a little. “Got lonely at home, my love. Needed to have my man.”

Tim’s faltering rhythm tells you he’s nearly there as he buries himself deeper inside you. “You’ve got him, baby. All yours. All…”

And he’s there, spilling inside you as he collapses on your chest.

***

Cleaned up but still a little dishevelled, you sit on the floor of the office and eat some of the cookies, accompanied by weak coffee.

In the distance, you can hear chimes signalling the hour.

“Hey. It’s midnight. Merry Christmas, Detective Rockford.”

Tim kisses you, tasting of ginger and sugar and spice and all things nice.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs Rockford. And thank you for my extra-special gift.”

[bibliosauruswrecks]

I’m sick of the divisiveness and hate. Let’s play a game instead.

Reblog and say which country you’re from and what your grandma kept in the Danish cookie tin.

United States. One tin of sewing stuff, and another of buttons.

[julie-hollis]

I'm Like a Cat. I Always Land on My Feet / self para when -> jan 22, 2025 includes @kincaidhollis tw fire, injury, hospitals, children, burns

As Julie’s SUV careened towards Star Valley Hospital she couldn’t shake the feeling that every time she turned her back on her loved ones the world tried to take them away. It started with Joanne one day when she went to school. It happened with Wynn when they got separated at the courthouse. It happened with her grandma when she was on the road. It just happened to Shawn a month ago. It happened to Caid countless times – each time she wasn’t there. This time was just another on the list.

‘Don’t rush, alright? The boys were in the truck when it happened.’

Julie swiped a trembling hand at her face, half expecting tears, but it came back dry. The last time she shook this hard she was in labor with Wylie. Doctors said it had something to do with shock. Given the rush of her husband’s words, ‘hospital,’ 'burns,’  ‘smoke inhalation,’ ‘fire,’ ‘salon,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck.’

She pressed the pedal to the floor. The hand on the speedometer shot closer to the 100. Julie tasted something acrid on her tongue. Her chest ached and burned as her heart rammed into her lungs. If not for the lights splashed onto the asphalt, she’d have lost sight of the road.

Star Valley’s buildings, some old, some new, were a crooked smile on the horizon. The gleaming hospital shined like a veneer. Julie barely flung the car into park before she lunged out. The revolving doors of the emergency room brought a flood of bright light. Julie’s eyes stung as she adjusted, disoriented momentarily. 

“Momma!” A small voice called as doors opened.

Julie whipped around. Her lungs inflated with the breath she had been holding as Wylie ran towards her like a shot. She collided with her youngest, he scrambled into her arms, and wrapped around her like a monkey within moments.

“Hi, my 'Yote,” Julie greeted. She buried her face in the crook of her youngest’s neck, lifting him up with a little grunt. The warmth of his little face on her shoulder anchored her. He was safe. Caid told her so, but she needed to know for herself.

“Where’s your brother?” She began to ask just as another pair of sneakers pounded down the hall.

“Mom!” Kip called. At the sight of his face, pinched with worry, she couldn’t help but see a reflection of herself. Her kids tended to favor Caid, but their expressions were all hers.

“Hi, baby,” Julie said. Kip’s face crumbled almost immediately at the sound of her voice. She managed to shift Wylie to her hip as Kip met her halfway. Her arm went around him like a shield.

“Momma, dad got hurt,” Wylie lifted his face and pouted. 

“He’s okay, though,” Kip’s muffled voice tried to reassure her, but he kept his face buried in her shoulder. She could feel warm tears seeping into her shirt. 

Julie gently smoothed a hand over Kip’s hair. Wylie’s wide eyes stayed on her face. She managed a tight smile at her youngest. This was one of those moments – she felt her hands steady – he needed her to be brave. They both did. 

“It’s going to be okay, dad’s the tin man, remember? Nothing hurts him for too long.” She said, smiling at Wylie until he smiled, too. Kip sniffled into her shirt – still hiding his face. 

“It’s okay.” She said quieter this time, her mouth near Kip’s ear as she ducked to kiss the top of his head. 

“Mrs. Hollis?” A steady voice asked. 

Julie looked up from her children at the sight of a nurse. They looked at her and the boys with a faint smile. She straightened up a little and gave a nod. 

“It looked worse than it actually is, but your husband’s insisting he come out here even though they’re in the middle of wrapping his arm.” The nurse’s tone was weary as she pressed a button and led them into the bowels of the emergency wing. Julie had a feeling between her kids running down the hallway and Caid, likely insisting he could wrap his own arm up, that they were at their wits end. 

“It sounds like he’s doing alright, then,” Julie joked. The nurse managed a half smile at the joke. 

