#i would take my stained glass and my crochet with me

[apricot-antlers]

Shiny baby fish! ✨️🐠✨️

Thank youuu! You are lovely my dear 💚🌿💚🌿💚

[ink-flavored]

Anthology Blast Prompt 5: Reverse Shaping a Friendship

for the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast Tips are appreciated! Contains: passive-aggressive arguing, misunderstandings

It was a beautiful spring day in Athendrolyn. Parks blossomed with fresh leaves and bright flowers, the streets bustled with people, and a collective sigh of relief that the long winter had finally ended. Dhosseda took in the sights as she made her way down the sidewalk, an engraved blackthorn wood cane in one hand and a bulging purse under her opposite arm. It was a lovely day all around, and what better way to spend a lovely day than with her neighborhood?

In the distance, a Mid-Kingdom Elvish style building came into view. A dignified construction of polished wood, marble columns, stained glass, and an artfully slanted roof, it would have been a cathedral in nearly any other city. In Athendrolyn, the sign over the entrance—new, but styled to match the historic architecture—announced itself to all passersby as the Waterside Community Senior Center. Dhosseda turned down the street and through the entrance garden, a rainbow of plants greeting her on the way.

The enchanted doors slid open as she approached. A quaint reception desk sat in the center of a small lobby, but Dhosseda didn’t need to bother the volunteer behind it. She turned down the same hallway as always, and looked for the floor sign with “Weekly Knitting Circle” scrawled across it in big, looping chalk letters. It was the third room on the left, as usual, with its doors wide open to anyone who cared to join.

“Good morning, Miss Oakfall,” said the pleasantly soft voice of Fiadh, a young selkie with brown hair down to her lower back. She wore her velvety, spotted, sealskin coat as if winter had never ended, though that was no surprise.

“Please, dear, I’ve said it a hundred times,” she replied, waving a hand. “Call me Dhosseda—or you can even call me Eda, if you like.”

Fiadh took her cane when she offered it and held out her arm instead. “Sorry, Miss—Dhosseda. Old habits are hard to break.”

“You’re much too young to be saying that.”

“Am I?”

“Mark my words, Fiadh: when your hair goes as gray as my beard, you’ll remember this talk and guffaw until your heart gives out.”

She laughed gently. “I’ll take your word for it.” Fiadh lead her to the nearest low seat in the knitting circle, to accommodate her dwarvish stature. She set the cane against the wall. “Just call for me if you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you, dear, it’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

“Eda, is that you?” asked Vinthia, a blindfold secured tightly over her eyes. Her bullsnake hair twisted over and over itself, each snake flicking its tongue trying to sniff out the newcomer. Her hands worked at almost the same rate, knitting needles clicking burnt orange yarn into even rows.

“It most certainly is,” Dhosseda replied, opening her purse for her own project. “I didn’t mean to be late, but it was such a lovely day, I walked instead of taking the trolley.”

“It is pleasant today, isn’t it?” Crabapple agreed from across the circle, a stout dryad—closer to a shrub, really—with long, spindly branches tipped with springtime leaves.

“Hold onto your hats, everyone,” said Pimpernel, a halfling on their other side, “Ol’ Crabby has something positive to say for once.” The circle only laughed because it was true.

Crabapple brandished their crochet hook. “Don’t you start with me, or won’t bring my homemade jelly when my fruit starts to ripen.”

“A threat, indeed!”

Dhosseda chuckled into her beard, unfolding her latest blanket project onto her lap. There was nothing she’d rather do than be here among her neighbors. She’d gotten so used to the regulars, she almost felt like they’d known each other their whole lives. Vinthia, Crabapple, and Pimpernel, of course. Then there was Oloyra, an elf older than the building but didn’t look a day over six-hundred, Xilbeth, a minotaur with needles double the size of Dhosseda’s legs, and Tokea, the satyr who used yarn made of its own fleece. Yes, she truly couldn’t have asked for a better group of friends. The only problem she’d ever had at the knitting circle was—

“Good morning, Miss Meldrish,” Fiadh said. Dhosseda snapped up.

A brilliantly purple dragonfolk entered the room in a frilly, square-neckline dress. The wide sunhat on her head had holes poked in it for her horns. She had a wicker basket over her elbow, stuffed with colorful yarn and different sized needles. Her sharp teeth flashed while she spoke with Fiadh, the picture of polite innocence. Dhosseda felt her blood pressure rise.

Meldrish squeezed between chairs into the circle. “Excuse me, darlings, I hate to interrupt.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Pimpernel said, scooting his seat over to let her pass. “All you’ve cut short is talk about the weather.”

“It is such a lovely day, isn’t it?” Meldrish had the gall to plop her scaly behind right next to Dhosseda, her tail slipping through the gap in the chair’s back. “I took a walk to get some sun on my scales.”

“That’s what Dhosseda said!”

“Oh, is that so?” Meldrish put her basket in her lap, and coolly turned her gaze. “How lovely, Dhosseda, we all need some fresh air from time to time.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed, smiling through gritted teeth. “It’s hard to imagine a better time for it than today, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, I feel the same.” Meldrish plucked a pair of needles out of her basket. “But of course, I’d never miss a meeting. Not even for an entire hoard of scrap fabric.”

“As if you need another hoard,” Oloyra teased.

Everyone laughed again, and Dhosseda pretended to join them. She picked up her own needles and yarn. She would ignore Meldrish, and focus on her project. Nothing this woman said was going to send her ranting today. Not this time.

Dhosseda assessed her next row. She’d been working on this blanket for a few months now, and it was in its final stages now. Her choice to use an alternating zig-zag pattern in forest green, bright lime, white, and gray required stopping to switch colors fairly often, but it was nothing she hadn’t done before. For this blanket in particular, all the hardship in the world was worth it. She picked up where she’d left off with her dark green yarn.

“What are you working on this week, Vinthia?” she asked.

“Now that it’s getting warmer,” she replied, “I thought I’d try a light shawl for the beach.”

“That’s a great idea! I love the color you chose, it looks excellent with your hair.”

 The bullsnakes writhed in her direction. “I’m so glad you think so! I was worried it would be a bit too bold.”

“Nonsense, there’s no such thing as too bold. Especially not for you, dear, it suits you.”

She smoothed her hair back and the snakes tangled around her fingers. “Oh, enough about me. What are you working on, Eda?”

“The same blanket I brought last week, I’m finally getting to the end of it.”

“Well, just make sure not to start a new blanket before you’re done.”

Dhosseda chuckled knowingly. “Oh, believe me, I’ve thought about it. But I’m on a bit of a time crunch with this one.”

“How so?”

“I have to get it done in two months for my grandson’s graduation.” She paused, sitting up taller. “He’s on track to be at the top of his class in Thaumaturgic Engineering at Cragshield University, and I want to surprise him with this.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“I agree!” interrupted Meldrish, sticking her snout where Dhosseda certainly didn’t want it. “Congratulations to your family! One of my grandsons graduated with high honors from Cragshield last year. It’s such a rigorous school to succeed in, your grandson must be very astute indeed.”

“Thank you,” Dhosseda said, forcing the platitudes past her tongue. “And congratulations to yours as well.”

She scoffed, waving it off with her needles. “Oh, it’s old news now. He’s no engineer like yours, but he did land an office at Montagar & Powell Law this year, and we’re all very proud.”

Before Dhosseda could reply—spit a reply—Xilbeth chimed in. “My granddaughter did an internship at Montagar & Powell!”

“What a small world,” Meldrish said. “How did she like it there?”

They continued to chit-chat, but Dhosseda couldn’t hear them over her blood boiling in her ears. How dare this overgrown lizard “congratulate” her grandson, only to sweep him aside to brag about her own.How dare she try to dismiss his success by name-dropping one of the most prestigious law firms in the country!

“Eda…” Vinthia warned. Even the snakes were giving her wary looks. She huffed, but knew Vinthia was right. She should just focus on her own project, let Meldrish gloat to Xilbeth until he keeled over instead.

No such luck—Meldrish put a hand on her arm. “But where are my manners?” she chided herself, and Dhosseda almost rolled her eyes. “I meant to say that two of his clutchmates are at Cragshield as well, perhaps the three of our grandkids know each other?”

“I doubt it,” she said, before she could stop herself. “My grandson is quite studious, as I’m sure you assumed, and lately he’s been working very hard to polish up his Master’s thesis—it’s his second degree.” Dhosseda shrugged, trying to hint for her to get those obnoxious claws off. “So unless they both happen to be engineers, I don’t think they could possibly know each other.”

“Oh my, that’s impressive.” She sat back, nodding into her chest. “It does sound like he’d be too busy. Maybe they’ll meet up if he goes back for his doctorate? At least one of mine is going back for a Ph.D. in—”

“Unless it’s in engineering, I highly doubt they’ll ever see each other.”

“Ladies,” Tokea interrupted with a sigh. “Do you have to do this every time?”

“Yes, do you?” Vinthia agreed.

“Do what?” Meldrish asked, blinking around the circle. “Don’t tell me none of you ever talk about your grandchildren.”

Dhosseda felt her eye twitch. “I’d hate to cut this short, but I would like to focus on my project now. Dear.”

“It’s not a problem at all!”

Meldrish cheerfully went back to her basket and the project in her hands, knitting row after row of light blue yarn. Dhosseda almost snapped her needles in half.

“I think I might try a halter top next,” Vinthia said, overly loud. “What do you think, Eda?”

Dhosseda a calming breath. “I think that sounds lovely, darling.”

Despite her best efforts, Dhosseda spent the rest of the knitting circle fuming. Vinthia, the kind soul that she was, tried to keep her occupied in conversation, but it only went so far. Weeks upon weeks of bitterness bubbled to the surface and simmered at the top of her mind for hours. When everyone packed up to leave, Dhosseda was shocked there wasn’t steam pouring out of her ears.

She couldn’t even enjoy the walk home like she planned. She stomped down the street, striking her cane against the pavement, and sulked. Birds chirped, people watered flowers in their gardens, and Dhosseda scowled at her feet. A gorgeous spring afternoon—wasted by that foul woman’s obsession with herself!

Dhosseda reached the door to her condo complex and took the elevator down to the basement levels. She was still grumbling by the time she reached her door, not even comforted by the familiar confinement of stone walls and fairy light lamps.

“I’m back,” she announced on the way inside.

“Well, you don’t sound happy about it,” replied Turel, her husband and much calmer half.

She sighed harshly, kicking her shoes off in the foyer. “You’ll never guess why!”

“Was it Mel—”

“It was Meldrish again!”

Dhosseda stomped into the living room. Turel sat on his favorite lounge chair, short beard tucked into his chest while he fed treats to their phoenix, Nora. The fiery feathered bird perked up and cocked her head from where she perched on the arm of the chair. If Dhosseda had been in any other mood, she would have joined them quietly, but she just couldn’t wait to get the off her chest.

“I was talking to Vinthia about Reiroc’s graduation,” she ranted, “and this woman has the gall to interrupt and talk about how her grandson is a big, fancy lawyer at Montagar & Powell, and that two of his siblings are at Cragshield doing their fancy degrees—”

“Eda.”

“—and just happened to mention that they’ll be going back for doctorates when I said Reiroc was busy with his Master’s defense! Oh, and when I mentioned what a lovely day it was for a walk—”

“Eda.”

“—she told me that ‘we all could use some fresh air’ and I just know she was trying to insinuate something—”

Turel waved his arms in desperation. “Blessings and curses, Eda, slow down!”

Dhosseda broke off, huffing and puffing. Nora raised and lowered the crest on her head, chirping in alarm. Turel stroked the back of her neck.

“You’re going to make the old girl burst into flames at this rate,” he chided.

“Well, I won’t be far behind,” she replied, and slumped on the chair across from his. She set her cane against the side and put her head against her fist. “I swear on all the stone in the earth, if I have to talk to that woman one more time…”

“Why do you talk to her?”

“I don’t! She talks to me first!”

“So ignore it!” Turel hushed apologetically when Nora chirped again. “Honestly, Eda, you’ve never had a nice word to say about Meldrish, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you go out of your way to speak to her every week.”

“It’s not—I don’t start the conversations, but I can’t just let her have the last word.”

“Why not? What are you actually getting out of entertaining these talks?”

She didn’t know, honestly. Dhosseda hated how Meldrish clearly craved to be the center of attention. She couldn’t let anyone speak well about themselves or their family without trying to counter it with a brag of her own, something that would inevitably turn the group’s praise and ears toward her. There was an undercurrent of challenge to her every rebuke, daring someone else to steal the spotlight back. Dhosseda couldn’t stand Meldrish or her antics, but she hated to be dismissed even more. Not that their terse conversations ever made her feel any better, even on the few occasions she had “won.”

“Nothing,” she admitted, with a sigh. “My pride gets the better of me, I guess.”

Turel nodded, a smile on his face. “That’s the Eda I married, no question. But you’re going to make yourself sick with all this hate you bring home. Just try ignoring her next time.”

How? she wanted to ask. How could she possibly ignore it when her own achievements, her family’s achievements, her joy was constantly under scrutiny like that? When there was someone like Meldrish in the room, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting conversations? It took everything she had not to fly off the handle. How was she supposed to sit quietly?

Nora flew off Turel’s chair and landed on hers. She cooed, eyes pinning in interest. Dhosseda ran a hand down her long back and wings. She took a deep breath.

If she couldn’t ignore Meldrish for her own sake, then she’d do it for her husband, who deserved better than to hear her rant about this unpleasant woman every week. She’d do it for Nora, who stressed so terribly easily. If Meldrish needed to tear others down to lift herself up, that was her business. Dhosseda didn’t want any part of it—would choose not to take part in it. Besides, they were both too old for these childish games. She didn’t want to poison herself with anger, or ruin the time she spent with her neighbors by dreading a single person.

“I’ll do my best,” she agreed.

Her mind was made up. Next week, she would protect her peace.

Dhosseda “making herself sick” was supposed to be a figure of speech.

The day before the knitting circle she felt a bit groggy, but on the fateful morning of what was supposed to be her new beginning, she could barely get out of bed. As the last straggling cases of the winter flu popped up around the city, Dhosseda was, unfortunately, one of its victims. Instead of knitting, she spent that day—and several days afterward—feverish and coughing. It was bad enough that she tried to convince Turel to wax her beard clean off, but thankfully he didn’t.

He and Nora were constants at her bedside, the darlings, and Vinthia dropped by with a pot of soup. While she ate, the two of them got to talking about what she missed at the knitting circle, and Vinthia reported that, while everyone wished she could have been there, Meldrish seemed particularly unhappy. Dhosseda couldn’t help puzzling over that.

“I thought she hated me,” she remarked to Turel that night.

“It could be that you were the most fun to argue with,” he suggested. “Hold still, now.”

He rubbed his hands together and a cool blue spark jumped between his palms. A little ghostly familiar in the shape of a mouse ran down his arm. A spell burst from his fingertips, and the mouse disappeared as the welcome relief of chilly air washed over Dhosseda’s face.

