#my mother once said to me “no one crochets like you”

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I regret to inform you I appear to have gone entirely up my own ass as a crocheter. Watching a video of someone saying, "The 3.5 is a really small hook" and my first thought was, "What? I'm using one right now! It's a perfectly fine size!"

Y'all, I am making shorts using #3 thread. The other projects in my current pile are the Barda costume, on 4.0, the beaded skirt on a 2.25 mm, and the fingering weight shirt on a 3.0.

No need to ask reddit. I am, in fact, the asshole.

[theladyhibiscus]

Not me as somebody who crochets on the reg getting criticisms/unwanted comments about everything I make:

"You always use the same colors" :/

Me: can't help it I'm a thalassophile and therefore I must always use beige, khaki, turquoise, teal, aqua blues, whites of all shades. Let the coastal creations commence!

"Nice bag. You know, that looks perfect to use only for holidays like Easter"

Me: ...my coastal bag is to be used every time I feel like it. What are you talking about.

"Those oceanic colors don't match with your current outfit so don't use it."

Me: it's not about what looks nice TO YOU but what feels right and fun to use FOR ME.

"Why don't you add (whatever) to your creation. It'd look great if you add (whatever). And, how about next time, you actually use a leather bag bottom instead?"

Me: I don't want to.

"You sure can't take a comment or a slight criticism. Why are you like this?" :/

Me: you sure can't mind your business.

"Why are you doing 2 projects at once. Finish one and start the other I don't get it."

Me: oh you sweet summer child ohohoho...you just don't understand the mind of a crocheter do ya?

"You know, if you make something for somebody it sure won't be coastal themed or whatever. You have to try something different."

Me: who said I'm making anyone ANYTHING? They don't want to pay the correct price for a hand-made creation so that won't be happening. Anyway, ONTO THE COASTAL THEMED SCARF!

[iknityounot]

(Long post, sorry y'all)

A little more than two years ago now, my grandmother passed away. She and my grandpa had moved down to my home town a few years before so we could take care of them. I brought them groceries once a week, helped them write checks, fixed tvs, and found lost things. I was really close with my grandma.

In addition to her hilarious personality and dry wit, one of my favorite things about her was that she was a painter and a crafter like me! She used to crochet, and I took her to the craft store a couple of times so she could get more yarn and books on crochet. But her arthritis and the shaking in her hands kept getting worse, so she eventually had to stop.

She kept her most recent project, a granny square blanket, safely packed away in a plastic bin. She told all of us she was going to finish it one day.

Her hands never got better, and when she got sick, and we found out it was cancer, she rapidly deteriorated.

After she passed, I went to work helping my mom clean out my grandparents apartment so we could move my grandpa in with her. In our frantic cleaning, I found that bin again:

DOZENS of granny squares, dozens of half used skeins. I asked my mom what she wanted me to do with it, and she said she didn't care. I set it aside and later took it home.

Maybe a month later, that tumblr post about the Loose Ends Project was going around. It felt like a sign--I was never going to learn to crochet in order to finish my grandmother's blanket. But they might be able to help!

So I filled out the interest form. They got back to me SUPER quick. And maybe 2 weeks later, I was paired with volunteer in my state (only 2 hours away!) and the box of yarn, granny squares, and my grandmother's crochet hook were in the mail. That was at the end of January this year.

Over the next couple of months, my "finisher" emailed me regular updates on her progress, and asked me questions on my preferences for how she constructed the final blanket.

At the end of August, the blanket was done!

I had always intended the blanket to be a gift for my mother. So I cleaned it up, put it in the only bag I had big enough to fit it, and drove to my mom's. I gave the blanket to her and she was gobsmacked. I explained to her all about Loose Ends, and how someone volunteered to finish the piece for us. She was speechless. (I was quite pleased with this, because I am not the best at giving gifts, so this was a pretty exciting reaction!)

She said that it was the most thoughtful gift she had ever been given. She said "your grandma would love this". To which I replied, "yeah, I know she really wanted to finish it a couple of years ago". But that was when my mom dropped the bomb of a century on me--she told me that my grandma had started making those granny squares OVER 30 YEARS AGO. She had started the blanket when my grandpa was staying in the hospital, but that was back when my mom was younger than I am now! My grandma had packed them all away, planning on finishing it, when my grandpa was sent home from the hospital. Then it went from house to house, from condo in Chicago to their apartment in my hometown. All that time and my grandma had wanted to finish it, but couldn't. First because she was busy, then because she forgot how to do it, then because of her arthritis, and then because of the cancer. My mom said she had given up on expecting my grandma to finish it. 

She said I brought a piece of her childhood with her mom out of the past.

And really, all of this is to say, if you have seen or heard about the Loose Ends Project and have an uncompleted project or piece from a loved one who has passed away--these are your people. They were so kind and treated my project with such care. That box probably would have been found by my own grandkids one day if I hadn't heard about Loose Ends.

Five stars, absolutely worth it!

(From what I understand, you can sign up to volunteer too! If you have time to share, it might be worth checking out!)

[thehistoriangirl]

Hi!

Could you write something for Viktor in this Father's Day please??

Thank you so much, have a great day 🖤

Hi anon! For sure :3 I hope you like it

Little Genius

Viktor x Fem!Reader---1.4K----SFW

Tags: Established Relationship (they're married) | Pregnancy | Fluff | Viktor would be such a great dad yall can't change my mind | Happy Father's day to all who celebrate :3 | This is not proofread at all bc Father's Day is over in less than an hour i'm sorryyyy ;---; |

Viktor felt your head nudging against his side, making him lower the book he was reading since yesterday—since you had finished it without waiting for him to read it out loud. A small betrayal Viktor washed away with your extra long session of kisses after dinner.

He reached to turn off the lamp, your hand brushing his before he could pull the tiny rope. Golden eyes took in your alert face, body wiggling closer to him so Viktor could rest his right leg over your hip.

His hum reverberated in your whole body due to the closeness of your cheek and his chest, heart beating content as you melted against the soft touches, the nonsensical patterns he drew against the thin, worn-out fabric of your pajamas.

“Not tired yet?” he asked, looking at the clock hung on the wall almost reaching midnight.

“I want to show you something,” you said, fiddling with the loose threads of his favorite blanket, the one he packed from his house in Zaun and kept in Piltover, even now.

He mourned the sudden loss of your warmth once you incorporated in your elbows, reaching for the nightstand on your side of the bed. Though curiosity made his golden eyes twinkle as your fingers scouted the insides of the last drawer.

“What is it?” Viktor peeked over your shoulder, seeing your hand gently cradling a small, white box tied close with a golden ribbon. “Are you going to propose, my love? Because I’m sorry to tell you this, but I beat you to it around two years ago,” he chuckled, rubbing with his thumb over the golden band decorating a finger in your left hand. Soft, slightly dry lips kissing the reverse of your palm once you glared playfully at him.

“You’re not funny,” you said, thought your curved lips testified completely the opposite.

“I hate to argue with the love of my life, but I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t have win you over.”

“Well, what if I say that you win me over with your terrible jokes?”

Viktor feigned a deep betrayal just like they were represented in the Opera House; hand clutching his shirt over his heart, closing his eyes while his face twisted in a grimace of hurt. “Your words break my heart.” His hands enveloped your waist, pulling you against his chest. “You better have a plan to wound up my poor heart. Your devote lover is very sensible.”

You beamed at him, eyes crinkled in crescents. “I do have one.” Wriggling against his tangled hug, you sat with your legs crossed, settled right in front of Viktor, putting the box on his chest. “Open it.”

The mysterious object was covered with a layer of paper, and for a few moments all that it could be heard inside your shared room was the wrinkled paper being pushed away to reveal the gift.

“Huh?” Viktor frowned, his fingers brushing the softest fabric as he raised the clothing out the box to see it against the light of the bright, golden lamp.

A vivid, burnt yellow bib made of crochet in a pattern oddly familiar for his own baby clothes kept inside a bag under his mother’s bed back in Zaun. The lettering read: Papa’s Little Genius.

He gazed at you, founding your expression of pressed lips about to burst into giggles. “My love?”

“Do you know what day is today?” you said, brushing the empty box away to straddle his hips.

“Sunday?” He could barely articulate any words with your comfortable weight pressed against him.

You lowered over his chest, nuzzling your nose in the crook of his neck and nibbling on his ear just for the fun to see his pale skin flush deep crimson every time. “It’s Father’s Day,” your voice sent shivers down his spine, goosebumps traveling all over his body as his body torn between your allure making pool molten desire down his stomach, and his brain scrambling around by your shushed words.

“Father’s…” he said, holding your shoulders as he looked down toward you and over the bib resting on the pillow next to him. His golden eyes opened, a gasp hitching his already quickening breath. “Are you… you… I… we…”

You burst out laughing, your vision became blurry with the halo of tears pooling in your eyes. “Yes...,” you whispered, as if it were such a delicate thing, a dream, almost, that if talking too loud about it would make it disappear. “You’re going to be a Papa very soon.”

His teary eyes matched yours as he hugged him flush against him, taking in the smell of your hair, how perfectly he feels blessed at just basking in your presence. And now, not only had you given him your whole body and soul and heart. No, you were about to give him a legacy—a future carved in his blood and flesh.

A child.

His child.

His rough fingerpads caressed your cheeks, wishing to take in every little detail about this moment so he could treasure it for eternity.

“I thought I was the luckiest person in the whole world when you accepted to be my spouse, but now?” He laughed, wiping your tears away. “Now words can’t describe how I feel knowing that you’re carrying our baby.”

Viktor chuckled, his smile that one of a child’s that had just discovered the wonders of life for the first time. His hand cradling your belly.

“Hi, little one,” he muttered, almost afraid to cause a bad impression to his unborn baby. Fingers gently caressing the soft skin under your shirt. “I’m your Papa. Hi,” Viktor repeated, finding himself in a loss of words. “I… I promise I’m going to read a lot of books about parenting, and that I’m going to come up with pretty toys for you, and I promise that I will make daily time to play with you… and sing to you… and tucking you to bed,” his voice broke, a knot straining his throat. “I don’t know anything about being a father, but I promise you I will be the best for you, little one.”

With a groan, he sat on the bed, lowering his head to kiss your belly, hands interlocked in the small of your back. “Only the best for you and your stunning mother. I hope you look just like her,” he said with a chuckle. “Though I will struggle to ground if that occurs… hmm, just be easy on me, alright?”

He looked up at you, eyes full of wonder and pure, unfiltered adoration.

“I just know about them, but I already love them so,” Viktor confessed, caressing your hair, his hands pulling down your chin so his lips could encounter yours. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He mumbled between kisses of all kind—as soft as the brush of a feather, bold ones with his teeth biting your bottom lip, his tongue exploring your mouth in a slow, sensual dance. “I love you. I love you both,” he corrected, patting your belly.

“Do you like the bib?” you hummed, and he laughed. “Your mother scold me a lot because I kept getting lost while knitting the pattern.

“I knew I recognized that style.” He scanned the bib, arching a playful eyebrow toward you. “Little Genius, eh? Pretty high standards, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, swatting his chest lightly. “You say that as if you won’t let them see all your blueprints and chalkboards full of equations the moment they’re born.”

Viktor’s heart fluttered at the thought. He would have to babyproof his studio—and for sure his child wouldn’t step inside the lab without a full-body protective uniform, but the thought of sharing with someone else besides you about his vision of the world and the place he had in it made him feel like he was inside paradise.

A personal goal to make this world much happier, and safer, and fairer.

His baby’s world.

“I love you,” he said, kissing your whole face with delicate kisses that poured out everything words could never express. His devotion. His love. Everything. “I will never be able to pay you back for this…this miracle.”