Squeezing Kip once more, she threaded their hands together and hitched Wylie on her hip again. Five was a little old to be carried, but it was late and well past bedtime. Kip’s grasp on her hand grew tighter as they drew closer to the room. 

The hospital room was small and dimly lit. Caid sat on a chair that most people sat in when they drew blood. He was hooked to an IV bag. His mouth was set into a tight line that quickly went away when his eyes caught her face. 

“I leave you alone for one evening,” Julie started.

“What’d you do, Ray? Fly here?” Caid asked at the same time. She smiled lightly at the nickname -- short for 'Raven.'

“I wasn’t that far from here,” Julie lied. She managed to untie herself from the kids at that moment. Caid looked at her like he didn’t believe her.

“Dad said we can draw on his arm,” Wylie said, trotting over to get a look at Caid’s mummified arm. Caid reached out to ruffle Wylie's hair.

Kip scrubbed a hand over his eyes and took a seat on one of the plastic chairs. Julie looked from him to Caid. Caid held out his good hand, fingers splaying.

She wanted to ask what happened, how bad the fire was, but with the kids there it didn’t seem right. A part of her didn’t want to know. A part of her wanted to burrow into Caid like Wylie had done to her just moments before. Instead, she managed to stay upright and drew closer. She gently brushed a hand at his cheek. There was a bit of soot on his skin. 

“We’ve got to stop reuniting at hospitals,” Julie managed around the lump in her throat.

Caid closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into her palm. He heaved a sigh. “I told the nurse's at the desk I could wrap my arm myself if they just gave me some lidocaine.”

Julie hummed. “Doesn’t sound like that worked out for you, Cowboy.”

“One day it will,” Caid said quietly. 

Julie bent down a little and pressed her lips to his forehead. She could taste the smoke. Caid’s hands smoothed down her arms.

“It’s my fault.” His voice was barely a whisper. Julie shook her head and rested her chin on top of his hair. “It’s gone, baby.”

“You don’t know that, yet,” She murmured. Suddenly, those questions she had disappeared.

“You didn’t see it.” 

She leaned away at that, at the guilt tinged in his silence. His eyes bore into her face. Whatever was held in their depths she’d find out about later. Right now, the salon was the least of her worries. What mattered were all of them in that room. The rest could wait.

“Hey, you know I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”

Caid gnawed on his bottom lip. He managed a nod. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. 

Julie’s heart leapt to her throat. Her eyes immediately searched for a call button. She hadn’t seen how bad the burn was since it was under a thick layer of gauze. “Wha-”

“The fucking cat,” He rasped, good hand digging into his jeans.

“The what?” Julie asked, looking over her shoulder like she half expected a cat to appear next to Kip. Kip sat up at that; Wylie blinked, confused.

“What cat?” Wylie asked. 

“The cat you’ve been feeding; I grabbed him. He’s in the truck,” Caid explained, keys jangling as he finally managed to get them out of his pocket. He tossed them at her. 

Julie barely managed to catch them. She was still trying to process what he just said. A few cats came to mind. Finally, in her mind’s rolodex, the big maine coon’s lazy eyes came to mind. “Bao?”

“Yeah, that one,” Caid said. “Fucker tried running out when we got here.” 

Julie smiled despite herself. She tried to fight the hysterical giggle, but failed to keep a straight face. Instead, her composure began to dissolve. She wasn’t sure what bubbled out first. The laughter or the tears. The relief or the delayed fear.

[ivyblooms]

(btw chard = silverbeet - it's an American recipe, but I've cooked it with nz ingredients just fine. Also, you can't use the rice after you've baked it, but you can reuse it for baking or use those ceramic beads instead)

Mushroom and chard quiche

5 oz plain flour

3½ oz butter, cold

Pinch of salt

¼ to ½ cup cold water

Rice for blind baking

50 g butter

8 button mushrooms

1 onion

4 leaves chard

Italian herbs

50-100 g cheese (e.g., Edam)

5 eggs

300 ml cream

½ tsp salt

Ground pepper

Pre-heat oven to 200° C

Put flour, cold butter, and pinch of salt in large bowl, and cut butter into flour with a pastry blender (pastry cutter). Once mixture forms pea-sized globs, use a fork to gently mix in ¼ to ½ cup cold water, enough to keep mixture together without being wet. Form dough into a ball, place on floured surface, pat flat, and roll out a circle with a rolling pin. Circle should be just larger than needed to fill the pie dish or quiche tin. Place dough in pie dish, being careful not to stretch the dough (or it will retract in baking). Place baking paper over dough and cover with rice. Use a small sharp knife to trim excess dough from top of pie dish. Bake for 10 minutes at 200° C, then remove and place on trivet.