“Thank you, dear,” she sighed, relaxing into her pillow. “I think the worst of it’s behind me.”

“Hope so.” He scooted under the blankets next to her. “After all, I think you’d lose your mind if you had to miss two weeks of knitting in a row.”

She laughed, but it was subdued by her unanswered questions. If all Meldrish really wanted was a good argument, couldn’t she get that from anybody? Maybe Dhosseda was the only one who fought back as fiercely, but wouldn’t that be a detriment to her need for attention? As she recovered, the more she thought it over, and the less it made sense.

Luckily, her illness had since subsided by the time the next knitting circle rolled around. She took a bit of medicine and used the trolley instead of walking, just to be safe, but she was upright and stir-crazy from sitting in one spot for days on end.

“Miss Dhosseda! “ Fiadh greeted, rushing to her side. “Vinthia told us you were sick last week, how are you feeling?”

“I’m moving a bit slower,” she admitted, “but glad not to be hacking up my own lungs anymore.”

“We’re all glad too. Here, come sit down.”

Dhosseda took her arm to the usual seat. Vinthia was already there at her side, talking to Tokea, and Meldrish sat on the other. But this week was the week—she would not be letting her mood be dictated by petty, childish contests. She took her project out of her purse.

“Dhosseda!” Meldrish gasped, and she braced herself, “I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been ill, what happened?”

“Just a little flu,” she replied. She got to work on her blanket, counting the rows. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, I was lonely without you last week.”

Dhosseda did a double take. “Lonely? Wasn’t everyone else here?”

Meldrish waved a hand. “Oh, it just isn’t the same without you, darling.”

“Oh.” That was a surprise. “Thank you?”

“Of course! And if you’re ever ill again, if you ever need anything at all, just let me know.”

“I—I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, again.”

Meldrish went back to her project. Dhosseda went back to hers—or tried to.

It was as if the months of arguments had been an elaborate joke. Meldrish was unflappably kind the entire time. They had a genuine conversation about their pets when Dhosseda brought up how Nora stayed by the bed while she was sick, and Meldrish mentioned she had a dog, Dori. They… got along for the first time. Vinthia was surprised, too, Dhosseda could tell, but didn’t have an explanation for her.

By the end of the knitting circle, she still didn’t have one. Dhosseda took her time packing up her things, half on purpose, and half lost in thought. Was this supposed to be another way of getting attention? Had her brief illness knocked something loose in Meldrish that convinced her to be kinder? Was Dhosseda’s new mindset all it took to prepare her for a completely different experience? There was only one way she could find out.

“Meldrish,” she asked, once they were the final two leaving, “I hate to come across rude, but you seem different today.”

“Do I?” she asked, a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong, I just missed our boasting session last week so terribly.”

Dhosseda blinked. “Boasting session?”

“Yes, is that not what dwarves call it? Our little verbal sparring matches, I love hearing about your grandson!”

A boasting session. Verbal sparring. This whole time, while Dhosseda thought she was being brushed aside, Meldrish had been trying to bond with her. She thought they were swapping stories, engaging in a friendly bragging competition. A flush of embarrassment ran through her, nearly as hot as her fever.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she quickly said. “How would you like to get tea somewhere this weekend, to make up for the meeting I missed?”

Meldrish clasped her claws together. “Oh, I’d love that! I know an excellent tea shop nearby, it’s called The Daughter’s Cup.”

“I can meet you there at two o’clock tomorrow.”

“Perfect!”

They said their goodbyes at the sidewalk and went their separate ways. Dhosseda thought about stopping by the library on her way home—apparently, she needed to learn a bit more about dragonfolk boasting culture.

-

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[mesukohi]

A Crochet made of Blades

Summary:

Knives saved you from the cruel hands of humanity. You are not sure what his purpose is or why he did it, but after learning about his special day, you wanted to thank him with a small gift.

Note: A little Knives fluff if you squint hard enough (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

The sounds created by Knives's grand piano echoed through the halls, the song pristine on your ears that it almost always lulled you to sleep. You are not sure what the title of this symphony is, if it has one, nor if its melody is even comprehensible to the mind of a mere human being but hearing it was something you look forward to ever since he took you from your hometown.

It was years ago. Maybe three or so. Time is difficult to grasp when you are inside a building without many windows, and it also doesn't help that you don't have the freedom to see the outside world often, not unless there is an order or permission. Still, you are thankful of him. To many, he may be a ruthless killer- a villain that is beyond redemption. He has slaughtered hundreds- maybe thousands of humans and took their plants- a source of life that is significant at every city in Noman's land. However, to you, he is a nothing but a savior. The red stain that once painted his pale skin- blood that belonged to your former owners- was a sight that is gratefully engraved in the depths of mind. The thought made you chuckle. Perhaps you are crazy. Anyone who witnesses a murder would be thinking the other way around but you already have lost your faith in humanity long ago that caring for other people's wellbeing is none of your concern anymore. You just need to survive. And to survive is to focus on yourself and what's good for you.

Perhaps that's why he spared you.

You are a survivor.

The bruises that decorated your body and the broken bones told him so. The relief he saw in your eyes as he allowed you to defile the bodies of your abusers showed him that you are different- perhaps special- and could be of use.

And he was right. He always is. You were loyal. You did everything as he told. You supported his cause. You betrayed your fellow humans for him because you believe in him and his ideals.

Humans are selfish creatures. They will take advantage of anyone and anything that could give them the upper hand. May it be a lost girl with no one to confide to or a plant with limited energy. It is in their nature to make use and destroy.

And you want to thank him for waking you to this mentality. You fumbled on your gift, hands trembling as you walked closer to your destination. Every note leaving his piano grows louder at each step you take until you reached the threshold to his lair. You have been to this room before, the rare times when he allowed you to accompany him or humored you onto listening to his symphonies, yet still, you couldn't help but sigh in awe everytime you see the planetarium like crevice. The ceiling was made of glass, showing the outside sky that is currently painted with strokes of purple and orange. Every wall seemed to be made of precious metals, the lights only making them look gold, sterile, and immaculate. There wasn't any furniture at bay, not like he needed any. It was just him, his piano and the seat that accompanied it.

Seeing that you were distracted by the scenery, you didn't notice how the melody bouncing against the walls has already stopped, a chill running on your spine when you heard Knives spoke, back turned to you, his long fingers still pressed against the keys.

"What brings you here?"

His voice was cold, emotionless. Anyone would have been running for the hills upon hearing this but you were too blinded with dedication to even care. Still, your heart began a nervous beat, knowing how unpredictable this plant- man can be.

"You have one chance. Tell me what's so important that you have decided to consume my precious time" he reiterated, not even bothering to look at you.

"I...." Suddenly, you couldn't find your tongue. All the confidence that brought you to where you stand is gone and fading on the wind. Even though your loyalty is absolute for this man, you couldn't help but be afraid of him. He is after all "Millions Knives" an independent who seeks the end of humans such as yourself.

"F-forgive me for intruding Master Knives, It's just that..." You fumbled at the gift you are hiding behind your back, finally gaining the courage to speak. Perhaps being direct on what your purpose is would calm him a bit "The doctor told me that today is a special day for you. To be honest, I never knew how independent plants like you are created- if you are even born or artificially made but, I learned that today is your birthday so I have you this"

You shyly presented your gift. It is a crocheted scarf, the same color as his cloak. You have worked on this gift for a month, maybe two, your hands trembling from remaking it over and over especially when you see even the tiniest bit of imperfections because you want it to be perfect for him. A perfect gift for a perfect being.

"I know material things does not matter to you, but I am looking forward into giving you an offering for everything that you have done for me. I don't really have enough money to buy you anything of good quality or extravagant so I thought It would be best to just give you something that is handcrafted... e-even though it is created by the hands of a human like myself" You whispered the last part, knowing that it is the ultimate flaw of your gift.

He finally turns on his seat, one hand still pressed on the piano as his piercing blue eyes scanned your face and down to the scarf in you hands. His gazed was filled with curiosity, the palm that once settled in the keys of his favorite instrument now raising to be placed in front of him. He didn't speak, but his gesture suggested that he wanted to look at the item closer- so walk closer you did, feet dragging nervously against the floor until you were five steps near him. You slowly placed the scarf on his hand, not wanting to move brashly or perhaps excitedly at his presence now that he seems interested on your gift.

Immediately, he examined the cloth, assessing and feeling the softness of the material. One of his brows raises slightly, one that you couldn't interpret wether it's from amusement or critique. The slight tug of his lips suggested the former though, his irises now finding yours.

"This is impressive work coming from a mere human's hand" he praised, and you couldn't help but smile despite his somehow condescending tone.

"T-thank you, Master Knives" you replied, now playing with your fingers shyly. Your right eye twitches at the action, a painful sensation enveloping your digits as you grazed one of the many cuts that you received from making the scarf.

This reaction does not escape Knives as his vision drags on the level of your waist where your hands played clumsily. You noticed his stare and immediately hid them behind your back, smiling awkwardly as an excuse.

He squints at you, the expression showing suspicion and inquisitiveness at the same time. After folding the scarf neatly, he placed it atop his beloved piano before turning back at you, repeating the same gesture he did earlier when he wanted to examine your gift.

Your eyes widen. This the first time he has initiated to touch you. In the three years that you had followed and served him, never did he even stood five feet close to you. You were wondering why he have decided to all of a sudden, and you are more than sure that it is not just because you have given him an offering. Still, you remained unmoved. If you were to be honest, showing him your wounds is embarrassing for you since it symbolizes your struggle. How something so simple to create has defeated you before you could perfect it. How something so trivial for a being like knives who can create anything with a snap of his finger, was weeks of hard labor for you. Your gaze was fixed on the floor, now realizing how idiotic this whole ordeal was. Knives didn't need a gift. He doesn't need anything from you.

"Show me your hands, human" he finally spoke, tone filled with impatience. You finally looked at him, the command in his voice forcing you to obey.

Swallowing dry, you slowly placed your hands against his, revealing its state. There lies old and new stabs on your digits from when you struggled to use the pin, a couple of band aids hiding the fresher ones as well as a few spots of calluses from where you pressed too hard. He stared at those imperfections, clearly amused, until you felt one of his nails drag lazily into one of your wounds, scratching and digging at the scab until it opened and showed the insides of your skin. Blood seeped and painted a thin line of red across your palm, the fluid reaching the center and pooling there, mimicking a small piece of ruby. You couldn't help but huff at the pain his ministration caused, teeth biting your lower lip as he looked up at you from where he sat, gaze filled with mischief.

"I have to say, even though I loathed humans like yourself for your selfish, destructive capabilities, there is one unique trait in your kind that has slightly earned my curiosity" he admitted, voice in between apathy and admiration.

"May I know what is it, Master knives?" you asked, genuinely intrigued.

"It is how you exert effort when something is in line with your wants. Whether if that want is dedicated to creating or causing destruction. It is... quite appealing how you lust for achievement even if it can lead to your own felling"

Your mouth hung open, incredulous. This is the first time that you heard him express anything remotely positive regarding your kind despite his nonchalant way of speaking.

"I-Im..." you stammered, not entirely sure whether you should add to his thoughts or not. His eyebrows raised with perplexity, prompting you to continue "I don't think you can say that any creature is truly alive if they don't have anything they want to achieve, Master. If they do, they'd be as stagnant as a pond on a desert. Every creature has their own individual desires. The only difference is the weight of effort they use to achieve it or if they have the strength to cross the thin line that leads for that effort to be considered a sacrifice"

He seemed to approve of your answer, one thumb drawing lazy circles on your skin, his gaze never leaving you. A rosey tint decorates your cheeks, almost mimicking the blood on your palms as he slowly released it, your hands finding its way to your chest to feel the queasy beat of your heart. You were confused. All these years of blindly serving under Knives's command, you never quite felt like this. It is a strange feeling. It is as though butterflies had begun flying inside your stomach, your throat dry as he turned towards his piano again- not to play a piece but to place his fingers atop the sitting scarf, looking satisfied to say the least.

"I appreciate your gift. It's been so long since anyone has attempted to show gratitude of my existence" he admitted, looking as if he is deep in thought.

A deafening silence ensues and you stood there, nailed to your feet, processing the new found feelings drumming in your chest. When he started playing the piano once again, you contemplated wether he wants you to stay and listen or that you are already dismissed. You thought of the latter to be the clearer option and gave him a small bow before turning on your heels to leave. Your breath is heavy, but at least today is a success. You were able to show him gratitude like you've planned, a giddy smile painting your lips--- that is until he spoke once again.

"Your heart is beating faster than normal" he stated, a matter of fact.

You stopped on your tracks, wanting to slap yourself. Knives physically appears to be human- maybe a little bit more ethereal looking- but sometimes you forget that he's not just a man but a being graced by whoever created the universe and that he has the ability to sense what ordinary humans cannot.

"If there is something bothering you, tell me so. Take it as a reward for the little offering you have given me today" he proposed, as he continued to produce melodies with his fingers.

This is one of the rare occasions that he wants to talk to you. At the times that he did, it is to ramble about his plans or to brief you about a task that he wants you to execute. However, today, he seems to want to humor you- the human side of you- and the wonder that comes with it.

"Have you... ever celebrated your birthdays before, Master Knives?" you asked, not only because you are genuinely curious, but also to deflect the topic of whatever is happening currently to your heart.

He stops playing. You were familiar enough of the piece to know that he halted just three notes before the chorus. His head turns to you, his mood appearing more pleasant than earlier.

"Once. But that was a long time ago to even consider" he chuckled lightly, looking as though he was reminiscing a distant memory "With how everything is- the execution of my ideals and all- something such as the celebration of my creation does not seem to be of importance. I don't have the time or the company for it. However... It would seem that has recently changed"

He gave you a simper. Although this time, it appears to have a different meaning. You could compare it to the smirks men gave you back in your hometown. An expression that implies teasing? Maybe interest? You are not sure. It's not as if you have the time to understand it back then. A whip on your back from your former owner would be the result if you ever indulged on such attention. Nevertheless, you couldn't help but feel a heat travel to your cheeks. The butterflies are back again and there is this overwhelming of feeling... Shyness? Yes, its definitely shyness. It's as though you feel bare in front of him- vulnerable even- like you're suddenly concerned of the expressions that you show him, how your face look or if your hair is in place.

You attention was back to him when you saw him crook his head to the side. He is waiting a reply from you, and instinctively, you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind.

"T-then I promise that from now on, I will celebrate it for you! You are a grace to this world Master Knives. To your brother and your sisters. You are the light that gave us hope, even to a lowly human like myself. You can expect a gift from me every year. I will try my hardest to offer you the best!"

Your breathing was labored like your brain is floating in the clouds- a pleasant kind of high that will definitely have you addicted.