“I don’t want you to pay me back,” you said, hands resting over his quickly-beating heart. “I love you, too. And your love for both of us is more than enough.”

He smiled widely, showing you that grin you adored so much, that made you melt and wish you could, too, give him the whole world.

“How lucky I am,” he hummed, settling you against his chest. “To have my whole universe safely resting in my arms.”

[jazzyoranges]

hey. i really like the fic about shapeshitfing!reader x wednesday. i was wondering if u could do thing and reader being absolute besties and playful with each other which makes wednesday annoyed and sorta jealous.

Best friends

Wednesday Addams x fem!shapeshifter!reader

Words: 1.4k

A/n: lowk shapeshifter!r is so fun to write, thanks for all the requests about her :) hopefully you like reading about her a lot because honestly i’m a little obsessed with this universe

Warnings(?): wednesday being wednesday, ooc wednesday, mentions of knives and blood

“Why are you adamant on annoying me.” Wednesday opens her door to you, whose rapidly knocking stops when the look on Wednesday’s face doesn’t give much room for explanation. But you love being defiant so you don’t really care

“Thing and I planned to go on a date today!”

The Addams looks behind her to see the appendage with the tiniest little crocheted messenger bag that was worn on his wrist like a bracelet. You can see Wednesday’s forehead wrinkle when Thing saunters over to your feet for you to put him on your shoulder, just as you’ve seen Wednesday do countless times before

“I asked Thing if he had any rings to wear and he said no, so naturally I’m going to treat him on a day out” The appendage taps excitedly on your shoulder, poking at your face to signal he wants to go

“And when did you plan this?”

“After we played tag, you wanna come with us?” You ask with a turn of your head

“Shopping isn’t my strongest suit. I’d only slow you two down.”

“We’ll be off doing hot girl things. I promise I’ll have him home before curfew, Miss Addams” You treat Wednesday like she’s a disapproving mother, when in reality she looks unfazed and honestly a little annoyed. You and Thing wave goodbye, leaving Wednesday with her own thoughts as her roommate is doing god knows what with her friends

Time alone could be good for Wednesday. She’s been around people far more than she preferred. With maybe an hour on her hands before someone interrupts her, Wednesday sits at her desk to write

Her fingers drum against her desk, a habit she picked up from Thing. The appendage you were taking out on a date. For gods sake, he was a hand! You asked a singular appendage out on a date. Not even a full human. A fucking hand. A hand that didn’t have a voice, yet you were still infatuated with him nonetheless

And maybe Wednesday is smart enough to recognize she’s feeling a little peeved over a hand. Maybe Wednesday is smart enough to know Thing does have a voice; a sassy one at that. Maybe Wednesday is coping with the fact you wanted to take Thing out more than someone you actively sought out and saw every day

And maybe you’re the reason why Wednesday had to buy a slightly bigger trash can for the more recent mistakes she’s been making during her writing time

You were a disease. You forced your way into everyone’s life, but somehow you always came out with more friends and acquaintances than you started with. It was annoying how unforgivably social you were.

Your dumb smile with your pearly white teeth. Wednesday’s tapping on her desk got a little faster

Your need to include everyone whether you knew them or not. It was why you were on a date with Thing in the first place

Your everlasting hunger to be around someone. Wednesday knew you didn’t like to be alone

Your voice that Wednesday knew so well.

…

Fuck.

“Hey, Wens!” Enid makes her presence known with a sing-song tone while placing her jacket on the coat hanger near the door

“Where’s Thing? It’s quiet in here” The blonde immediately notices

“He’s on a date,” There’s a small pause after Wednesday talks “with (Y/n).”

“(Y/n) took Thing on a date?”

“Correct.”

“How’s your writing going?” Enid peers over Wednesday’s shoulder to look at her once again, full trash can. Enid notices that happens a lot when you’re on Wednesday’s mind for some reason. The Addams glares at Enid when she makes another mistake, crumbling up the piece of paper while maintaining eye contact with her roommate

“Great.”

A beat of silence.

“…did you seriously get cucked by a hand?”

“Repeat such degenerate nonsense and I’ll be forced to make sure you never will.”

“I dunno, you’re looking a little jealous over there” Wednesday doesn’t have to turn around to hear the wolfish grin in Enid’s voice

“The urge to push a knife through your skull is an insatiable hunger that cannot be fed by anything that isn’t your blood.”

//-//

“Do you like this one? See look, the dragon is the ring!” You place the ring on Thing’s middle finger. The appendage shows his approval with another few taps

“Yes, it makes you look tough. You want another one?” He nods. Well, at least makes it look like he’s nodding. You grab a silver ring from the display, putting it on his thumb

“Will Enid like the rings?” Thing signs

“Everyone will love them, especially Enid. You running out on lotion?”

“Nope! How can I repay you?”

You pretend to think for a second

“If you delete Enid’s blackmail on me off of all her devices I’ll take you out again, free of charge” The employee at the front is probably wondering why your back is turned to her while you’re whispering into your hands

Thing holds a thumbs-up and you take the two rings off his fingers and put them on the check out counter along with a few other little trinkets you liked and stuff for your friends

A pink and white bracelet with charms you knew Enid would find cute, scale earrings that twinkled in the sun that Bianca would look stunning in, a bee pin that was too perfect for Eugene, and a black snake that curled into itself as ring for Wednesday

You only assumed Thing gave you a blank stare when the cashier said your price was a bit more than a hundred fifty dollars. Your mom would definitely chastise you for your spending issues, but that was a problem for another day. Your current problem was that you had to get Thing home by curfew like you promised

//-//

Thing might not want to take up your invitation on another date anytime soon.

Currently you’re turned into a bird with the appendage hanging on for dear life on your back as you carry the bag of items you bought in your beak. Thing pleaded you just run on the ground like any normal animal, but you promised you’d get him home by curfew. Running would’ve taken too long and your ass would get tired

So instead, you went for the skies without Thing’s approval

He might hate you now, honestly. In your defense, it was too late when he told you he had a fear of falling when you were above tree height

You asked if he wanted to sit in the bill of a pelican instead and you felt him pluck one of your feathers. Lucky for you both, Wednesday and Enid’s room wasn’t too far away

When you land on the balcony of their dorm, Thing hops off your back and apologizes for your now lost feather. You also apologize for not planning correctly and having him on your back with little to no safety

Enid looks a little confused when Thing starts to hug the bird that landed on her balcony, but she eventually figures out it’s you. The blonde looks away for a second and you’re already a cat desperately knocking against their circle window to be let in

You walk in like you own the place, and Wednesday checks the clock if you actually got Thing home by curfew

“With minutes left to spare, too.” Wednesday says. You smile proudly

You jump up onto Enid’s bed, bag still in mouth. You push it over so it’s parallel to the bed, digging your head in until you find what you need. The pink and white bracelet with charms you got from Jericho. Enid makes sure to ruffle your fur so much it starts to stick out until she pats it down. Thing makes sure to tell Enid all about his day

Grabbing your bag, you make your way towards Wednesday, who’s reading a book with a dark cover on her bed

You look through the bag again, but this time with the aforementioned snake ring in your mouth. You keep your tongue away from the ring as much as possible to stop you from getting your saliva on it

Of course you thought about your friends while on a date.

Wednesday reaches out her hand, taking the ring from your mouth. She places it on her left ring finger and it seems to be a snug fit. There’s a wordless thank you in Wednesday’s eyes when she uses the same hand to scratch under your chin, making you purr

The happy expression on your face and the way you lean into her touch makes Wednesday’s heart melt the tiniest bit.

You crawl into Wednesday’s lap as she reads her book. Every now and again you can feel the now cold ring against your skin, sending shivers down your spine

You end up spending the night with Wednesday’s lips against the back of your ear and her hand on your stomach. It wasn’t your fault you were a cuddly cat.

[piratefishmama]

Finders Givers | Part 3

To call them out of place would be an understatement.

Neither of the two in the lobby looked like they belonged there. Eddie in his ratty, torn at the knee jeans, rings, chains, band tee, and leather jacket, and Chrissy… well, Chrissy could probably look like she belonged if she’d dressed up a little, but she’d pulled her cosiest sweater over her head, a comfortable, cream coloured, crocheted sweater, a house warming gift from Mrs Jablonski next door when they’d moved in during a real cold snap a few winters back, and she’d wiggled her butt into a pair of Eddie’s old jeans.

The ones with the paint on them from when they’d painted Eddie’s room against Carl’s wishes.

Their reasoning was that Carl would never know. No matter how many times his greasy ass hinted at coming in for ‘coffee’, he was never invited in.

Her last pair of jeans were in the dirty laundry pile. She’d been meaning to force Eddie into helping her do laundry that day but alas, they were now not doing that. She didn’t think he knew he’d gotten himself out doing of laundry, but somehow it was still funny that he’d managed it again.

But it didn’t matter, there was nobody really there besides the secretary and she’d offered them coffee and pastries. Rather than looking at them strangely she’d offered hospitality and kindness, so now they had coffee and pastries, because Eddie was not about to turn down fancy free food from a kindly mother type.

It’d been twenty minutes already. Their pastries and coffees were done and gone.

Eddie was about to call it and leave, loud in his objection of being ignored by the high ups, when Chrissy sat up straighter, her eyes zeroing in on what would undoubtedly be a mini-boss in a video game.

Or maybe the ‘sudden Latin choir’ version of the main boss, and she walked through the double doors, both swinging open like Aragon shoving his way through the doors at Helms Deep and Chrissy was so very unprepared to witness her very own Aragon that early after student night shots.

Woman’s cheekbones alone could probably kill them both.

Eddie said nothing, he just gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder, he figured she’d appreciate that. She reached up and patted the hand he’d left there in support. She appreciated it.

“Mr and… Mrs—?”

“Ew no.”

And the hand atop his own was gone, pulled away, Chrissy’s awed expression replaced with one that read ‘I’m offended’ better than any angry white suburban mother of four with her minivan, concave cut, and bad dye job could possibly verbalise. “That was quick.”

“I’m gay what do you want from me?” Eddie looked up at the boss lady with what he hoped to be a disarming grin “Eddie Munson, this is Chrissy, Chrissy Cunningham, my single best friend, and platonic life partner.” He slipped that single in there so smoothly, gave himself a mental pat on the back for it, so smooth. He was gonna ignore Chrissy glaring at him. Boss lady just smiled, stormy eyes flicking between them as he introduced her. She seemed nice, a little mysterious. “We’re uhm, we’re here about thee uh—”

Eddie Immediately wanted to turn her into an NPC, or an actual boss. Maybe a powerful, kindly mage. An ancient druid or—

“The apartment block, right? Claudia gave us the heads up. My name is Robin Buckley I’m uh… well… I don’t really have an official title, but you can probably just call me Mr Harrington’s business partner I guess.” It was an apt title, ‘boss man’s best friend’, or ‘partner in crime’ didn’t seem nearly as professional. “Why don’t you both come with me to my office, and I can try and answer any questions you might have.” Professional yet welcoming.

Almost felt like she’d worked in customer service before.

They both rose to their feet and Robin turned back toward the door, nodding in greeting to the secretary as she walked by, both Chrissy and Eddie copying her as they hurried on through after her, through corridor after corridor, then one quick zip up the elevator and they were there, Robin once again opening both doors as she entered her office.

It was clearly a personal preference to be as dramatic as possible, it was working for her.

“Please, take a seat” They both quickly took the only two chairs on the ‘guest’ side of the desk, while Robin rounded it and took the larger chair behind it. The office was. Large. Large and full of knick-knacks. Framed pictures of actual people instead of vague ‘hotel-esque’ art, trophies, several book shelves filled with folders and thick books, a filing cabinet or two, a few plants, and huge floor to ceiling windows behind her that showed pretty much the entire city skyline. So this was how the other half lived. “Okay, I’m sure you have several questions, so… go ahead, I’ll answer what I can.”