Clean mushrooms and slice. Chop onion. Clean and roughly chop chard. Sauté mushrooms and onions together in butter in a large pan. When onion is just soft, add chard to pan and continue sautéing. Add Italian herbs. Remove from heat.

Beat eggs. Add enough cream to make 500 ml of mixture, then mix thoroughly with salt and pepper.

Remove baking paper and rice from crust. Place cheese evenly in bottom of crust. Place mushroom mixture into crust and spread evenly. Pour egg mixture into crust, being sure that it does not spill out of crust.

Carefully place quiche into oven on a middle shelf and bake for 20 minutes at 200° C. Reduce heat to 180° C and bake for a further 20 minutes. To test doneness, push a toothpick into the centre of the quiche and pull it out; it should come out clean.

When quiche is fully cooked, remove it from oven and place on a trivet. Allow it to sit for 5 minutes before serving.

This sounds awesome! I did have to look up a pastry cutter and was a bit amazed because I have always been taught to do that process by hand and it takes ages!!! But we used to do that and add sugar and eat it raw as a snack at my grandmas farm. Now I know there was a better way all along 😮

Im gonna try making this on thursday so stay tuned!!

Also chard is a funny word, sounds like something a cow would eat. But silverbeet isn't silver or a beet afaik so I can't point fingers lol

[handeaux]

Cincinnati’s Clean-Up Campaigns Remind Us That Our Ancestors Lived Like Pigs

If you had family in Cincinnati a century ago, I have bad news for you: They wallowed in garbage. It wasn’t entirely Grandma’s and Grandpa’s fault. The City of Cincinnati took a long time to figure out trash collection. Back around 1910, for example, the city sanitation wagons picked up only two kinds of refuse – ashes and garbage. Ashes were the remnants of the fuel burned in stoves and furnaces. Garbage had a very specific definition, as set forth in the 1909 Building Code:

“The word ‘garbage’ shall be held to include all refuse of animal, fish or vegetable matter which has been used for food for man, and all refuse animal, fish or vegetable matter which was intended to be so used.”

The average household also accumulated stacks of paper and piles of rags – no paper towels back then! – and the Rag Man hauled this stuff away for sale to the local paper mills.

That left several miscellaneous categories of rubbish or trash that no one had any interest in: broken bottles and crockery, old wooden barrels, scrap lumber, anything metallic like tin cans or buttons, bricks and stones, tree branches, and so on. All of this junk just piled up in the backyard or basement or both.

In the early 1900s, a few progressive organizations tried to organize city-wide clean-up campaigns to eliminate all the junk from residential backyards. In addition to aesthetic concerns, there was a strong financial incentive for hauling away this trash. Cincinnati’s fire-insurance underwriters applauded [Cincinnati Enquirer 5 January 1906] a report demonstrating that a 1905 clean-up effort had resulted in 200 fewer fires than were recorded in the previous year. Insurers actually lowered rates for the downtown businesses after clean-up campaigns and Captain Jack Conway of the Cincinnati Salvage Corps requested regular campaigns to remove trash:

“He advocates the ‘clean up’ campaign be continued with unabated vigor until all rubbish is removed from cellars, old waste from under benches, &c., which are the most prolific source of fires.”

The Cincinnati Woman’s Club led the charge in 1907 and talked Mayor Edward J. Dempsey into supporting a thorough spring cleaning for the downtown area. The mayor asked residents to haul all that backyard and basement debris out to the curb on one fine day in June. Problem was, all of the city’s street-cleaning wagons were already committed to hauling ashes and garbage that day. It was only when Mayor Dempsey talked the very reluctant Street Repair Department into donating their 40 wagons that the campaign was made possible. Even a fleet that large was not enough to handle the accumulated detritus. According to the Cincinnati Post [10 June 1907]:

“As the Cincinnati Street-cleaning Department has not enough teams and men to clean up all that district in one day, the Woman’s Club, for which the city is making the experiment, has appealed to all firms and corporations and all individuals having wagons and teams to assist in the work Wednesday, June 12. That is the day upon which all the hauling will be done.”

Annual “house cleaning days” gathered enough support to continue for several years, but the Woman’s Club had other initiatives to support and leadership for the campaign transferred to the Chamber of Commerce, which super-sized the operation. For the 1914 campaign, the Chamber set aside several weeks in the spring for the clean-up, followed by a city-wide inspection. The Chamber paid for 100,000 lapel buttons promoting the effort and printed 250,000 circulars informing residents how to participate.