"You really think so highly of me?" he asked, smirk getting wider "I must admit, it feels good to have someone see me as such despite knowing that your fellow humans sees otherwise"

"What they think does not matter when they will be six feet underground soon" you spewed, voice filled with disdain "What matters most is how we, your loyal followers sees you. And I see you as my saviour Master Knives... Nothing will ever change that"

"Nothing you say?"

In a heartbeat, you saw a flash of light and heard the sounds of metal hitting against metal. Knives has stood up and is infront of you, looming down like a predator cornering his prey. You could feel his breath from how close he was, his scent- sweat, sand and sandalwood- fills your nose. Your eyes widens in reflex, not just because of the close proximity but because he has summoned his blades, their tips surrounding you similar to guns being aimed and ready to shoot.

"I saved your life. I own it and I could take it anytime I want" he dictated, one vine of razors making it's way to your throat and another encircling your waist. "You lowly humans think highly of anyone that you owe favors to. All these years, you have betrayed your kind, slaughtered on my behalf and harmed numerous cities. How can I be sure that a traitorous human like yourself will never turn back at me?"

One of his blades presses at the skin of your neck, drawing blood. You huffed at the sensation, irises never leaving his as you spoke.

"The day you took me from the abusive hands of my brethren was the day I officially thought of myself as a living being. You took me in, gave me a purpose and with that, I will support you until the day that your ideals came true" you enunciated, praising yourself inwardly for not stuttering "You can take my life at any time you want Master Knives, but please do know that I am prepared to offer all my time and strength for your cause. Giving me an early grave would set aside the things that I could have possibly contributed... " You bit your lip, somehow afraid of your next proposal "...perhaps I can show my undying loyalty by offering an arm or a leg instead?"

He leers at you, ice like orbs shining with amusement as the corners of his lips tugged into a impish smile. Somehow, despite clearly seeing his angelic features, you felt a cold chill climbing your spine.

"Close your eyes" he commanded.

And you did as you were told. You heard his blades move, the sounds comparable to a haunting lullaby to your ears. Millions of thoughts were running on your mind, distracting you from the inevitable pain that has to come. Briefly, you wondered wether the doctor will give you a prosthesis after this. Surely, carrying out tasks would be difficult with a missing limb.

And when you felt one of his blades hover against your right arm, you sucked in a deep breath. This will be extremely painful, your fingers trembling to at least have a leverage to hold on to. There is no furniture nearby and holding on to Knives's himself would probably cause you your neck as well. Thus, you took the most convenient path and bit the insides of your lips, prepared to feel your flesh and bones snap.

But it didn't came.

Instead, what you felt was a hand being placed on your cheek, your master's breath fanning your face as you peeked at him from beneath your lashes, his face merely centimeters from yours. Your eyes widens in surprise. He has initiated to touch you and hasn't let go even after a minute has passed. He appears to be observing you, a pleased expression crossing his visage as you looked at him with so much confusion. Still, you couldn't help but flush. Your heart has begun to beat faster again, the bashful feeling from inside you is back with a vengeance as your gaze lowered towards anywhere but Knives.

"Master, I----"

"I can't believe a pitiful human like yourself would have the strength to show me dedication like this.. I'm blessed to have met you" he cuts you off.

By this time, you're sure that you'd have to pick your jaw from the floor. He has directly praised you. Something he never did even to the doctor or Legato.

"T-thank you, Master Knives" you stammered, completely grateful from hearing his words.

He makes a contented hum, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he decided to let go, the place where he touched you now leaving a burning sensation on its wake. You watched him as he sat in front of his piano once again, fingers beginning to press it's keys as a satisfied smile lifted his lips.

"I appreciate your actions today Y/n. I am looking forward for what you have to offer next" he said, eyeing you playfully from his periphery "You're dismissed. I will call you when I need you... Something I assure you that will happen quite often"

There was a deep sultry tone when he spoke of the last sentence, a melody that has waked goosebumps on you more than the piece he is playing. With a bow, you left his lair, the widest smile fixed on your lips as you walked through the halls back to your room, wondering what kind of gift you would give him the very next year.

[sugarcryztal]

Hi i was wondering if you could do a romantic matchup for genshin! Call me C. i use they/them pronouns and I’m pan. I like being in charge but i love sitting in my room on my phone. I love taking naps to the point my friends make fun of me for it! School grades were pretty horrible but still was class president… Im a bit of a nerd who reads manga and watched one piece but I also do alot of crafty things like drawing and crocheting. I dislike fake people but i don’t get mad or hate anyone very often. Personality wise i try to make people laugh but end up embarrassing myself all the time lol! Tysm :)))

I’ll match you with. . .

Alhaitham !

- HEAR ME OUT WHEN I SAY OPPOSITES ATTRACT PLEASE…

- I imagine you both met at the akademiya when there was this big project between coworkers and he just so happened to be in your group.

- When you took charge you immediately earned his respect, which is not something easily earned! He admired your leadership and talking skills.

- Safe to say that project went swimmingly… At least he thinks.

- But even after the project he still hung out with you. He was still in denial about being in love with you though.

- Once he realizes though, his first instinct is to write a confession letter. He’s better at words through pages rather than face to face given the fact he can be so blunt.

- So one day, when you’re taking a nap at a table in the library, he ever so carefully places an envelope underneath your elbow. Later after you read it and texted him, you guys decided to take it slow.

- Moving on, HIM AS A BOYFRIEND!!!!

- You guys are definitely an indoor couple. While you’re on your phone he’s sitting or laying behind you, one arm around your waist and the other being used to hold a book in his hand to read.

- He can either read to you or with you. It doesn’t matter to him. As long as you’re there.

- While he may be more on the stoic sarcastic side of humanity, but he can show his care in other ways.

- He tidies your room for you.

- Especially your napping spots, he always makes sure to keep them clean in order to let you have a comfortable nap experience.

- Also loves the fact that you’re a napper. Gives him more time to hold you close before he gets rudely interrupted by his roommate, Kaveh, for something meaningless.

- Speaking of Kaveh, what role does he play?

- Because Alhaitham doesn’t really have the same artistic eye as you do, Kaveh is there to fill in that gap!

- At first Kaveh was hesitant to befriend you, not because of anything you did, but because you were dating Alhaitham! Of all people why him?!

- So he assumed you would be the same as Alhaitham, aloof and sarcastic. But… You weren’t! In fact you two got along pretty well once he figured out you’re also into creative hobbies!

- You and Kaveh have arranged days where you guys would meet and share drawings/ideas with each other!

- Kaveh always ends up dragging along Alhaitham to these meet ups because Alhaitham could at least show a bit of interest!

- It’s not that he wasn’t interested, he just loved watching you quietly draw or knit. It was peaceful. He loved watching you show your creations to him with confidence, to which you were always awarded with high praise.

- Alhaitham thinks you’re silly when you try to make him laugh, your foolishness feeds his amusement. Whenever you get embarrassed though, he just subtly smirks and makes a light hearted teasing remark. For the jokes of course!

- If and when you need help studying for things, Alhaitham is always there to lend a hand. Making sure you’re reading the right material, you have the correct notes, etc.

- He also is the one to make sure you don’t get distracted or go on your phone.

It was a quiet and peaceful evening, you were sitting on a comfy arm chair next to a stain glass window Kaveh recently just had installed. The soft sound of pencil dragging along paper lightly being the only noise along with the birds chirping outside. You were sketching out something for a project until you heard the front door open and close softly. You smiled to yourself, immediately recognizing the sound of a coat being shrugged off and footsteps coming closer.

He, your boyfriend Alhaitham, huffed out softly, “Move.” He gently nudged your leg with his foot. You inwardly giggled, standing up for a brief moment as he sat on the chair behind you and lowered you onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around you while leaning down to bury his nose into your hair, your scent intoxicating him with a warm fuzzy feeling of familiarity and relief to finally be home. You two stayed like that. In silence. Enjoying each other’s company.

Until the silence was rudely interrupted with, “Alhaitham let go of them! We need to go to out and look together for good stationary deals!”

Thank you for requesting!

08.21.24

[devilsvine]

oh my God i can’t Believe i have to make another ebegging post.

if yall remember the BS of earlier this year, yeah, part 2! those friends who took in my fiance and baby have shown their true colors now and are kicking them out on my daughter’s 4th birthday.

my fiance is making decent money now and found a few places that sound willing to work with them about their credit, but these roommates have given us less than a month’s notice, are sucking all the money they can out of them before they go, and we need to pull together a first last and deposit. we might be able to pull that together but it’d require forgoing groceries, the car payment and storage unit yet again.. etc, you get the picture.

basically, absolutely anything to chip away at this bill would really, really help. i can’t have my daughter sleeping in a car on her 4th birthday. i won’t have it.

if it’s relevant, we are both transgender+autistic, and they’re disabled. they shouldn’t be working this job at all but we have no other choice right now.

also, we’re both artists, i work in digital illustration mainly but can also take commissions for elongating + customizing furbies or making muppets (i’m not kidding), and will be learning stained glass work once i have the money, and they’re an extremely talented crochet artist, so if we can compensate you at all for your help, shoot me a DM

gofundme: https://gofund.me/3825e79e

CA: $himb0logy

VNM: @ kenl0rd

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Five

After a morning of frantic creativity in the studio, I head down to the shop with a head buzzing with thoughts of Christmas motifs. Petra is comparatively calm, sitting behind the till reading a crochet magazine in her lap and drinking a hot chocolate from one of the sachets she keeps in a drawer with the excess breast shaped candles. “Oh hello.” She says serenely. “Have you come to do the window?”

“I have.” I go into the storage closet next to the employee bathroom and start yanking bits of blue roll off the holder, wrestling my way through the clutter and piles of empty postal boxes for a squeegee and a bottle of industrial window cleaner. 

“I can’t wait to see how it turns out.” She flips the page while I start spraying the window and buffing off the dirt and streaks. It’s a smaller window than the café I worked on back home, but tenfold more intimidating, seeing that this is an actual art shop with actual artists working upstairs who will no doubt notice things like crooked ‘o’s or asymmetrical ‘m’s. Recalling the mistakes I made the last time, I first sketch an outline on the outside of the window. The sun is hot on my hair. 

The muscles in my arms ache from the gym as badly as I expected they would. As I work I silently curse Shane Healy and his wicked exercise regime, and every time I lift a paint pen to the glass and my biceps groan I curse him harder. I am tired too, my eyes feel dry and heavy after a poor night’s sleep, tossing and turning in my bed with a head whirring with thoughts of Izzy’s gig. I think about it now too. Of Jen especially, and how different she was, but of Jude too, and the strange rift between them. I can’t help but recall all of those little details like the purple skin under his eyes, the nicotine stains on his fingers. Jen’s thin body, the vacancy in her stare. It was freaky to see them both like that, to witness their distance when all I’ve ever known of them was their closeness.

I start sketching out the lettering for ‘mezzotint’. I have a design in an open notebook at my feet, and I refer back to it again and again, trying my best to mark out the shapes as symmetrically as possible. It starts off well. I’m careful, I’m precise, and I realise that focussing as hard as I can upon the task makes it harder for me to dwell on other thoughts. I don’t notice the time passing me by, the shadows moving across the pavement, I even drown out the sound of the tram as it passes, and it’s just me and this window and these pens and…

“Um, hello?” I get such a fright that my marker slips across the window, sending a slash of white through my meticulous lettering. “Shit.”

“Fuck, sorry.” It’s Jude. He’s reaching for a damp cloth so he can help me to erase it. I never even heard him coming. 

“Oh, God, Jude, don’t worry about it, it’s just the guide.”

He pulls the cloth over his finger and uses the flat edge of his fingernail to carefully remove the offending mark from where it cuts right through one of the Zs. “Sorry I scared you, I was trying to catch your attention from across the street for like, a minute. I thought you’d heard me.”

“It’s okay, honestly.” I take his wrist and lift the cloth out of his hand. “I’ll fix it later. Like I said, this is just the guide bit. I’ll erase it later anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, it’s fine, it’s just a stupid white line, nothing to get upset about.”

He looks up at the window. “It’s looking good though.”

“You think?”

“I do.” He smiles at me. “Nice job. I’m glad I caught you in time for lunch.”

“It’s lunch?”

“Yeah it’s like five past one.”

“Oh.” I frown. “I swear to God, sometimes I seem to just switch my brain off when I’m working.”

“I know the feeling. Do you have time to get food? If not it’s totally fine, I probably should have texted you or something, I couldn’t remember if we actually made a plan to get lunch or if I just ended up being vague with you.”

I smirk as I start bundling up my art supplies. “You asked me if I take lunch, and then you walked away.” After brushing my cheek with his thumb in a way that made my stomach bottom out, but I don’t bring that part up.

“Ah, sounds like me.” He holds the door for me as I carry my things into the shop. “If you’re not free it’s fine, by the way, I can get lost.”

“No, we can get lunch.” I smile at Petra who is eating a sandwich at the till, and we give each other a quick wave as I leave my supplies on the floor and head back outside. “Where’s Astrid today? Are you meeting her after lunch to do the big tourist round of Dublin?”

“Ah.” He says as we fall into step next to each other. “She’s not feeling well. She doesn’t want to do anything today.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Mm.”

“Do you think you’ll go tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure, she, well, she kind of wants to just go back to Berlin at the moment, I’m trying to convince her to stay for the rest of the week but-” He shrugs. “I dunno. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Not a fan of Dublin City?”

“Something like that, maybe.”

“I don’t blame her.” The Liffey still stinks as we cross it. A man leans over the railings and hawks up a mouthful of spit to launch into it. I shudder. “It’d be a pity to cut the holiday short all the same.”

“I’d bring her back to Berlin if I could, it’s just with the things I have to do…”

“That family stuff you mentioned?”

“Yeah. My mom is away on business this week, she needs someone to take care of Ivy. Like, bring her to school, cook dinner, laundry, all of that stuff.”

“Oh, damn. Is your dad away too?”

“No.” He kicks a coke can into the road and it goes under the wheels of a passing bus. “He just won’t- can’t do it. He’s not a big fan of, uh, parenting her.”

I frown. “Like, at all?”

“At all.”

“So what does he do?”

He exhales a laugh. “He’s very busy.”

“Right.”

“He’s rarely home for dinner. He works a lot. Late hours, paperwork, you know the drill.” I don’t know the drill. My dad only ever worked steady, predictable hours in the medical factory, and my mam, well, hasn’t worked since she gave up her secretary job in 1993. I can’t remember a time that she wasn’t at home, potatoes boiling in the pot while she scrubbed every corner of our tiny council house. She was always there to look after me.

Jude asks me what I want to eat, and I tell him that he can choose, so we head east along the river. “I know it’s weird,” He continues defensively, even though I haven’t said anything “that my mom would rather get her adult son to look after their child than her own husband, who like, you know, fathered her, but it’s just the way the situation is.”

“Yeah it’s not great, obviously, but I suppose this is an exceptional circumstance. One time is inconvenient but manageable.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “Yes. One time.”