Eddie shared a look with Chrissy, silently communicating that they probably should have come prepared with a list of things to ask but honestly neither believed they’d get this far.

They both kind of assumed they’d be told they’ve had all the information they’re getting and to just wait for more. Having a private meeting with… what was essentially the second in command of this entire company well…

“When are these renovations supposed to start and end?” Eddie asked first

“What can we expect from them?” Chrissy added

“And do we really just… not pay rent for the whole period? That’s okay?” Eddie finished. Basics, they had the basics memorized at least. The important questions.

“Ooh-ooh, will rent be the same after the renovations!? Or will this be like, a getting rid of the poor people situation?”

“Good question, Chriss”

“Thank you, I read this thing online the other day about the gentrification of poorer city spaces and—” Chrissy paused, her eyes shooting to Robin’s expectant face and then back to Eddie again “it’s not important.” She finished, she finished before she could start rambling and embarrass herself.

“Oh it’s super important to know about these things” Robin spoke up with a toothy smile, earning both Chrissy’s bashful smile and Eddie’s respect. She was subtly supportive of Chrissy’s rambling. Eddie liked her. “Not many people do, it’s a concept that only gets brought up when it’s happened and not when it’s happening right under your feet, and it’s rare people get the other side of the story, y’know the one from the people who’ve been displaced? That’s not what’s happening here though, I’ve not seen anything that’d suggest Mr Harrington’s intentions are to raise the existing costs.” She’d seen him blatantly say he hadn’t really thought about making them pay again.

“Do you think that could become his intention though?” Eddie pressed

“Nope. He has a personal interest in the building is all, the only thing I know for sure is that we’re looking to remove the negative presence from the building, it doesn’t have the best reputation, we’re aware of at least three drug dealers operating from within it.” Oh nooo, his weed, couldn’t all be sunshine and roses then. “We’re looking to remove them as soon as possible as they have blatantly broken the law and the terms of their rental agreements by engaging in illegal behaviour from within their apartments, so that will free up a few of those apartments for better tenants to move in.”

“Better tenants?”

“Law abiding ones.” Sort of. Argyle would have a cooler tenancy agreement.

“…What about ones that have history with the law?”

“We’re not here to be discriminatory, Mr Munson, this company… we believe in second chances.” Munson… Munson… where did she know that name from? She knew that name, and he did look… familiar. She shook her head, not important. “If you’ve had criminal charges in the past then you’ve had criminal charges in the past, that’s the past, it’s history, it doesn’t affect the now. But to put your mind at ease, you’re not on our list of offenders, or you’d have been served an eviction notice by now.”

Chrissy sat up straighter, as if a lightbulb went off in her head. “Everyone on the second floor is okay, right? We know Mick an Dottie in seven are a little sketchy but—”

“Second floor is okay, we’re not evicting anyone from the second floor, it’s mainly the fourth floor we’re concerned about.” She was so lucky she’d memorized half the shit she’d received that morning. Got just enough in the old brain to appear confident in what she was saying. “As for your other questions, we don’t… actually know when the renovations are due to begin, we’re in negotiations with a few contractors right now to get the work started, once we confirm that, we’ll have a more solid timeline to communicate with you, it’ll be full renovations, kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms, electrics, plumbing, the whole shebang. But yeah, no, we don’t expect you to pay any rent for the whole period.”

“…I feel like that’s a trap.” Eddie finally spoke up, a small frown on his face that robin mirrored “shit like that just doesn’t happen, man. It doesn’t. Big companies like this, they don’t just forgive the little guys debts, they hold em over your head until you’re drowning, then they tie cement to your feet to hold you there in the deep end.”

At least she looked sympathetic, her expression softening, she wasn’t taking offense. It almost felt like she understood his hesitation. “I was a little stumped myself, it’s… not the best business decision. I’m gonna be honest with you, I advised against the rent forgiveness, it’s a lot of money to just throw away” And they were just throwing it away “—given we don’t know how long these renovations are going to take, but… it’s the one thing Steve stuck to. Wouldn’t budge on it. Said we were disrupting your lives so you should at least be able to treat yourselves during the chaos” Nancy’s words maybe, but Steve agreed with them “and unfortunately for our bank balance… the decision is ultimately Steve’s to make, his office is above mine.”

She could sass him all she liked, Steve was in charge. If he wanted to make decisions and mistakes based on a depressing wallet and a crush well, that was Steve’s choice, his was the name on the company logo.

“And the rent will stay the same at $595 after the renovations?”

“Ye—”

“Absolutely!” And the doors burst open, startling all three people within the office, revealing probably the most beautiful human being Eddie had ever seen in his life dressed in clothes that'd probably cost more than they'd ever paid in rent combined. Could have sworn he’d seen him before though. One does not just forget a face that pretty.

“Steve, I thought I told you to knock!”

“I own the building, I can do what I want. Hello! I’m—” frozen, he was frozen, eyes wide as they took in the two other occupants in the room. The two guests from the apartment block. It could have been anyone, anyone in that block. “… Steve Harrington.” But it was him. “It’s uhm… it’s nice to meet you” said directly to Eddie, and then as if he remembered Chrissy was there, quickly added “both. Nice to meet you both, hello, hi.” Robin’s palm met her forehead in an echoing splat. “What was I saying?”

Her head met the desk. It all becoming painfully clear. Eddie Munson, Edward Munson, Thee Edward Joseph Munson. Owner of the most depressing wallet in the history of wallets.

Part 5

[artytaeh]

Draco would definitely love something that you put so much thought into into. He wouldn't care if it costs all of you mr money or nothing, as long as you put the effort and thought into it he'll love it.

yes. i feel like draco malfoy always got the best of everything— the best brooms. the best brand of clothes. the best toys. the best everything there was to have.

however, the so proclaimed best not always corresponds to draco's tastes— to what he likes.

i feel like during his childhood, and extending it to his teenage years, draco struggled with his sense of self. what made draco him, something behind the surname malfoy.

because malfoy loves wealthy, expensive, the best brands. draco, however, isn't sure of what type of clothes he'd like to use, rather what he should use as the malfoy family's heir.

here and there, without thinking about it, draco would share something he likes with you; something that means, me as person appreciate this specific stuff, rather than: 'yeah, these brooms? the newest and most expensive ones. mine.'

so i think that the first time you gift something to draco, he'll be a little— too quiet? draco stares at the gift, then looks at you; i imagine draco's birthdays as those parties that you leave your gifts on a corner all piled up together, that draco will open after the party ends and he's alone; gifts from his parents are necessary things for a heir like him, or something he only had to look once to send the message: i want that.

draco carefully opens the gift; it's something from you to him, rather rudely he'd wonder if you managed to meet his high standards—

until he recognizes that said gift was something you put a lot of effort in, or recognizing it as something that suits his favored things.

oh.

he genuinely gets sad at first. i feel like draco's arrogance or cocky demeanor would fade a little into a frown like this ☹️ when his brain starts working to understand how valuable of a gift this is for him.

draco malfoy will get stupidly mad if one of his dormmates or friends touch the gift you gave him. like take?? your?? filthy?? paws?? out of my partner's amazing gift??

would be so terribly mean to anyone who dares to make a teasing comment about what you got him. let's say, a scarf:

mattheo: since when do you wear cutesy crocheted stuff, malfoy?

draco: ...

draco: [with a smile] since when do you recognize gifts given by loved ones? right. because not even your own mother likes you—

or that one time you've got him an early christmas gift, since before the break starts, the slytherins exchange presents in the common room (that last night before leaving hogwarts).

and you see, draco gives you that sincere smile, hand on the back of your head so you step closer to him and he gives you an affectionate kiss on your forehead, thanking you for the thoughtfulness you put into the gift given to him, until—

blaise: ohhh is malfoy getting softer?

draco: is zabini getting his teeth punched out of his mouth?

so going back to what you said: yes, totally. ☹️ i doubt that i'll ever write much about draco malfoy BUT THIS melted my heart.

[usmsgutterson]

We Could Leave The Christmas Lights Up Til January - S.R x reader

I am typing this authors note and feeling like the friend who's like "ITS CHRISTMAS" from the like. middle of the month forward when I'm actually the friend who reminds you how close it is to christmas or the new year bc I don't want to face that knowledge by myself and suffer well with others.

This was written as a through-the-years style fic. It'll have fifteen chapters which will correspond with the og fifteen seasons of criminal minds (I have not watched seasons sixteen or seventeen, please do not judge me lol) and three scenes per chapter, one set in November, one set on or around Christmas, and the last set at some point after it. The reader is also a fiber artist but if stuff relating to that comes up, I will make a note of whichever terms I need to.

Fic type - this is largely fluff!

Warnings - the reader in this has a slightly similar, but also somewhat dramatized version of my family dynamics bc I wrote this whenever the knit projects I was working on frustrated me and when writing the dynamics it just HAPPENED, but then I edited it so that the dynamics wouldn't hit SUPER HARD if I ever reread it. Otherwise, booze is mentioned a bit, and there is swearing present bc I apparently am incapable of writing a fic without dropping an f'bomb.

When you leave the office that night, it's half-past seven on a Friday in November. You and the rest of the team have the weekend off, and while Penelope and the others had gone out for drinks, you'd gotten back from a case in Miami that morning and had said no to the offer when she'd made it.

You had really just wanted to get home, if you were being honest. You told her you couldn't swing it because of plans already made with someone else, but Garcia didn't need to know that those plans were a glass of wine, Loops 'N Threads Classic Cotton and a crochet hook to work up some dishcloths in lieu of anything too expensive for your aunts christmas gift, or that the someone else you had plans with was your DVR so that you could catch up on the five episodes of Prison Break you'd missed because of the way that cases and work had been piling up.

She also didn't need to know that the wine your mother had given you would have a spot, or that after you were caught up with Prison Break you'd probably order and eat your way through an entire pizza from Antonios while watching a documentary about lemon sharks. Your Friday nights were your own, and even though you adored everyone on the team, you would seldom give up your Friday night ritual of doing a craft while watching whichever cable TV you needed to catch up on or whichever one the network of your choice had been running a marathon of, even if giving it up meant giving up dinner, drinks, and laughter amongst yourself and the rest of the team.

So, as you and Spencer are heading out—Spencer had declined Penelopes offer but hadn't specified his reasons as to why—he looks at you with a knowing sort of smile.

"Crocheting and Antonios?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

You nod once, lips pursing just a little while you mentally ready yourself for any oncoming judgement. "Mhm," you nod. "I have a bottle of red I wanna drink, so it'll be a tipsy crocheting night, I think."

"That sounds fun," he says. "Enjoy it."

"What're your plans for the night?" You ask. You've been with the team since six months after Spencer had joined up. You'd joined, under Hotch's wing, at the age of nineteen where Spencer had joined up under Gideons when he was twenty.

He shrugs. "I was thinking about calling my mom, seeing how she's doing," he says. "I try to call her at least once every so often and I do my best to write, but—it's just—"

"Maintaining those kinds of relationships isn't that easy," you nod. "I mean—my parents just live in my hometown so the circumstances are different, but I get it, even if it's to a lesser degree."

You don't really talk to your parents, and they don't really talk to you, and it's been that way since you went to the FBI Academy when you were eighteen. You came to DC after being hired by the BAU and they stayed in Maine, and things have been like that in the five years since you left the state.

"Your mom came around recently, right?"

You nod. "She was in town for a bit, but she came down while we were working on a case so I only got to see her a few times before she was heading back to Maine." She'd come up at the start of October, while you were working a case out of state, and she'd left six days after you'd returned from the case. In that time, you'd seen her at breakfast, lunch and dinner on three separate days. She'd left you the wine as a gift because she hated red and needed to pass it off, but you loved red wine so it was fine.