The Chamber even coughed up a $25 prize for the best “Clean Up and Paint Up” song. The winning lyrics were composed by Dr. Stephen E. Slocum, professor of applied mathematics at the University of Cincinnati, whose words were set to music by Walter H. Aiken, director of music for the Cincinnati Public Schools. The local schools stepped up to promote the clean-up campaign, not only by distributing brochures and flyers, but by planting gardens in most of the city’s schoolyards.

In addition to aesthetics and fire safety, the 1914 campaign encouraged sanitary measures to stop the spread of flies. At a time when the majority of vehicles on Cincinnati’s roads were horse-drawn, manure piled up all through the city, supporting an infestation of flies unimaginable today.

After weeks of encouraging residents to tidy up their properties, the Chamber coordinated a city-wide inspection to document compliance and results. According to the annual report, some citizens were none to happy about having their domestic habits evaluated:

“There were some people with a misconception of the meaning of personal liberty who refused to allow inspection of their premises and some preferred not to aid in a general ‘clean up’ for fear it would be only spasmodic and not result in permanent good.”

Despite scattered opposition, the Chamber bragged that the 1914 campaign resulted in a $600,000 reduction in fire loss, from $1.3 million in 1913 to less than $800,000 in 1914. Nearly 8,000 wagonloads of trash were hauled out of residential areas. That success led to an even more ambitious campaign plan for 1915. In fact, the Chamber may have become a victim of its own success. A report suggests that few of the campaign’s ambitious goals were achieved in 1915, although the results were still impressive.

At the conclusion of the 1915 clean-up period, the Chamber coordinated city-wide inspections. More than 42,000 premises received a visit, with 30,000 earning a clean certification. The remaining 12,000 properties appalled the inspectors, who identified nearly 35,000 defects ranging from unsecured garbage and ash cans to obstructed fire escapes to overflowing privy vaults and unsanitary toilets to open manure piles.

More than 300 buildings were found in such deplorable condition that they were ordered razed. The city located nearly 1,300 illegally maintained backyard outhouses and ordered them replaced with flush toilets that could still be located in the backyard if preferred!

Thanks to the generosity of the Mabley & Carew Company, clean-up participants planted more than 84,000 trees on Cincinnati’s barren hillsides.

While congratulating itself on a job well done, the Chamber dinged the city administration for outdated and ineffective procedures for removing garbage and other refuse:

“The city has made no step forward for the disposal of its waste, except garbage, since its first log cabin was built in January 1789. As the population has increased, the dumps have grown in size and become nearer to built up residence sections. This has resulted in strenuous complaints from time to time, and the elimination of those dumps against which pressure has become too strong to be resisted by city officials.”

Alas, with the city administration still under the thumb of the Boss Cox machine, city officials could resist any level of public pressure without even breaking a sweat.

[feathersflurry]

Fractal -Prologue

A SephirothxFem!OC Fanfic

TW: Death, Child abuse, intimidation

The light from her grandmothers old television set emanated through the dark room, and ominous music broke through the static. The whirring sound from the Sony playstation hummed in her ears as she fixed her eyes on the screen at the vibrant eyes of the silver haired man walking into the flames of a now burning town. His eyes gazed over what seemed to be his work as his hair moved with the wind and his blade was held firmly in his hand. She clicked the start button on the controller to pause the intro to Final Fantasy VII. Her eyes were transfixed on the man before her as she furrowed her brow before her. His eyes were distant the longer she looked at him. She studied him a bit further as she reached her hand out and touched the screen. He looked like he didn’t want to be involved in the merciless killing of innocent people. He didn’t like being seen as a monster. There were so many more things that she could see, but she couldn’t quite place. All she could see was a feeling similar to what she felt when her father came to retrieve her. 

“Are you hurting?” She asked him. 

Her grandmother walked in at that moment. She could tell by the slow padding of her house slippers and the click of the light. It didn’t quite bother her, as she’d been adjusted to the glow of the television. The sound of cushions shuffling behind her meant she needed to move further away to avoid getting scolded. She didn’t need to be told. Several clicks sounded behind her as she continued playing. Wood clicked and metal scratched together, as the elder worked. A soft sigh escaped the little girl as a smile escaped her lips. It sounded like another doll was in the works. 

She would continue to play the game day by day, carefully learning the story and working toward the boss battle and reading between the lines. She would seek out books about the final fantasy lore and tilt her head curiously about the storyline and what was left unsaid. She would check out references and even go into the character backstories. Whenever she was left at her grandmother's house for long periods of time, she would proceed to play and talk about the game as her grandmother would nod. The old woman would slowly sew away at her project and nod as she listened intently. A pile of papers sat neatly on the table before her with a closed pen. Unfortunately those papers were there for a reason, as two years later, the same little girl at seven years old would be standing at her grandmother's grave. Not two hours later she would be chasing her father down about her grandmother’s house. 