The conversation shifts to Ivy as we venture into the Liberties, and he tells me about her. She’s almost thirteen now, she’s in first year of secondary school, she’s still bad at piano and has to be forced to go to her lessons. She still never practises. I like watching Jude’s face when he talks about her, he gets very animated. It’s like he’s a bit proud of her, like he finds her funny, like he genuinely likes being around her. I consider his relationship with Ivy in contrast to Shane and Kelly, siblings who would have beat each other to death with remote controls, fighting for the teddy bears with the hardest plastic eyes, the biggest battery packs so they could cause maximum damage to one another when they smashed each other across the backs with them. I often counted my blessings over the fact that I was an only child when one of them started up a battle, but now, for a brief moment, I catch myself mourning the absence of the sibling I never had. 

He takes me to a food van that sells coffee and Italian sandwiches at the foot of an apartment complex. I grab a chicken and pesto panini, which he pays for, and we take a seat on the grass in a nearby park. Jude stretches his legs out in front of him and leans on his elbows. He’s wearing shorts and a fleece, green and white runners and tube socks that have fallen down a bit on one side to reveal a strip of pale skin right up against the deep tan of his legs. He’s away in his thoughts again, eyes turned glassy as he stares out across the park to somewhere among the young trees planted by the fence. My eyes automatically follow the lines of his profile, from his forehead over the slight roman curve of his nose and down to the long line of his throat before I realise I’m staring too much, reading his visual language like a painting at a gallery, so I examine my sandwich instead. 

“What are you thinking about?” I ask him. 

“Oh.” He says. “Nothing, I don’t even know.”

“Mm.”

He gives me a half smile. “Maybe I was thinking about how I’m glad we could meet for lunch today.”

He definitely wasn’t. “Of course. It’s been nice, you know, to see you again.”

“I missed talking to you.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

I nod. “Well, I missed that too. I’m sorry-”

“No more sorrys.” He reminds me. “It’s all water under the bridge, and like I said, I have more to be sorry for than you do.”

I smile, then he smiles, before getting distracted by a nearby dandelion. He plucks it, and instead of blowing away the seeds he rather barbarically picks them off with his fingers and flicks them into the wind. I wonder if he made a wish. “I hope everything was alright last night with Michelle.” I say, hoping my prying doesn’t seem too much like, well, prying.

“Ah, yes. It was fine she just had to tell me about something that happened.”

“Hope it was nothing bad.”

“Well, I don’t know. It was just… well, nothing.”

He isn’t going to tell me. “Is it a bit weird,” I pivot “That Michelle and Jen are friends? Like I’ve wondered before. I saw them together in a bar a couple of years ago and I was surprised that they seemed close. Do you ever feel, like, a bit put out that your best friend stayed close with your ex?”

He shakes his head. “No, because they were friends first. They went to primary school together, and when I moved to Ireland I started hanging out with them. We were a trio of friends.”

“Really? You and Jen and Michelle?”

“And some other people here and there, on and off at times, but yeah, we were.”

“And then…”

“And then one day I ruined it and kissed Michelle.”

“Oh.”

He splits the stem of the dandelion with his thumbnail, opening it up to flatten against his palm. “I seem to have this weird impulse issue where I can’t stop fancying my friends and then inevitably destroying everything.”

“Harsh. Surely you’ve had a female friend that you haven’t tried to kiss.”

He thinks about it. “Sure, but not as many as I’d like to admit to. When I really get to know people it’s hard for me not to blur the lines, to think that everything about them is beautiful, or whatever.”

“But Jen?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” He rolls his eyes at himself. “I kissed Jen too. When we were thirteen. She called me a fucking freak and went off crying.” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “And then a month of no contact later she approached me in the school yard and said she was sorry, that she actually realised that it wasn’t I specifically who was disgusting, it was just that she didn’t like boys.”

“She sort of came out because of you?”

“Yeah, well, because of my bad habits.”

I mirror him and start picking the grass. “I hope that she’s doing well.” I say. 

“Yeah, me too. Things aren’t that great between us at the moment.” 

“I’m sure it’ll get better.”

He sighs. “Friendships do this, you know, especially long ones. People kind of eclipse in and out of your life, and it’s easier for it to happen when you’re in your twenties. I guess she’s just, like, eclipsed out right now. I think I should have tried to be a bit more understanding over Pamela. I think I was a bit full on when she started confiding things to me. Jen doesn’t often get into relationships so I can see why she’s been pouring all of her time into this one, it’s just, well, I suppose it’s whatever. It’s not worth getting into it.”

“I think things always get complicated eventually.” I remark. “The longer you’re friends with someone the more likely it is that there’ll be conflict, and then when there is it’s so bad, like they know how to hurt you more than anybody else.”

“A bit vulnerable.”

“Very.” I say. “Back in first year I had a big fight with Claire.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It was because of… well, basically I just lied to her by omission. It wasn’t very wise of me to think that she wouldn’t find out on her own, but I don’t really like conflict, in case you didn’t notice that.”

“Who, you?” He grins. 

“But I was so used to always just taking on everything, like, blaming myself for being wrong and for ruining everything, but actually, when we finally got to talk about it and try to fix things, she admitted that she felt the same. She felt like she’d been in the wrong, and that she shouldn’t have reacted the way that she did. I suppose it was healing, or something, to realise that we both hurt the other, and it was okay because our friendship was stronger than that.”

“And now?”

“Now we’re great, we’re perfect. When I fell out with Kelly I thought about it all the time. I still think about it, honestly. I think about the things I wish I’d said to her instead of the things I really did say, and I imagine scenarios where I win and I make her look so stupid. And sometimes…” I wonder if the next part is too insane to admit. “…I think about mowing her down with my bicycle or shoving her into a massive thorny hedge and she gets all scratched up and has twigs stuck in her curls that she can’t get out for hours, and maybe they’ll get so tangled that she’ll eventually have to have them cut out-”

Jude lets out a loud, surprised cackle. “Specific.” 

“-and everyone points and laughs at her, and she runs off crying, and I know it’s so stupid and those things would never actually happen, but I’ve never stopped being angry with her, or actually, angry with myself for being weak for our entire friendship.”

“You weren’t weak.”

“No, it’s okay. I think I was.”

“And now? What about with Claire?”

“With Claire I don’t feel that way at all. I handled it so differently, it felt mature and fair, like, I was upset while the fight was happening and for the month that we didn’t speak, but after that, yeah, it was fine. We’re good. I don’t even care about the fight because we fixed it.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Well, that’s lucky then.”

“Whatever it is with Jen, I’m sure you’ll fix it too.”

He sighs. “She’s complicated. It really goes back further than just this year, there’s things I should have done the whole way along, ways I should have been there for her but wasn’t. I’m kind of coming to terms with being a bit of a shit friend.”

“It’s not like you to talk yourself down so much.”

“Hm, well I’m trying out this new thing where I’m more honest with myself.”

“How’s it going?”

“Horribly. It feels very bad.” He smiles weakly. “I think I’ve had a lifetime of being a bastard and it’s all manifesting this year, like I turned twenty one and it decided to come and bite me.” he suddenly sits up straighter and shudders, like he’s physically shaking the self deprecating thoughts from his head. “I don’t mean to be so miserable right now, Jesus.”

“You can be miserable all you like.”

“No.” He gently tugs on the cuff of my jean leg. “I want to hear about you. Tell me about this fancy internship. It was too loud in the bar last night to really get into it.”

I grimace. “It’s really not that interesting.”

“Tell me everything.” He insists. “Don’t leave anything out. When did you apply?”

I sigh and I lie back in the grass so that I can watch the clouds drift past. “Okay well…”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[echrai]

My grandmother went to be with all of her loved ones who had walked before her on the morning of May 7th, and I can only imagine that she greeted them with as much rejoicing there as she ever did here.

Unlike my grandfather, my relationship with my grandmother is the furthest thing in the world from complicated. It was always easy. It was comfortable. It was home. She was baking bread and cookies homemade fudge and cross stitch and crochet and french fries at the Burger King at Andrews Air Force base. For the majority of my life my grandfather was an incidental accessory to the brightness that was my grandmother, and it broke my heart when that light dimmed at all eleven years ago when Sharon died.

I really think that it shattered both of our hearts in similar ways. We could barely look at each other for years without crying. Each of us a memory of what was lost and how alone we felt in holding it. She lost a daughter. I lost a mother. But we had each other in the middle of it all. An anchor to the grief we couldn’t articulate.

My grandmother was stacks and stacks of books and old movies and the air and space museum and the library of Congress. Music. Humming along with the radio. She was Christmas morning presents in a pink chair covered in an afghan. She is a bookmark in every book. She was orange juice in an old Tupperware cup. Raspberry tea with too much honey. A chocolate pudding snuck before bed. The soft humming click of a sewing machine. Click of her low heels and swish of her pocketbook on a Sunday morning. Hiss of hairspray. Turning pages of the hymnal to make sure I was keeping up with the verses.

Piano, and choir, and handbells. Sunday school. Church dinners. Oxen Hill farm. Making lunch for Grandpa before he went to work and greeting him with a snack when he got home. She is me standing on a chair in the kitchen to help knead bread. She is magnets on the never used front door. She’s a stuffed otter, and a seal, and a Garfield pillow. She is every new family child’s star baby blanket. She is my baby blanket. She is my Puck, when a tiny one year old wouldn’t put down a stuffed cat. She is the scolding I got after cutting the eyebrows off a mink teddy bear hiding under the coffee table.

She is hummingbirds. She is a stained glass Angel on the tv stand. Grapes from the backyard. Bubbles and playing in the bathtub water. Mickey Mouse computer games.

She was souvenirs from every trip. She was handing me a new book to take home every time I visited. She was always asking if I had met anyone that made me happy, and she was delighted when my answer was finally yes. She took a sum total of 24 hours to find her way to a God that loves my wife as much as I do. And who would never hesitate to be in my corner.

She was an only child from rural Indiana who joined the navy to have a future that looked different than her parents. She raised three children in Maryland, South Carolina, Florida, and California while my grandfather was deployed. After her children were grown she became a research librarian, never stopped learning new things, and was sharp as a fucking tack.

She was easy with praise and with joy and support and also firm in what she thought was right and wrong. She was the gentler, softer half of their marriage but she was also someone you never wanted to cross. They were equals in every way and loved each other fully. She followed where Troy led, and often waited until he came back to lead her where she intended them both to end up.

She was my eternal constant, the reason for my name. The first person to hold me when I was born. She took me to the nursery, carried me herself while my father stayed with my mother. My entire life she was a steady presence that I counted on to be there. Always safe. The last piece of home. I knew she would be gone one day but I would be lying if I said I was ready. I’ve always known that losing her would be the next axis shift in my world and it is.

Fair winds and following seas Meme. I love you.

[galaxiasgreen]

Thanks for the tag @dom1re! 💚 Please take this silly drabble I wrote for Gibby and Ominis in second year 👜🍫🍭🧾🫖

“Okay, pass the bat wings!”

Seated on your left at the potions station, Ominis searched through the empty phials and corks. The steam from the cauldron was making his face sweat.

“What bat wings?” he asked. “Where did you put them?”

“Oh, sorry, they must be in my bag. Can you grab them?”

Hoping to make it out of Potions class with a semi-decent grade today, he pulled the carpet bag from underneath your chair – and almost staggered back. “Wha— why on earth is this so heavy?”

“It has all my things in it!” You stuck the ladle into the cauldron, folding the mixture as the potion gradually turned viscous. “Anyway, the bat wings! Quick, before it explodes!”

He unclasped the buckles and stuck a hand inside – which, in hindsight, this was a foolish thing to do considering who you were.

“Gibby?”

“Yes?”

“What are these?”

He dumped a littering of chocolate foil, lollipop sticks, scrunched hard candy wrappers and brown paper bags stained with oil.

“I got hungry during class,” you said indignantly. “I have to hide the evidence. The bat wings, Ominis.”

“I’m looking, but— why do you have so much stuff?”

He pulled out three textbooks for classes not scheduled today, an assortment of half-chewed quills, an empty ink pot, a candle (“In case I get lost at night!” “And how do you plan to light it?”), a box of matches (“With that!”), a half-finished embroidery—

“What is this?”

The device was about the size of his forearm, cylindrical and made of three segments of wooden bars, where a handful of tiny round balls clacked noisily when shook.

“It’s a rainmaker!” you said. “The man in Zonkos said it would actually make rain! Haven’t tried it yet but I was going to shake it over Sebastian’s head!”

Merlin has forsaken me, he thought, taking his wand. “Accio bat wings.”

The bag rumbled, but it was so jammed of stuff the spell didn’t work. Growling, Ominis thrust a hand inside and excavated a crocheted reticule full of Muggle coins, a handkerchief (“Careful, blew my nose five minutes ago!”), three odd buttons, a glasses cleaning cloth wet with ink, scraps of parchment of ‘important things to remember’ (including several passwords), six Earl Grey teabags and a laundress receipt.

“Ohhhh, that’s where that is!” you said, taking it from him fondly. “Mama took my Sunday dress to a washerwoman after I dropped it in mud but she wouldn’t give it back without proof we’d paid!”

He let out a frustrated groan. “I just cannot believe this.”

“I know! It wouldn’t even fit her!”

“Not the dress, Gibby, your bag!” he cried. “It’s full of rubbish! Why do you need all this junk?”

You gasped. “It’s not junk!”

“There’s a tea cosy! You don’t even own a teapot!”

“Well if you get one that’s too hot to touch don’t come crying to me!”

A retort was just waiting on the tip of his tongue to strike, but a suddenly strong smell made him pause. Smoke. Tucking his displeasure away (because you had better believe he was having a stern conversation about tidiness after class), he took his wand and said, “Accio bat wings!” and the small glass jar landed in his hand.

“No! Stop!” you said, as he tipped the wings into the mixture.

“What now?” He sat back down as the smoke dissipated. “Don’t tell me you have a self-stirrer—”

“Those were my gummy bat wings, Ominis!” you said frantically. “Sweets!”

He didn’t get a second to process. The cauldron exploded outwards, throwing him five feet off the stool as the mixture power-washed his face. The class went still and quiet as he dizzily braced to his elbows.

“AWAAAAAH!” you shrieked. “MY HAIR!”

He reached up – disturbed but unsurprised to discover his head was smoother than a baby’s bottom. Great. A tightness screwed his belly as he turned to you with his jaw clenched.

“What? No wig in there too?”

Instead, you reached into your bag, shoved the tea cosy over your head and stuck out your tongue.

TELL US what's in your MCs / OCs' bags!! I wanna know all about the things they carry everyday. How many bottles of wiggenweld potion are in their bag? What's the story behind that letter they keep close at all times? Why the heck do they still have the candy wrappers from years ago?!

Questions you can start with:

What kind of bag does your MC carry, if any? (If they're a baller with no bag u can tell us about that too)

How organized is their bag? How long does it take them to find stuff they need?

Which object(s) do they use the most?

Which object(s) do they cherish the most?

Which object(s) should they probably throw away?

Which object(s) is the highest in value?