"Was it a good visit?"

"It was—well—it was fine," you laugh.

"That's the nicest way to put it?"

"Calling it fine is me being stellar," you laugh again. "Being kind, being gratiuitous, even. It was less than fine, but it could've been worse, and other visits of hers have been by miles."

Your relationship with your mother has been somewhat contentious since you were a teen, but she comes down once every few months and unless a case or something better comes up, you usually try to book Christmas off to spend it with your parents and sisters in Maine. This year, a bigger part of you than not is hoping that Christmas is disrupted by a case somewhere completely out of Maines reach, like Nevada or California or even the likes of Alaska, which has got to be some snowy hellstorm in the wintertime, though you can't say.

"You gonna go down for Christmas?" Spencer asks, laughing a little. He knows some of what your relationships with your family are like—knows that you and your mother have a difficult time finding common ground, knows that you and your father don't get along but have found some weird little middleground where you can exist without screaming at each other. He knows that you and your older sister are sort of friendly but only really mildly close, and that you and your other older sister don't talk often and see each other even less than the sparing conversations you have throughout the year—and he always looks at you kind of pitifully when your mother gets brought into the conversation, but there's been less and less pity as the years have passed, more sympathy.

"I don't want to," you laugh. "I really, really hope we get a case in Nevada or somewhere that even my mother wouldn't be able to justify asking me to drive down to Maine from. Like—I'd love it if we got a case in Alaska the day before Christmas Eve, honestly. I know it's not gonna happen, but—Christmas with them, my aunt, and my uncle? No. I can't subject myself to that without a whole lot of booze."

Spencer laughs, shakes his head a little bit. "You'll be fine," he says. "I won't hope that a case comes up at Christmas, but if one does, I'll buy you a victory tea."

"Why?"

"Because I know you love your family—you're hardwired to love them—but you hate Christmas with them, and I don't really like the thought of you being where you don't want to be because of family ties and guilt."

You laugh. "If it gets too dreary, promise you'll answer my call?"

"Yeah," Spencer nods. "Of course, but what if I call you first?"

"I will answer so quick," you laugh again, shrugging. "Seriously. Whether it's you or Hotch, I will take literally any excuse I can get to slip out from whichever room I'm in to the back porch just so I can talk to someone who isn't my aunt for a few minutes."

"Looking forward to that," Spencer says.

You smile, turning away as you do to hide it. It feels like an awesome ending to a mediocre day and you're grateful for that.

-

When your phone rings at five o'clock something along the lines of five weeks later, it's Christmas Eve. You've spent the last couple of hours alternating between cheap screw top rose and a jack and coke, occasionally swapping both options out for a hot chocolate that you spike with kahlua and a splash of baileys, and when your phone rings, the sound of it is a welcome reprieve.

You tuck a mug of boozed up hot cocoa into your right hand, answering the phone with your left as you dismiss yourself out to the back porch, standing amidst snow that's, by that point, a couple days old. A fresh coat is due to fall any day now, but by the time it does you'll probably already be back in DC.

"Hey," you greet. "How's Christmas on your end?"

"It's good," Spencer answers. "How is it on yours?"

"It's amazing."

"You've been drinking?"

"Jack Daniels, cheap rose, and the occasional spiked hot chocolate," you laugh a little. "It's making everyone more tolerable."

"Thats good," Spencer says. "Don't forget to drink water, though. It'll make you less hungover tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," you nod. "I've drank plenty of water—hangover headaches are fuckin' awful, and I don't feel like dealing with that tomorrow morning. A headache on top of dealing with my aunt? I couldn't put myself through that kind of torture."

"How've things been with you and your mom?"

"So far I haven't done anything to piss her off yet, which is surprising," you laugh. "Normally she's leaping down my throat the second I do something like use a tone that she thinks is amiss or defend my dad where she doesn't agree with him. I'll say something stupid and she'll yell at me before midnight though, I'm sure."

"Try to be a little optimistic," Spencer says. "I mean—just—take it easy. Don't do anything too nuts, okay? I know you well enough to know you have Prison Break on one of the DVRs in that house, and I also know that you know your own limits. Don't push yourself past them."

"I won't," you say. You know yourself well enough to know that you're probably lying, but you brought your needles and a skein of yarn so worst case you can just knit and keep your mouth shut, hopefully not miscounting any of your stitches in your drunken state. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I get in around ten on boxing day too, so—coffee?"

"Coffee," Spencer says. "Merry Christmas, Y/N."

"Merry Christmas, Spencer," you respond, hanging up the phone thereafter. You stay outside for another few minutes, drinking your hot chocolate, watching the sky and prolonging the time between then and your next interactions with your relatives.

Eventually, when you go back in, you're met with a sly look from your aunt and a suspicious look in your mothers eyes, while your father and uncle chat about current events and your sisters are busy in a game of Uno.

"You got a boyfriend?" Your aunt asks, her smile cheeky.

You grimace. "No!" You say, beelining for the kitchen and the bottle of Barefoot brand zinfandel. "No—it's—it isn't like that. A friend had planned to call and I didn't say no."

"Oooh, a friend," your mother teases. "That's quite vague, Y/N."

You nod, finishing the last sip of hot chocolate in your mug and rinsing it out, setting it in your favored corner of the kitchen counter and reaching for the wine glass you'd left in that same area.

"Intentionally so," you laugh. "You two are so nosy. I love you both to bits and pieces, but—it's not anything like what you're thinking. The friend is a coworker."

You reach for the bottle of zinfandel and pour an amount that just barely skirts the edge of avoiding being obscene, putting the cap back on and leaving it on the counter along with the rest of the alcoholic companions that will reside on the countertop until at some point tomorrow, when the drinks are switched out from booze and beer to soda and water.

"You two will be an item in five years, I guarantee it," your aunt says. "Seriously. You don't be vague about someone with your family unless there are feelings there, Y/N."

You laugh a little more, taking a sip of your wine and debating rummaging through the fridge to find the brownies that you'd hidden in the back of the fridge for when the drunken cravings kicked in.

"I've been vague with you people about women coworkers," you retort. "I've been vague about mentors who are older than Dad. I'm vague about lots of things."

"You should open up," your uncle says. "Nobody likes a closed off little snowflake who wants to appear mysterious."

"Trust is earned," the older of your two sisters retorts. "You have to trust people to want to open up to them."

"Do you not trust us?" Your mother asks, looking at you with pain in her eyes.

Not like I did when I was a kid, you think. "I do! I just—work life and family life are two separate things to me. If I were as open as you guys want me to be, telling you work stories and funny office anecdotes, you'd all want to hear less about my job."

"Being an FBI agent can't be that hard," your uncle retorts.

"You say that as a man who's never watched someone you love like a sibling get shot at," you retort. "You've never seen someones body missing parts, or seen someone who narrowly evaded a serial killer shaking with grief and with survivors guilt already starting to manifest. I love you all, but not one of you understands what it's like, and I wouldn't wish you did across a thousand lifetimes."

Nobody knows what to say, but the look in your eldest sisters eyes is clear—she's proud.

"Well maybe you should work in a different area," your aunt says.

"I wouldn't trade my job or my coworkers for anything," you respond. "The plus sides make up for the drawbacks tenfold."

Things go a little quiet after that, and you eventually grab the bottle of Zinfandel and retreat back out to the back porch, not caring how cold it is.

You stare at the sky for ages, drinking your way through the entire bottle of zinfandel as you do. You're half asleep when your phone rings again, and you pick it up as you make back inside, figuring the rest of your family had gone to bed as well.

"Hey," Spencer greets. "Just calling to check in again."

"Hi," you respond. "Everyone else has gone to sleep, I think—nobody is in the kitchen or the living room, and if I don't hit the hay I'll be dead on my feet tomorrow morning."

"Do you have any sports drinks around?" Spencer asks. "The elctrolytes in them will help replenish the potassium and the salt that you lose after a lot of drinking. Bouillion soup also serves the same purpose, and water is basically universally known as the one thing you should consistently drink between alcoholic beverages."

"My mother gets a twelve pack of the fruit punch Gatorade, puts it in the fridge and normally will make the drunkest of us chug a bottle before we conk out, so I'm gonna grab one and then chug it and head to bed. Thank you for calling to check in, Spencer. It means a lot."

You head for the fridge and keep to your word, opening it and grabbing one of the gatorades.

"It's no problem," Spencer says. "I've know you—how long now?"

"Four entire years," you laugh, closing the fridge and pressing your forehead against the metal door of the freezer on top of it. "Oh, God. Four years of working at the BAU. That is a surefire way to make me feel old."

"How old do you think you'll feel when you've been working there for a decade?"

"Absolutely, positively, ancient," you say. "Oh my God—thirty three? That is not an age I can picture. Asking me to picture that while I'm drunk feels like such a low blow, Reid."

"How about twenty-eight?"

"I'm starting to think you just like the sound of my voice," you retort, laughing a little as you compose yourself just enough to turn your phone onto speaker and set it on the counter. You lean against the counter and take the screw top off of your gatorade, sighing a little. "Are you asking me if I have a five year plan, Dr. Reid?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yes is the answer to both your statement and your question."

"Well, in five years, I'll be twenty-eight," you start. "I'd like it very much if I were still on the team, and if I am, that means nine years at the BAU. I'm going to get better at knitting and finally stop knitting things for people who don't offer to buy the yarn or otherwise compensate, I think. I make things free for ungrateful people too often. Maybe even adopt a kitten or take in a shelter dog. Fuck—Reid, I can't really even decide what I'm going to do in the next five minutes, let alone the next five years."

You chug the gatorade as you think about it—a bigger apartment would be nice, one that's closer to work would be nicer still. One with a good view of the city, maybe a library or a liquor store within walking distance, if not a Michaels or a Joanns.

You've always been more of a cat person but you have a ridiculously insurmountable softspot for greyhounds and pitbulls, so if you thought you could take in an animal in the coming years, you would have the knowledge and the background to give them a good home.

You'd maybe want to change up your hair color, if the drunken opportunity presented itself. A change in appearance feels like the sort of thing a person finds necessary at the age of twenty four, in the last year before the brain fully develops and stuff starts changing bit by bit.

"I think I'll still be on the team," Spencer says. "I know it. I love what we get to do everyday, Y/N. Helping people? Saving lives? We do good. We're good people."

"What else do you think about the next five years?" You ask, your voice quiet.

"I think I'll still be living in my same apartment, and that I'll still bicker and get into prank wars with Morgan," Spencer says. "I think I'll still play chess against Gideon on the jet home, and I'll still love to learn anything I can. I know for sure I'm still going to be trying to get you to watch Dr. Who with me, though I hope you agree to watch it after five years of attempts at cajoling you to."

You laugh, and the air takes on a somber kind of tone. "Maybe," you say. "Not likely, but maybe, Reid. Look—I'm going to go to bed so that I can just deal with tomorrows probable hangover head on, but thank you for calling me not once, but twice tonight. I really needed some company that wasn't a little bit of an asshole."

"Yeah, of course," Spencer says. "I—well—merry Christmas, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Spencer," is how you bid him adieu, hanging up the phone thereafter. You throw the gatorade bottle into the recycling and head off to the room you'd claimed, turning the tv onto a low volume and falling asleep with The Muppet Christmas Carol beginning to play in the background.

-

"How was everyones Christmas?" Garcia asks, practically buzzing with excitement as she comes out into the bullpen. Spencer is leaning against your desk, the two of you talking about nothing in particular when she comes around, and Garcia looks at you with a happy grin. "How was Maine?"

"It was Maine," you shrug. "Snowed. A lot. In turn, everyone in my family drank. A lot."

"Oh," Garcia shakes her head. "Too many people and too much booze is God awful."