“This is my house!” She shrieked. “Grandma said that this place was to go to me!” A much taller man with dark hair and a larger build swung around, eyeing her with monstrous intent. His fury flooded the room as she in all of her tiny ferocity stared him down. He sneered at her audacity and scoffed he slowly turned. He snapped his head over his shoulder at the sight of a doll with black clothing as the little girl set her eyes on its familiarity. Its long silver hair and black gloves was all to familiar to her and she immediately leapt after it once her father gave the order to drop it in the wastes. She was unaware of the pain she would be in in the next few moments. The loud bang from the tin can, would send a ringing through her ears. The sudden feeling of her father slamming her head into the hardwood floor as he began to beat her. The feeling of her ribs breaking beneath the much larger man as she looked up at the doll who she called her friend. 

Sephiroth. 

“See Seph?” She gasped between blows, reaching out to try and touch the doll as tears blurred her vision. “I told you I…” She trailed off. She couldn’t even remember what she was going to attest. She was going to protect him? She mocked herself. She couldn’t even protect herself or her grans house. Her vision continued to blur and all began to fade. The Sephiroth doll proceeded to show concern if only for a brief moment, and in just a second began to take on the appearance of a young boy of about seven or eight as he reached out in earnest. His eyes were filled with sadness and concern for her. 

“Who hurt you?”

<< | < |•| > | >>

[hughungrybear]

Me watching Laws of Attraction Ep. 3:

1. Oooh, Charn's backstory (at last!). I see, Charn's ring pendant necklace came from Mum. So, I guess mum's dead? <after 5 seconds> HOOOOOLD UUUUP! How did Charn and mum end up from celebrating a case won to being blindfolded and kneeling/crawling in the mud??? Wtf. 😵

2. It has come to my attention that Tanthai is sort of dumb. I think somebody is due for some anger management therapy. He is letting his anger cloud his decisions. I mean, really? Asking the minions to disobey his corrupt dad's direct orders on a whim is peak stupidity.

3. Okay, since I still do not know what the goons are looking for, am legit afraid for Tonkhao's bestie. Looks like she accidentally chosen the thing that caused Tonkhao's death as a souvenir 😭😭😭 Also, grandma, I thought you gave Charn all the dolls in Tonkhao's room when he asked. Why the ever loving fvck is there a treasure chest full of dolls still (not to mention the one found inside Tonkhao's bag)????

4. I'm wondering: what exactly is Charn's relationship with Miss Clubowner? Is he a nephew or something? Also, got to admit that Charn's happiness is also my happiness atm (the bank deposit notification, that is) 😅

5. <my paranoid self seeing the icecream truck outside Tin's dojo> Oh, no. Not the kids!!!! 😟😟😟😟 <after 5 seconds> Gawd dammit, Charn. I almost had a heart attack. 😭😭😭

6. Of all the things that Charn should be stressed about, it's the kids (and Tin) calling him "uncle" that triggers him the most. Lol 😂😂😂

7. I can understand Charn's logic. You know how they say "first impressions lasts"? It is really applicable when swaying public opinion. It's the reason why so many effing politicians prosper - they know how to project a likeable image despite a rotten core. Still, I doubt a person as honest as Tin would play the game. If I were Charn, I would change tactics. If he couldn't convince Tin to let go of his moral beliefs, he might want to design a new plan that would (even superficially) accommodate those beliefs.

8. Why do I find Charn's bodyguard/assistant highly sus? Must be the paranoid in me lol 😅😅😅😅

9. Got to admire Charn's talent to push all of Tanthai's (angry) buttons. It took him less than a minute to threaten Tanthai. The guy has a natural talent for getting under anyone's skin 😂😂😂

10. Ugh. I still maintain that Tanthai is a dumba**. He should know how to play his cards right. If he has a leverage against his dad, he should be wise and get the timing right. 😑

11. OMG. They fired Tin??? Wth. 🤬 Also, why kill the dog too? What did the dog do to them? 😭😭😭😭

12. Sorry, no sweet moment can topple that dead dog image in my mind 😭😭😭😭

13. Again, Tanthai's stup*dity will be the end of him. Stop being rash and mad, goddamn it.

14. Really? A fire? What the hell. Wait, what is Charn doing there? With an extiguisher?? That's pretty convenient. 😑 Also, the assistant filming the whole thing? I smell BS.