Which object(s) is the weirdest / least expected?

Feel free to pick just some of the questions, or come up with your own, and answer them however you like - write, draw, create a moodboard, i dont care, just have fun!!

I'm tagging ppl below to kick it off but **ANYONE IS WELCOME TO PARTICIPATE** please do I beg you

NP tag: @theladyofshalott1989 @a-usernamelol @gothic-lottie @rypnami @boxdstars @myokk @honeybadgerdontcare394 @theravenchild @infernalrusalka @espressoristretto-patronum @saibugslegacy @traceyc-uk @diana-bluewolf @lyworth @galaxiasgreen @polarisgreenley @resilient--snake @anomalyaly @accio-bagel @hot-cocoa-and-blankets @savingsallow

[enzersquiltingdiary]

chapter one: Gothstitch village

Word count:

Nestled in a secluded valley, Gothstitch is a village where shadows dance with the light, creating an enchanting blend of darkness and warmth. The town is surrounded by dense, ancient forests, their towering trees casting long, protective shadows over the cobblestone streets. The air is filled with the soft hum of spinning wheels and the gentle clinking of knitting needles, as the villagers engage in their beloved crafts. The homes in Gothstitch are quaint, with gothic architecture that features pointed arches, intricate ironwork, and stained-glass windows depicting scenes of mythical creatures and enchanted forests. Despite the dark exterior, the interiors are cozy and inviting, with roaring fireplaces, plush armchairs, and shelves lined with colorful skeins of yarn and floss. The villagers of Gothstitch come in many types and are known for their exceptional skills like crochet, knitting, and spinning yarn. They take great pride in their work, often gathering in the village square to share techniques and showcase their latest creations to win a prize. The square itself is adorned with handmade banners and lanterns, casting a warm, flickering glow contrasting with the feeling adventurers would get 1st visiting this place. In Gothstitch, every corner tells a story. The local inn, “The Spindle and Skein,” is a favorite gathering spot, where travelers and villagers alike share tales over mugs of their favorite drinks. The village market is a vibrant place, with stalls selling handwoven blankets, intricately knitted garments, and baskets of freshly dyed wool. Despite its gothic appearance, Gothstitch exudes a sense of community and belonging. The villagers are welcoming and kind, always ready to lend a helping hand or teach a new stitch. It’s a place where the dark and the homey coexist in perfect harmony, creating a unique and magical atmosphere.

I live here in this village and love every part of it. I am a pastel cottage goth witch. I have ordered fabric that looks likePastel skies and galaxies, I have patterns with kawaii offensive text, Own a 4 yr old texas blue lacy (in the red hellhound form) and a few months old black kitten that runs around my room like she owns the bloody place. As my Crystals glowed with arcane magic I prepped myself for the day. I had 5 more jelly rolls on the way from a fabric store, embroidery books and some special floss on the way. I used magic to make my chocolate coffee and prep for the day.

Today was the possible day i was going to face my anger head on and learn to control it stitch by stitch. I have held in this anger since i was 13 years old when my dad betrayed me.. and wrath doesnt look good on my resume. I decided to not only write down what was going on in my lovely town but also every stitch.

The Enchanted Teapot was a charming little teashop nestled in the heart of GothStitch. The shop was known for its eclectic collection of teas from around the world, its mismatched vintage furniture, and the warm, inviting atmosphere that made it a favorite spot for locals and tourists alike.

On this particular rainy afternoon, the teashop was bustling with activity. The soft hum of conversation mixed with the clinking of teacups and the gentle patter of rain against the windows. The air was filled with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea and the sweet scent of pastries.

At a corner table, near the window, sat Miss Eleanor Whitfield, the elderly owner of the teashop. She was a beloved figure in the village, known for her sharp wit and kind heart. I walked in and always sat with her to discuss my woes of finding a proper therapist and today was no different.

"Ah Enzer hows the hunt?" She said as she poured me some tea. "Exhausting...I decided to take it into my own hands and try to find someone."

A sudden commotion erupted from the back of the shop just as i was about to ramble. The usually calm and composed barista, Lily, came rushing out, her face pale and eyes wide with fear.

“Miss Whitfield! There’s… there’s someone in the storeroom!” she stammered.

We quickly followed Lily to the back of the shop. The storeroom was a small, cluttered space filled with boxes of tea, jars of spices, and various supplies. As they approached, Eleanor noticed the door was slightly ajar.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and gasped. There, lying on the floor amidst the scattered tea leaves and broken jars, was the lifeless body of Mr. Harold Thompson, the village’s reclusive antique dealer. His eyes were wide open in shock, and a delicate china teacup lay shattered beside him.

[fchsadfa]

Would weaving a small overshot sample be too ambitious?

The loom is already warped and set up, I've got yarns at the ready (both the same weight as the warp and thicker yarn for an overshot pattern), and surely it can't be that complicated right??

Important context: the first time I used a floor loom was 14 weeks ago, and I haven't touched the loom since 14 weeks ago (when I made a simple plain weave mat with ripped t-shirt strips). I need to finish weaving by Friday afternoon at the latest, and I have several other projects competing for my attention.

Anyways the overall theme of my show is A Rose By Any Other Name, and I'm making rose themed items using as many techniques from this program as possible. I revisited my notes from weaving week and was dismayed to learn that rosepath is just about how you tie up the harnesses and not actually a pattern?? (Correct me if wrong, I am very baby at weaving). But I've been looking at overshot patterns and they have more rosy roses, AND they're cool, AND they're full of patterns that make my brain go brrr AND I get to mess around with even more colour options? Sign me up.

Or tell me to scale it back, I make a simple diamond twill, and save my energy for the other parts that I still need to pull together for Friday.

*gently shoves my imaginary portfolio (that I am supposed to submit for marks in marketing and portfolio but haven't even taken photos of all my work yet) under the rug*

I still need to figure out my set-up for my table, but the school staff are still very cagey about giving us a floorplan so idk who my neighbours are gonna be (and so can't ask them if they'd be okay with curtains extending over/ off my table). But I want my pennant banner to hang above the table, which means lashing poles to the end legs. And my rose window stained glass quilt piece ended up larger than the table (lol) so either it hangs suspended or I need to prop it up somehow ( and have a source of illumination behind, whether an actual window or an electric light). My ribbon roses project is stalled out due to dissatisfaction, but I made several so I gotta work them into something, if not the 4 foot table runner I was visioning. And my new pet project of crochet roses has potential but it takes a while to crochet so I only have 7 so far, which is not enough to make an entire shawl... I'm hesitant to join them as motifs until I know how many I can make/ how large the finished piece will be. But I also don't want to be up all night before the show losing my mind at crochet.

[orionwhispers]

Bravado // Tommy Shelby Imagine

(A/N - its been a long ass time and i wanted to ease myself back into writing but this ended up being long and also super super angsty. sorry that this illness imagine came during covid idk whats going on with my imagination lol. love you guys SO much thank you for always being there. reblogs, comments and likes mean everything to me.)

trigger warnings - LOTS of angst. fluff. implied smut. my hc that tommy has a fear of illness, bad descriptions of hospitals. 

He knew something wasn’t right the minute his car pulled into the driveway and you weren’t waiting for him under the great concrete arch, with that smile on your face that made his knees buckle and heart race like he was a love struck teenager.

You were always there as soon as he came home. Barefoot in a broderie dress in the summer with tousled hair and baby pink toenails. Wrapped in a hand knit blanket with fire flushed cheeks and woollen socks in the winter - even running across the gravel and into his arms in the middle of a storm, the ice cold rain whipping across both of your faces as you kissed under the light of the moon.

No matter how shit his day or week or month was, no matter what stained his hands or darkened his heart, no matter what lay heavy and hard deep in his gut, seeing you made everything vanish in the night air like wisps of smoke. You made everything worth it.

He refused to give into fear, he wasn’t that kind of man, so he swallowed all of the nagging thoughts and apprehensions as he came up to the dark foggy windows and the iron cast door. It felt strange turning his key in the lock without the weight of you in his arms or the sticky peach kisses you left down his jaw and neck, the smell of the vanilla in your hair and lavender on your skin.

The second thing that sent a jolt of white hot electricity down his spine was Mary, watching him anxiously and wringing her hands in the hallway. Usually, she was calm and collected, taking his jacket and leather travel bag with her signature placid smile and gentle fingers. Usually she would return to the kitchen and finish up whatever she was making - a hearty roast lamb with rosemary and garlic and glazed potatoes or a pheasant pie with honeyed carrots, always followed by a three layer chocolate ganache cake that was so thick and rich you practically had to saw through the sponge. She would always have dinner piping hot and dripping with gravy by the time the two of you returned downstairs, no matter how many hours it took for you to get... reacquainted.

Now she looked sheepish and pale, her skin almost translucent under the syrupy yellow lights. There was something about the way she stood, as still as a wraith, that made his blood run cold.

“Mary. Where is she?”

“Mr Shelby, I - ” Her voice was strained and hesitant, like a slowly fraying rope.

“Where is my wife?”

She moved forward, creases forming around her eyes. “We tried ringing you in Liverpool but the hotel said that you had already left, so we...”

“You rang me? Why? What’s happened?” He couldn’t hold back the desperation in his voice, and it lingered and festered around them both like a poisonous gas.

“Mrs Shelby came down with something a few days ago, we thought that it was just a common cold but unfortunately she seems to be getting worse.”

He tore upstairs before he could even think, his shoes leaving perfect muddy footprints on the cream carpet. He almost slipped at the top, and he lurched forward, his hands reaching out and holding onto the portrait hanging above the stairs for stability.

It was the oil of the two of you. A soft, personal picture that revealed more than he ever possibly could. The love in your gazes, the hint of a soft, drunk smile on the dangerous gangsters face as you leaned into him, melting into him like butter, him holding onto you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. It was his favourite photo, one that always washed a sense of calmness over him, a reminder of the woman that he loved and the way he felt around you. But now he felt as if was riding out a terrible storm.

He lived his life with no fear, he was capable and practical and used to the sound of bullets and the copper sweet smell of blood. There was really only one thing, one terrible thing that he couldn’t control, and that was what drove him crazy.

Sickness.

It gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog, clawed under his skin and settled behind his ribs. Losing someone he loved was like ripping out a piece of his heart straight from his chest, and he knew better than anyone what it was like to lose somebody to a violent, quick death - the pull of a trigger or the smack of a fist. At least in those moments he could lock them away in his mind, he could leap in front of a bullet or crack the neck of any man who dared to get too close to you, but there was almost nothing he could do to stop sickness, and the devastation it caused.

When you first met him it had been a surprise, almost amusing, that this powerful God of a man had these small little quirks. His house was always sparkling clean and smelling of Lysol, his fruit bowls were filled with citrus fruits and round, plump blueberries. He always made sure you were wrapped up warm in the winter, always placing his coat around your shoulders and bringing an extra pair of gloves in case you forgot yours. It was adorable, the way he took care of you,

It wasn’t till a little bit later when you learnt of those he had lost. His mother and his childhood sweetheart taken away from him much too soon. It broke your heart when he told you late one night of the sallow tint of their skin and the way he could almost see them vanishing from earth, the way that illness had moulded and changed those he loved the most.

You understood.

Your best friends older sister had died of tuberculosis when you were young. The elderly woman across the street from your first flat had passed away from a bout of horrendous smallpox. Your brother lost his first child to pneumonia. Times were changing but the fear of disease was ever present. Medicine was improving and so was knowledge, but still there remained a huge, dark cloud of what could happen, one that always hung around your husbands head.

——————————————-

All Tommy could think was the worst as he ran through the landing. His heart was in his ears and his bones felt loose, like the sweet liquorice the two of you would share at the pictures. He came to a stop by the bedroom door, tentatively pressing his palm onto the wood and ever so slightly pushing it open, listening to the gentle creak it made.

The room was warm. The lace curtains were pulled shut, and your favourite lavender candles were flickering on your vanity, casting syrupy shadows against the wall. He exhaled loudly as he saw you, bundled up under a mountain of satin sheets and hand crocheted blankets, your hair splayed across the pillows.

He moved to your bedside, pretending not to notice the large, untouched jug of water and the tissue box next to you, hoping and silently praying that you weren’t sick - just asleep and waiting for him, ready to wrap your arms around his neck.

You were silent, your lips parting every so often as you breathed, your chest rising and falling. He reached out gently, as though he was picking up shards of glass, and brushed his fingers against your cheek. Your forehead was beading with sweat, your cheeks flushed, and yet your skin was ice cold to the touch. He recoiled quickly, his heart dropping like a weight into his gut, and he inhaled a shaky, deep breath.

He saw something curled up beside your hands, a fluffy white cloud with sparkling emerald green eyes trained on him. Despite everything, he smiled. He thought of your birthday - of strawberry cheesecake and champagne, and surprising you with a ribbon wrapped little kitten as you woke up. He thought of that day often. How you smiled and leapt onto him with tears in your eyes, his whole world blissfully quiet as he spent the day in bed with you and your new best friend.

He would have preferred a big dog, one with sharp teeth and a menacing gaze to ward of visitors whilst he was away. But you were drawn to the tiny, malnourished runt of the litter who was scared of his own shadow. A kitten no bigger than the size of his clenched fist. A little white hairball who only ate and drank from fine pink saucers. A cat that had a very frustrating habit of crawling in the bedroom right as Tommy’s hand was up your skirt and his lips on the sweet spot of your neck, the tiny thing mewling and crying until you picked him up and nuzzled him into your chest.

He was a horse lover through and through, and never saw himself having time for any other pets. But in the summer when you saw the litter from one of John’s barn cats and fell in love with the sweet baby who mewled and cried and crawled right into your lap - he knew that he would give you anything and everything you wanted.

Including a cat who refused to accept that Tommy was the man of the house.

“Hello, boy.” He said, leaning over to scratch Comet under the chin, using a voice he only reserved for the two of you. “Have you been looking after my girl whilst I’ve been gone?”The cat meowed loudly in reply, pressing his head into Tommy’s palm but not moving from his spot beside you.

Tommy suddenly felt you shift under him and his heart lurched into his throat. He turned to face you, cupping the side of your clammy face as your eyelids fluttered open, blinking under the candlelight. A rush of red hot heat built up in his belly as you registered him, that angelic smile growing on your face, your tired eyes glimmering with recognition of the man you loved.

“Tommy?”

“Hi, Princess.”

You smiled sadly. “You’ve been gone for weeks - I missed you.”

He felt his brows crease as he rubbed along your jawline softly, trying to stop you from falling back asleep. He felt panic in his throat as sour as vomit, and he tried to bite back the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

“No, sweetheart, I’m early. It’s only Thursday. I left on Monday.”

“Oh.” You said softly, your voice as gentle as the breeze rustling through the trees outside. “Well let me welcome you back properly - let me make you a lemon drizzle or a...” You lifted your head from the pillow and shuffled under your blanket, but he pressed his hands against your shoulder and held you down.

“No. You’re staying right here.”