You shrug. "My parents, my sisters, and my aunt and my uncle hardly felt like too many," you say. "And the amount of booze in which I indulged hardly felt like too much."

"You had a lot," Spencer retorts, looking at you skeptically. "I got a text Christmas morning, if memory serves—"

"A text to thank you for being so nice," You fire back, cutting him off. "Totally not asking you for hangover cures. I would never."

Spencer shakes his head, laughing slightly. You grin, taking a sip of the tea he'd brought you that morning.

"Yeah," he says. "I didn't get a text asking for the ultimate hangover cure-all. I guess I must've remembered it wrong."

Your grin widens, and you nod. "Guess so. How were things with your Mom?"

"They were great," Spencer says. "I had a good time."

"I'm glad," you respond. "Your mother sounds pleasant."

"She is," Spencer nods. "I'd hate to spend more than an hour with yours though."

"She's comin' here in June," you fire back, leaning back in your chair as your grin morphs from grin to smirk. "Be careful for the next six months, Reid, or I'll invite you to dinner with her, myself, and my father."

"That sounds like some form of mideval torture," Derek fires, laughing. Spencer shakes his head.

"Not if Y/Ns there," he murmurs. You take another sip of your tea to avoid seeming flustered to the rest of the team, and Spencer sighs when JJ comes around. You sit up in your chair, already anticipating her next words.

"We have a case," she says. "A series of deaths in Witchita. Briefing room in ten!"

You and Spencer exchange a look. There are only a few days left of it, but it looks like the last of 2005 is due to be a whirlwind.

[the-broken-pen]

Please write a chef! Villian who adores to cook for their people, literally. They even cook for their sidekick and their henchmen. But never ever for their oh so devilishly beautiful and just as infuriating hero. (whom they have SWORN to never cook for)

But once when hero's parent falls ill, villian is the one who cooks for them so they can get better. However, they are unable finish all of the food, thus ask their kid (the hero) to have the leftovers

Hero, (who unbeknownst to villian was literally starving for days as they were busy) loves the little bits food they had and when they tell that to their Villian, their faux cold demeanor breaks down completely..... And fluff happens next?????

I really hope you don't mind writing on this! Cooking for someone is willingly wanting to nourish them. I just wanted to see that in an enemies to lovers dynamic...

“You’re looking less terrible,” the villain noted as soon as they stepped into the living room. The hero blinked up at them owlishly from the couch, a mangled crochet project clutched in their hands. It was all so horribly mundane.

“Thanks,” the hero said dryly. “Just what I needed to hear.”

Truly, though, it hadn’t been a dig. The hero did look slightly better: there was color in their cheeks, that exhausted sheen had vanished from their eyes. Their hands weren’t shaking around their crochet hook.

“Your mom is out of the hospital?”

A shadow of that tiredness passed over the hero’s face. It was gone in a blink.

“If you don’t already know the answer to that, I'll be disappointed.”

The villain raised their hands, drifting through the living room. They peered down at a childhood photo of the hero, all toothy grin and smeared ice cream. “Just making conversation.”

The hero sighed.

“She’s home on bed rest, now,” the hero said, quietly, like they were trying not to wake her up. “She’s doing better, she is, it’s just not…” they trailed off.

“She’s still sick,” the villain supplied. The hero nodded when the villain turned back around.

“I don’t know why I expected her to be better as soon as she came home.” The hero sounded so small, in that moment. Like they were still that little kid in their childhood photo album, and not someone who saved the city on the daily.

The villain shrugged. “Because you’re human. Human’s don’t like it when the people they love are hurt.”

“Maybe,” the hero agreed.

The villain slid their gaze over the room once more, snagging on an empty tupperware container balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

Their tupperware container.

Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, exactly. As soon as they had gotten word that the hero’s mother was in the hospital–which had been as soon as it happened–they had gathered a week's worth of meals and sent it over. And then, they had done it again the next week, and it became just one of the things the villain did. They cooked for themself, their sidekick, their henchmen, and now, the hero’s mother.

They knew the hero’s mother had figured it out, but she had known better than to say anything. The villain didn’t swear on much, but they had sworn to never cook for the hero. Even their mother was cutting it a little bit too close to that.

The hero followed their gaze to the container and blushed.

“Sorry, I meant to clean that up–”

The villain cocked their head. 

The hero stammered for a moment in the resulting silence, “Someone’s been sending my mom food. She can’t always finish it, because she’s…” they trailed off, like they couldn’t bear to say the word “sick”. “She gives me the leftovers,” they finally finished.

The villain had nothing to say to that.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, um,” the hero looked down, tossing aside their terribly failing project. “Normally I get by just fine, you know, I’m not incompetent,” the hero added quickly, like they were worried the villain would judge them for it.

The hero swallowed, and again, that yawning and endlessly exhausted look loomed over their face. The villain wanted to never, ever see it again. “But there was patrol, and then the agency wanted me to do publicity, and then I was with my mom at the hospital whenever I wasn’t working and I just–I’m just really tired.”

Seeing it on the hero’s face, in their posture as they slumped against any available surface when they had even a second to rest, in the bruises from hits they should have been able to avoid easily, was one thing.

But hearing them admit it–

“Get up,” the villain said. Something inside them felt raw at the look on the hero’s face.

“Why?”

“I’m making you food,” the villain said easily. It was anything but.

The hero froze, a deer in headlights, before glancing down at the tupperware and back to the villain.

“You’re the one sending the food.”

Even sleep deprived out of their mind, their hero had always been quick.

“And the one cooking it,” the villain added, and the hero gaped at them.

“Why,” they managed a moment later, hand clutching into the armrest of the couch like it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“I like your mother,” the villain picked up the tupperware, hero watching them the entire time. “And you’re not entirely terrible.”

The hero barked out a surprised laugh.

“I’m not entirely terrible,” they repeated.

“No, you’re not,” the villain agreed. “Now, get up.”

The hero got up.

Before the hero could do something stupid, like ask again what they were doing, or a trip over their own discarded crochet, the villain hushed them.

“I’m making you food,” they said, and the hero’s mouth closed. The villain sighed, looping their hand around the hero’s wrist. “Now shut up, and let me take care of you.”

The hero looked at them like they had never had someone do that. Like they hadn’t even considered the possibility that they might need help as much as the people they took care of did.

The villain had enough of their idiot face, turning to drag them to the kitchen.

The hero went.

That terrible, awful look never showed up on the hero’s face again.

The villain made sure of that.

[bumblinv]

---  omaticayan (house) cats ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

feauturing neteyam, kiri, lo’ak, tuk

headcanons of them as literal house cats bc the entire omaticaya clan are just 3-meters-tall, walking, blue forests cats with bows. change. my. mind.

: ̗̀➛ tuk ; tabby kitten

“what breed is she?” 

“just a little girl”

you don’t know her exact breed

no one can blame you tho, she was jus a baby left by her mother in your backyard, that you took in

could be a mix of all sort of breeds, but to you, tuk was your little girl 

the moment you took her in, she was severely malnourished. so you feed her with your own hands, bathe her, sleep with her each night

she was like your own child

and you’re ready to fight every single person in this planet if someone dare to lift a finger againts her

the bravest little kitten you’ve ever know

but the silliest too, 

her entire body went wet as she got in, headfirst, into her bowl when she first learned to eat wet food

and one time she jumped into your aquarium to ‘catch’ the fishes

she would snatch pieces of wings from your plate and holds on it for her dear life when you tried to take it away from her </3

you would crochet matching hats for you and her

overall, the best lil girl ever

_

: ̗̀➛ lo’ak ; bengal cat

do i need to say more

he’d run all over the house, pouncing at every moving thing in sight, playing with his toys for hours, and getting to high places you never knew he could reach

one time he somehow got to the house’s roof. it freaked you out

you were convinced that this little bundle of energy is literally a cheerful puppy in cat’s clothing

with his adorable little coat, that took some time to put on, you take him to the park each morning. this is mandatory, or else he’s too energize to sleep at night and would start knocking things over at 3am (wich you learned the hard way)

at the park, his curious self would sniff everything and anything. a tree, a man’s leg, until he got too curious to a little winged fella, that a pigeon once pecked him on the head

he befriended every single dog and cat around the park, but would get a little salty if new people tried to touch him

at night, when finally, his energy went to 0%, he got cuddly. really cuddly, he sticks to you like glue

and i know he would sleep on your chest and suffocates you in your sleep

_

: ̗̀➛ kiri ; persian cat

she so bougie ngl

and a little moody too

you wont need an alaram clock, cause every morning, at the exact same time, she would sit on your face and starts screaming for food

i hope your wallet thick as hell cause i know she would only eat whole foods, like those healthy (and super fucking pricy) food rich cat persons feed their cats

kiri right there eating salmon and chicken breasts, and you’re left slurping your sad instant ramen 

things we do for our cats ammirite

half of your life savings went to her

from grooming money, for buying her expensive foods and vitamins, to all her essentials like her high tech self cleaning litter box(?)

she spoiled as hell

but i know she still has the audacity to scratch your hand and legs

don’t get me wrong, she loves you. the two things she dislikes the least was you and the big blue fish living in your pond (it was rotxo) 

_

: ̗̀➛ neteyam ; golden retriever

I KNOW I SAID CATS

but none of yall could deny

even as a person, he got that golden retriever personality 

always have a smile on his face, tail wagging every time

calm and loving, 

would befriend every other animal you foster, you sometimes find them all cuddled up together

have i mention that he loves cuddling? 

but remember he’s huge

would crush you every time he cuddles into your lap

but you never minded, cause he’s the sweetest, most gentle giant 

[mariaxxxxx]

Chapter 3: He´s Not My Lover , He´s a Stranger.

Summary: On summer holidays you find a mysterious shell among the waves. Then an unlikely friendship arises with a sea creature with wings on its ankles and ears pointed towards the sky.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/ Minors DNI, Angust, Hurt comfort, Sex, Apologies, Crying, Creampie, Passionate sex, virgin!reader, size difference, smut, soft!dom!, HEA, somnophille, slight degradation, duvious consent, pregnancy, arranged marriage, inexperienced reader, abortion commented, unprotected sex (don't do that wrap this thing), kidnapping, aftercare, curse words.

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

A/N: Reader is heavily implied to be Mexican but i tried to keep it as free to the imagination as possible

A/N: I hope you haven't abandoned this fanfic. Luckily I had some time off from work and could dedicate myself to my still fics about the water daddy. Comments and reblogs are welcome.

Work count: 1.806

serie materialist.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

“Eat some fruit, honey.” Your grandmother said before you even sat down at the table.

“I’m going to eat Grandma.” You let go automatically as you played with the cereal box.

“Do you have plans for today?”

You denied as you took a generous spoonful of cereal to your mouth.

“Keep me company tonight. I want to crochet a dress for you.” His grandmother said with a mischievous smile. “I'm sure the boy will like it.”

“What boy, Grandma?” You asked choking on the cereal flakes. His grandmother laughed at his reaction.

“I was young once, my dear. I would also sneak out at night to meet your grandfather on the beach.” She let out a passionate sigh. “It was during one of these meetings that we conceived your mother.”

"Disgusting!" You exclaimed with a look of disgust, but you loved your grandmother's lack of filter. “There are no boys. I just like walking on the beach at night.”

“I’m going to pretend I believe in You.” His grandmother narrowed her eyes. “When you’re ready, bring him here. I would like to meet you and I will bake a cake to welcome you. Meanwhile be here at night; I want to give you the dress and train my skills.”

You can't help but smile at your sweet grandmother's antics. You and her were so similar, even though your mother disagreed, the connection between You was strong and beautiful. You loved sitting on her lap to be caressed with her gentle hands and listening to old songs and legends. Her grandmother was a sweet balm in her summer days to wait until the night where she would meet her secret friend.