15. The fvck does the eng sub mean "kids singing"? That was anything but singing lol. Also, I have been saying that Tanthai is stup*d, but is he stup*d enough to leave a traceable evidence in a potential crime scene? 🤔🤔🤔🤔

16. See, his rage would kill him (by the hands of Tanthep) one day. Tanthai needs to control his emotions so that he could one upped his dad when the time is right.

17. Yep, pretty sure Charn started the fire at Tin's house. His friends from the club probably lifted Tanthai's ring without him noticing <after 5 seconds> wait, I think Tin is also suspicious of Charn, judging by the looks he is giving.

18. Seeeeee? Tin is smart. I'm so proud of him. 😄 Also, Charn knows where all the cameras are, it is easier to evade them.

19. I guess Miss Clubowner sums it up pretty nicely. Tin cares for so many people that he naturally worries. On the other hand, Charn is pretty strict on caring only for himself (since his mum died) that he cannot even begin to consider the possible consequences of his actions to other people.

20. I am getting frustrated with Tin. Yeah, it's admirable that he has unbreakable morals but he has to accept that "good" does not always prevail against "evil". Not in the real world anyway.

Anyways, am not sure where the story will go with this black-and-white perspective of good and evil. On to the next episode.

[alltimefail-sims]

17 and 26 for both Erwin and Zoe, please and thank you!

17. Did they travel? Where? Why? When?

Zoe is very well traveled! I've talked about this a bit in the past, but before her mom got sick they would go on wildly lavish vacations! Her mom valued exposure to historic places, other culture, and other customs so she worked hard to ensure her daughter appreciated those things as well and didn't "live in a bubble." Zoe hasn't really traveled much since her mom died, partly because of money but more-so because it makes her sad to travel alone. She feels the absence of her mom too much and even when she's with friends it just hasn't felt the same.

Erwin's family wasn't wealthy by any means, so they would travel to visit his grandma on his mother's side of the family for holidays or sometimes just for long weekends (she lived roughly 4 hours from them, so it was enough of a distance and time commitment to be considered traveling imo). They also went on family vacations every now and then to affordable, middle-class-family touristy places like Gatlinburg (they went to Dollywood one year) but they never had the money to do like... Disneyland, cruises, out of the country travels, or anything extravagant. Their vacations were not done yearly but more like every 2 or 3 years. Erwin would like to travel more, but he's been pretty preoccupied the last couple of years.

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

Zoe's answer is kind of elaborate lmao - she's never had a "home of her own." She currently lives in a sorority house and she has her own room because she has a leadership position. She likes things to be bright, full of natural-light and she decorates with plants, soft colors, and simple patterns. She is a very clean, organized person who always seems put together. Always rocking the "no makeup" dewy look: glowing and put together in a way that takes a lot of maintenance and discipline and her physical space would reflect that. We know that she inherits her uncle's home in Strangerville, and all I'm gonna say is that his home is.......... not those things lmfao. But I digress!

I know that every time I talk about how Erwin is essentially a trash possum I get someone in my asks complaining that I've made him not an uwu boy... but he lives in a shitty motel room and it is a MESS. I would argue that this is not who he is by default, but just who he has become after a lot of time putting his own needs on the backburner to chase a mystery bigger than he originally realized. His place looks like the inside of his head - wildly disorganized, littered with remnants of vending machine meals and takeout, pieces of his true personality here and there that are buried deep below the mess and chaos, untouched more and more as time passes. He would say he doesn't have a sense of style, but I'd call him a thrift-store-grandpa mixed with alternative, bookish, academic. He likes statement pieces - shirts with dumb sayings and sturdy denim, fun patterned socks and button downs layered under jackets littered with patches and pins he's collected over the years. Contrary to popular belief he does not willingly walk around with tin-foil hats or Christmas light colanders on his head 🤦... that's just a gimmick uniform for the conspiracy stand he works at!

Prompt here - ask me about my OCs!

[fenharel-archived]

OC NATURE AESTHETICS.

tagged by @risingsh0t, thank you! tagging @rkyloren​, @shadowglens​, @arlathen​, @denerims​, @solasan​, @thefathersbride​, @queennymeria​, @solasan​, @leviiackrman​, @necroticpetals​ & you!

rules: bold what always/definitely applies, italicize what sometimes applies, strikethrough what never applies.