“But - ”

“No.”

“Hmm. Don’t leave me, Tommy.”

“Never.” He said, his tone firm and cast like stone. He stroked your hair softly as your breathing slowed, but it didn’t nothing to quell the hard thump of his heart in his chest.

——————————-

Tommy left the room as quietly as he could after you had fallen asleep in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to move, not when you were pressed against his chest, looking ethereal but vacant, sweat beading under your brow and your face lacking colour. He wanted to stay with you, curled up by his side, his fingers laced through yours, the sound of your heart thumping in his ears.

But he was a man of action, and seeing you there - your lips cracked and dry, shudders passing through your body and goosebumps raised over your skin - he couldn’t fight the fiery urge to do everything in his power to make you feel alright again.

He found Mary waiting outside the door, chewing on the skin of her lips and swaying on the balls of her feet in anticipation. He grabbed her by the arm, harder than he meant to and something he would apologise for later, and pulled her downstairs, determined to let you rest whilst he got some answers. As soon as they reached the drawing room he spun her around, clenching his jaw and pointing a finger at the anxious maid.

“Where the fuck is the doctor? Why isn’t he here?”

“Mr Shelby.” She said, stepping forward calmly. “We phoned Doctor Moore and he came on Tuesday to see her.”

“Tuesday?” He seethed. “My wife has been ill since Tuesday and no one called me?”

Mary raised her hands in defeat, making it clear that the decision wasn’t hers to make. “He said it was nothing of concern . He gave her some antibiotics and told her to rest. She asked us herself not to call you, she knows how you.. worry.”

He ignored her sugar coated attempt to quell his anger, but if anything it made his vision darken. “When it’s my wife, It is always my concern.”

“Mr Shelby, we were just doing what we were told. As soon as we noticed she wasn’t getting better we phoned the surgery again, but Doctor Thomas was out for the day and said he didn’t think it was necessary to come round again, so we -”

“I don’t give a fuck. My wife is the number one priority. Ring every doctor in England if you have to, get somebody out here now to see my wife.”

He stormed away, anger pulsating through his veins, but he stopped suddenly, and threw out over his shoulder:

“And call Doctor Moore’s ’office. Tell him to expect a visit from the blinders soon.”

———————————————————

Once, when you were first dating, you found Tommy at the door to your flat at midnight, with scraped knuckles and blood dripping from his nose. You let him in, cleaned him up and sat with him in the bath until his skin was clear and his breathing was even. He knew that night, as you were pressed against his chest and his lips were pressed to your scalp that he was truly, madly and completely in love with you.

He remembered waking up the next morning, love drunk and blissful, and finding the bed beside him empty. He found you in the kitchen, wincing slightly and pressing a hot water bottle to your belly as you buttered a few pieces of toast. He rushed to your side with eyes as wide as saucers, concern lacing the features that were usually ice cold and hard as stone. You were completely baffled as he held you at arms length, his bright cerulean eyes trailing up and down your body for any signs of injury he might have missed. You were bewildered at the sight of the powerful man practically on his knees as he made sure you were alright, and you bit back a giggle as his warm palms spread over your abdomen.

“What is it? Whats wrong?”

“Tommy. Sweetheart.” You said softly, bringing his gaze level to yours. “It’s just - you know - that time of the month.”

He brushed off your embarrassment and ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a uncharacteristically gentle kiss to your forehead, sending a swarm of butterflies around the pain in your stomach.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, half ready to run down to the corner shop and buy any amount of painkillers or chocolate bars or your favourite lavender tea that you might need; not caring who saw the seemingly terrifying gang leader in the street with an armful of strawberry laces and salt water fudges.

You smiled like the summer sun and he melted, pulling you close as you whispered in the shell of his ear that you only needed him, and that was all you ever needed.

That was the first time you fully saw the extent of Tommy’s fear, but it definitely wasn’t the last. He knew he wanted you forever and always, and it took only six months of neck kisses and pillow talk, red hot jealousy and possessive hands across your skin and dancing in the rain and falling asleep under the pale yellow moon for him to put a ring on your finger. You were both consumed by your love, as though it was the only thing that mattered, it was insatiable and powerful - the wonderful mix of the devil and his sweet little angel.

And with that, came the good and the bad.

Like when you got food poisoning after Arthur cooked you a Sunday lunch to cheer you up whilst Tommy was gone. He came home to you retching over the toilet bowl with Mary holding back your hair, and swore that he would kill his brother with his own hands. Or when you slipped on ice and broke your arm while out with friends in London, and Tommy went ballistic and tried to ban you from ever leaving the house. It was just in his nature, how he always made sure you walked on the side furthest from the road, kept an arm slung around you whenever you were together, kept his eyes alert and vigilant no matter where you were - always looking out for his girl.

But he had never been like this.

———————————————————-

You were falling in and out of sleep. Waking up drowsy and heavy headed, squinting under bright lights, an ache in your skull and a burning in your throat. Every so often you felt a pinch in your upper arm, a squeeze on your palm, a kiss on your forehead - but you always drifted back into unconsciousness.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke up. The room was dark and you could hear the wind howling and whipping rain across the windows. You felt all too hot and all too cold at the same time, and the bed was damp with sweat. You struggled and tried to sit up, your head swaying and feeling as heavy as one of Tommy’s marble statues; as if you had been carved up and moulded. You could hear voices out in the hall, and unsteadily got to your feet, moving towards the noises.

“Pneumonia?” You heard through the thick wooden door, instantly recognising your husbands voice. “That’s impossible.”

“Sir...”

“Fucking. Impossible.” You knew his teeth were clenched.

The other man cleared his throat.“I know that it’s hard to hear, Mr Shelby, but your wife is very sick.”

“Just...” You felt your heart flutter and clench in your chest as the sound of his broken words, could practically feel his desperation and you wanted nothing more than to hold him. “Just tell me how to make her better.”

The second man spoke again, his voice softening and lowering, something you knew Tommy would hate. “Mr Shelby, the first round of antibiotics didn’t work and that means that it’s time for something stronger. Usually I would suggest the Birmingham hospital but I don’t think it’s equipped for...” He paused, trying to think over his words carefully. He wanted to convey the severity of the situation but also didn’t want to risk getting a bullet in his head from your very protective husband. “...This kind of reaction. I recommend we send her down to London for extra testing.”

“London? That’ll take two fucking hours. How the fuck can you recommend letting my wife travel that far? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I’m my opinion this is the wisest choice to make, but unfortunately that could mean your wife might get worse before she gets better.”

“Worse than she already is? That’s not an option.”

The man you assumed was the doctor was insistent, trying his best to portray the severity of the situation but failing as your hardheaded husband had already come to a decision.

“I’ll look after her here. She’s safest with me.”

Once Tommy had spoken that was the final result, and the doctor slinked away into the darkness and shook his head. You remained peering from behind the door, your tongue between your teeth and your heart hammering.

Tommy took one look at you and frowned, scooping you in his arms like a baby despite your protests. He ignored you, acting playfully and cheerful but you could feel his heated skin and the see flare of his nostrils. You wanted to help him but didn’t know how, and let him tuck you under the covers once again. He kissed your crown and stroked your hair and you wanted to speak but no words would leave your mouth.

“You stay there this time. You know I have no problem with tying you to the bed.”

You rolled your eyes as he left, and his clenched fists and tightened shoulders told you all you needed to know.

————————————————-

Comet watched from his spot beside you as Tommy wrestled with the fire. He had noticed you shivering despite your high temperature, and bundled you up in blankets whilst sparking matches beside the fireplace. There were raindrops across his shoulders, evidence that he had been outside and to the log store right at the end of the property - a job that had always been for the Groundskeeper. Your precious cat nudged the tips of your fingers as you sighed and watched your husband throw kindling onto the coal, a deep unease settling over your gut.

“Tommy, my love, I’m fine.” It wasn’t exactly true but you felt he needed to hear it. But you could practically see your words wash over him and evaporate like ocean spray.

He was shaking a metal tin in his palm as he worked, and you groaned and let your head hit the pillow as he pulled out two round chalky tablets. You winced as he placed them beside your glass, your mouth already tasting like the sour talc medicine you had come to loathe. He raised his eyebrows and shot you a look that told you he wasn’t far off plugging your nose with his fingers to force you to swallow, and you childishly stuck up two fingers as you took them.

Your stomach rumbled with nausea and you bit back the bile in your throat as you settled into the pillows. You watched your husband as he pulled off his crisp white shirt, revealing his taut tan stomach and the deep ink tattoos that you loved to trace with your fingertips and your lips. There was something about him standing there, with those damn cerulean eyes and hidden muscles, that boyish hair and slender fingers that you wanted desperately around your throat, that made a million tiny fireworks spark inside of you.

But instead you pushed him away from you despite your body wanting nothing but him wrapped all around you. “Don’t get too close. I might have something contagious. I can’t have you getting sick.”

He ignored you, smiling inwardly at the way you always put others before yourself. It was one of the million reasons he had fallen for you. You were sweating out a high fever and shivering in pain, and yet you always thought of him first. He pressed his lips to your temple and pulled you closer, knowing that skin to skin was a way to bring down a fever - even if it meant he had to restrain himself from tugging off your pretty little white nightgown and whatever frilly things you had on underneath.

“I’m not going anywhere. Fuck it if I catch anything.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m the one who will have to dote on you hand and foot, you big baby.” You teased, pressing yourself into him playfully, finally giving in.

He held you like a child, trying to hard to soften despite the way you felt underneath him. Everything on him was running a mile a minute, and he couldn’t help but want to try everything and everything to make you feel better. His hand was pressed against your temple to always try and measure your fever, his other palm across your chest to try and count your heart rate.

He could hear Mary treading across the landing carpet but he ignored his anxious maid, instead letting himself be completely consumed by the only thing that mattered - you.

This was something he had to do by himself. He was the only one who could care for you he reminded himself. And he let the words tumble over and over in his skull until they were all he could hear.

—————————————————————-

You had been asleep for a long time.

Every hour, after pacing the length of the hall and sanitising his hands and wiping the beads of sweat above your brow and above your breasts he woke you up and held a cool glass to your lips. You mumbled and moaned and pushed him away but he kept his fingers across your wrist - harsher than he ever had before - and kept you as close to him as possible.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked. Perhaps it was last valentines when the two of you had camped out under the stars, drinking icy white wine and sharing stolen, day drunk kisses. That night he had roasted a chicken over the fire and it had burnt to a crisp as the two of you rolled around the grass, his head buried in your neck as you giggled at the poultry going up in flames.

He was trying now though, easy, plain substantial meals that wouldn’t upset your stomach. Boiled egg and dippy soldiers. Crackers with smooth cheese. Bubbly water and ginger biscuits. Each time he went upstairs you pushed him away, your whole body shuddering and almost retching, and he felt like smashing the plates against the wall at his defeat.

It had been almost thirty six hours since he had come home and it had been almost as long since you had eaten something, and his heart thundered and shattered in his chest when he found you gasping and wheezing over the toilet bowl when you had taken a bite of toast to calm him. He rarely left you alone, only for a few minutes to put the still full dishes in the sink, to ring Lizzie and tell her that he wouldn’t be coming for reasons that he refused to disclose, to smoke a cigarette under the grey stone archway, his shaking hands and bitten fingernails barely visible through the sleepy rolling fog.

He had grabbed handfuls of papers and the brass ink pen you had got him for your anniversary and broke his own rule - bringing work into your bedroom. It had always been a sacred space. For candlelight and soft laughter, aching hands and heart shaped bruises, a sanctuary for him to breathe and to love and to be loved fully in return. But he was afraid if he didn’t have a distraction, he might just completely lose it, and he had to be there for you.

So he sat squinting in his glasses, the room almost completely dark save for a few candles because of the migraines that had started to spread throughout your skull, and let himself be drawn into the mess of squiggly lines and numbers that suddenly didn’t add up, with you still centre stage in his peripheral.

After about forty minutes of rereading the same sentence a dozen times to try and make some sense of it, he heard your voice, like a small crack spreading across a sheet of ice, coming from the bed.

“Tom?” You sounded so weak, he practically flipped your cream vanity as he got to his feet and darted towards you. “I don’t feel well.”

He lifted you as you reached your arms up at him like a child. He almost gasped at the sweat pouring from your body but didn’t want to scare you, and instead held your shaking, shivering body against his own. How could you be so hot, yet so cold at the same time? Your skin was prickled with goosebumps yet you were burning with a fever, and for the first time in a long time, he had no fucking idea what to do.

He left you propped up against the headboard and he entered the bathroom. He ran over to the claw foot tub you loved, twisting the faucet and trying to find the perfect medium between boiling hot and freezing cold. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, just try and soothe your raging fever, and he ignored the shelves of expensive bath oils and scented soaps that you coveted, instead opting for a handful of something meant to ease tension - praying to whoever was listening that it would help you somehow.

There was a brutal, awful moment as he lifted you from the bed, limp as a rag doll, where he imagined what would happen if your heart were to stop. He couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to miss the weight of you in his arms, the smell of your skin, the feeling of your lips against him, the shovels stopping and fading into nothing. It hit him square in the chest, as merciless as a bullet, and he had to lean against the doorframe to stop the two of you from plummeting to the ground.

He undressed himself first. Tugging his white shirt off, sliding off his slacks and his underwear, keeping you as close to his chest as he could. Then he pulled your nightgown up and over your head. He gathered your hair and secured it up with a claw clip so that it was away from your face, the heat radiating off your neck as fierce as the fire now burnt down to ash in the bedroom.

He lowered the two of you into the bath, sinking down beneath the eucalyptus smelling lukewarm water, letting it wash over you both. Your teeth were chattering and you were barely awake. He gathered handfuls of water, letting it drip over your shoulders and pulse points, grabbing a washcloth and running it over your raised skin, hating how you barely registered his touch. As he scrubbed over your collarbones and up to your face he saw your lips had turned to an awful, silvery blue, as vibrant as a fresh bruise. He hissed and tugged on the plug, now determined to get you wrapped up in a fresh towel and tucked back into bed.

You were soft and placid and he helped you out, lacking the usual fire that he adored. Your eyes were glassy and missing their vibrance, like the vanishing spark of a lighter - and he felt miles and miles of invisible distance between the two of you. You were unsteady on your feet and he used his body to prop you up as he warmed your arms with a fluffy white towel. You suddenly stopped, lifting your hand to your mouth as you started to cough - a horrible, dry, gasping cough.

He noticed it almost immediately. His eyes darting to the splatter of red against the white, a smudge of crimson that was as loud and commanding as a siren, a warning signal that something was definitely not right. A bead of scarlet that would linger long behind his closed eyelids.

He managed to get you back into bed, remaining calm as he stroked your hair and kissed your temple. He tucked you under the duvet and waited for your breathing to even before he ran downstairs, his heart thumping in his ears as he practically ripped the phone off of the wall.

“Pol? Fuck. I think - I think I need help.”