The day passed quickly; You helped your grandmother with the housework, went into town to buy groceries and when the sun went down you were standing in the living room while your grandmother took your measurements for the crochet dress.

“You’re so skinny.” Her grandmother exclaimed wrapping the ribbon around her waist. “Your lover won’t like seeing you so thin, men like flesh to squeeze.”

“Grandma…” You said whimpering.” ... there is no lover and I'm not that thin so I always gain weight when I'm with you.”

“I’m not doing a good job then.” Her grandmother walked around her body and measured her legs. “I’ll add more to your plate.”

“If you make cakes, I promise to eat them until I explode.” You said with great humor.

“You are just like your grandfather. He also loved my cakes, if I let him he would eat them whole.”

A curiosity arose in his mind about his grandfather. He had died when his mother was young, left his grandmother a small fortune from years of fishing and liked to eat sweets. It was like a shadow in her life; he was always there, but You knew so little about him.

“How did you and Grandpa meet?” You questioned your grandmother.

Your grandmother stopped measuring your body and stood in front of You, with an emotional look.

“At a young age, he and his family moved to the city in search of new opportunities, they had come from a small village on the Yucatán peninsula in Mexico looking for a better lifestyle. I met him while fishing with your father, he reminds me of thinking he was the most beautiful man in the world.” Her grandmother paused and sighed. “It was a beautiful romance, so beautiful. We often escaped to date under the stars. We got married quickly, your mother came soon after to complete our happiness.”

“That’s beautiful grandma.” You said with tears in your eyes.

“He told me the history of his people.” His grandmother continued. “My favorite was the story of the feathered serpent. His grandfather gave him a funny name that was a bit difficult to pronounce. Ku..ku..can... K'uk'ulkan. Yes, that's the name; K’uk’ulkan.”

“K'uk'ulkan” You pronounced, feeling the sweet touch on your tongue.

“Your grandfather said that in his village his neighbors told the story of a man with wings on his feet walking on the beach. They said it was K'uk'ulkan, the serpent of the west.”

A light came into his mind when his grandmother mentioned the man with wings on his ankles.

“Could you tell me more?” You asked hopefully, but your grandmother made a funny sound out of her mouth.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I remember very little about your grandfather’s stories, my mind is no longer the same.” His grandmother took out a box of balls of yarn. “Under my bed are some of your grandfather’s old books and diaries. If the rats haven't ruined everything, it will be a good read for you to learn about your ancestral culture.”

“Thank you, Grandma.” You said calmly, but inside you exuded eagerness to find out more about the feathered serpent.

Your grandmother gave you the box containing your grandfather's old books and you spent the entire morning leafing through the dusty books; some of them were old diaries with the sloppy handwriting of a dreamy boy. His grandfather had written about the difficulties faced by his family before migrating to another country in search of new opportunities, how fishing made them prosper quickly and how his grandmother was the light of his life. You giggled at the passionate words bordering on eroticism used by your grandfather to describe his beloved.

Among the leaves, you found an old photo of your grandparents and your mother as a baby sitting on a picnic on the beach, and you couldn't stop laughing when you saw your mother as a chubby and cute baby with her hands full of sand. You left the lake diary and grabbed a large book with a red cover and gold letters.

The book narrated the history of the Mesoamerican people. In your research you discovered how natives had been driven from their corn farms by Spanish colonizers, how the culture was massacred by the white man, and how years of slavery and imperialism had left a nation so wounded and broken. Chills ran down your spine as you read the atrocities committed.

His fingers flipped through the thick sheets when something caught his attention. A specific symbol similar to the one carved on the shell that Namor took from You many years ago, the symbols were the same. One of the designs carved into the smooth bark was identical to the design on the thick sheet. The green-painted serpent had the same appearance as Quetzalcóatl, a deity with the appearance of a feathered serpent worshiped in Teotihuacan. At that moment, you created a huge obsession with that coincidence and started researching everything you could about divinity.

Quetzalcóatl was the Aztec god of wind, air and learning, and wears around his neck the so-called ''wind breastplate'' made from a shell similar to the one taken from You. Another detail that caught his attention was discovering that the name in the Mayan version for this god was K'uk'ulkan, the feathered serpent who arrived in Yucatán by sea from the west and founded its civilization.

You reflected on the coincidence between the conch and Namor, and how they both seemed to be intertwined with this long-lost culture. You put down the red book and went back to leafing through your grandfather's old diaries trying to find some account about the man with wings on his ankle. To his great misfortune, there was only a tiny report written in just over six lines where his grandfather, at the age of ten, claimed to have seen the figure of a man with wings on his ankle walking calmly on the sand. The rest of the story was faded with stains caused by age and excess dust.

You searched the internet for more information and found a dubious-looking website narrating a local community's legend about a man-shaped entity with pointy ears and wings on its ankles that walks along the beach after sunset. There were photos of some people leaving baskets of fruit on the sand as an offering to this entity and a blurry, poor quality photo of a male figure near the water. Maybe it was sleep or madness, but you can recognize Namor in that photo even with the poor quality. The wings, the jewelry and even the damn shorts were there.

You reflected on Namor's suspicious nature and reluctance to tell you what he was about. He could be like Thor, the Norse God coming from space to fight with his fellow humans, but that seemed unlikely since Namor came from the ocean. The irritation grew even more for knowing so little about a person who had been by his side for so many years. With a long sigh of tiredness you laid your head on top of the books, closing your eyes a little, your tiredness was too much, before you knew it you were sleeping soundly. Dreams visited him that night.

“You were in a place that seemed to be a cave, the place had a bluish light and it was cold, very cold. Your steps were firm, you seemed to recognize the territory, or at least know where you were going.

After a while of walking quickly, she realized that she was doing so not out of experience, but out of fear. She looked back when she heard a slurred laugh. A pair of onyx eyes stared at him with amusement. You quickened your pace, and then started running.

She looked back again, fearing she would be chased. And it was. Namor looked calmly, with a predatory smile on his lips as if he knew what his ending would be, his dark orbs stared intensely at each part of her body. You came face to face with a wall. There was no longer any escape. You closed your eyes and prayed.

You felt his heat, getting closer and closer. You refused to open your eyes, refused to look at him. Pressing yourself against the wall, you waited. Maybe he would torture her and kill her, or, he would be merciful and just kill her. You felt him laugh and had the audacity to open your eyes and look at him.

He wore different clothes; a white loincloth, gold shoulder pads in the shape of a snake and piles of jewels that adorned her arms and ankles. In short steps without looking away from yours he got closer and closer, he extended his hand to you, you closed your eyes and waited. His hand rested on a face wet with tears, his touch was warm.

He brought his lips to your ear, goosebumps ran through your entire body. You felt him take a deep breath like a wild animal smelling its prey before devouring it."

“In ch'úpalo' (my girl)”

[gothamslostboy]

TLB Characters Favorite Type Of Blanket

A/N: I have no idea what this is or why I made it but I haven’t posted anything creative in so long. Yall ever love something but the thought of actually doing it makes you stressed? That’s what writing has been for the past couple months ugh :[ I miss it sm but I never like anything I end up making and keep deleting my progress. Oh well, hopefully I stop doing that soon and enjoy this pointless headcanon

ALSO: yes most these characters sleep upside down from the ceiling, but I like to ignore that bc tbh I want to erase the fact they have those weird ass feet. To me those monstrosities don’t exist. If you like the fact they hang from the ceiling then these headcanons are just for sitting on the couch or cuddling. They also don’t really feel temperatures but again I’m ignoring it:]

————————————————————————

DAVID

Duvet

A big fluffy one filled with cotton

He’d never tell anyone, but it makes him feel safer

It’s similar to one his mother gave him in his human life

He rolls it up like a cocoon

He doesn’t even leave a hole for his face bc he doesn’t need to breathe

Paul and Marko use this to their advantage and prank him atleast 2 times a month

Dwayne shoos them away if he notices them trying to bother David when he’s asleep

MARKO

This man is weird ngl

He just sleeps with a sheet

He doesn’t mind using a different blanket when sharing

But if he’s alone it’s a sheet

He doesn’t like feeling any weight on him when he’s asleep

Might as well sleep with nothing

But he also likes to cover his eyes with it

It’s just soothing to him

PAUL

Weighted blanket

He LOVES to cuddle with ppl bc of their weight being on him

So when no one wants to sleep with him he pulls out this blanket

The boys and Star made him a custom blanket bc he wants it to be HEAVY heavy

If he was human this thing would crush him to death

He sleep walks/flys and this stops him

He needs help getting it off of him bc he’s usually still too groggy to put in the effort when he wakes up

STAR

Patchwork Crochet Quilt

She made it herself

Everytime she finishes a new project she added a new square made up of all the colors she used

Whenever David would see her adding a square he said something like “another square? That’s gonna be a big ass blanket”

She stopped the blanket when it reached 80x80 4 inch squares

She realized that that is, infact, a big ass blanket

She can’t even fit the thing on her bed

Most of it is just hanging off the side

She started a new one to give to Michael

But that one is gonna be smaller

After that she’s just gonna make one for each boy

MICHAEL

Normally shares with Star

She doesn’t even notice he’s using it most of the time

Once it gets big enough he uses the one she made specifically for him

Uses David’s blanket when laying with him

But the fluffiness makes him feel trapped sometimes

Just holds on to David for comfort

Can occasionally convince star and David to sleep in the same bed with him and they use Star’s blanket obviously

He and David sleep under the sheets when using Star‘s blanket tho bc it’s a lil itchy

But she doesn’t seems to notice the itch

DWAYNE

I’m just gonna insert a picture bc idk what it’s called

But this kind of blanket^ along with Satin sheets underneath

He’s like Marko where he doesn’t like as much weight

But really likes making fun of Marko’s sheet and doesn’t want to be a hypocrite

If he’s cuddling with someone he puts their head under his chin and wraps them up together tightly

When alone he keeps the blanket lose

Just in case something happens and he needs to get up quickly and protect the pack

————————————————————————

•TAGS•

@crustyboypix @britany1997

if you want to be added to the tag list just let me know

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "Woven Magic" the Patreon January Short Story

(warnings ahead for implied child abuse, please take care of yourselves!)

*.*.*

"Don't bother with weaving magic, my dear," Gwen's trusted, beloved teacher said, apologetic and soothing all at once. "It is weak magic and barely sought after, you'll do better focusing your efforts on brewing, like your grandmother, or enchanting items if you'd like to make things magical."

Her teacher's hands reached out, overlapping the clumsy attempt at weaving a friendship bracelet, gently taking it away. Her teacher cooed when Gwen started to tear up, giving her back a soothing pat. Gwen's best friend had gotten sick and Gwen just wanted to give her something that turned all misfortune away and that kept her healthy and happy.

"You'll thank me one day," her teacher said, pressing a quill into her hands instead. "Focus on your studies and you'll do well."

Gwen sniffled and wiped her tears away and put on a brave face, but deep down she felt like big hands had crumpled her soul together and now tried to smooth it back out to how it had been. There were bends and crinkles where none had been before, a child's hope crushed by soft and certain words.

The moment school was out, she hurried home, breaking out into tears once she saw her mother's kind face.

"Oh, my sweet child," her mother whispered, hugging her close. "You'll be a great witch one day, never doubt that. Come on, we'll make this bracelet for your friend and then we'll brew her a health tonic, alright? That will take care of the problem."

Gwen needed some coaxing to make a second attempt at a bracelet and she hesitantly weaved magic into it, hoping it would do as much good as possible.

Gwen's friend recovered well with the tonic and she loved the bracelet and they played together like always. Gwen smiled and laughed and while her friend had soon forgotten the time she had been so very sick, Gwen kept remembering her teacher's words.