Cottagecore

homemade bread, throwing seeds out for the chickens, a tabby cat, patchwork quilts, puffy skirts, ceramic dishes, fresh flowers in a glass jar, herbs hanging from the ceiling, freckles, grey eyes, Athena, old recipe books, a cookie tin filled with recipe cards from grandma, home-sewn pillows, a plate of cookies, the smell of rosemary cooking in a pot of water on the stove, a floral tea pot, salt and pepper shakers, pansies, bartering with neighbors, biking to town, stained glass windows

Zen Gardencore

rocks raked with precision, bonsai trees, holy temples, moss covering statues of gods and godesses, reading ancient texts, being blessed by your ancestors, trusting and family devotion, watercolors on paper, ink on skin, poetry and art, hot springs, cherry blossoms, little flames flickering behind paper curtains, the smell of incense burning, figurines carved from jade and gold from centuries ago, rain, a mist seeping around your ankles as you make your way to school, a chalkboard, scraps of cloth made into art, origami, your father’s heirloom sword you long to one day pick up like your favorite Disney Princess, tranquility and peace, stubborn and proud

Junglecore

exotic animals, tree house, waterfalls, learning the calls of native birds, bright colors and natural materials, bracelets made from wooden beads and bones and feathers, collecting mushrooms, shirts with the sleeves cut off, leaving plastic bottle caps out full of water for frogs to soak in, cutting jeans to make them into shorts, wading in the river, cutting your own hair, bamboo wind chimes, upcycled art, fish in plastic jugs, air plants, climbing up trees using the vines, harvesting your own fruit

Forestcore

deep silences of the oldest trees, darkness, log cabins, deer antlers mounted on the wall, rearticulated skeletons, hand-dried pelts, pots of stew cooking over a fire, pancakes in a cast iron pan, brown boots worn from hiking, an old walking stick, bonfires at night, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores, strange markings carved into the bark of trees, ferns that curl up when touched, hearing animals dart here and there but never being able to catch more than a quick glimpse of them out of the corner of your eye, finding half-eaten acorns and mushrooms, large tracks from something you can’t identify, bow hunting

Beachcore

seashell collection, model boats, jars of sand, windswept hair, the feel of the wooden boardwalk on your bare feet, big sunglasses, light blue walls, rope hammock, pillows with anchors embroidered on them, flip flops, shining sun, fish tank, sea animal plushies, a steering wheel from a boat on your wall, plates and mugs with seahorses on them, bracelets with plastic shell and dolphin and turtle beads on them, postcards from the ocean, wind chimes made of sea glass

Mountain/Meadowcore

watching the rabbits down in the valley, reading a book in a window seat, checking the sky for storms, knitting heavy quilts for the winter, many layers of clothing, waking up to see the sunrise and sitting outside for the sunset, enjoying the company of ones-self, mountain goats, clovers, laying in the tall grass underneath the sun, field mice, crystal and gemstone collection, a tin filled with buttons and sewing needles and thread, fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, scones

[madeofthreads]

"Brother... you don't happen to have some Gil leftover for a starving familymember?"

Brother...

Leif immediately dropped his head from where he cleaned Jór's tack. That tone, coupled with how Glenn hadn't used his name to address him. He rolled his head to regard his twin, not knowing what to expect out of his mouth.

Though he couldn't stop a sudden amused huff from escaping him. Not that he even would have tried. Right, a starvling, absolutely fading away to a shadow. "How about I order you a Happy Meal? Heard those still come with a toy."

It was light banter, spoken as he reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He wasn't a rich man. Though he wasn't poor either. Careful with his money, living a humble life, with a smaller home that was off the grid. He didn't have as many modern luxuries, only powering up what was absolutely necessary with a diesel generator, but even then he tried to live without. He thumbed through his gil and offered a few bills over. "Here." 300 gil. Plenty for his more impulsive brother if he was smart about it, and yet he expected that all to be shredded by the end of the week through convenience meals and sudden must-haves. "Just make sure to get grandma one of those conniving biscuit tins, the ones she stuffs full of her sewing threads, and buttons, and whatnot."

[arithecreatorsstuff]

Night Shift: What Happens in the Watchtower Stays in the Watchtower

It's the wee small hours in the morning, and it's so damn quiet. I'd even take a good ol fashioned Hal/Ollie argument over the boredom. I've even managed to get a fair bit of crocheting done. Of course, whenever I start with the hookwork, I get teased by a coworker.

It's late April, and it's like a Bjork song out there: oh so quiet. Amazingly, there's nothing to do. No crime beyond the petty stuff. It's like every villain just decided to not for one night. Rare, but it happens. Due to my inability to not just sit still without fidgeting, I drag out the crochet. I'm barely a few rows into my beach blanket when my buddy Victor starts in.

"Hey, since when did we accept grandmas in the Justice League?"

"About the time you joined, Tin Woodsman. Why, you need some mittens or a bobble hat?"