—————————————————————-

The room smelt like bleach and metal. Unfamiliar and clinical. There was something hard on your chest and covering your mouth, it tasted like wet pennies and was as heavy as a hand over your throat, but for the first time in days you could finally breathe. You tried to sit up, but there was a needle in your chest, a gown you didn’t recognise cut straight down the middle to accommodate it. You struggled and lifted the thin bedsheet above your shivering torso, trying to look around the cold room.

“Careful!”

It was Polly, dressed immaculately despite her surroundings. She reached out and placed a manicured hand across yours, and you smiled at the woman who had always been a calming influence when you had joined the circus of a family. There was concern in her eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner and lifted lashes but still swimming deep around her pupils. That made you frown, and you moved as much as you could to face her.

“What happened?”

She ran her tongue over her teeth, choosing her words. “You gave us quite a fright, love.”

“I did?” Your memories of the past few days were much like a fever dream, blurry and distorted snapshots were all you could really remember.

“Your pneumonia got worse. A lot worse.” She paused, looking over to the door and you followed her gaze. “They found fluid in your lungs.”

“So...” You started, gesturing to the needle in your abdomen and the breathing apparatus around your head.

She nodded. “Yes. You were in surgery. It was touch and go for a little bit.”

“Really?” You were bewildered. You couldn’t remember anything, let alone having major surgery. You looked her straight in the eye, asking her the questions that had been on the tip of your tongue since you had woken up. “Where is he? Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s outside.” She clicked her tongue, reaching deep into her purse and pulling out some hand cream, gently rubbing your dry hands like she was your mother. You leant into her touch despite all of your questions.

“What? Why?”

“I think he blames himself. God knows what goes on in that mans head. All I really know is he was bloody terrified.” She paused, looking over in the distance. “I’ve never seen him so scared, not even on his wedding day.” She smiled sadly, trying to lighten the mood, but it soon faded. ��He didn’t leave your side the whole time you were asleep.”

Your heart thumped in your chest, a soft aching that you knew all too well. “I want to see him.”

“I know you do. But right now...” She stopped right as a handful of nurses entered, clad in long blue dresses with white aprons, hair tied back and smelling of strong soap and disinfectant. You lost Polly in the bustle as one spoke softly to you before tugging on the needle right beside your ribs, your eyes just catching hers as she left, a promise to see you soon on her lips.

It wasn’t her you saw next, but Tommy.

The nurses had cleaned you up with wet flannels and bowls of warm soapy water. Your hair had been braided and your face washed, and walked you arm in arm over to the bathroom so you could relieve yourself. A skittish doctor followed after, his eyes darting across you and his touch gentle as he changed your dressings and took your blood - obviously under strict instructions from your husband, and despite everything, you smiled.

You were sat listening to the clock tick. A romance novel you had been given was dangling dangerously close to the end of the bed, but you were too tired to focus on it. You heard the door squeal softly, and the sound of familiar footsteps across the tiling, each small thud sending shockwaves across your spine.

“Tommy.”

He looked tired. Exhausted rather, as though he had been awake all the hours that you had been asleep. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow and bruised. His clean shaven face was dark with stubble and his hair was ruffled and unwashed. You longed to reach out to him and cradle him against you, but he stood in the doorway, lingering like a ghost.

“Tommy?” You repeated, your voice almost a whisper, breaking his already shattered heart once again.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

You smiled softly, like spun sugar and sweet honey. No hospital bed or itchy gown could dull your infectious light. “Better now.”

He approached you almost cautiously. He settled down on the hard chair beside your bed and stroked a line down from your temple to your lips, his touch setting you alight like an electrical storm. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded you of how he got when things were bad, and you willed him to come back to you. His touch was tentative and he inhaled shakily as you cupped his hand with yours, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of his palm.

“Don’t scare me like that. Ever.” He was stern, as though hoping his words would make it true. “I mean it.” He kept his gaze on your pretty face, trying his best not to stare at the harsh bruising on your delicate flesh or the sickly tone of your skin.

“Tommy I’m going to get sick, even you can’t stop that.” You teased gently.

“I can bloody well try.” His hands cradled your face, pulling you into him and kissing you fiercely, still mindful of the wires and tubes taped to your body. There was something about the tenderness and deep longing in the kiss that when mixed with your total exhaustion and love for your husband prompted tears to start falling from your eyes. You sniffled as he pulled away, concern dripping from his beautiful features, his powerful mind wanting to do everything and anything to stop your hurting.

“Hey, hey.” He said, running his calloused fingertips under your eyes and wiping your tears away. You leant into his touch and he kissed your temple, squeezing you even tighter into him. “You know I hate it when you cry.” He toyed with your hair and winked playfully. “Besides, all you need to focus on is getting better. You’re going to have to take care of me when we get home, this week has given me a fucking stroke.”

You rolled your eyes, kissing the inside of his wrist. “You’re a idiot, Thomas Shelby.” You blinked at the clock looming above you both, wanting to stay in your blissful bubble but also knowing that Aunt Pol would probably be in the vicinity harassing a poor nurse over your results. “You should go and find Polly, let her know that everything’s alright.”

He shook his head and nuzzled his nose across yours, an act so innocent that your heart dipped and swooped in your chest. “Later.” He said, breathless and consumed by you. Everything had been too much. Almost losing you had been harrowing, it had punctured him completely and he just needed to feel his girl safe and warm around him. He needed to know that you weren’t found anywhere.

“I just want to stay here for a while. Just me and you.”

You grinned. “Always.”

[the2amrevolution]

I really want an iPad or iPad type tablet for drawing on because of how my disability has effected my ability to draw. I can't sit upright for more than a couple hours without fatigue consequences, and I dont have a way to set up my desk, chair, and Wacom tablet to draw comfortably and be able to recline like I need to.

An iPad would allow me to draw from bed or the couch in a wide variety of positions without putting me too far from the screen.

I have sketch books, but they're heavy, not as maneuverable, eraser shavings get all in my bed on top of the crumbs and dog hair already there, and things generally stay as pencil sketches because coloring and finishing using traditional mediums is slower and thus makes my hands hurt. Digital coloring tools enable faster work that helps prevent pain.

I can't work with power tools anymore - standing plus the vibrations just destroys me. I can still sew in bursts, but nothing like I used to. I have enjoyed small stained glass and resin projects since I can work on and complete those in one or two short sessions instead of a week or more of short sessions (the longer it takes the less likely to get done ever especially if its not continuous, hi adhd). I do still knit, crochet, and weave when the mood strikes me since I can safely do that while reclined (embroidery but holding the needle hurts faster than the other tools).

Drawing digitally, with some ring splints and strength exercises for my fingers and wrist and arm, I could probably keep as an artistic hobby for much longer than some of my others with the right tools. Even digitally sculpting for 3D printing would be easier to adapt to my condition than traditional sculpting.

An iPad or other tablet to use for art (and reading and travel) is one of the first things I plan on buying once my disability case is decided (in my favor, obviously, which will hopefully be this spring, unless they reject me and I have to go to court).

I will keep doing everything I can do in whatever way I can for as long as I can, but given how my condition deteriorated before finally leveling off and only very mildly improving without much chance of any significant improvement, its become pretty obvious which hobbies have the least longevity due to their physicality and ability to be adapted versus which have the most.

Digital art makes it so easy to forget you're disabled. Nothing like the physical art of soldering to remind you "Hey your body will fail you and your passions and and there's nothing you can do about it :)"

[time-travelling-hermit-crab]

The Haunted Jar

This is arguably the most cursed item I own, and several people have begged me to return it from whence it came. Apparently these are Mordor rules and it can only be disposed of where it was found. Let me paint you a picture of where this was.

Imagine: a Robin’s egg blue farmhouse buried deep in the underbrush off of a dirt road in upstate New York. The front door has been torn from it’s hinges and lies in a pile of broken glass on the front porch. The entire floor of the entryway is covered in a layer of destroyed books, old clothes, and a twin size mattress with questionable stains on it. All of the books have publication dates from before 1986, so I’m guessing that when this fun little pocket dimension was abandoned. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw an orange shag carpet rolled up and tossed into the hole that was once the basement stairs. Not only is the floor unstable, but going upstairs would be a bad idea because a colony of bees and foxes have taken up residence on the upper floors. As I carefully made my way through this house; I saw it. The Jar™️

I had a direct line of sight into the kitchen where two of these presumably cursed bottles sat on a shelf amongst the peeling wallpaper. The appliances had all been removed, but the cabinets and shelves were full of forgotten herbs and spices. I took the less icky of the two jars and started my mile long trek uphill back to where I was staying with some friends. This probably would’ve happened anyway, but I almost passed out on the walk back cause I was dumb and didn’t bring any water. Upon returning to the cabin with the jar, (which I found out is actually a Schmidt beer bottle from the 70’s) things started… happening. First, one of the towel hooks in the bathroom snapped clean off when I went to hang up a towel on it, and then within the next 2 days the OTHER two towel hooks broke. That was it. I was blamed for bringing this plague upon the cabin, and to this day I get made fun of for taking an obviously haunted jar and apparently causing some towel hooks to break. The haunted jar now happily holds my crochet equipment, and it hasn’t terrorized any towel hooks since.

Sometimes I think about going back to that strange little house in the woods, just to see what other cursed objects I can annoy my friends with.

[smieska-draws]

Hello. How are you and your health? Well... in general... I wanted to ask a few questions. 1 - When did you learn to draw and why did you want to do it? 2 - What are your favorite hobbies? 3 - When did you get to know Undertale and Deltarune? 4 - What are your favorite characters of these two games? 5 - How do you feel about such ships as Asrisk and Krilsei?

oh butts I only just saw this ;0;' sorry for the delay!

I'm doing alright, 'cautiously optimistic' is more like it...!

1 - I've always been attracted to making things and seeing how things are made. I remember always looking in awe as a kid when my dad would open up the VHS player to clean it and he would show me how it worked.

So naturally, I kinda just always stuck with drawing because I loved reading comics, I would doodle in class, flipbooks, all that good stuff. I started "taking it seriously" (ex: became obsessed with digimon) at like.. 13 or something, as you do. I lived in the middle of nowhere in the 2000s with primitive internet so I had to teach myself how to draw. I remember constantly taking out the only book on artist anatomy in the library several times.. deviantart tutorials were starting to pop up so mid 2000s there were some of those... But it was pretty much just through observation and making my friends pose for me while I drew lol (I have a whole can of worms about that but oop i won't rant)

2- Bringing back the 'creating of things', I low key scold myself everytime I get invested in a new craft. I really wish crafts were more appreciated instead of it being seen as an old lady or kid thing.. So I enjoy a lot of crafts!!! Sewing, embroidery, painting, MAKING paint, making paper/bookbinding, beading, crocheting, stained glass, cooking/baking, so many damn things. My absolute favourite types of videos to watch are the 'making sculptures out of trash', or restorations (paintings, consoles or old things) just.. HNG. CREATING STUFF AND SEEING HOW THERE'S MADE. AAA 😔👌

3 - When it initially blew up lol it came out in September 2015, I was visiting back home and just enjoying autumn, but my tumblr dashboard was getting inundated with two cartoon skeletons and something about spaghetti? So in October I went back to my apartment and thought 'huh ok lets give it a shot i guess', BAM. heart full, tears wept. Gote boi hugged.

Deltarune was more of a surprise lol Since that day before halloween in 2018, the undertale twitter was being cryptic so I thought it was going to be a Gaster reveal or something. Nope, he just ... dropped a whole ass game on halloween. Amazing. I remember zooming home in the rain after work to play it. I thought it was a troll by Toby, like he saw all the endless AUs being made and decided as a joke he'd make his own AU. But... the game kept going and I thought, 'ok this is too elaborate to be a prank omg' ALSO, seeing Ralsei all cloaked up and mysterious, i sus'd him out IMMEDIATELY (mainly because my fav is Asriel and YOU KNOW the first thing i did was hug Ralsei because i cried like a baby in undertale) The one thing I wanted from undertale was for Asriel to be by your side and supporting you (instead of being a sneaky soulless flower) and HELL YEAH I GOT MY WISH. AAAA

5 - meh I've never been a shipper of any kind. Even when I have 2 characters do a thing together that people immediately go 'OMG HAVE THEM KISS' i'm just like '??? no ??? they're very close friends, are they not allowed' idk idk i feel like i'm on the outside of things like that. I personally despise labels and I just like to play with characters and their different personalities, stories and stuff. Its like playing in a sandbox.

[pebblethief]

u wanna make me talk?? well two can play at that game!

top five albums, top five things youve ever made, top five destinations if you had access to the tardis

oh these are CRUEL!!

Eluevietie - Evocation 1 or 2. folk metal but acoustic??? spectacular

Karen O and the Kids -Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack. even if u haven't seen the film this is a really great album!!

Modest Mouse - We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank. excellently solid album front to back (bonus points bc I can still hear you yelling at me to listen to this)

Tegan and Sara - The Con. I'm convinced they pivoted to pop music after this because they knew there was no way they were topping this album in any way. it rules.

Julien Baker - Little Oblivions. im sad ok. she gets me.

aaaa this one is hard without photos and I have moved to my phone so they are hard.

for my graphic design gcse I made a 10yr anniversary thing for Dogma, fake leather bible with stained glass style inserts. it ruled and I'm really sad the teacher asked to keep it

my handspun rainbow scarf (see below, hopefully) soft n gay :3

my moomin cross stitch! I got dmcad on etsy for the pattern which is very sad, bc i love it a lot

the crochet blanket I keep on my bed :D my first project, ridiculously complicated but I made it work (perfect example for my crafty tips!)

my bobs burgers cross stitch pattern, it was fun to stitch but tbh mostly bc it has made me ££££ lol

scarf:

look I PROMISED I would take you to a peak Clash concert and u hold myself to that. always number one

I gotta see a real Shakespeare play. a classic option for a reason

I wanna see the future!!!! randomly throw myself a few hundred years ahead

hmmmm. I want a doctor who Victor Hugo episode but im not sure I'm interesting enough to do that myself lol

aaaaa this is hard. so many things I want to see. can I try to convince tove jansson to make me into a bg moomin character? I'd love to meet her but also put me in moomin world

bonus I did always say I want to talk to the neutral milk hotel guy but again I don't think I'm interesting enough to get Weird Shit out of his brain lol

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Of something beautiful, but annihilating🚬1

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, violence and abuse, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of death [other warning to be added throughout series]

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader’s husband brings home an unexpected houseguest.

Note: So i just worked my ass off and retail is always crummy this time of year so I’m gonna escape with some sweet Arvin Russell writing. 

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The spring air was warm as the breeze swept over the low fence and fluttered the tails of shirts hung across the line. You grabbed two pegs and a swathe of damp fabric and stretched it over the cord, pinning it in place before moving along. Your old machine had taken much of the day to wrangle and had even received a kick. It was decades old, an heirloom inherited with the old country house and much more clunky than the modern machines. Not many in the county had anything more than the old wringing machines.

Roy would be home soon. Your husband hated to hear about how the wringer jammed so easily and the fear that your fingers might again be bruised by the mechanism. Even so, you were certain it wouldn't last for much longer. It's rattles foretold its imminent fate. You'd be back to a bucket and board soon enough.

As you hung the last piece, Roy's oil stained overalls, you heard the putter of the truck. You picked up the woven basket and headed for the gate along the front of the house. You waved as he pulled up, tires loudly mulching the dirt, and you stopped short as he came to a jagged halt. He wasn't alone and you were stillwearing your grimy and wet apron.

Roy pushed his door open so roughly it creaked. He stepped out and gave an exaggerated stretch as he glanced across the roof of the truck and slammed the door.

"Don't forget your bag, boy," he growled at the other man as he felt around the chest pocket of his overall for his smokes. "Looks like you're too late for laundry day."

"Roy?" You unclasped the gate and opened it as Roy stomped across the gravel and lit up a smoke, "How was your day?" 

You peeked over at the other man who climbed out of the truck. He wore similar overall, though they were unbuttoned over a greasy white shirt, and he was shorter and thinner than your husband. He reached back into the truck and grabbed a long military style duffel before he swung the door shut. 

Your husband grumbled and blew out a mouthful of smoke.

"We have a guest?" You asked as you stayed by the gate.

"Arvin Russell," Roy flicked the ash away, "You remember I was talkin' 'bout renting out the attic."

"Um, yes," you blinked as the other man, Arvin, neared meekly. Roy had mentioned the idea once when he noticed the way his truck had started rumbling.  "It'll need a good dusting."

"So you better get on that." Roy coughed. "What's for dinner?"

"Meatloaf," you answered and turned back to smile at the other man as he bowed his head and passed through the gate.

"Hello, missus," he said kindly, "Nice to meet ya. I work with your husband, says you're a fine cook."

"The one thing she can do," Roy muttered as he ambled up the steps of the porch and dropped onto the bench sat by the window. "You go grab us some bottles."

You closed the gate behind Arvin but he waited for you to precede him before going any further. He was surprisingly polite for any man who worked at the shop. 

"Yes, Roy," you hid your disappointment. Those nights when Roy started drinking before dinner rarely ended well.

"Can I just have some water?" Arvin asked as he followed you onto the porch, "Please. I didn't get to my lunch today so I'm not really feeling like drinking."

"Of course," you said, "If you're hungry, I got a box of crackers and some cheese I can bring out."

"Thank you but I'd hate to spoil dinner." Arvin sat on the end of the bench and kept his bag between his feet as Roy threw away his cigarette. "Thank you both for having me."

You nodded and quickly skirted inside. You were a bit confounded by Roy's sudden burst of generosity. He rarely did anything for anyone else. To think he'd offer a room to a coworker was unlike him.

You went to the old fridge, marked with dings and dents, and wiggled the handle until it opened. You remember the day you Pa had broken the handle, he'd always promised to fix it but had only managed to make it worse. You missed him. It was easy to miss him in this old place. His wedding present to you and Roy. It was too tragic he hadn't lived long enough to see you enjoy it.

You grabbed a brown bottle then filled a tall glass from the tap. You went back to the door and opened it with your elbow. You handed Roy his beer as Arvin stood to accept his glass of water.

"Thank you," he chimed but your husband only popped the cap of his beer with his teeth and glared out at the yard.

"Well dinner is in the oven still. I'll just be finishing that before I get started in the attic." You told Roy but he only shrugged and gulped down the beer. "Let me know if you boys need anything." 

"Peace and quiet," Roy snarled. "S'all I need right now."

Arvin gave a sympathetic look and traced his thumb along the side of the glass. You hid your discomfort and retreated inside. That was just Roy. He was always in a mood after work. An hour or two and he would mellow out. The beer would surely help.

🚬

When you finished supper, you called the men in to eat. Roy started his second beer as Arvin remained quiet and awkward at the table. You didn’t say much as you pondered the work still left to be done. You had to tidy the attic before the night ended and collect the laundry from the line. You would also have to clear the table and clean up the mess of your cooking.

You stood before the men finished. You scraped your untouched scraps into the dish of leftovers and placed the glass lid on it. You scoured the loaf pan as you listened to the clink of cutlery on plates and set the pots on the drying rack. You returned to the men to gather their empty dishes and Arvin thank you as Roy belched and stood with a satisfied but gruff rumble.

Arvin watched you as you tried to ignore the pity in his face. You knew your husband wasn’t the most loving or vocal, but he was yours and he worked hard. You turned away and went back to the kitchen. You finished washing the last of the glassware and dried it before stacking it in the cupboards.

As you passed through the dining room, Arvin was gone and you could hear the buzz of the radio from the front room. Roy always liked to listen to the game after he ate. Sometimes you sat with him and crocheted or read but not often.

You tiptoed upstairs and found the footstool hidden in the bottom of the linen closet. You climbed onto the step and reached up to unhook the cord of the attic door. It dangled down and you pulled it carefully as you backed off the stool and kicked it away. The steps unfolded and you barely stepped out of the way of their descent as the heavy wood thumped against the carpet.

It had been a while since you ventured up to the third floor. There was only dust and forgotten memories up there. You slowly made your way up and sneezed as you reached the top. A wall of boxes blocked the window along the front of the house and shrouded furniture sat beneath grimy sheets.

You started with the boxes. You took one and peeked under the flaps. Some old oil lamps hoarded by your father from his own parents. You awkwardly made your way back down to the second floor and placed the box at the bottom. When you had them all down, you’d take them into your father’s old room to store. Perhaps you should sort through them at last and get rid of the unneeded artifacts.

You were six boxes deep when you were startled by a shadow in the open hatch. You exclaimed and nearly dropped your armful as Arvin poked his head through and peered over at you.

“Arvin,” you gasped. “My apologies, this place is a mess.”

“Not so bad,” he climbed up and stood, “You need some help?”

“Don’t be silly, I can manage--”

“You’re right. It’s a mess,” he insisted, “A lot for just one person.”

You stared at him and gave a small smile. He was funny. He neared you and reached out for the box in your arms.

“How about this, I’ll stay on the ladder and you bring the boxes to me and I’ll take ‘em down.” He took the box gently from you, “It’ll be much quicker.”

You looked into his soft brown eyes and let him. He backed away and cautiously made his way down the ladder. You turned and grabbed another box and he reappeared through the hatch. You handed him the box of figurines and he retreated once more. You carried on and soon, the boxes were stacked high on the lower floor.

“Alright,” Arvin climbed up and dusted off his hands, “Already lookin’ better.”

He neared the old sofa against the wall and pulled off the sheet. He coughed as the dust was kicked up and it soon turned into a chuck as he waved away the cloud.

“We can keep this here,” he draped the sheet over his arm and pulled the next from the tall lamp with the glass shade, “Move this into the corner,” he continued on and peeked under a sheet before unveiling the tall shelf, “If you don’t mind, of course?”

“Not at all. We should’ve sold all this years ago.” You teetered on your heels anxiously. Every piece reminded you of your father. “There’s a cot folded up over there,” you pointed behind a hidden end table, “But that wouldn’t be much better than the floor.”

“It’ll do,” he assured you and turned to sit on the sofa. He bounced as he hugged the sheets. “This isn’t too bad.”

“Well, there’s a bed down in my pa’s room. We could try to bring it up tomorrow. If you don’t mind offerin’ a little more help.” You wrung your hands. You were never very good with strangers and Roy’s friends often weren’t much nicer than him. You were tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I think I could do that,” he stood and wiggled his nose as a sneeze threatened. “You got a broom? Maybe a duster?”

“You’ve done enough, I can finish it--”

“Ma’am, I’m a guest in your home. I might be paying for the room but it doesn’t make you my maid,” he intoned, “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t think I’ve eaten so well since before my momma died.”

“Oh, I’m… sorry,” you uttered. “I--”

“Now, don’t be sorry,” he cooed, “Nothing to be sorry for. I assume you lost your daddy if his bed is free.” 

You nodded dumbly and blinked.

“Well, at least let me take these,” you reached for the sheets and he hesitated before he let you take them. You struggled to keep them balled up and hugged them against your hip as you turned back to the hatch. “I’ll bring you the broom.”

“Thank you,” he said behind you and you looked back at him as you took your first step down the ladder, “You let me know when you bring that washin’ in and I’ll help you fold.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I want to. Makes me feel a little better about stealin’ your attic,” he assured you.

You looked down and slowly descended. As your feet met the carpet, you sighed and looked around at the boxes. You couldn’t remember a time Roy had ever offered to help with anything. If it wasn’t to do with his truck, he couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger.

🚬

You were completely drained by the time you retired to your bedroom. You were still on edge, your exhaustion laced with anxiety as you unbuttoned your blouse. You sat on the side of the bed as you slowly undressed. It was still absurd to you that another person, barely more than a stranger, was living in your home. In your father’s house.

It changed your whole routine. You couldn’t help but go over it in your mind. That meant three plates, not two, for every meal, that meant the laundry basket would fill up quicker, than meant the shoes tracks in the front entrance would need to be mopped up more often. That mean you had to act like your marriage was truly happy.

You pulled on your night gown, the short sleeves tickled your upper arms as you dropped your clothes in the wicker basket on your chest of drawers. A framed photo of your parents’ wedding day sat beside it and on the shelf beside the door, was your own wedding portrait.

Three years wasn’t so long but it felt an eternity. You couldn’t quite recall when Roy had changed. When the beer had started to taint his kisses and his words. When all pretense fell away and only the man remained. The brutish country boy with the churlish demeanour.

Maybe the first day of your marriage. Maybe. You were so nervous on your wedding night that it angered him. You’d mend your dress one day, hopefully when you had a daughter of your own so you had something to promise her. 

Or maybe a week after the wedding, when you broke the vase gifted to you upon your nuptials and it shattered across the floor. Roy’s booming voice and his boulder-like fists.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, a month in when the world went black with his hand on your throat and you awoke alone on the kitchen floor.

Maybe a year when your finger was dislocated by a slammed door. Maybe the next year when you couldn’t sit for the pain in your hips. Maybe the one after when he’d grown impatient for a child only to find your sheets soaked in blood. 

Maybe it had always been there, from the first date, but you’d simply refused to accept it. Not you. Not Roy. You loved him and he loved you, didn’t he?

The door slammed and shook you from your sombre recollections. You looked up as Roy stumbled in. He snickered darkly as your eyes met his and his legs wobbled beneath him drunkenly.

You slid off the bed and turned to plant your elbows on the mattress. A prayer before bed, as your grandmother had taught you. Another sarcastic chuckle aimed in your direction as Roy’s stained white tee missed the basket.

“On your knees for me already,” he sat beside your elbow as he unbuckled his belt.

You couldn’t focus on your inner recitation. You could smell the alcohol on him, the stench of oil and his sweat. You clutched your hands together and cleared your throat.

“Why didn’t you call me?” You asked calmly.

He frowned and stood to shove his pants past his knees. He kicked the jeans away and fell heavily back to the bed.

“Call you?” He sneered.

“To let me know about our guest?” You wondered innocently. “I could’ve readied for him better.”

“Workin’,” he growled. “I don’t got time to be callin’ you with my head under an engine. Fuckin’ Christ.”

“There isn’t a bed in the attic.” You said.

“So. Arv’s small enough. I’ve seen him sleep on a stool.” Roy spat. 

You hid your chagrin behind your hands as you pressed them to your lips.

“Why’d you bring him?”

Roy’s nostrils flared and a fist formed atop his hairy thigh. “I gotta explain to you?” He snapped. “He paid me outright and he been sleepin’ at the motel since he started.”

“Mr. Dace has a room--”

“Mr. Dace lives twice as far as we do. I did the kid a favour. He saved my ass his first day.” Roy stomped his foot. “Woulda burned down the whole garage if he hadn’t caught that leak.”

“Kid? He that young?”

“Couple years younger than you, I s’pose, maybe less,” Roy rubbed his cheeks and shook his head, “What’s it matter to you?”

“Curious,” you said quietly and closed your eyes as you rested your chin on your knuckles.

Roy was quiet. He let out a long, thick breath and the bed jolted beneath your arms.

“You finished bleeding?” He asked gruffly. 

“I’m praying, Roy,” you insisted.

“How long’s it take you? I’m sure God’s heard it all before.”

“Don’t talk like that, R--”

You squeaked as he grabbed your wrist and wrenched your arms away. He rose and lifted you with him. Always a strong man, he moved you like a puppet to his will. He took your other wrist and pulled you against him.

“You know, I don’t even care if you’re bleeding.” He turned you and shoved you onto the bed. You cried out as you bounced so hard you bit your tongue.

“Roy, please, I’m tired,” you stared up at him fearfully as you pushed yourself up on your elbows. You could taste blood.

“You’re my wife. You do your duty.” He pushed his underwear down as his cock twitched. “You got energy to wash all them clothes, you can lay on your back for your husband.”

“Roy--”

“Shut up!” He shouted. “We got company. I don’t need ya keepin’ him up with your whining.”

You closed your eyes as he fell onto you. He crushed you beneath him as he tugged your skirt up harshly. He pushed your legs apart with his knee and you braced yourself for his painful intrusion. Even so long into the marriage, you had never grown used to his touch.

He retracted his hand and began to touch himself. He stroked his cock as he swore under his breath.

“Fuck. Come on.” He moved his hand quicker and rubbed his soft tip against your folds. “Open up.” 

He forced his dick against your entrance and tried to push inside. He was still half-flaccid and struggled to get further than an inch. You balled your hands and sank your head into the mattress as he thrust. He fell out of you, softer than before.

You opened your eyes sat up on his knees and looked down at his limp dick. He gritted his teeth as you watched him.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he punched your stomach as hard as he could and you wheezed as you folded in on yourself. “Can’t even keep me hard.”

“Roy--” You hissed. “I’m s--”

“One more word and you’ll be real sorry.” He pushed himself from between your legs, making certain to pinch you as he did.

He stood and turned. You barely moved out of the way before he sprawled over his side of the mattress. You held your stomach, a painful pressure lodge there, and rolled to the edge of the bed. You reached over and pulled the chain on the lamp. 

As you laid back, Roy caught the back of your neck and kept you in a painful limbo.

“On the floor,” he jarred your neck as he tried to throw you off the bed. “Like the dog you are.”

You slid off the side and landed sharply on your knees. You stifled a shameful sob and lowered yourself down onto your side. You bent your knees and cushioned your head on one arm. You stared into the void beneath the bed as the frame groaned beneath Roy’s heavy body.

“Goddamn bitch,” he uttered groggily. “Fuckin’--”

His words turned to snores as he finally drowned in his bellyful of beer. You listened to his jagged, drunken breaths as you shivered on the cold wood. You closed your eyes and recalled the first night you’d slept on the floor. You’d been in much poorer shape and it had been the dead of winter.

At least, you didn’t have to sleep next to him.