And all throughout her time growing up, from the lessons she got from her mother and father and grandmother, all the way to the schools she visited for witch classes, one thing remained the same.

Everyone told her that she should not bother with weaving magic. That it created weak magical effects and no one wanted that. People wanted spells and potions and enchantments.

Magic could do a great many things. If one knew the right runes, one could pin spells in place for a time, creating enchanted items to keep people warm or their clothes clean. Magic brought people back from the brink of death, helped communities rebuild after a great tragedy and it allowed many a young sorcerer to cheat at dice.

Gwen never told anyone but her mother that magic felt different to her. That sometimes she just wanted to pick up a needle and use a strand of magic instead of actual thread so she could weave it into the shirt she was mending. She didn't want to make a spell and stick it to a surface, especially since she wasn't good at spellcraft in the first place.

Her mother did her best to support her, but she could not drown out the voices of everyone else. Gwen learned to keep quiet about her love for weaving magic and she tried to soothe her crinkled soul by taking crafting lessons after school instead.

She learned how to sew and knit and crochet and whittle and carve and mold clay. Those lessons were more fun than her actual magic lessons, because Gwen was, quite honestly, a terrible witch.

While her classmates made coin by selling cloaks lined with weak fire spells for warmth, others performing in taverns by making sparkling illusions and some talented students already got apprenticeships with powerful mages, she was struggling.

In all honesty, it was a minor miracle that, once graduation was upon her, she managed to pass at all. Barely, mind you, but she did pass. With grades so shoddy she knew no one would want to hire her.

"You'll figure it out," her teachers had told her, giving her awkward smiles as they sent her off. "Some people find their talents later in life."

"Maybe you should help your grandmother for a while," her father suggested when Gwen came home, exhausted and feeling kind of hopeless. "She's been talking about retiring for a while now, you know?"

Potions were about the only thing Gwen was somewhat decent at and even that only because she had grown up being taught by one of the greatest potion makers of their coast.

So she packed her bags since her grandmother more than happy to welcome her and she left. Her grandma really was intending to retire and she showed Gwen the ropes, spending months teaching her the fine details of potion brewing and little tips and tricks her teachers hadn't.

"You're good enough now," Grandma proclaimed one day two years later. "I'll leave the shop in your hands, I'm sure you'll do fine. And if you ever need one of the really dangerous and complicated potions, call for me and I'll swing right by."

Gwen made sure to smile at her grandmother and bite back the soul-deep doubt that she'd be good at this. She just hoped she'd be reliable enough that she'd keep the shop up and running.

Her grandmother swiftly left to travel and visit friends and bicker with an old rival of hers that Gwen was willing to bet would end up being her lover once both of them got their heads out of their asses. Seriously, the tension between them was ridiculous.

Gwen, meanwhile, tended to the shop by herself, days passing by until they all ran together. She kept making things outside of potions, knitting cute little hats she ended up selling in the shop as well, along with mittens and wooden pendants that she had carved into various animal shapes with great care.

It was a quiet life. Not necessarily a happy life, but Gwen was alright with that. She was willing to settle for the fact that she was content enough most days and that her crinkled soul didn't bother her too much.

Sometimes though she did get annoyed at that feeling within her chest, frustrated that something a trusted and beloved teacher had said to her when she had been but seven years old still haunted her so vividly to this day.

It was, quite frankly, stupid to still be upset about the fact that the world had no need for woven magic. The thing she was actually good at was the one thing no one wanted. She told herself that being sad didn't make things better and she'd do her best to try and find joy where she could.

Gwen's life was so mediocre and predictable in its steadiness that the day the sky exploded into violently flung spells, she nearly fell of the stool behind the counter. Hurrying outside, she stared up at the sky with wide eyes as two mages battled it out with such intensity that the air itself grew thick with power.

One mage was dressed in the colors of the Bone Cult, an organization that had devoted itself into cutting people open and making them into mindless servants. Puppets they used to build them an empire.

She had no idea who the other mage was, but the lad had bright red hair and was easily one of the most powerful mages Gwen had ever come across. The battle was fierce and halfway through, Gwen was forced to toss up some wobbly shielding spells to keep the shop safe.

A couple of scared residents hurriedly sought shelter within the potion shop, while Gwen stayed outside, watching nervously.

At long last, after a heaving, powerful wave of magic as large as a mountain rolled through the air, briefly making Gwen fell as though she had suddenly gotten crushed to the bottom of the ocean, the evil mage was defeated.

People cheered and crowded around the lad when he floated down, only for him to collapse the second his feet touched the ground. Gwen hurriedly got some potions when some called for her and the lad was ushered away to rest up. She watched as the proper authorities came to claim the unconscious but not killed evil mage.

To her surprise, the guy was the very leader of the Bone Cult, one of the greatest monsters to ever live and he had been undefeated for nearly seventy years.

Frowning, Gwen hesitantly returned to her shop and for days the magic of the fight lingered in the air, slowly dissipating. A couple of sorcerers and witches passed through to ensure the lingering energy would do no harm and life returned to it's steady, old rhythm.

At some point she put up a few flyers around town, letting people know she was looking for some help in the shop. Money was coming in reliably, but Gwen held no love or passion for potion making and she would love to have an extra set of hands around to make things easier.

To her surprise, when she emerged from the back of the shop a few days later, the young, powerful mage stood in her shop. He looked exhausted, she thought, dark shadows under his eyes and his red hair was limp and without shine and had grown long enough that he was trying to hide behind it.

There was a grim downturn to his mouth and as she looked at him, she was startled to realize that he was far younger than she had thought at first. Tall and lanky, his eyes more troubled than most adults, the boy was no older than fifteen at most.

"Are you still hiring?" he asked and his voice was quiet and a little rough. He sounded like he was expecting to be told no, a tense wariness to his shoulders.

"I am," Gwen answered, coming to a stop at her usual spot behind the counter. "I could use someone to dust the shelves and help with gathering herbs and otherwise lending a hand with the upkeep and care of this place. Does that sound like something you want to do?"

If he proved himself adept, she was even willing to let him take care of the simpler potions and salves and tonics.

The boy blinked in surprise and now he looked so hesitantly, achingly hopeful that Gwen got the sudden urge to stomp outside and find someone to punch in the face. His parents maybe or his teachers. A kid that young, hell no person ever, should look like this when offered the barest courtesy.

Gwen wasn't even being particularly kind, he was just the first person who had shown up who seemed to be genuinely interested in the position.

"It does," he said quietly and she noticed the way he had pulled the hems of his sleeves over his fingers, worrying at the fabric with his nails. A nervous habit, quiet and hidden.

When she told him what she'd pay him, he didn't even argue or haggle or anything, just nodded hurriedly as though he feared she'd change her mind.

And just like that, in the span of two minutes, Gwen had gained an aid for the shop. The boy's name was Herald and he struggled with looking her in the eye even as they shook on it. Gwen didn't mind that he kept his sleeve pulled over his hand when he reached out, especially not once she noticed the still healing pink scars on his fingers when he pulled back.

Over the next couple of weeks, as Herald came by to help, Gwen realized a couple of things. Herald never spoke loudly and it took him a while to relax enough that his shoulders weren't constantly knotted with tension. He was very thorough with his tasks and did everything exactly as asked.

He never smiled and flinched whenever someone came up behind him without him noticing them beforehand, so Gwen made sure to walk with a bit of a stomp whenever he seemed preoccupied or distracted.

And most of all, he never wanted to go home.

Gwen had no idea how it happened – only no, she knew exactly how. All it had taken was one look at that grim, exhausted face, shadows still under his eyes and his great reluctance to leave when she locked the shop up early due to a heavy, continuous downpour, for her to fold like wet paper.

*.*.*

Would you like to read the full story? You can find it on Patreon on the first of January! There are already other stories available you can check out in the meantime!

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day 2 - Prompt: Luxuriate @pandalilymicrofics

February Daily Series - 695 words

**TW: brief mention of a parent’s transphobia**

<<<Previous Part

James mentioned a woman named “Lily” specifically. Why?

Pandora paused her frantic packing and grabbed her phone from the dresser. She needed more than a first name. After a thorough search through Sirius’s recent Instagram posts, she found one that was tagged @ lilyflower, but her profile was private.

“Aren’t you lovely?” she whispered, opening the photo of the pretty redhead dancing with Sirius.

“Where are you going?”

She ignored her brother’s question as she stuffed her mobile in the pocket of her skirt. Thankfully, this one was vintage and actually had usable pockets sewn in. Pandora tucked in the last few bits and bobs, then closed the bulging bag.

“Shut up and help me,” she huffed, tugging on the zipper.

Evan appeared at her side to lean on the top of the bag. “Don’t be snippy. Mum said you were ‘abandoning us for that girl,’” he imitated, scowling as he added, “so I assume the old cow meant Regulus.”

“Yes, I was invited to Wales to meet his new boyfriend. He’s from Scotland, I think, so taking a train to Wales was more convenient.”

“Can I come too? You can’t leave me here with them, Pandora,” he chastised, hitching his thumb over his shoulder. “You know as well as I do that their ‘party’ is complete shite.”

Pandora shook her head. “I didn’t buy the ticket, James did. Besides, I’ve had enough of you for one holiday.”

“Come on! I’m bored!”

“That’s what happens when you dump your boyfriend.”

Evan glared at her as she pulled the suitcase to the floor. “You know perfectly well why I had to do that! I didn’t want to. He’s just…”

“Toxic? An arsehole? A lying, cheating prick?” she suggested, smiling brightly.

“Says you! He wasn’t that way with me.”

“Then why did you break up with him?”

Evan ducked his head and grumbled under his breath. “Because he hurt Regulus.”

“Exactly!”

“But I didn’t know that when we started dating! We met at the shop, and it was long-distance most of the time. You didn’t know either, until you spoke to him,” he defended.

Pandora shrugged, then pulled up the handle on her suitcase. “Never met him in person and Reg didn’t like to FaceTime back then. That doesn’t change who he is. When you know better, you do better.”

“So what? You’re punishing me now? I have to stay here in hell while you luxuriate in some lush Welsh Inn?”

“I doubt it’s posh, Evan. It’s Wales, not Versailles.”

“I miss Versailles. So many pretty blokes,” he said wistfully. “We should go back.”

She waved him off as she searched for her purse. It was a bright green bag that she’d crocheted herself when she was in her yarn phase. “Then go back. No one’s stopping you. I’m quite happy in London. I have a decent job and a nice flat with Reg and Dorcas.”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Sure I do. You made your choice, Evan, and I made mine.”

“I like my job! I just hate it here.”

She threw a hand up to stop the incoming tirade she’d heard on repeat since coming home last week. “Enough. You’re an adult, act like one.”

He closed his mouth and snatched up the handle of her luggage. She knew he was frustrated, but she’d hit her breaking point. Even compassion had its limits.

“Look, I’m sorry for leaving you behind. I just need to enjoy a little of this holiday. As much as I love you, you’re infuriating!”

“Me? You’re the one ripping my head off and hiding in your room!” Evan shot back, roughly yanking her suitcase down the stairs.

The case barely survived its perilous journey to the front door, and Pandora was grateful she’d remembered to tuck her glasses into its hard case for once. With a stern warning to stay awake to watch for “train hooligans,” her mother hugged her and shooed her away. Outside the house, a town car that James insisted on sending idled. Before she knew it, she was staring through double-paned train windows in first class as the world flew by while her mind fixated on one name.

Lily. Why did he mention “Lily?”

Next Part>>>

[callmewrinkles3]

Exclusive: Part Two From The Excerpts of Daniel Ricciardo’s Autobiography.

The Perth News, July 2035.

The former Formula One Champion talks about his wife, his family, and gives insights into his personal life like never before.