"The cold doesn't bother me, Nana Fion. Why do you do that, anyway? Pay's good, you can just buy a blanket."

"You know I have idle hand syndrome. This way, my hands stay out of trouble, I get exactly the kind of blanket I want, more or less, plus... good for dexterity. Besides, pretty sure Rosie Greer did needlepoint."

"Never thought of that. Good point. What's the next project, gonna make Swamp Thing a flower crown?"

"Nah, he makes his own. Was gonna make Harley a new straight jacket, until I saw the price of the yarn I was gonna use. I knew silk was expensive, but damn. It'd cost me over a hundred in yarn alone. Better off learning to sew at those rates."

"Hey, at least you're good at that stuff. I can't even sew a button on, I break sewing needles."

"Tell you what Vic... you give me any buttons you need replaced, I'll do it for Guild rate, which is a couple bars of chocolate and a pop."

"Deal. None of my friends can sew either."

"I can be talked into teaching, it's not that hard until machines get involved."

"You promise not to tell anyone?"

"Vic... it's me. I'm not one to spill the tea. Not. One. Word. Lantern's honor, swear on my ring, my battery, and the Guardians' ridiculous red dresses."

"They do look pretty stupid. But, don't tell the others."

"Me? Give an actual opinion to my coworkers on something besides a crisis? I'm Miss Switzerland here, I don't take sides, and I'm not a gossip."

"That's why everybody likes you more than Jordan. You know when not to say something."

"He does tend to put his big foot in his mouth a lot." We share a laugh about that. Hal Jordan is many things, but "annoying little git", as a famed asshole extraordinaire would say, is chief among them at times. Hell, even his best friends have taken swings at him. Ollie once knocked him out in front of everybody. The literal devil has several restraining orders against him. You know you're annoying when even Hell itself doesn't want to deal with your bullshit.

[decept0rcon]

Obsessed with the cookie tin full of buttons I just inherited out of my grandma's sewing stash.

Edited to add a picture. Bonus ladybug buttons.

[soldier-lodbrok]

Glenn could follow that dude's explanation up until the last bit. It made sense, really. Well, from a tailor's standpoint, probably. But Glenn had never even thought about matching buttons. If he needed to replace one, he was just looking for the general... size and color. Maybe. Whatever was leftover in his grandma's former-cookie-now-traitorous-sewing-tin.

"18k?! Dude!", he echoed back immediately at the last part, hoping he had freakin misheard. 18k! What the fuck! For an hour! He wished he had that kind of income!

Though Glenn had enough conscience left to swallow down more thoughts about that.

Standing there a little dumbstruck, Glenn kneaded his hands and looked to the side, as if he could take his question back, now that it seemed so stupid.

"Uhm... well... on second thought... how much is some thread and a needle?", he asked, putting on another grin and rubbing the back of his nape.

No way in fucking hell he could fork over 18k for an hour of sewing work. He'd have to learn himself - after all grandma currently wasn't able to help him in that, with her being in hospital. Ugh. Time to grow up, huh?

"Alternatively, at 18k an hour, I'd take a job-offering as seamstress, too!"

He startles somewhat at the force in which the box is dropped unto the counter, a single and slender brow raising in quiet request for explanation - not yet deciding to query aloud. Vaux is more of an observer, and he does take the moment that his company is chattering away to watch - to listen to words and cant his head gently to one side 'pon the half-complement.

"Those you speak of request the finest, and thus they pay for the finest." He imagined it would be enough of a hint towards his fees, especially given that he was not one to boast about it aloud. The accuracy in which Vaux and his seamstresses worked at begged a premium price, after all - and the expense of the material used alone would run the numbers ever higher. "Why else would they come to me-?"

The request that follows is one that has Vaux quipping a small smirk, a brief glance at the male in his company, the mess of mud upon his marble tiles; and he reclines to lean against the wall behind him, gently shaking his head.

"That would depend, darling; if it was done by myself or one of my seamstresses. The difference in price is substantial. That- and it does depend wholly on the time it would take, inclusive of matching materials and colours." He hummed, attempting to fathom forth an accurate enough number for the sake of curiosities. "Buttons take minutes to replace, but are difficult to match well. It's sometimes easier just to cut all of the buttons off and replace them all to match, but this takes more time - - and matching fabrics sometimes means dying the replacements. You see how long this takes, yes? My establishment charges by the hour for such things." Repairs were uncommon, after all; most simply preferred to pay for new.

"--and my seamstresses start at 18k an hour."

[godswalkwithher]

OH GODDAMMIT!!!!

Just thought of something that would have been AWESOME to put on the witchy wishlist, but can’t amend it now.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH