#so much wool texturing i am never drawing again

[side-sidecast]

The Knights Guard The King's Sheep

[alittlebitmaybe]

tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

*

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

*

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

*

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

*

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

*

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

*

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

*

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

[marigoldsandbuttercups]

Domestic HCs with the Swap and FSwap bros? 🥺

Domestic HCs

(So! I realized I am an... Idiot hshshshshsh, I hope that sf is okay for you-)

Blue:

- He really likes cooking, and spends most of his time in the kitchen concocting new recipes. He's got that interest in what goes into something like the other sanses but instead of science, engineering and so on, it's food for him.

- A bit of a neat freak, and also very competitive with his neighbors in who has the most prettiest garden.

- He likes tinkering sometimes but only if it's something that he has a hyperfocus on, so it's 50/50 for him as he has a short attention span.

- His s/o is gonna be getting sweet post-it notes everyday that helps boost their confidence or it's just a sweet confession from him.

- Is a lot more protective of his brother than one would think. People are quick to assume that Stretch is overprotective, but it's really Blue and he's very subtle about it. Good luck if you're dating his lil bro gshshsh

Stretch:

- He's very sensitive to certain scents, some even affecting his moods greatly. He has honey scented candles or even tangerines in his room no matter what.

- He likes knitting, finding it a calming thing to do and it keeps his mind focused so he has a bunch of clothes solely made by himself, he just doesn't wear them often cause he likes his hoodie too much.

- His room is actually pretty... Neat. It's not the cleanest but he doesn't let it go too far as well, he can't handle strong smells. The only thing that would be messy in his room would be his desk and his undone bed.

- May not seem like it, but he has a personal schedule to force him to get out of bed as to not worry his brother. He's seen what his brother is like when he's upset when they were both at their worst and he never wants Blue to ever feel like that again.

- He has many candy flavours but tends to take a specific one almost all the time until he focuses on the next one just because he likes the taste/texture.

Black:

- An absolute neat freak, waxes the floors almost twice a week, his floors and the little spaces between the tiles are so clean they'd have the sunlight glint on them.

- Is also a bit sensitive to scents, but his is because of his background, having to rely on it to keep himself safe. He likes having coffee/chocolate scented things in the house, though.

- His only leisure time is reading or maybe going for a drive, something to keep his mind preoccupied for most of the time.

- Has a collection of fuzzy slippers in his room and only he is allowed to wear it. Anyone else wearing it will encounter immediate anger and possible silent treatment-

- Is also super picky about what sort of material he wears. Like he hates wool with a passion of a thousand suns, especially when like, there's leftover still sticking to his bones, he will have a bitch fit for days-

Rus:

- He has an affinity for sour tasting stuff, or anything that's very savoury.

- Stress cleans, only when he's extremely stressed out, though. Like you know something is very wrong.

- Colour codes his shit cause he is not that organized but the Aesthetic™ keeps him focused.

- Has a birdhouse cause he thinks it's cute and he likes birds (pestered Edge to make it for him hshshshshs)

- His drawers are filled with papers either from drawing, writing (mostly poetry), or just a spur of the moment joke that he scribbled down after running out of the shower to do so--

[spectres-fulcrum]

Gleaming, twinkling, Eyes like sinking ship on waters, So inviting, I almost jump in

Context of my last post: Apparently I decided to watch A Princess on Lothal and go Lyste/Leia dynamics??? and somehow came out with a crackship. Which it's been a very long time since I was just like crack ship.

And then at work I came up with the first three lines of dialogue and I was like I need to post this so I don't lose this because I feel like that fits? and the story fell around it.

Btw, title is from Gold Rush by Taylor Swift

"Story" is a strong word. I start in the middle of a scene and idk a ton of back story. It's an AU for sure, where Leia's older and she's visited Lothal a lot more and ANH never happened. I see the Rebellion more Season 1/2 era so the Ghost Crew is still very Lothal Sector focused but Kal is still Fulcrum. Leia also spends more time on diplomacy on Lothal as excuses to see the Ghost Crew more. And then she started getting ulterior motives to focus more on a certain lieutenant.

Sometimes an idea comes to you and you write it before you get the backstory worked out, lol. I think it would be fun to explore if I get more ideas for this verse, as I always wanted more Leia and Ghost Crew content. (Also if you squint there's a hint of Kalluzeb).

Also it's weirdly sadder and character deep than I expected with the harsh bickering at the start. (Also why can my Kalluzeb work never come out nice enough to post? I swear I have so many Kal/Kalluzeb headcanons but me writing them just doesn't come out nicely)

"You don't know who I truly am," Leia said, her voice quiet but harsh. She didn't want to be.

"If you truly think that, then it is you that who doesn't know me," Lyste said.

"I know exactly who you are, Lyste- Lieutenant. And that is why I have to leave now," Leia said. He rubbed his thumb on her wrist, trying to soothe her under her sleeve.

She had changed, from the gown of white chiffon she had worn to dinner into her more normal white robed gown. The texture felt like sandpaper against her skin tonight.

The rebels of the galaxy saw the Princess of Alderaan in white gowns as a symbol of hope. Innocence, even at over twenty. She was much loved, especially as she went on more and more relief missions. She said she went where she was directed, but Lothal had become a favorite world, and she stretched her relief missions into diplomatic trips so she could she as much of him as possible.

But tonight, she had gone too far. They had been in the living room of the residence the Alderaan party stayed in while they were there-just her and Lyste. They were leaving right after breakfast the next morning. Breakfast with Kallus-or rather, Fulcrum- and then they were meeting up with the Ghost Crew before leaving planet, so she wasn't sure they next time she'd see Lyste again. They were having a bit of wine and chatting, and somehow, he kissed her. Or rather, she let him kiss her, dropping her plate of cheese to the ground to grip at his jacket. He had pulled back, just barely, and she had whimpered, a sound she didn't know someone, a man, could draw from her yet. Because for one minute, all she needed in the galaxy was the one who she had been trying to deny.

"Yogar." And then his lips had been back on hers, because he had been feeling it to, their dance around each other. White and gray fabric, flowing chiffon and stiff wool.

Knocking over a wine glass had brought her back to reality. Looking down at the then tinged in deep burgundy chiffon, she had remembered that she was never just Leia.

She was a princess. She was a rebel. And she had let an imperial lieutenant of all people in the galaxy kiss her. She had betrayed all of her kind that night, but there was a part of her who wanted to do it again, even as the rebel princess screamed at her not to lose herself in his ocean blue eyes.

Antilles had argued when she insisted they leave early. They had plans-breakfast with Kallus-with Fulcrum, who had no doubt recorded messages, one for Zeb, one for the Ghost Crew-, and then meeting the Ghost Crew, and the circling around for a final diplomatic lunch with Pryce. But she had to leave planet-then and now. They had packed, and she had left the tarnished gown on the bed. But Lyste still waited outside, despite her dismissing him two hours ago.

"And I know who you are. I've always known who you are, Leia," Lyste said.

"You don't know anything about me," She hissed the sad truth. Because he wouldn't like her if he knew. "I need to go. Let me go, Lieutenant."

"I know you're a rebel. I knew you likely were the first time you walked down that landing platform alone," Lyste said. She froze. He knew? He had seen through her all along?

"Then you understand why tonight was a mistake," Leia said.

"You don't mean it. Leia-"

"I'm not Leia. I've never been just Leia. And you're not just Yogar. I was a fool to have given in to my feelings," Leia said and squared her shoulders and pulled her wrist from his grip. She raised her voice. "Winter, let's go."

Winter got into the land speeder, and she slipped into the back. They had a security guard driving and security followed. Captain Antilles was already at the landing platform.

"What was that about?" Winter asked.

"He wanted to say good-bye before we left," Leia said.

"That didn't look like good-bye," Winter said.

"It had to be," Leia said and looked out at the buildings as they passed. She couldn't cry-Princesses knew they weren't allowed to choose with their heart. She had spent too long on this backwater world. They all gave the illusion of choice. They treated her like just another rebel. Just a girl. She had forgotten that that girl never existed.

There were other worlds that needed her. No one needed to know of her betrayal to their cause. In a couple years, her father would pick an acceptable suitor. Acceptable in the Empire's eyes, but secretly a rebel. By then, this would she would have forgotten this night. But why did the idea hurt so much?

[exosmutfactory]

Royal Pains

stunning gif by tipannies

❥ This might be the most daring one shot of mine to date, so! Here we go

— Pairing: You & Baekhyun

— Genre/AU: smut, 

— Word Count: 2.8k

— Rating: 18(more like 21 >.<)+ (M)

— [ Contains: Plot ofc (can’t be helped). Some restraints ;) deepthroating, airplay/choking, slight degradation, voyeurism (eep), etc! ]

❥ This was a lot for me to even proof read okay, let me post this here and run

ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥

Byun Baekhyun was never an easy man to please.

He’s belligerent, impatient and way too stiff for a man in his late-twenties. Though you suppose that is what comes with the responsibility of leading a kingdom. Nothing short of aggression and authority is expected of him with his title of power. And women across the land enjoy eating bare minimum affection out the palm of his stern hand - except for you.

If he’s a cold-blooded king, you are his ice queen to match.

You were that inwardly hotheaded, steel fratetrain of a princess that didn’t take shit from anyone, let alone the soon-to-be king whose name you never could remember yet face you never forget. He was always trying to boss you around your own house and intimidating all other men that tried to pursue you. And yet the annoying crown prince left quite the impression on you during those awkward royal-arranged dates and accidental yet totally coincidental meetings at night under the shining stars. 

You still ask yourself how you went from a love-hate courting arrangement to being the one to receive his late-night undivided attention and witnessing his eyes taking on the softest of expressions. Maybe you were a saint in your previous life.

But of course, there’s only a certain amount of time before you push each other’s buttons again. Keeping the peace balanced on a very sensitive scale will tilt out of order and end up sailing across the room eventually. Only so many small bickerings before your stubbornness straight-up rivals his assertiveness. Some occurrences of these types of arguments are better than others…

Much better than the one right now.

Someone calls your name. A deep voice that can be soft and melodic or choppy like an all-consuming storm deep at sea depending on the situation. In this instance, you can clearly hear the thunder in their tone that matches the hard look in their brown eyes when you raise your head from the blanket in your hands. “Baekhyun?” You murmur, head tilting in mild curiosity. Trying your best to ignore how good he looks in a white dress shirt, black slacks and a matching blazer that is complemented by his slightly pushed back hair.

He says your name again through gritted teeth, gesturing to the patio doors that lead out to the garden with a ring covered hand, “Did you dismiss the gardener?”

“His wife went into labor,” You justify, continuing to work on the red wool with soft clinks of the knitting needles.  

“The head chef?”

“A family emergency.”

You hear his teeth click together before he utters, “And the maid?”

Your needles are set down on your lap at that, “Nope. I fired her.” You chirp, irritation swelling in your chest at the mention of the wrench as you pick them back up. Counting back from 20 to will away your bubbling anger. 19, 18, 17-

Baekhyun inches closer in all his angry glory, black dress-shoes tapping on the marble floor. “And what reason do you have for that?”

“She was going around spewing bullshit about her being your fucking mistress.” You spat, clutching the needles so hard they bite into your skin.

He takes a deep deep breath, chuckling humorlessly. “So,” His hands are clasped behind his back, leaning forward to meet you eye-to-eye from your spot on a custom made leather couch with the tiniest of revengeful smiles. “Because of jealousy you decided to fire our 5th maid of the month.”

You know you should back off; try to contain your anger and let him have his little moment with soft words of compromise - but oh, the memory of catching that woman spraying the collar of his shirts with her nauseating perfume this morning… You’re murmuring under your breath before you can fully comprehend the reaction you’ll get. “Not my fault she was a pest and definitely not my fault for all the others you fired.” The others being gentlemen that respected your space and accompanied you on the loneliest of days by complementing your improving knitting skills and bonding over tear-jerking novels.

It’s silent for a few moments, and then Baekhyun chuckles, running a hand through his hair, “Always going out your way to give me a fucking headache.”

“If I’m a headache, you’re an eyesore,” You mutter under your breath, looking away. You can’t even bear to face him after that.

“An eyesore?” Baekhyun muses. You choose not to respond, dead-set on glaring a hole into the farthest wall as you will away the urge to cry.

Baekhyun grabs your chin and before you can snap at him, he’s kissing you with fever. The rough way his teeth tug at your bottom lip making you gasp into his mouth, the perfect opportunity for him to explore your wet caven. Blanket forgotten at your feet as he pulls you up and backs you up to the nearest wall; pelvis flush to yours. “Let’s see how much of an eyesore I am after this.”