I know that everyone who reads this is more interested in my life and racing than in me praising my wife, but here’s the thing. She is my life. Her and our kids are my entire universe.

I’ve done some of the coolest things possible in my life. I’ve spent most of my adult life racing, I’ve driven the fastest cars in the world. I’ve sat into the ones that my heroes drove and driven them around the same racetracks they did. I went to hell and clawed my way back with Emma at my side and won a championship, but I can tell you that I’ve never felt as happy as the day I got to hold my kids for the first time. I’ve never been as proud as the day my wife brought our kids into the world and our family got a little bit bigger. But that’s a story for later. I’m going to tell you all about how much I love my kids in a few chapters, but before I do I need you to understand that they’re as amazing as their mother.

As I’ve been told countless times, everyone knows that we love each other. We’re the parents who are always holding hands at the school events, the ones that Lulu cringes about and tells her friends that “mama and dad keep kissing”. But the world doesn’t know everything that Em has done. They don’t know the things she’s sacrificed for me - her privacy, her solitude, her ability to walk down the street alone. That’s why I need to tell the world how wonderful she is. That’s why there’s some things you should know about my wife.

She is the coolest. Nobody in the world is as cool as her, not even me. She doesn’t believe in God, but she does believe in the power of Taylor Swift to solve world problems. She loves art, history, museums, and castles. And she brings me to a new one no matter where we are in the world. She loves crime shows and knows so much about true crime it’s almost scary. She can tell you which episode of Criminal Minds you’re watching from a single frame, and I can confirm that Penny wasn’t named after Penelope Garcia, but we did think about doing that.

She loves shiny things and Legos, and still says her best Christmas present was a Lego flower set we spent Christmas 2020 making together. She’d rather eat homemade food than dine at a Michelin Star restaurant, and she’s the sole reason we don’t have breakfast for dinner every day. She is the sweetest, strongest, most loving woman in the world. She is the most patient person I know. When we became parents we promised we wouldn’t yell at our kids, and our kids have never heard her raise her voice in anger. I know they never will.

She’s so smart and bright and I call her a genius at least once a day because it’s true. I wasn't going to mention this because it's not my place to say, but Em said I can. She's autistic. We found out after we got married, and a lot of things just slipped into place about her and our relationship. It's not a bad thing. It's not a negative. Her brain just works differently to mine, and she sees things I never would. It's one of the things I love her for, not in spite of it. But it's part of why the rumours and crap said about her hurt so much. Her brain picks up the patterns that everyone else misses and without her I would have been completely blindsided in Hungary in 2022. She was the first one to realise there was a chance for a seat in 2023.

She’s loyal beyond comprehension. She will never spill a secret if you ask her to keep it. She lights up a room as soon as she walks in. She’s so funny it’s unbelievable even though she insists she’s not. She gives the best hugs (as voted by our family) and kisses (as voted by me) in the world. She loves crocheting things and used to travel around the world with yarn and her hooks to make stuffed animals. Each one of our kids has a blanket that she made, and she made one big enough for me.

Every single thing she’s achieved in life is because she worked so fucking hard for it. Em has built herself up from the ashes more times than any person should, and more times than anyone I know could. She rebuilt us and me brick by brick when any other person would have walked away and nobody would have blamed them. And then she’s the reason we built up our family of five and she’s the one who keeps our family going. She’s the heart and soul of this family. She loves being a mum, and she was made to be one. She loves our kids - and somehow me because I’m a lucky, lucky man - more than anything or anyone in the world. She deserves everything in this world and the day we got together I made it my job to make it possible.

She’s the sweetest woman in the world and she couldn’t hurt a fly even if she tried. She’s selfless to a painful degree and trying to explain she can be selfish felt impossible. She still isn’t. She’s the kind of person who remembers everyone’s birthdays and has cards and a cake. She asks how everyone is because she really worries. She’ll stay sitting listening to you ramble for hours, even if it’s about things that she has no interest in or doesn’t understand because she knows it means something to you. She let me talk about wine, I made it my mission to create one that she’d drink and I did it.

Emma Ricciardo is the woman who puts everyone else first. She’s been willing to do things that make her life worse in so many ways because she thinks it’ll be easier for other people. She puts her wants and needs behind everyone else’s, and no matter what she still does. It’s just one of the reasons I always put her first in life because she won’t put herself first. You know the thing on flights, put your own mask on before helping others? Emmy doesn’t do that. She helps everyone else first.

She makes the hard days easier. During the worst time in our lives when I could barely get out of bed to go to work she was the one who made the noise go away. She’d wrap me in her arms because it was the one place I felt I wasn’t tearing myself apart. She drove me to and from the McLaren MTC and waited around Woking for me because she knew I needed her. She’s the only person who could ever quiet that overactive, anxious voice in my head. She still is.

And on top of that she’s fucking gorgeous. I know I’m biased, but have you seen her? She’s beautiful inside and out and Milo is so lucky he looks like his Mama. Don’t get me wrong, our girls are beautiful because they look like me but Milo got to take after Em and I love that we have her mini me too. She’s this tiny little British crazy woman who can verbally kick anyone’s ass but smiles like a child when songs she likes come on the radio. She grins at me and I forget what I was saying. I can’t count how many times I forgot what I was talking about during an interview in the paddock. I know there’s YouTube compilations of me losing my train of thought, and I can confirm any of them after mid 2018 were because I saw her.

I can’t count the amount of times my brain went blank and I stopped listening to whatever anyone was asking me, simply because I saw her passing by. She would walk anywhere in my eyesight with Blake and Michael and I could recognise her no matter how far away she was. And then my brain turned into a mess of rainbows, hearts, and glitter. That’s how terribly in love with her I am. She grins and her nose wrinkles and I remember seeing her in that kitchen and wanting to kiss her. It’s how she got her instagram username, I started calling her Wrinkles that night.

I seriously don’t know how I got so lucky. I’ve tried working out how but in the nearly twenty years since we met I still don’t know. Somehow the strongest and most beautiful woman in the world agreed to marry me and call me her husband and let me call her my wife and my baby mama, and I still don’t understand it. She loves me and more than that she likes me, and how cool is that?

I could go on for this entire book to talk about all the things I love about her but I’ll keep most of that to myself to get to the point. There’s a really small circle of people who are lucky to be liked by her. You should feel lucky if Emmy calls you her friend. But there’s this even tinier circle of people who Em actually loves, and if you’re in that one you can call yourself a blessed cunt. If you’re in that very closed circle you know exactly what I’m talking about, and you also know that there’s absolutely nothing that woman won’t do to protect the people she loves.

When I tell you that, what I really mean is she will become lethal. If you mess with the people who she loves, Em turns into a different person who will rain destruction on you. I always say that she turns into Mama Badger, and she calls me a silly and kisses my nose, but it’s true. It’s very rare and I’ve seen it a few times since I met her, but the worst was the last time she publicly turned into Mama Badger. Why?

Because she gets mad when you mess with anyone in that very small circle of people she loves. But guess what happens when someone messes with and publicly betrays the one she loves the most in the world?

[askbensolo]

Journal Entry #57: Life Day 29ABY

I think I forgot to mention this, but Luke did send me a birthday note and one of his signature care packages. There was a mini bantha crochet plushie in it, which I named Mini-Ren.

I also have a feeling I know who made the plush.

Anyway, all that to say—I think he was trying to show that he wasn’t mad at me. And I don’t really understand why, but…I guess it’s a good thing.

Actually? Ever since Uncle Luke got in yesterday, he’s seemed kind of…depressed. And it’s weird being a grown-up, because I notice stuff like that now. I don’t think Rey has really picked up on it.

Still, I guess I’m on this council but not granted the rank of grown-up, because I overheard Mom talking to Dad in a hushed tone and I heard her mention Luke…but, when I tried to join the conversation, I got promptly kidzoned. By which I mean Mom abruptly turned to me and said “Hi, sweetie!” about an octave too high—which I knew roughly translated to “Access denied: you have not gained enough XP to unlock this conversation.”

Hm. The “your mother will permanently see you as the age you had your mental break at” phenomenon should really be studied, I think.

My cousin Lumpy (who goes by Waroo, now, but will always be Lumpy to us) brought his girlfriend home. Every year it’s a different girlfriend. And I’d make some joke about how he just can’t make ‘em stay, but…it would sound pretty ironic, coming from me, right about now.

Auntie Malla hate hate hates this girlfriend in particular, and for some reason I am her chosen confidante for these maternal judgments. Her fur is too short. Her claws are too manicured. She has not offered to help Auntie Malla in the kitchen even once, and Auntie Malla fears she will go bald if Lumpy marries this girl.

“Ya know, Auntie, with how many girls he’s brought home over the years, I don’t think Lumpy seems too interested in marriage,” I said.

Auntie Malla looked absolutely stunned—and then she said, well—Lumpy had better hurry up and propose to this girl, and if he ends up with a wife who doesn’t know her way around the kitchen, then—bah!—that’s his own punishment to bear.

I laughed and gave Auntie Malla an affectionate pat on the back.

Caught Mom and Dad in the den under the mistletoe when they thought no one was lookin’. About five years ago, I would’ve thrown something at them. But this time, I just chuckled and rolled my eyes.

Because…cheers to them, you know, for still being insane about each other, twenty-five years later. With double careers, a grown-up problem son, and an adopted teenage daughter. And still they’re suckin’ face.

I wonder how people manage to find something like that.

I closed the door on them. But—couldn’t resist calling out that I don’t want any more siblings, first.

Didn’t get the last laugh, though. Dad called back that I didn’t have to worry, ‘cause the swimmers ain’t swimming no more—and I think I oughta be entitled to financial compensation for having to hear my old man say something so unnecessary—even if I was asking for it.

Found Uncle Chewie and Uncle Luke out on the terrace. Chewie gave Luke a big hug, and then came inside as I was coming out.

“Hey, Ben,” Uncle Luke said warmly. As if everything was normal, between us.

“…Hi,” I said.

Luke said he’d heard about me and Fannie (from Fannie herself, probably), and that he was sorry about it, and he knew it must be hard.

I had my doubts about the sincerity of this statement, given he had made it sooo clear before that he thought we were better apart, but…what did any of that matter, now? I could tell he was trying to extend sympathy toward me, regardless of whatever he might thinking in the privacy of his own mind—and, you know…I found myself willing to accept that.

“Thanks,” I said.

I asked if he had spoken to Fannie recently, and he said he had. He asked if I had spoken to Amalia recently, and I said I had.

Funny, I said; maybe we oughta switch comms for a day, and then you could talk to Amalia for once, and I could talk to Fannie.

And I wasn’t expecting Luke to find that funny, but…he actually did.

Just a little.

Since we were able to break the tension, I…told him I was sorry about before. And I said more, too, but…since I already went through all of that once, you’ll have to forgive me for not going through it all again here.

I asked Luke if he was doin’ okay. And he said…oh, yeah, fine. But…I could tell there was more he wasn’t saying.

I paused, and then I asked him if he was ever gonna take a break from the school. Like—a sabbatical, or something. Since he runs it all on his own.

He said he couldn’t. Because he runs it all on his own.

I told him, well then—he should just run away and go into exile and become a hermit on a hidden island, somewhere.

And I wasn’t expecting him to find that funny.

But, he did.

Just a little.

…Or, maybe, even a little bit more.

Interesting, I thought. And I tried to press a little more, but I didn’t really get anywhere.

Hm, I thought to myself. Well. I’ll be seein’ this guy 52 times next year. I’ll get to the bottom of this or else.

But, I didn’t say that part out loud.

What I did say was, “Happy Life Day, Uncle Luke.”

And, “Happy Life Day, Ben Solo,” is what he said back.

And—“Happy Life Day, my dudes” is what I’ve got to say to you.

Cheers to the year ahead, friends.

—Ben