He hoists you up into the air before you can say anything; carrying you bridal-style to your bedroom as butterflies nervously flutter around in your stomach. You know where this is heading. Not even blinding rage can keep the fire from growing between your legs.

Baekhyun lowers you to the bed gently as if you are having your first night together all over again. Slender hands pulling at your blue ballroom dress and the blossoms of daisies out of the carefully woven braid in your hair. Scattering them on the sheets of your California King sized bed as he presses his lips back to yours.

You gladly recuperate his endless kisses, relaxing further under the familiar weight of his body and the soft caress of his wandering hands…

Until the tell-tale sound of a lock clicking into place reaches your ears.

Your eyes snap open but you’re a second too late; both of your hands, cuffed, to a bar in the headboard. And it’s not with the usually fluffy baby pink ones. No. You’re chained to the bed like that of a prisoner under the unforgiving guard of your husband; gazing down at you with the darkest of eyes. “B-Baek-” A firm hand wraps around your throat, silencing you.

“I think..” He hums, eyes lazily running over your helpless form; a smirk playing on his lips, “That you’ve done enough talking for today.”

Another look from him keeps you from protesting through your parted lips; his thumb rubbing unhurriedly along your neck leaving you to gulp as he steps off the bed. You lift your head to see what he’s doing, only catching a glimpse of him pulling off his tie before the handcuffs rattle against the headboard.

Baekhyun looks at you from over his shoulder with a tsk, completely loosening the silk material from around his neck before approaching the bed again.

You bear your neck, expecting him to tie it there only for the soft material to be pressed against your eyes.

“Since I’m such an eyesore,” He mocks, tying the blue material firmly around your head, “Guess you won’t be needing to see, will you?”

Your noise of protest only earns you a sharp smack to your sensitive core, making your thighs snap shut with a yelp.

“Keep those legs open,” He warns in a low tone, rummaging around the room while you quickly obey; spreading wide and straining your ears to hear him. Your cheeks darkening at the tell-tale signs of arousal covering the inside of your thighs.

“Look at you,” Baekhyun muses by your side; the lightest brush of his fingers across your folds making you gasp, bucking your hips. The slender digits tease over your thigh before rubbing the wetness into your skin. “Already dripping onto the sheets.”

“Baek.” You bite back a whine, holding your breath at the light rustle of clothes and obscene slick sounds that meet your ears. Baekhyun’s weight is fully dipping next to you in the bed; lewd wet sounds coming from lazy strokes of his cock. You whimper, wishing you could see how he looks right now, all flushed cheeks with those brown eyes so blown with lust that they appear black. His soft pants and quiet groans put you in a state of arousal that you’re rudely awoken from by a sharp pain on your thigh. Your whole body jolting up with a shout. “Baekhyun, what the fuck-” You pause, breath catching at the leathery texture gliding across your sensitive skin. 

“It’s been a while, hmm?” Baekhyun muses with a chuckle. A faint whoosh the only warning you get before it’s coming down on you again. You gasp, biting your lip as the brief pain ebbs away; the implications of him using the riding crop sinking in. This definitely isn’t going to be one of those nights he goes easy on you. No, you’re fucked and can only get more fucked from here.

The sinful sounds of skin against skin and your quiet whimpers fill the air as he continues to spank your thighs with the pleasantly painful material. One hit being so close to your wet cunt you arch your back with a broken whimper of his name, nearly cumming at the lingering burn it leaves alone.

“Tsk always so greedy,” Baekhyun murmurs; pace increasing on his cock while dropping the leather crop next to you. The volume of his groans indicating his orgasm making you tug at your restraints; helplessly squirming in the sheets. “B-Baek, please.”

“What do you want, sweetheart.” He sighs, hand resting so high on your thigh you tremble in anticipation.

“Y-Your-” You bite hard on your lip, throwing your head back when he brushes his thumb over your throbbing clit. “Your cock!” You gasp, trying your best not to melt under his touch; thighs trembling in want. “I-I want to suck your cock, p-please..”

“Hmm.” Baekhyun bites your earlobe, drawing a gasp from your throat before you sense his clothed thighs straddling your chest. The wet tip of his pressing against your bottom lip.

You lick your suddenly dry lips, tasting his precum as he slowly slides into your awaiting mouth. The weight of him on your tongue making you keen under him, choking a little when he hits the back of your throat. His quiet moan shooting heat right down to your core.

“Such a good girl.” He sighs, firmly gripping your hair; your eyes welling up with tears every time he sinks into your throat. “So tight and warm for me.”

You moan, curling your tongue around his tip when he pulls out to let you catch your breath. The way his hold tightens in your hair has you gulping down his precum, preparing for what comes next.

Baekhyun quickly slides his cock down your throat with ease, groaning as your nose hits his pelvis. The way he takes your breath away with every quickened thrust has you moaning along with him, swallowing around his thick girth as his grunts meet your ears, loving the sound of his cock stuffing you full.

You could keep going like this for hours. Letting him fuck your throat raw and leave your jaw aching for days. His high pitched moans and merciless thrusts leaving the biggest inferno between your trembling legs.

“Ah.” He suddenly grunts, slipping out of your mouth and pulling away before you feel the hot spurts of cum dripping on your chest and down to the messy sheets below.

“Fuck.” Baekhyun sighs, not paying your whine of disappointment any mind as he shuffles farther down your body. The soft material of his pants brushing over the back of your thighs barely a warning before he’s slipping into your weeping core. You gasp, tugging hard at your restraints. The delicious burn of his thick length making you clench hard on his cock.

“Mmm.” He moans, pushing in to the hilt. “Always so wet for me.”

You bite your lip in vain to keep quiet as he wraps his hand around your throat; his loud groans and your quiet whimpers fill the room along with the slamming of the headboard and the wet smacks of his cock ramming into your walls.

“So so greedy.” Baekhyun chuckles darkly, picking up the pace with a tight grip on your hips. You moan, but a certain, small noise reaches your ears. A distant whimper. Misplaced for the privacy of your bedroom.

“I can feel you clenching down on me.” Baekhyun pants, pulling you out of your thoughts as he angles his hips; the brute force of his thrusts slamming into your cervix in that painfully pleasant way he knows makes your back arch and toes curl. Your cunt gripping him like a vice. “Greedy girl. Fuck, your pussy was made for my cock.”

You can do nothing but arch your back, breathlessly moaning his name until you feel the tie being pulled from your face. Your blurry eyes opening as it slips down to rest around your sweaty neck, the shocking view in front of you enough to make your building orgasm stop dead in its tracks. Because there. Just beyond Baekhyun’s gloriously clothed form, is three familiar figures kneeling near the foot of the bed.

“Finally caught on, sweetheart?” Baekhyun chuckles, slowing down to grind against your clit as you choke on your words; jaw dropping at his audacity. At the display of the maids you’ve fired watching on with wide, envious eyes, or the way he is milking your g-spot, you do not know. But damn if it doesn’t make you tighten more around him..

Your eyes can’t seem to look away from the people kneeling with their hands tied behind their backs. Three sets of hungry eyes focused on the pair of you as the palace guards keep their gazes away out of respect. Your attention isn’t brought back to Baekhyun until he hisses, releasing your neck to push your thighs to your chest and tangle his hand in your hair. “Keep your eyes.” He growls, yanking your head back to stare directly into your eyes. “On me.”

You gasp loudly, clamping down on him with a nod. Doing your very best to keep up the new position despite the burn in your hamstring, the throbbing at the roots of your hair under his unforgiving grip and his punishing thrusts. The tip of his cock nailing your g-spot without fail as your thighs shake; pressing your feet to his chest for stability. The slight shift in position making you cry out in bliss.

“Hmmm is my greedy whore going to cum?” Baekhyun asks in that slight condescending tone that drives you wild. You can’t look away from his fiery filled eyes, so many emotions of love and lust swirling in the orbs that you find yourself drowning deeper in the tighter the coil builds up in your core. Gushing around him as the others in the room are brought back to your attention by the restless shuffling coming from the floor.

Baekhyun chuckles at the red coloring your cheeks. “Dirty girl.” He murmurs, brushing his lips over your ankle before holding your hips down to the bed. “You enjoy being watched. Your pussy is weeping for it.” He gives your clit a swift smack that has you arching your back with a cry of his name; shaking at the seams. A burning stare catches your eye just as he’s sliding his hand down your stomach and between your quivering thighs.

Baekhyun’s fingers rub mercilessly on your throbbing clit while you’re locked eyes with one of the men who was your previous maid; feeling a sense of courageous sexual power surge through your veins as you are finally brought over the edge. Until Baekhyun slips out the moment you clench down on him.

You're left gasping under him as your walls spasm in defeat; a broken sob ripped from your throat as he strokes himself to completion. His cum landing on top of your mound and dripping down your quivering entrance at the tail end of your ruined orgasm.

Baekhyun hums, lazily rubbing his tip over your sensitive core as he takes in the tears streaming down your cheeks; softly cupping your cheek as he waves the others away without a glance. He waits until they are gone before moving to release you, planting a kiss to both your red wrists before meeting your eyes with his now soft brown ones that you’ve come to love so much. “Next time talk to me first before dismissing anyone from work, okay?”

You look at him for a moment with a sniffle before nodding, letting him pull you into his warm arms. Your eyes narrow behind his back as he whispers sweet words in your ear..

Yeah, Baekhyun doesn’t expect to be put on probation from sex for the next two weeks..

Or the confirmed pregnancy test two weeks after that.

[shadowsfascination]

Shadamy swordland AU - part 4

The air was knocked out of Amy’s lungs by his statement and her skin paled, drawing long shadows over her usually cheerful face. Her head began to ache and she rubbed her forehead as if to rub to swirl of emotions inside her away. Shadow on the other hand crossed his arms and legs, a hint of sorrow playing his ruby eyes.

Amy hunched her back and leaned on her hands, eyed Shadow and drew a breath. She intended to speak, but found no words. Instead she watched the light of the flickering candle cast constantly changing shadows on him, the warm tones of its’ flame contrasting with the now chilly atmosphere between them.

Unaware of it Shadow gritted his teeth in distress. At a total loss for words or the slightest idea how to behave in this situation, he chewed his lip and mildly pinched his arms. He couldn’t talk anymore. It was somehow beyond his control and he despised powerless it made him feel. His body froze and the longer the silence lasted, the further the words drifted away from him. Meanwhile his mind became a cacophony of tangled, blurry thoughts.

I have to snap out of this!

Shadow took a deep breath and closed his eyes, tracing the source of the messed up chaos energy in his body and changing it into a state of tranquillity again.

“Amy.”

The sudden renewed confidence in him broke not only the silence, but the seal between them as well. She couldn’t somehow deny his gaze and locked eyes with him, her eyes full of questions and expectations. He took her hands to cover them in his own. They were warmer than she’d expected.

“I cannot explain any of this to you.”

Amy frowned at him in annoyance and backed off to escape his hold, her eyes starting to blaze. A series of angry growls escaped her lips and she clenched fists. Her knuckles made a cracking sound from it.   “Please, oh please tell me you’re joking!”

He blinked twice, innocence and incomprehension written all over his face.

“I’m not. It would be a poor jest.” “You can’t just drop this bomb on me, fall quiet and then not explain any of it!”

She was prepared for a whole lot of it, but this? – she thought to herself. As soon as the thought landed in the conscious part of her mind she labelled herself a fool, questioning what she did expect from him. She knew Shadow… Why did she keep getting so thrown off by his untactile behaviour?

Blood rushed through her veins at high speed, causing a rustle in her ears. There it was again: the unwanted announcement of her bad temper. He’d soon have to deal with it if he didn’t make haste with properly explaining this… mess! At this rate, she still had control over her temper, but that could change in the blink of an eye. “You’re not saying anything yourself either. Although, knowing you, I hardly believe you don’t have any questions. I’m not throwing that in your face, am I?” “Well, can you blame me?!” “A little, yeah. You carry your heart on your tongue. You always know what to say.” “I don’t right now!” “I don’t believe you. I think you’re trying to spare my feelings and I don’t care for it.”

“Oh no, Shadow. You’re NOT shifting YOUR responsibility to explain who you actually are to me.” “I’m not.” The pink female whirled around and caught his attention with her fierce turquoise orbs. The warm, yellowish tones of the dancing flame were fighting for precedence with the luminary aqua in her eyes. He could see her hands gesturing, signalling him her upset internal state in the blurry background of his view.

“Then talk.”

“I can’t.” “Blast, Shadow! I can’t believe how incredibly rude you are to me! I’m your girlfriend! You’re keeping so many important things from me…I wonder how you in 300 darn years still achieve to be totally oblivious about how to act polite and chivalrous around a woman!”

“You should know me better than to mistake me for a soft, gooey fool who drops every aspect of his personality when with a woman. I might be a knight, but surely I’m not going to be your imaginary heroic boyfriend. Or always treat you like a queen when you’re being a huge pain in the ass, Amy. If that’s what you want, than better rethink your choices…”

Another of her romantic bubbles burst by another blunt statement, one he made her aware of she had it in the first place. Amy shifted her headstrong gaze to the red, green and blue-checked woolen blankets on the bed. Ignoring him, she distracted herself to follow the lines from the wrinkles on them with her fingers. The raw texture of the wool prickled through her gloves. It was a unpleasant feeling and she wondered how he was able to sleep under them.

“… Besides: I’m sharing my deepest secrets with you! Do you think that’s easy for me? What more could you possibly want?” “I want you to explain who on Mobius you are!” she shouted. “I want you to explain how it’s even possible to be that old? I wanna know what you are. A ghost? Some divine creature? And what about your strange, dark powers and the stone?! Did you have kids in the past? What does this all make you?!” Both their ears fell back, the awkward silence became deafening on them. Amy’s eyes reddened from the upcoming tears and anger. She bit her lip and bravely fought against the waterworks. A few salty tears quietly dripped down her cheeks though. Amy battled the strong tendency to cry once more. She felt so hideous whenever she cried- and she did see herself cry before. She felt she looked awful and so she did her uttermost best to hide it- in comparison to when she was a young girl. “What’s it make us? Just tell me.. something! ANYTHING will do!”

Her loud, hoarse voice cracked and she sniffed. Shadow’s hand squeezed and crinkled the blanket with force. He cursed under his breath.

“I KNOW, OKAY?! I know ANY words will do, but there are no words! NONE! They’re stuck! I don’t mean to be rude or inconsiderate of your feelings. Plagues! If anything, that’s what’s making me freeze up. I have no idea at all how to handle this!”

An upcoming sense of guilt sent a series of shivers down her spine. Her stupid pride and temper pushed him too far. A lump in her throat now accompanied the already present stress-related stomach aches.

“I don’t either… It’s scaring me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Shadow, I don’t want to be the reason you’re holding back. And don’t tell me I’m not, because I know I am. Sorry about that. Just spill. I’ll learn to deal with it.”

“It’s not just that. I can’t verbalize all this.”

He concentrated on the chaos energy in his body once more, shards of them whirling around like a hive of bees. They seemed impossible to catch. His focus shifted to his irregular, high paced breathing and he breathed out some of the stress in his body. The shards immediately lowered their impossible-to-follow rhythm and he was finally able to catch some of them.

I never lose my confidence.

With a certain determination Shadow grasped her gloved hands. They were tensely folded into fists. Their touch revealed the quivers they were both trying to control. Shadow suddenly scooped her onto his lap and then rose to carry her bridal style, all much to Amy’s confusion.

“However, I can show you.”

His signature self-sufficient smile now curved his lips.

“Come on, I’ll carry you. I know how much you love this romance-stuff and I am a knight after all.” He blew out the candle, letting the darkness swallow them entirely before calling out the ‘Chaos control’. With this single chant he overcame the barrier of space and time. The darkness around them swiftly faded into a serene surrounding, filled with flowy, intertwining ruby, royal blue, shiny silver and regal gold ribbons of light.

They weightlessly soared through the pacifying, outstretching void. A sea of glowing orbs laid ahead of them and with confidence. Shadow commanded some of them to come closer, each carrying a memory. He let some fragments play out before her eyes to see for herself what happened in his past, for he was unable to tell her.

It was all there, right before Amy’s eyes: the mystery of what he was, his unknown origin and lonesome existence by surviving everyone he’d ever cared for in the past. He had roamed around the planet for years and years in order to keep his immortality a secret.

There was also a set of painful memories in which he was fighting, on the run or hiding for the many different faces of danger. They were a tad blurry and she couldn’t quite capture the meaning of it. The memory of the unknown hero neared and she witnessed his amazing powers, bravery and strength. It replaced her unsettling state of being with much softer feelings, easing her temper away. Amy smiled when concluded to herself that neither his physics or personality had seemed to change. The Shadow she knew now was as stubborn, blunt, socially awkward, dedicated, loyal and brave as in his past. Without having to verbalize he answered everything she wanted to know and more. Amy’s sweet, caring nature calmed her temper and she empathized with Shadow. She felt for the challenges his long life had brought upon him and pulled him into a deep, consoling hug.

“Shadow, I’m sorry I pushed you. I misjudged and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

The scenery of his bedroom slowly faded in again and Shadow gently put her down. He lit the candle again. A shameful blush coloured his cheeks and played his eyes. His ears drooped backwards. Shadow felt like he was stripped to the bone. “I know everyone thinks I excel in many things, but communicating my inner state isn’t one of them. It heaves me down whenever I… feel strongly about something. Actions speak louder than a thousand words to me.”

“Thank you for being honest with me, for showing me all this. I imagine it must’ve been hard on you. You seemed so lonesome all these years.”

Hiding his face in his hands, he stared without focal point in his gaze. Shadow broke down internally, forcefully biting the insides of his lips to prevent him from crying like an infant.

“You’ve seen it for yourself now. You’ve seen me fight…My past…It’s the most private thing that I carry with me.”

“You don’t have to carry this burden all by yourself.” “You’re the very first to learn about it.”

“I already assumed I was, given your struggle to share it with me. I’m glad you told me.”

Amy smiled, trying to lighten up the mood again. “It’s awful and humiliating to share. I even killed in the past. I can’t help but feel like a monster sometimes. It haunts me.”

“You’re a knight. There’s times where you’re left no other choice than to eliminate your enemies. If anything, you’re a hero, Shadow.”

“I’m not! You weren’t there! Y-you d-d-don’t…You don’t know…”

He whimpered almost inaudibly while his shaking body sank into her embrace. Amy petted his back and caressed his quills while he hid his face in her chest. She cupped his tear-stained muzzle and made him look her in the eye. When his red, bloodshot eyes met her aqua ones they showed the strong-minded, yet hopelessly emotional Amy Rose Shadow had fallen for.

“There’s still so much that I don’t understand, but my emotional compass tells me you’re reliable and trustworthy. I’d like to believe you must’ve had your reasons… Tell me whenever you’re ready.”

She let herself fall back on the bed and pulled Shadow onto her, snuggling up to him under the prickly woolen blankets. On any other night the knight would’ve protested and let his self-discipline never allow her to stay over, but they were exhausted. Shadow and Amy couldn’t battle their minds anymore and forgot about the possible consequences they’d have to deal with in the morning. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. None of it. Even though their minds were loaded with troubles, which usually would’ve kept them awake, it somehow did not tonight.

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I struggled with this chapter. I’ll try to make the next one more uplifting (: Sometimes it seems to me that neither of these two dorks know a single thing about relationships, yet they have so much love to give to one another. 

I’d appreciate if you share your thoughts and send me a message if you find any annoying typo’s or grammar mishaps. 

@shadamyheadcanons, here you go!

[artificialqueens]

intents wicked or charitable (trixya) 1/10 - beanierose

AN: thank you so much to conny, shea and sophie for caring about this universe as much as i do, you are all so wonderful and i am so lucky. dolly the dog is borrowed from conny’s daisies universe, which is the loveliest and most gentle thing of all time. go check it out!

(read on ao3) | (fine me at katiehoughton)

a practical magic au for the spooky season. there’s a curse on any man who dares love you? love a woman, instead. | 5,479 words

be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell be thy intents wicked or charitable hamlet, act one scene four

*   *   *

The wind catches the door to the mudroom and makes it fly open with such a loud crash that the whole house shivers and the dog starts barking. Trixie hustles over the threshold and whistles for Dolly, has to wrestle the door closed once both of them are inside. The sky is livid-dark and churning and the wind moans low in its throat. Dolly whines and hurries away to curl up in front of the hearth. Trixie huffs a little laugh under her breath, to soothe herself mostly. She likes living alone out here three miles from town, and she isn’t usually freaked out by solitude, but the earth feels angry this afternoon.

It’s cold out today, much warmer inside the house, and her cheeks are ruddy. Trixie toes out of her boots and untucks her fisherman’s sweater from her jeans to pull it up over her head. She pads through to the kitchen in her sock feet and her thermal layer. The whole house smells rich and good and a little tomatoey. Trixie lifts the lid of the crockpot and leans over it, lets the steam hit her face. She’s grateful to her this-morning self for fixing supper and she stirs the stew a couple of times, tastes some of the broth from the end of the spoon.

She knows just what they’d say, Kim and Bob and all the rest of them. She hears them laughing right in her ear like ghouls. Today she got up with the sun and made a stew for one with carrots and potatoes and zucchini she pulled out of the earth herself. Trixie is trying to be as self-sufficient as she can, now that she’s here. That’s the whole point.

The city became entirely too loud, the kitchen louder still. She doesn’t miss the money or the respect or the power, doesn’t miss the cries of yes chef in response to every word out of her mouth. She doesn’t miss the almost of her television career, the stardom everybody kept insisting was right at her fingertips if she just stretched a little further. Trixie misses her friends sometimes and absolutely nothing else about that life.

“Dolly!” she calls out, and the dog comes trotting into the kitchen. Trixie scratches her behind the ears, stoops over to kiss the slope of her snout. “Hey, beautiful girl. Are you hungry? Dinner time?”

She gets an enthusiastic wag of Dolly’s whole body in response and then the dog disappears through to the mudroom to wait. She’s a greyhound, not a farm dog at all, but Trixie has had Dolly a lot longer than she’s lived out here. One of the very first projects she did when she moved in was to create a little feeding station for Dolly, a kind of shelf to keep her bowls off of the ground and accommodate her height.

It felt dykey in a way she never really has before. Even as a chef, opening her own restaurant in a field so dominated by men, Trixie has always clung tightly to her femininity with both neatly manicured hands. Something about kneeling down on the hardwood and drilling a hole into her wall felt so butch that she caught a wicked case of church giggles and had to shut the drill off. She had stifled them against her palm for a minute and then remembered that there is no one for miles around. Instead, she had tipped her head back and let her laughter ricochet around the room.

Trixie eats dinner by herself, as she has done every night for the last four months. She sits at the dining table in the main living space because she hates eating on the couch. From here she can see outside in the mornings, all the way across the fields at the rear of her property, but now that the evenings are starting to draw in she just watches herself chew.

There’s no television at the house. She bought the place fully furnished and hasn’t really added anything, didn’t see the point when everything she needs is here already. She doesn’t miss it. There’s the radio in the kitchen and there’s Dolly for companionship and she finds that she likes it. Trixie didn’t bring any makeup with her, or her blow dryer or curling iron. She felt herself shedding layers of performative femininity with every mile she drove north, Dolly in the passenger seat beside her and four boxes tied down in the bed of the truck.

When Trixie turns on the shower she hears the water heater start groaning two floors below her. She is long since accustomed to all of the peculiar quirks of this house, all of the noises it makes. They have had to get used to each other, the house and her. She knows that the front door sticks in the frame when it’s cold out and the lock doesn’t work great so it’s best to avoid using it if possible. She knows that the third stair down creaks the loudest and that when it rains heavily the gutter outside the reading room overflows and water pours in torrents down the window. It feels like home here, more than her Los Angeles apartment ever did, or Wisconsin before that.

The water takes a while to get warm, so Trixie leaves it running while she peels out of the rest of her clothes. She unwinds her hair from its braids and inspects herself in the mirror over the sink. Most of her days are spent outside now, not being perceived by anybody, so a little jolt of unfamiliarity hits her each evening when she faces her reflection. Her cheeks are a bit fuller than she remembers, and so are her stomach and thighs. She feels good, strong. She holds her arm up across her breasts to get a sense of how tan she’s getting. The skin of her chest is still creamy smooth and pale, but her arms and face are littered with new freckles every day and the fine hairs on her forearms have been bleached white-blonde by the sun.

Trixie stands beneath the spray of the shower until the hot runs out. She washes her hair, combing the conditioner through the ends with her fingers. Her body aches in a way that is so different than how it used to, after hours on her feet in the sticky kitchen. It feels more like she’s earned it.

It’s Friday night, and Trixie has a date. She squeezes as much water as she can from the ends of her hair and gets into bed in underwear and a huge sweatshirt. When Trixie left the city she ditched her cell phone. She always felt silly having one, like she was playacting at being more successful than she really was, and she was glad to bid it farewell. Only two people in the whole world know the number for the landline here. Trixie answers on the second ring and eases down the headboard a bit. Her bare legs slide against each other beneath the sheet and the blanket and for just a moment it makes her ache with loneliness.

“Beatrice.”

“Kimberly, hello,” she says. “How are you?”

Kim launches right into a diatribe against the restaurant industry as a whole and Trixie sits with her eyes closed, only half listening. She feels it’s important to maintain some connection to the outside world, just in case the isolation makes her lose her mind and there’s nobody around to notice. Kim is so soft-spoken and gentle and kind that it’s bizarre to hear her get this heated. It reminds Trixie again why she’s doing this.

“You know I have a guest room.”

“Trixie,” Kim sighs. Trixie is holding the phone close enough to her ear that she feels the hot wash of Kim’s breath over her cheek. “I’m not quitting my job and packing up my life and disappearing into the wilderness.”

Like you, goes unspoken. Kim has been supportive this whole time. She doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand how Trixie could walk away from all of the opportunities unfolding before her like springtime. But she kept her sighs and eyerolls mostly to herself and she helped Trixie pack and that’s a lot more than most people did.

“I’m just saying. Offer’s open.”

Now that the sun has gone down it’s freezing in the bedroom. Gooseflesh erupts along the lengths of Trixie’s thighs. She lets Kim talk for a little while longer about Los Angeles and what all of their mutual friends are doing and how everybody, Trixie, misses you so much, and then she eases her gently off the call and hangs up the phone.

She has on her thickest, cosiest pair of wool socks and she skids a little bit on the hardwood in the hallway. It excites the dog and she leaps around, pawing at Trixie’s bare calves. Trixie opens the back door and sends Dolly outside to use the bathroom while she heats water on the stovetop. It’s so cold that she shifts her weight from foot to foot, hopping a little, and rubs her biceps to try and generate some heat.

It doesn’t matter how deep into the winter it gets, she hates sleeping with pants on. Trixie does a quick circuit of the lower level to check all of the doors are locked, an old habit from Los Angeles that she can’t seem to shake, and turns out all of the lamps as well. She’s done in time for the kettle to start its insistent whistling and she fills up her hot water bottle, brings it and the dog upstairs with her. Trixie sleeps with Dolly in the bed and two blankets and she is still chilly for a good half hour every evening.

On her back in the textured darkness, Trixie stares at the ceiling and allows herself to yearn for just a minute. She needs a warm, kind woman to let Trixie put her freezing hands inside of her sweater. Her whole body aches with it, how much she wants. It’s not even that she misses Bob, exactly. She just misses having someone to lay next to her and kiss her until the pink tip of her nose gets warm.

There are no curtains in any of the rooms upstairs. Trixie keeps meaning to get some, to try and keep the warmth in now that summer is rolling over into fall, but she likes being able to see out into the night. The moon’s wise, round face is peering in at her right up against the glass. Since she’s been here she’s been sleeping well, sacked out on her stomach unmoving until the rooster wakes her at six. Tonight, though, she is restless and grouchy with it.

Tomorrow, for the first time, Trixie is going to drive the three miles and visit the town.

She brought a lot of supplies with her, cans and dried things like rice and pasta. The teenage son of the family in the house closest to her, a half mile down the road, gratefully accepts the ten dollar bill Trixie presses into his palm each Wednesday afternoon when he brings her milk and cheese and fruits. She has learned to bake her own bread, likes the process of working at it and how it has made her arms firm and strong. Now that the crops she planted are starting to yield, her neat rows beginning to spill over in abundance, she feels much more self-sufficient.

There are things that she needs that she can’t put off for much longer. Things she is not comfortable asking a fifteen year old boy to buy for her. And she supposes she ought to show her face to the townsfolk, now that she’s been lurking on the outskirts for almost half a year like a cryptid.

Trixie comes awake into the crisp, clear morning and can immediately see frost on the windowpane. She pulls on jeans in the bedroom and her duck boots in the mudroom and heads outside to let the chickens out. The coop structure has a kind of sliding door with a long handle that Trixie can pull from the outside and the girls all come clattering down the little ramp.

She opens the door of the pen to let them roam around the yard for a while. Dolly darts back and forth, her graceful body low to the ground and her tail in the air. She’s a city dog, and a sighthound with a high prey drive, but Trixie doesn’t need to worry. She’s patient with the girls, and they are obsessed with her.

“Good morning, Patsy-girl,” Trixie says when her favourite Rhode Island Red pecks insistently at her boot clad foot. She scoops the chicken up and cradles her to her chest, supports both of her feet in the palm of one hand so she’ll stop flapping and settle down. “Hi, princess. Hi pretty lady.”

Her voice is so soft and melty when she talks to any of the animals. She hears it in herself and can’t seem to do anything about it. Trixie has to set the chicken down because the others are squawking and hopping about her ankles, distressed that their sister is getting all of the attention. She squats down instead and has to put four fingertips to the ground to steady herself when Loretta and Shania immediately hop up onto her thighs. Trixie is long past being precious about keeping her hands clean. She’s always kept her nails short anyway, and she’s gotten used to scrubbing the dirt out from beneath them before dinner each night.

The cow shed is her next stop. There are no actual cows in there, as much as she would like to have them, but the previous owner of the property had thrown into the sale of the house a pair of cantankerous, curmudgeonly goats. They spend their nights tucked up warm amongst the hay and, she’s pretty sure, plotting ever more convoluted ways to make Trixie’s life difficult.

“Good morning Cash, Guthrie,” Trixie says when she opens the door and gets a stony stare from one and a disgruntled bleat from the other. They are the only men in a half mile radius, so of course they are ornery and smell disgusting and fight constantly with anything nearby, including each other.

Trixie opens the gate to let them out into the paddock. She likes how her mornings look, the routine of going around feeding all of the animals and making sure they have water and wishing them all a happy start to their day. She’s always been a country girl; nine years in Los Angeles couldn’t beat that out of her. Sometimes when she wakes in the morning to Garth’s insistent crowing she feels as if she’s in her thirteen year old body again, too big for her skin and stretching taller and thicker every day.

Once everybody is fed, including herself, Trixie tries to become a little more presentable. First impressions matter: it’s why she always vetted her front-of-house staff so thoroughly and why she was so obsessively detail-oriented when designing the façade of her restaurants. She’s going to be meeting a whole lot of new people today. She’d rather they didn’t clock that she’s a loner and a lesbian before she even gets a chance to open her mouth.

The truck engine rolls over twice before she gets it to start and Trixie mutters something under her breath that might be an incantation. While she drives into town she has a very difficult time not looking at herself in the rearview mirror. For the first time she wishes she’d brought a little makeup with her, even just some mascara and lipstick. Her face is pink and weathered and her hair had refused to cooperate so she’s wound it into her usual two braids and jammed a beanie over the top to at least try to look intentional.

Trixie parallel parks on the street and hops down from the cab of the truck. The step is muddy, but her boots are caked with crud anyway so it hardly matters. There are kids playing further up the street and all five of them stop what they’re doing and turn as one to look at her. It’s creepy, a bit Children of the Corn, and a shiver rattles up Trixie’s spine. She wraps her men’s cord jacket tighter around herself and arranges her scarf at her neck. The cold is a copper taste in her throat and the skin of her face feels pulled taut, pink-raw.

The whole town is serene and lovely. Trixie walks slowly down the main street, hands stuffed low into the pockets of her coat because she forgot to bring gloves with her. It’s big enough that it makes her feel delicate and tiny and precious, all hunkered down inside of it.

Each building has a different coloured siding and all of the storefronts are neatly kept and welcoming. As Trixie walks she hears the susurration of the water against the shores of the cove and the crunch of her own footsteps. It’s not so quiet here in town as it is back at the house, but above the shouts of the children playing and the occasional car rumbling by it’s still peaceful.

There’s a pharmacy at the end of the street, close to the dock, and Trixie ducks inside. A bell over the door signals her arrival and the old man behind the register looks up from the newspaper and smiles at her. He’s missing one of his front teeth. Trixie gives him a tiny nod of her head and waves away his offer to help find what she needs. It’s a much faster experience than back in Los Angeles because there is only one choice of shampoo, one soap, one brand of analgesic.

She sets everything down on the counter. The man begins scanning everything, not watching what he’s doing because his eyes are raking up and down Trixie. She’s wearing a lot of layers today so it’s not like he’s getting an eyeful, but it still makes the skin at the back of her neck prickle.

“Well hey there, little lady. You must be new in town. I’m Tom.” He gets done ringing everything up but makes no move to bag it or ask her for her money.

Trixie pulls her wallet free from the back of her jeans, has to wrestle with it a bit because it gets caught on the corner of the pocket. She gives Tom her well-worn, please don’t try to have a conversation with me right now smile. Very carefully does not offer him her name back.

“I live a few miles outside of town. Out on Fort Casey Road.”

“Well, everybody here’s real friendly. Can’t get steered too wrong. Just-” He props an elbow on the counter and leans conspiratorially in. Trixie tries very hard not to physically recoil. “Just steer clear of Verbena.”

“What’s Verbena?”

Trixie hands over a couple of bills, hoping to hurry along this interaction. She’s trying not to let impatience crease the space between her eyebrows, trying not to ruin the first conversation she’s had outside of her phone calls with Kim in four months. It’s a little like her muscles have begun to atrophy; she’s working to stretch them out, but it’s uncomfortable.

Tom hands her change over to her, folds her fingers closed around the handful of coins in her palm. She finds that absolutely reprehensible. Trixie stuffs the coins hastily into the pocket of her coat and wipes her palm off against her thigh, not at all caring whether he sees. She hopes that he does.

“Verbena is the apothecary across the street.” Tom pauses, swept up in the drama of it all. He turns to look over his shoulder and Trixie follows his gaze, spots an unassuming little store almost directly opposite. When she looks back at Tom he drops his voice an octave. “The witch owns it.”

“The what?” Trixie snorts, and then realises that Tom is deadly serious and clamps her mouth shut. He nods fervently at her but doesn’t offer any more information. Trixie feels a sigh forming in the base of her throat and swallows it back down. She’s a lesbian. She feels an automatic, ferocious kinship with spurned women. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

She takes her purchases in their brown paper bag and leaves the store. Outside it’s bright and crisp, and she doesn’t feel like getting back into the car just yet. She can feel Tom’s eyes on her still, through the glass frontage of the pharmacy. The violation of it is rapidly making her furious. Trixie has never liked being told what to do, especially by old men. She doesn’t allow herself to hesitate for even half a beat before she strides across the street and right on in to Verbena.

It’s a cute place. The exterior is painted all white and there are planters full of lavender either side of the door. It will be beautiful in the springtime. Inside there are bottles and jars and packages of all different sorts, so many that Trixie can’t even begin to decipher them all on her first sweep around. It smells wonderful, there’s an aromatherapy burner on one of the shelves and Trixie takes a step closer to it, bends at the waist to breathe it in a little deeper.

“Oh, hi. Hello. Welcome.”

The voice startles Trixie a bit and she straightens again, turns to look. All of the breath stutters in her chest. The most beautiful woman she’s ever seen — the most beautiful woman she will ever see in her life — is standing there. She’s grinning at her with a set of perfect teeth that Trixie stares at for probably a beat too long. Her white-blonde hair just skims the tops of her shoulders, heavy bangs a little long so she has to blink them out of her eyes. She’s lovely. Trixie’s palms are sweating.

“Um. Hi.”

“I’m Katya.” She offers her hand and Trixie takes it, has to maneuver the bag from the pharmacy into one arm. Katya squeezes instead of shaking and it’s so completely charming that Trixie feels her face getting hot. At least she can blame it on how much warmer it is in the store than outside.

“Trixie.”

“Trixie,” Katya repeats softly, like she’s trying it on for size. She’s still smiling so wide and Trixie finds herself grinning back, goofy Wisconsin teeth and all. “Hello, Trixie. Is there anything I can help you find today?”

The heat in her cheeks and neck is getting to be a bit much. Trixie sets her bag down on the countertop, takes off her jacket and folds it over her arm, pulls off her beanie hat as well. She definitely has hat hair and she smoothes her hands self-consciously over the top of her head.

“I…kind of came in here out of spite?” Trixie chews on her bottom lip, but Katya throws her head back and a pneumatic burst of laughter ricochets out of her.

“So you met Tom?”

Katya is still laughing and she reaches out to grab Trixie’s arm. Her fingers are thin and she clutches tight and everything in Trixie’s body knots up into Katya’s grip. She’s a few inches shorter than Trixie is and she smells good, like earth and springtime. When she straightens up again she slides her fingertips down the length of Trixie’s forearm as she lets go.

“I did. So no, I’m not looking for anything specific.”

“I can show you around?” Katya offers.

Trixie nods, certain that she’s completely failing at reining in her enthusiasm. Katya is the first new person she’s met in the last four months that hasn’t irritated her immediately. She lets her take her hat and coat and hang them up by the door, lets her hook her arm through Trixie’s elbow and lead her around like they’re old friends.

All of the products in the store are homemade and Katya explains the properties of each one, allows Trixie to smell things and try samples at her leisure. Katya is effusive and intelligent. Her whole face comes alight when she talks about the merits of mugwort or how close she is to perfecting her mint oatmeal shaving cream. Trixie works a lotion into her hands and lifts them both to her face to breathe deeply. Her skin feels immediately softer, and the places where her knuckles are chapped from working outside look less red and angry.

The two of them are standing with their heads bent together, studying Katya’s collection of beeswax candles. Katya’s got both hands in the back pockets of her hunter green cords and her elbows are pointy and jut out away from her. It means that every time Trixie shifts, the right one nudges into her. She likes it a lot. Katya holds up one of the candles and Trixie leans in to smell it, closes her eyes as she does.

A crash makes the windows of the storefront tremble in their frames and Trixie jerks upright, one hand flying up to land at her chest. Katya doesn’t even twitch. They turn together to see a pack of teenage boys sprinting away from the store, and a mess of egg white and yolk and shell sliding slowly down the window. Trixie is fairly sure she spots the neighbour boy, Peter, in amongst them.

Trixie makes as if to head for the door, but Katya grabs for her elbow to stop her where she stands. That’s probably best. What is she going to do, chase them? Outrage bubbles hot and insistent in her stomach and she turns to look at Katya.

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Sure I am.”

Katya reaches down behind the counter and comes back with a soft cloth and a spray bottle. Trixie follows her outside and stands and watches as she cleans her windows, one knee propped on the bench out front so she can lean in close. She’s shoved her sweater up past her elbows and Trixie likes the flex of the tendons in her forearms, her intricate tattoos, her delicate hands. It feels like she’s standing guard, and she finds herself glancing over her shoulders to watch for the mob coming back.

After a few minutes Katya’s arms get tired of scrubbing and she takes a break to shake them out. Trixie takes over, makes sure to meticulously spray every inch of the glass and get all of it off. The winter sun sits low in the sky and if the egg is allowed to bake onto the window it’s much harder to remove. Katya is watching her with both hands shoved into the pockets of her pants again. She has the bottoms of them rolled up so a strip of skin shows above her Dr. Martens, and Trixie is focusing very hard on not looking at her pale ankles.

When they’re done, Katya holds the door open for Trixie and flips the lock behind them both. She has a tiny little break room at the back of the store and she makes tea for the two of them, presses the cup into Trixie’s waiting hands. She doesn’t seem affected, and somehow that’s worse.

“This happen a lot?”

“A beautiful woman coming into my store? Never.” Katya grins at her over the rim of her mug, but when Trixie keeps her face carefully slack she falters. “Yeah. I’m what the kids call an outcast.”

“Oh honey, an outcast honey? I’ve been out since ninety two, honey.”

It’s a dumb joke, but it makes Katya scream and slosh a little of her tea onto her hand. It’s hot still and she sucks on the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger. Trixie looks at the red stain the lipstick leaves on her skin, looks at the pink tip of Katya’s tongue.

“That’s awful,” Katya points at her. “You’re awful, Trixie. I think the homophobes might have a point.”

They’re both laughing then, and clutching at each other. It seems like Katya’s whole body is full up with joy, and she’s looking at Trixie like she’s so pleased to find her here. Trixie hopes that Tom is squinting at them from across the street and turning slowly to stone.

She sips her tea and lets her eyes flutter closed. She doesn’t know what’s in here but it’s good, kindles a small fire in her gut that spreads outwards into all of her extremities. It could just be Katya, smiling at her and calling her beautiful.

Once they’ve both emptied their mugs, Katya takes a gift bag from a stack beside the register and wanders around the store for a little while, choosing things to fill it up with. She is careful, each choice considered. Trixie watches her, lets herself look at Katya’s tight ass in her pants when she bends over. It’s been six months since things ended with Bob, and Trixie isn’t one to have a casual fling, so the heat between her thighs is more insistent than usual.

“Here.” Katya presses the bag into Trixie’s hands. “To say thanks.”

Trixie doesn’t open the bag, doesn’t want to seem too eager. She has a sense memory of her grandmother slapping her hands and tutting at her, telling her it lacks decorum to open gifts in front of the giver. Instead, she holds it against her chest and meets Katya’s eyes. They are blue-grey, clear and abundant as a winter morning.

“Thank you. This is…this is really nice. Suspiciously nice.”

“If you start feeling feverish and vomiting it’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Tracy.” Katya studies her cuticles, feigning disinterest. Trixie notices her short nails and feels it between her thighs, takes a stuttering breath. “Just do me a favour and leave your door unlocked so I don’t have to commit breaking and entering when I come to harvest your bones. That’s a felony, you know.”

Trixie snorts and snatches her hand back from where Katya has grabbed it. “Oh sure, anything else I can do to make it easier for you?”

“Come back soon?” Katya says, and all of the teasing drops right out of her voice. She can’t seem to look Trixie in the face, studies the floor instead, and tenderness for her swells in Trixie’s chest.

“If I live through the night, I’ll come back.”

Trixie leaves then, has to. The way Katya is looking at her, like she can’t seem to choose just one thing to stare at, is making Trixie want to shove her hands inside of those tight pants and haul Katya against her.

In the car she rolls the windows down and cranks up both the heat and the volume on the CD player. She sings at the top of her lungs, elbow propped on the door and her other hand holding the wheel in two fingers. It’s freezing cold in the car and she’s shivering in her seat, barely able to grip the wheel in her numb hands, but her face is still warm.

When she moved here she was fully prepared to be the only gay person for miles and miles. It doesn’t bother her; growing up in Wisconsin desensitised her to that. But now here is Katya, beautiful and enigmatic and funny and asking to see Trixie again.

Dolly can tell that Trixie is excited and it’s infectious; she hops around while Trixie unpacks the few groceries she picked up. Trixie feeds her treats, crouched down on the kitchen floor to let the dog eat out of her palm and give her scritches behind the ears.

Trixie has always enjoyed anticipation. Bob used to complain at her, irritated by the way she would spend an hour or more gussying up before coming to bed. It makes her feel attractive and irresistible, to make herself wait. She leaves the gift bag on the dining table for the whole afternoon and refuses to even look at it while she makes dinner. After she’s cleaned up and all of the animals are down for the night, she settles cross-legged in the middle of her bed to open it.

There’s a tube of the lotion she tried, which makes her smile. She’s been smelling her hands all afternoon. There’s an aloe face cream that professes to be good for redness, and a candle that has the same scent as whatever essential oil Katya had been burning. Underneath everything else in the bag is a little notecard with the store’s name and logo on one side, and on the other Katya’s name and the store address. And at the bottom, hand written in red ink, is a phone number.

[donnerpartyofone]

21 Questions

Tagged by @getoutofmyhouse who had oddly similar answers to mine

Nickname: only the one I use here, that I gave myself--Claire Donner, which has to do with my famous love of cannibalism. Claire is my real first name, though.

Zodiac: I am so very cuspy. I was born at about a quarter to midnight on April 20, so I tend to relate to, and feel insulted by, the suppositions about Aries and Taurus equally. I’m one of those jerks who will tell you astrology is a bunch of hoo ha...and then drone on with my Many Esoteric Ideas about it, so I’ll just stop myself right here.

Height: 5’ nuthin is what I prefer to say...because saying I’m 5 and 3/4′ sounds a little like saying I’m 10 and a half years old.

Amount of sleep: It’s all fucked up. Until I got into my 30s I could, and would prefer to, sleep endlessly. Now I go to bed around 10 (depression), get up around 5 or 6 (being old), and for extra fun, I’ve developed this insomnia that often keeps me up from about 2am-5am. I try make the most of it by getting up, getting high, watching a movie or two, writing...basically just having a secret private day by myself. I’d really rather go back to just sleeping constantly though.

Last movie I saw: I saw GRETA in theaters tonight, which was ok. I guess I thought any Neil Jordan film would be headier than this, but watching Isabel Huppert just running around acting like an absolute maniac is a rare treat! My last video experience was RAW, which I put on to bother my husband right when we got home from the theater. (I think he liked it more than I originally did, to my surprise)

Last thing I googled: The correct spelling of Sylvia Likens’ last name. I’m obsessed with this type of crime where a group of people (usually a family and/or some of their friends and neighbors) fall into some kind of shared hysteria where they protractedly torture to death an acquaintance for no particular reason. Some times there’s an element of mystery as to why the victim didn’t leave while they were still able to, which suggests to me that the murdered person was just as much a victim of the groupthink as the perpetrators. Other example victims include Suzanne Capper, Vera Jo Reigle, and I think to some degree Sophie Lionnet, James Bulger, and Junko Furuta. (Also a crime they briefly discuss in the book Lords of Chaos, where several people murder a friend in their trailer, but I can’t remember it specifically enough to look up the names--the other last thing i tried to google) I keep thinking there should be a psychiatric and/or legal term for this kind of crime, but I’ve never heard one, so let me know if you got one!

Favorite musician: I have trouble with questions that involve ranking anything, so I’ll just say that right now I’m listening to a lot of old White Zombie. I didn’t know anything about their origins as an East Village noise band, and I’m fascinated by the stories about how apocalyptically miserable it was to be in that group. I’m increasingly obsessed with people who work their asses off doing something they barely even enjoy, for what must be borderline spiritual reasons.

Song stuck in my head: Nothing right this second, for which I am very grateful. There’s something awful in my brain that causes me to wake up with some maddening, babyish tune stuck in my head more often than not. It is most frequently the Ten Little Indians nursery rhyme. This is literally killing me.

Other blogs: @anhed-nia, which started as a dumping ground for long posts about mental illness, and turned into almost only movie writing. at some point there was just so much movie shit that i started to feel awkward about posting anything personal there again. i also got @getoffyrass which is a group blog, and a repository for images that make great drawing references. everyone is encouraged to post their drawings, too, although it is seldom used. i still like having it around, for when i have time to draw. my “real” drawing blog is @neveratendermoment but i don’t draw often enough anymore...

Do I get asks: i used to get tons! i really enjoy them, even the trolls to some degree. i must have seemed like more of a regular tumblr geek girl back in the day. also tumblr has just changed a lot since then. my blog was definitely a casualty of Best Stuff First, i think my follower count stopped dead forever right when that happened, and now that practically every single fucking thing on this entire site is either fandom shit or *discourse*, i really have nothing to offer tumblr anymore, anyway.

Blogs following: 1,057. 

Lucky numbers: 2! Also 5.

What I’m wearing: black wool long john pants from Chrome, and a white v neck teeshirt with the words BLACK MAYONNAISE on it in black Rocky Horror font. i live near the notoriously toxic Gowanus Canal, and “black mayonnaise” is the actual term used to describe what’s on the bottom of it, by the scientists who are trying to figure out what to do with it.

Dream trip: i am really excited by travel, it’s hard to pick. i’m hopefully making a dream trip soon though: my father’s mysterious finno-swedish family is from the åland islands, and my husband and i will be planning part of our honeymoon there, whenever that happens.

Dream Job: i think about this a lot, because the older i get, the more i object to the entire concept of having to work to live. i’m into the whole universal basic income thing. i’m at this point where i can barely stand to think about capitalism in any way--like i think about how the need for money is so mortally serious that there’s a lot of physical stuff in the world that only exists because someone was scared of starving, tons of useless products and packaging and factory byproducts and all kinds of fucking straight up garbage that was only invented due to the lethality of poorness. i would rather be left totally alone forever if possible. however, if i HAD to do something and i COULD do anything, it would probably be film criticism. this fantasy takes place in a world where people care so much about what i have to say that i can make a career, not only out of movie writing, but out of only writing about the specific movies i want to write about, referring to nothing other than my personal reactions.

Favorite food: i wish the answer weren’t just “cheese”, but it probably is. also mushrooms. anything cinnamon. i’m a pretty adventurous eater though. the most important thing for me is a variety of flavors and textures.

Languages: english. i took several years of italian in junior high-high school, and did nothing with it. i taught myself to read french pretty fluently, but i would fold right up if someone tried to speak to me. i learned a bunch of swedish on duolingo, shoulda kept it up. i’ll get back to it! i really regret never learning spanish though, so i’m easily torn on what to do with my time.

Play any instruments: clarinet in junior high/high school, also alto sax which i did not enjoy at all, a little guitar. i bought a used electric bass last year that i have really been enjoying, but i feel a lot of guilt around not playing enough. so much of it is just strength training. that’s probably what i like about it, though. also i got a lot of electronic music software and midi controllers and stuff...and then i realized that it could take me months to sort through the thousands of samples i have to program this stuff, and i only got so far into it before i started to get discouraged. i need to get back to it, it’s ridiculous to let that stuff lie around. this is a rare example of me wishing i knew someone local to play with, who could speed me along on how everything works.

Favorite songs: another one of these impossible questions! anybody who is even reading this can probably guess the answers from the handful of music posts i reblog over and over and over. the other night i got all hyperactive and forced my husband to drop everything and listen to “buffalo stance” by nene cherry, which i never ever get sick of. real top contenders for favorite song might be “Stand By the Jamms” by the klf, and this recording, which has gotten me through many difficult hours:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8k1HsF3EvY

https://www.forcedexposure.com/Catalog/sunray-sonic-boom-music-for-the-dreamachine-cd/STRAWB.003CD.html

Random fact: i’m sure i’m missing out on something really funny and cool, but for now it’s just the well-known fact that i read palms.

Describe yourself as aesthetic thing: man, how do i answer this without being totally pretentious? maybe nobody can! i’m coming up with something really hard to describe but it will be worth it. the other day i watched this insane, completely unnecessary movie about lorca and salvador dali (played by robert pattinson) as gay lovers. there’s a scene in it where lorca does that “pick a hand” thing to dali, and dali picks an empty hand. of course, they’re both poor students who couldn’t be buying any gifts, so they do this obnoxious pantomime where dali pretends lorca actually gave him something--but then it turns out that lorca really DOES have something. he opens his other hand and gives dali...SOMETHING. i don’t know what! they make such a big deal out of it, but what the hell? you see it for a second in this closeup, but it’s shot from like, behind and slightly underneath, and it is just unrecognizable. it’s sort of an orange blob? it’s probably meant to be a sculpture. but, i love the idea of doing the “pick a hand” thing to somebody, and the other person is just like...hey wait a minute, what the fuck even IS this?? 

it reminded me of one of the most amazing things anyone ever did at my school, bard college. this genius art student who I WISH I COULD NAME TO CREDIT HER did her senior project as this like...made up product. i saw them at the senior show, hanging off a spinner rack, like you’d see next to the register in the drug store. they were called Toilet Buddies. they were these plastic, brightly colored objects that looked like toys, but they didn’t have a familiar earthly shape, and because of the title, it was IMPOSSIBLE to imagine what to do with them. so, she gets the lipstick cam from the film department, and shoots this video of herself sneaking some Toilet Buddies into Walmart. then she takes them to the register and BUYS THEM--the baffled cashier looks for them for a while, and eventually just rings them up as a general grocery or something. then in part 2, the artist TAKES THEM BACK TO THE STORE WITH THE RECEIPT AND GETS A REFUND.

so anyway, i see myself as like a fake product--something that looks just familiar enough to exit, and that appears to have a designated purpose, but it’s just kind of cheap and foreign and it becomes nightmarish to try to imagine what to do with it. 

I don’t know if anyone i know will want to do this, but i tag @negativepleasure @moviesludge @former-contender @dimestoreman @thefuzzydave @darkarfs @theoddsideofme @blueruins ...um, i don’t really know who would enjoy this. the ultimate would be @garbagenacht

[lumiereswig]

Please do the ENTIRETY of Forgotten! Hahaha I’m joking, pick your favorite part because that fic is v long 😍

happily, this gonna get l o n g

“The ball was flawless. In the garden, the roses continued to reach to the sky, and the storm brushed away; the lights shut off in the palace, one by one, and the music faded to silence. The prince went to bed with one or two or three pretty women he wouldn’t care for by the next day. Up in his room, Lumiere popped open a bottle of champagne.”

I set the opening to take place almost immediately after “Lit By The Sun,” though this time showing the evening Lumiere and Plumette never got—the stolen croquembouche up in their bedroom, the sharing of champagne among the servants. In the original timeline, obvs they didn’t get that—they got fire and feathers instead—but yeah. I am totally alluding to my own goddamn fics.

Plumette, lighting the candles by the bed, grinned at him over the flames. He laughed and raised his glass.

It’s not a lumiereswig post if there’s not a fucking fire reference.

“He’s turning just like his father—the prince’s father was like this, too,” Mrs. Potts explains to the musicians, who know nothing about the palace or its politics. They nod and move closer to each other on the bed. “We don’t know what he’d do without us. He’ll be fine, though; we try not to intervene. D’you only have wine up here, Lumiere? I could use a cup of tea.”

Foreshadowing of future bullshit, and also reminding the readers that Garderobe and Cadenza WERE NOT PART OF THIS PALACE-POLITICS SHIT. They did not deserve to be cursed!! fuck you agathe!!!! #justiceforgarderenza2k18

“If you cannot take a little sparkling wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” laughs Lumiere, and she swipes at his arms and makes him laugh. He eases into a seat between Cogsworth and Plumette and throws his arms around them.

Really trying to remind everyone how fucking close the staff is. The fam. Also, fuck you bill condon for not letting lumiere hug cogsworth every .3 seconds

“Think how long it has been!” he says. “Forty years for you, Cogsworth, but most of my life for mine. Why, I came here as a teenager—imagine me, only a little older than Chip! Fresh out of Paris and still reeking of the apothecary shop.” He grimaces, thinking of his father’s dusty store in a side-street of the city. He had fled, then, looking for the glamor his missed; in his room in Paris he had practiced dance steps, reveled in fashion, adopted the graceful movements of the court as rebellion against the bourgeois facts of an ordinary existence. He had come to this palace, and he had lit into life; dancing and feasting and glowing like gold made Lumiere’s heart sing.

EYYYY IT’S A HEADCANON I TOTALLY MADE UP

but tbh it makes sense to me (and has always made sense to me) that for all his glamor-gold, courtiers-and-candelabras bullshit, lumiere is not from an upper crust background. he’s too extra to have been born to it. That level of golden eyeliner and tequila has to be aspired to.

“We met in this palace, do you remember, mon trésor?” Plumette is close in his arms; her scent—fresh and light, like candy and macarons—right beside him. “I was only fourteen, and I loved you right away.”

“I loved you before I met you,” murmurs Lumiere. “I could never forget.”

Lots more foreshadowing, and also backshadowing. Gotta remind the idiots in the audience which motherfuckers in this story are in love.

The next day is their day off. It is their one day off in the year.

honestly this makes no sense (one day off a year???) but it’s adam. pre-curse adam. i can write him to get away with pretty much any bullshit and be like “””*shrug* uhhh he’s a beast, dudes, of course he banned puppies and kittens from the palace and hates daisies and sunshine”“

also tbh i hate the whole adam dialogue sequence, it’s really badly written

Adam stands in the lonely, empty halls. If he stands in the tower, he can see them weaving their way through the forest and down to the village, to spend their day in the company of each other, in Lumiere and Plumette’s case, or with loved ones, in the case of Mrs. Potts. No matter what, all the servants have each other. And Adam has nobody.

casual evermore references whenever we can’t get in a flame pun

….after all, at least when he yelled they looked at him.

someone told me this line broke them and i am forever pleased. yes mofos!!! relish my very slipshod, mostly shite grasp of the english language!!!!! revel in my poor grasp of human psychology!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Lumiere! The night grows old.”

 The crone grows young.

to make up for the shit in the previous chapter, I really enjoy this bit. the whole bashing-between-the-palace-and-the-village nonsense just makes me happy.

Belle wakes up to a jolt in the road, and the rough wool blanket on her face, and the smell of cheese and paint and horse and wind clinging to her skin. She rubs her eyes and tries to wipe away the sleep. They’re in the wagon, again, and Maurice is hunched up in the bench, encouraging Philippe to trot faster. The contents of Belle’s entire life are jammed in around her, a moving nest of drawings and gear-boxes and packets of cabbage-seed.

aaand we’re with belle. I had to rewrite this chapter about five million times because it wasn’t working—I had planned it out too much in advance, you know, and was just like regurgitating the writing rather than writing it—but I’m happy with the textural detail of this bit. Again, sometimes it pays to use the words around what you’re going for rather than the literal sensation; in this case, cheese and paint and horse and wind, and that rough wool blanket. Home, but also chill, and travel, and being uncomfortable, and the 18th century equivalent of going on a road trip and eating crackers in the backseat while dad’s up front and the crackers making the seat all gritty and reading books in the light of the passing streetlamps, ya feel?

Lilles, Reims, Amiens

i don’t understand french geography

A tiny, delicate gesture from his long fingers; it is a surprisingly sophisticated movement for a man in a yellow peasant’s vest, with candle wax creased in the dirt between his fingernails.

this whole chapter is slightly hard to read because it’s clearly trying too hard, but i hope i got across (or at least, whacked you across the forehead with) the bits i felt were important: lumiere’s current emptiness, but the last imprints of who he ought to be hanging around. i also tend to mention the peasant’s vest too many fucking times, just because the image of lumiere wearing anything that’s not satin & silk is fucking devestating. also, it will be important later, and i need yall to remember that LUMIERE DOESNT LOOK LIKE HE NORMALLY LOOKS

“I am nothing now,” says the man, in a flash of vehemence so sharp it is like seeing a flame in the middle of the forest. He looks up to her—his face broad, and white; and it is an empty face, and beyond the fire in his words there is nothing there at all. It is as if someone washed out all his color, and left him only with his yellow vest.  

you can tell, again, this is a lumiereswig fic because suddenly the language is all about fires and flashing and flickers and flames and there’s probably going to be a reference to the sun fucking setting at some point

also, honestly, this was hard to write because i was seeing it as a fucking movie in my head, and transcribing ‘ewan mcgregor lies on a village stoop looking fucking dismal’ is not what literary writing is made of

He welcomes her to the stoop with the flick of a wrist and a tiny nod with the pipe,

just to remind everyone once a-fucking-gain, Lumiere Is Not Normal, And You Can Tell Because He’s Not Being Very Welcoming. like honestly if you don’t say hello by doing a song and dance what the fuck are you doing

“I knew someone once who treasured books that way as well,” he says, and a smile drifts across his face, homeless. Something in him is sparking up at the story: dim, and faint, but laughing. “He once made me read the whole Odyssey—”

ok yes thank god the fic is finally getting good again

Sorceresses turning people to pigs, and the lily-eaters forgetting their homes, and Penelope undoing the days until her husband returns

ON. THE FUCKING. NOSE

also if i make a literary reference in a fic i am almost 100% of the time trying to make an obvious as fuck connection between the two

Deeply, deeply frightened. Not of the man on the stoop—she has never seen anyone more harmless, to be quite honest; he is such an empty man, with such silent, lifeless limbs—but of the thing inside his eyes when he speaks of his past. It is Other—a thing not rooted in a Parisian background, or the empty face, or the subdued soul. It is a large streak of gray inside the man’s blue eyes, a gray empty and unnatural and as hollow as cold ice. Staring at his eyes, Belle finds herself clutching her arms with fear.

ahhhh fuck subtlty has gone totally out the window. yall are kind and see what i was going for, but i swear this could be better done if i knew shit

It is obvious to Belle that this is a practiced ritual, the sharing of the secret wine.

in retrospect this fic would be sadder if cogsworth or lumiere weren’t friends, but uhh…i just couldnt bring myself to it.

“Oh là là, he acts as if the French accent is difficult,” says Lumiere, puffing smoke….

LIKE YOU CAN SPEAK FRENCH ANYWAY, YOU SCOTTISH DIPSHIT.

“Get off my stoop!” yells the woman. “D’you have wine down there, Lumiere?“

“If you cannot take a little cheap wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” calls Lumiere.

and that’s called taking yourself too seriously and referencing your own fic from a few chapters ago

“Mrs. Potts, the crockery-man’s wife,” says Lumiere, and takes a large gulp of the wine. “I barely know her. Thank God.”

PROBABLY THE BEST LINE IN THIS FIC SO FAR. fucking love the simplicity that does so much more than every labored reference to emtpy fucking limbs or colorless eyes beforehands. one simple line and we’re all fucking realizing THE EXTENT OF ALL THIS SHIT

i gotta head off now but i’ll do the rest later tonight

[send me one of my fics (or a bit from a fic) and i’ll do director’s commentary on it—ask here]

[beatrice-otter]

First Lines Meme

RULES: List the first lines of the last ten stories you published. Look to see if there are any patterns that you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any! Then tag some friends.

Tagged by @redrikki, and I’m tagging @quinfirefrorefiddle and @jacquez45 and @tielan

1) There was nothing.  She had come to see whatever it was, but there was nothing to see.  Quite literally nothing; a white blankness with no form or texture, and flat somehow, as if it was almost insubstantial.  The End. (In Which Mrs. Jane Dupree Has An Adventure (The Finding Herself Remix))

2) T'Lasid held herself very still in her crash couch for almost eight full minutes before removing her harness and standing up. (Solivagant)

3) Mummy had always been so particular on the proper ladylike way to sit, and Lucy thought that if it was important for ladies to sit properly it was probably even more important for queens to sit properly, and so, when Aslan crowned them and they sat before their new subjects on the four thrones in Cair Paravel, Lucy was very careful to sit properly. (A Song Too Far)

4) It was a dangerous thing to speculate about, Susan knew.  What she didn't know, she couldn't betray.  She shouldn't even be thinking about it.  All it would take was one telepath scanning her—and she certainly didn't trust Bester or one of his type not to, and B5 was busy and crucial enough that something would happen sooner or later to draw a PsiCop's notice.  Again. (Finishing the Race)

5) "My dear Mrs. Collins," said Mr. Collins to his new bride, "welcome to Hunsford Parsonage." (Far Above Rubies)

6) The first—and only—time Edwin tried to dress Mr. Stark, it did not go well. (A New Arrangement)

7) Milica stared up at the ceiling of her cell, not that she could see it. It was the middle of the night, and it was raining outside, and she was cold even with the thick wool blanket on her bed.  The shutter was doing very little to keep out the cold wind, although it was keeping the rain out quite well.  It was also keeping the light out—not that there would have been much light anyway, with such a storm.  (Echolocation)

8) "The Kai gave you what?" Nerys squawked. (Nerys and the Emissary)

9) Lando's first impression of Luke Skywalker wasn't very positive.  Dumb kid who stumbled into the Empire's crosshairs somehow and then wandered into an incredibly obvious trap and needed to be rescued by the very friends he was supposed to be rescuing.  Lando felt sorry for him, sure—he'd been young and stupid himself, once, although surely never that bad?  And he'd been totally outclassed by Vader, and was lucky to have gotten away at all.  A hand was a small price to pay for a life. (Introductions)

10) Katherine wasn't a chatterbox like Mary or even as talkative as Dorothy could be, but she was especially quiet for the rest of the day. (A Touch Of Hands)

Things I notice: first, most of these (7/10) are ficathon entries.  I have a problem finishing things unless I have a deadline.  I have lots of fic that I have ideas for, but it takes a while to get out onto the screen without outside pressure of some sort.  (And, alas, people commenting on WIPs asking for updates doesn’t seem to do the trick, or Past Lives would be done by now.)

Second, only one of these stories has a white man as a viewpoint character.  This is not surprising to me, because it’s a deliberate choice.  Our society pays far more attention to white men than anybody else, and fandom largely reflects that.  So my general rule of thumb is to not tell stories about white men, because they’re more likely to be told with or without my attention.  This is both a social justice issue and an artistic issue.  Untrodden territories give me more scope.  It’s also a practical issue; I always have lots of plot bunnies, more than I could ever write, and tossing out the ones about white men (unless they’re REALLY compelling to me) helps me narrow down the field and make a decision.

Third, I am very definitely poly-fannish.  There’s only one fandom that repeats, and that’s a metafandom.  Nerys and the Emissary and Solivagant are both Star Trek fics, but one is DS9 and the other is TOS.

[jayne-hecate-writer]

A whole new me-ish...

Dear friends, it has been so long and I have become a new person! Well, no, not really. I'm still me. I still have a filthy mouth and a foul mind, but writing has taken a back seat to the other things I have started creating.

Since the Covid lock down I have been experimenting with model making and painting, taking a particular interest in lighting said models with LEDs, better known among us nerds as Light Emitting Diodes. LEDs come in many shapes and sizes, plus they produce a very good variety colours, they also draw relatively little power and finally, they can be run from a watch battery. As you can see, there is lots to like with LEDs, but there is a downside, to them if you want to use a lot, for a start you need to use more power than you get from a watch battery. Connecting LEDs to a larger battery pack or power supply is a great way to pop them completely, or build them up into a slowly failing system. The way to avoid doing this is to use a resistor, to reduce current flow into the LED and prevent it burning out. Calculating the value of resisters is fairly simple, but I have to reply on the resistors I can salvage from the various pieces of broken equipment I have access to. In this case, I was able to scavenge the resisters and LEDs from the three broken printers I had in my stocks of trash electronics.

Now speaking of F**king printers, I made a discovery while taking apart my failed Cannon printer/scanner. It had a reservoir inside where the ink got dumped during use. Basically, it had a series of tubes that took the ink from the head and dumped it into a wads of cotton wool at the back of the machine, that made the inside of the printer case absolutely filthy with wasted ink. The two HP printers I dismantled, did not have this system and it led me to wonder, was this the cause of the constant need to replace ink in the Canon? Was it really continuously pumping horrifically expensive ink into the waste bin? If this was the case, what a terribly wasteful system and I can confirm that having seen this system, I will never buy a Canon printer again. I am sure that it had another purpose, other than to rapidly waste ink, but it was a terrible system in which a brand new ink cartridge lasted less than a week.

My model projects started fairly simply, with a small Hotwheels car that I found and then painted, as reported in a previous blog post on here. The second model was a scratch built Star Wars Pod Racer, made from recycled bubble bath bottles, hand sanitiser bottles and bottle tops. Again I fitted different coloured LEDs to resemble engine glow and the strange energy binding that holds the jet engines together. I made the base from scrap wood and cardboard and added stones and pebbles from the garden, all covered with a Papier-mâché and baking soda. The paint was acrylic from the local cheap shop and it is surprisingly good.

From here I moved onto another hotwheels car, this time with a zombie theme and full LED lights. I went on-line and found an inch tall figure from the TV show Walking Dead, who was a character called Daryl. In the show he wore a lot of black leather black leather according to the photos I found on line and in this case, used a large kitchen cleaver. With model railway grass and another twig from the garden to look like a felled tree, the scene was set and I was very proud of this creation. So much so in fact, that I gifted it to a very dear friend of mine who like me loves a good zombie movie.

The next project was a repair and build for a Snap On Tools branded toy break down truck that my lovely wife had been given along with a set of Snap On sockets she bought when she was working as a motorcycle mechanic. Over the years, the truck had been played with by children, dropped into toy boxes and it was looking really rather second hand. The wing mirrors, door handles, rear facing lights and both cranes needed repairing or replacing and I sculpted the replacements parts from superglue and baking soda or from lumps of solder, all of which I carved with files and a scalpel. The broken parts were repaired and finally the truck was stripped down to the component parts and thoroughly cleaned, before being put back together. Once the truck was finished, it really needed a place to sit, so I designed a garage from the 1950s for it to sit in, with an old style petrol pump and a couple of oil barrels.

The petrol pump was a 1/24 scale resin model kit purchased on line and the rest of the garage was built using recycled cardboard and lollypop sticks. I used a series of garden stones and then a tub of sand brought back from Bermuda by a close family friend, some time ago. The sand was a lovely pink colour, made up crushed coral and shells. It is perfect for modelling because it is not the boring granular sand of my local beach, which is gritty, fine and easily wind blown sand. By this time I was experimenting with colour washes, applied to painted base coats. The depth of the colour achieved is just lovely and the lighting effects really bring out the glow of the paint. With the garage finished, a few Easter egg details were added that only the most observant nerd will notice. But there was still a large hole in the model that needed to be filled somehow. Dearest wifey went web browsing found a scale model of a Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle and it fitted perfectly into the gap, to be illuminated by a soft white LED. Once finished, I could not have been more pleased than when Wifey took the model and plugged it in. Oh yes, this time I had used a PSU or power supply unit with a timer circuit to run the LEDs as a night light in our hallway to the bathroom. Given how many of  the LEDs I had used to light the garage forecourt, the shop window and parking bay, mains power was really the only option. On this occasion, I purchased a set of pre-wired LEDs that already had a resister fitted in series with the LED, meaning that it is safe to run them on the mains power.

My next model was a Motorcycle diorama, a classic Kawasaki Zephyr, a model kit found on e-Bay that was then imported from Japan. The kit was perfectly formed, it was hard to believe that they had been moulded from plastic, however the detail was so fine, my old eyes needed a magnifying glass to see them clearly for paint or glue. Once the bike was fully assembled, I built a small ten centimetre squared street scene, with a graffiti covered wall and a drink machine for the bike to sit with. The Pepsi dispensing machine was purchased from e-Bay yet again, for just a few pennies and it is beautifully printed onto photo-paper, meaning that the finished model when assembled is exquisite. The nearly completed model once again needed something else and I was at a loss of what to do. Yet the thought of lights never strays far from my mind and I designed a street lamp with an orange glow to look like an old sodium lamp. My childhood was spent in the gloom of sodium lamps, both here and abroad, when catching ferries at four in the morning to travel across Europe. The lamppost was made from a sliver of scrap wood and some tissue paper to give it a concrete like texture, with two orange LEDs secreted in the head. Once finished, I was not overly happy with the result, but by that time, it was too late to go back. The lighting effect was really nice though, but the weathering and fake litter were really effective additions, making it look like the bike was parked on double yellow lines in a very run down city street.

This led (snigger) me into my most recent model, another Star Wars inspired diorama, this time in 1/18 scale, with Hasbro Clone Trooper action figures and an old, rather broken Maisto motorbike. Normally, Star Wars has little to do with motorcycles, but while filming the Obi Wan Kenobi series, Ewan McGreggor was photographed during a break, sitting on his own motorcycle reading a copy of a motorcycle newspaper, while in his full Obi Wan costume. This was all the inspiration I needed and I found that the broken motorcycle model was just the right size for the action figures. Once again, I devised a plan, found the LEDs and used the parts from my destroyed printers. I even managed to use the scanner light head, at first using a variable resistor to adjust the glow. Sadly I over ran the strip and the LEDs burned out. Luckily I had a spare to play with and used a recovered resistor to run it instead. This has the opposite problem to the variable resistor which had too little resistance, being too high a resistance to allow a full glow from the strip of LEDs. I gave one of the Clone Troopers a bong made to look like it was made from the leg of a battle droid, with a flickering orange resister to show the burning spice in the bowl. The other clone was given a spray can of bright blue spray paint, modelled from plastic scraps and superglue. Again, once the model scenery was constructed, I really enjoyed the weathering and dirtying of the street. The washes have made all of the plastic parts look like rusted metal girders or filthy litter soiled streets or heavily corroded chemical pipes. I absolutely love the process of weathering, taking something shiny, well painted and nice looking and turning it into something filthy, damaged and rusted, with just a few washes of colour and stain.

So this is what I have been doing, as well as writing the occasional short story for a Christmas book release, editing the writing club book in time for another Christmas release and even working on the sequel to my first novel, Letitia. So how does this make me a new person? Well, I have finally embraced the fact that I am an artist and I absolutely love playing with paint. I may not be able to draw particularly well and I certainly cannot sculpt in clay or stone, but I can build and paint model scenes scratch build my own kits from trash to compliment the model kits or other parts acquired else where. I have to be honest, it is all such fun.

[mingot-studios]

Invader Zim: GA83 ^3

PROF. MEMBRANE: (CALLING) Kids! Get ready. Prof. Neon and Dr. Cler will be here any minute!

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – FOYER – CONTINUOUS

A panicky Gabe looks for a hiding place. 

GA83: (PANICKED YELP) Oh no. Better ride this one out in the closet.

He OPENS the coat closet. Dib and Gaz are already huddled inside.

GAZ: Sorry, Gabe. This is our spot.

GA83: Oh yeah? Well, It’s my house too, so it’s also my spot.

DIB: Nu-uh because we called it.

GA83: (DEFIANT) Did not.

GAZ: Well, we’re calling it now.

GA83: (ALARMED) You are?

DIB: I’m afraid so.

GA83: (MOANS) They got me with their legal mumbo-jumbo.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – A SECOND LATER

Gabe looks around desperately. He lifts up the rug but FOODIO 3000 and CLEMBRANE are there. They GROWL at him as he cautiously lowers the rug.

SFX: DOORBELL. 

PROF. MEMBRANE: (V.O.) Just a second!

GA83: (PANICKED SOUND)

Gabe sees a tall bookcase, pushes it out from the wall, and ducks behind it.

GA83:  Huh. I never looked behind this whatchamacallit case before.

Gabe CHUCKLES and leans cockily against the wall. Strangely, his elbow passes through the solid wall.

GA83: Huh? 

(Gabe stares in disbelief as he slides his arm in and out of the wall. The wall shimmers slightly and there are occasional blue sparks around his arm.)

GA83: It's like something out of that show where Mr. Membrane does weird experiments on stuff.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – FOYER – CONTINUOUS

Prof. Membrane opens the door and DR. CLER and PROF. NEON barge in.

DR. CLER: How are you doing, Prof. Membrane, sir?

(Prof. Neon starts to take off his heavy overcoat. It’s raining outside.)

PROF. NEON: Ugh. I’m melting like a metamorphic geode under this wet wool.

He OPENS the closet door, revealing Dib and Gaz. They attempt to look casual. 

DIB: (COVERING) Uhh….May I take your coat, Prof. Neon?

GAZ: (STILTED) I...would..also like to take your coat.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – A FEW SECONDS LATER

The morose-looking kids enter, followed by Prof. Membrane, Dr. Cler and Prof. Neon. Dr. Cler carries a large RATTLING sack.

PROF. NEON: Have we got a fun, sciencey activity for you!

DR. CLER: A pillowcase containing seashells from our expedition to Sulfur Bay.

PROF. NEON: You can help us clean, organize and label them.

DR. CLER: And remove all of the deceased crustaceans from within them. Go get a screwdriver.

Prof. Neon heads toward the bookcase where Gabe is hiding.

BEHIND THE MACHINE

Gabe's eyes widen in horror as Prof. Neon heads right toward him.

GA83: (STIFLED YELP) I’ll take my chances in the mystery wall.

Gabe steps through the wall and into… 

THE THIRD DIMENSION

We see a shimmering wall (a la Stargate). Gabe gradually emerges from it – first his groping hands, then his stomach, his face, and finally his entire body – all rendered in stunning 3-D COMPUTER GRAPHICS. Gabe steps toward the camera and looks around in awed disbelief at a wondrous landscape we can’t yet see.

GA83: (AWED) Holy macaroni! What is this place?

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – SAME TIME

Newspapers are spread out on the floor and the rest of the family sits glumly prying hermit crabs, etc., out of the shells.

DR. CLER: (SLURPING SOUND, FOLLOWED BY SPITTING SOUND) Hey! You can just suck ‘em out!

GA83: (ECHOEY) Hello? Can anybody hear me?

Everyone looks around in confusion. (Note: All of Gabe's voice-overs have an unearthly quality.)

DIB: Gabe? Gabe, Where are you?

GA83: (V.O.) I’m somewhere where I don’t know where I am. 

GAZ: Do you see beakers? If you see beakers, you’re probably in the chemical closet again.

GA83: (V.O.) Just a second…No, no, it’s a place I’ve never been before.

PROF. NEON: Ah, the shower! (LAUGHS)

GA83: (V.O.) Hey!

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION

Gabe stands on an endless grid of glowing green lines. In a sweeping 360-degree tracking shot around Gabe, we see a sparse landscape of standard 3-D shapes, columns and the like, in various colors and textures. [ANIMATORS NOTE: The following equations appear on background objects: 1 + 1 = 2, e(fi) = -1, P = NP, 1782(12) + 1841(12) = 1922(12), m0 > 3H0(2)/8piG, 46 72 69 6E 6B 20 72 75 6C 65 73 21] Gabe gropes around looking for the entrance he came through.

GA83: (NOT ECHOEY) I don't wanna freak you guys out, but I think I might be trapped in here.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – SIMULTANEOUS

PROF. MEMBRANE: Son, you better call Ruby. She has a ladder.

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION

Gabe marvels at his three-dimensional body, running his hands over his bulging armor and his puffy limbs. 

GA83: What’s going on here? I’m so bulgy. My armor sticks way out in front and my…

He turns to see his rear end.

GA83: (SMALL SCREAM)

SCENE 8

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – A FEW MINUTES LATER

Ruby stands atop her stepladder in the middle of the living room looking all-around at the top of the room.

RUBY: Well, as the tree said to the lumberjack – I’m stumped.

PROF. CLER: Hmm. It's like he disintegrated into CARBON dioxide. (LAUGHS)

GA83: Hey! Quit it!

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION

Gabe begins exploring this strange new world. He strolls curiously past the marble temple from the game “MYST”, then kneels at a reflecting pool. As New Age MUSIC plays, a school of hauntingly beautiful golden fish swims by and leaps into the air. Gabe continues on, passing a three-way street sign marking the intersection of X, Y, and Z streets. The chrome sign gleams with the standard 3-D shimmer effect.

GA83: Man, this is a once in a lifetime thing. I feel like I'm wasting it just standing here. (STARTS HUMMING) Better make the most of it. (BEAT, THEN) (YAWN)

A cone comes rolling across the ground like a tumbleweed. It bounces and jabs Gabe in the butt.

GA83: (RUBBING BUTT) Ow! Watch it, coney!

Gabe hurls the cone, sending it spinning towards the camera. It flies through the air, falls, and TEARS a small “black hole” in the grid (where the lines bend down into darkness). We hear a faint WHOOSHING SUCTION sound.

GA83: Oops...

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – LATER

SARG. SLAB WRANKLE, MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES HOST, COUNTESS. VON VERMINSTRASSER, and ZIM have arrived to help.

MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES HOST: (CALLING OUT) Do you see a light, Gabe?

GA83: (V.O.) Yes. 

MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES HOST: Move into the light.

GA83: (SIZZLING SOUND) Ow!

COUNT. VON VERMINSTRASSER: Gabe, this is Countess von Verminstrasser. Can you tell us what it’s like in there?

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION

Gabe looks around at the glittering landscape. The black hole has gotten slightly larger.

GA83: Um, it’s like, ahm… did anyone see last night’s "Mysterious Mysteries"?

IN THE LIVING ROOM

COUNT. VON VERMINSTRASSER: No.

GAZ: No.

SARG. SLAB RANKLE: No.

PROF. MEMBRANE: No.

DIB: No. 

DR. CLER: No.

SARG. SLAB RANKLE: No.

RUBY: No.

PROF. NEON: No.

ZIM: No.

MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES HOST: No.

SARG. SLAB RANKLE: Yes. I mean no. No.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – A LITTLE LATER

The machine has been moved aside. Zim has drawn a chalk circle around the dimensional door in the wall. 

PROF. MEMBRANE: Well, where’s my son’s metal friend? 

ZIM: Well, it should be obvious to even the most dimwitted human worm baby– who holds an advanced degree in hyperbolic topology – that Genocide Automata Unit 83 has stumbled into… (DRAMATICALLY) the Third Dimension. (LIGHTS GO OUT)

DIB: (TURNS LIGHTS BACK ON) Sorry.

PROF. MEMBRANE: So THAT’S where that went! I was wondering where that portal had gotten to.

ZIM: SILENCE WORM BABY! Zim shall explain.

Zim draws a square on a blackboard.

ZIM: Here is an ordinary square…

SARG. WRANKLE: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Shorty!

ZIM: But suppose we extend the square beyond the two dimensions of our universe, along the hypothetical Z-axis there.

Zim extends his chalk square into a cube. The onlookers GASP in astonishment. 

ZIM: This forms a three-dimensional object known as a “cube” or a “Zimahedron”, in honor of its discoverer. (CHUCKLES)

GA83: (SCARED) Help me! Are you helping me, or are you going on and on!?

ZIM: (AFTERTHOUGHT) Oh, right, and of course, within we find the doomed automata.

He draws a crude picture of Gabe trapped within the cube. Gabe's expression is one of unmitigated horror.

SARG. SLAB RANKLE: Enough of your yappin’, Haffpint! A bot’s life is at stake! We need action!

Rankle draws his gun and FIRES six shots into the portal.

SARG. SLAB RANKLE: Take that, you lousy dimension!

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION SCENE 9

Gabe cowers as the bullets zoom at him. At the last second, however, the bullets are pulled off course by the black hole, which is growing larger by the second. The bullets orbit around a few times, then spiral down into oblivion. Gabe peers into the black hole, scared. 

GA83: Oh, there’s so much I don’t know about astrophysics. I wish I'd stayed awake for Mr. Membrane’s 9-hour lecture on it.

Suddenly, Gabe's face starts to stretch and twist down the hole, becoming many meters long.

GA83: (DISTORTED SHRIEK)

He quickly yanks his face back. He backs away from the hole as it continues to widen. The WHOOSHING suction increases, pulling in objects, including the MYST Temple and the golden fish. OMINOUS MUSIC BUILDS.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS

The spectators mill about in consternation. Aikirita enters, wearing an old-fashioned deep-sea diving suit.

AKIRITA: I’ll save Gabe-san. All I need is four stout men to work the bellows.

Dib wheels out an old-timey hand-cranked generator, which is hooked up to Aikirita. Aikirita closes the porthole on her helmet and heads toward the wall. Membrane stops her.

PROF. MEMBRANE: No, Akirita, it’s too risky. For all we know, there could be cubes in there the size of gorillas and other large…

GA83: (V.O.) Help! I don’t have much time!

GAZ: That does it. I’m going in!

Gaz has tied a rope around her waist. She rushes toward the wall.

DIB: Gaz, no!

Before he can stop her, she vanishes into the wall.

IN THE THIRD DIMENSION

We see Gaz becoming three-dimensional as she steps through the portal. She looks around in wonder.

GAZ: Cool.

GAZ’S POV

The ROAR OF THE WIND is deafening as the black hole sucks in most of the remaining objects. Gaz sees a terrified Gabe on the far side of the vortex.

OVERHEAD SHOT

The black hole now takes up almost the entire universe. Gabe stands on a narrow ledge, trying not to fall in.

GA83:(CRAZED) IMGONNABESUCKEDINTOTHEBLACKHOLEIMGONNABESUCKEDINTOOBLIVIONIMGONNABENOTHINGANDWHATSWAITINGFORMEONWHENICOMEOUTTHEOTHERSIDE I DON’T KNOOOOW!

GAZ: I’ll save you, Gabe!

The sign for X, Y and Z streets is bent over the black hole like a palm tree in a hurricane. Gaz shimmies out to the end and extends her arm toward Gabe.

GAZ: Oh, I can’t get any closer! You’ll have to jump! 

GA83: (CONFIDENT) Piece of cake, Gaz!

Gabe attempts to fly over to Gaz but his turbines give out and he falls straight down the wall of the vortex and disappears breaking up into his component spheres, cubes, etc. On the way.)

GA83: (AS HE DISAPPEARS) CRUDCRUDCRUDCRUDCRUDCRUDCRUDCRUD!

The CREAKING street sign reaches its breaking point. It SNAPS off and falls into the black hole.

GAZ: (SCREAM)

Gaz tumbles into the darkness but is suddenly yanked out of frame by the rope as the entire grid COLLAPSES in on itself.

INT. MEMBRANE HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Wrankle, Verminstrasser, etc., jerk on the rope, pulling Gaz back in through the portal with an electric SPARK. There’s a beat of silence as Gaz shakily stands up and turns to Prof. Membrane.

PROF. MEMBRANE: Gazlene, what happened?!

GAZ: Well, we hit a little snag when the universe sorta collapsed on itself…. but Gabe seemed cautiously optimistic.

GA83: (DISTANT) CRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUD!

DIB: Oh, Gabe… 

MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES HOST: Be strong, Dib. I’m sure he’s gone to a better place.

EXT. All – LIVE ACTION

There is an electrical CRACKLE, and a live-action CGI Gabe falls from the sky and lands in a dumpster.

GA83: (FALLING NOISE, PUNCTUATED BY ANNOYED GRUNT)

He dusts himself off, climbs out of the dumpster, and looks around.

GA83: Aw! This place is even worse!

He cautiously begins making his way down the sidewalk. PEDESTRIANS (including our regular voice cast members) pass by gawking and pointing at Gabe.

GA83: Omigosh… (TERRIFIED WHISPERS)

Under the closing credits, a frightened Gabe lumbers down the street past more wary pedestrians – a stranger in a strange land. As the credits close, Gabe looks in a store window.

GA83: (HAPPILY) Ooh, 50% off on comics!

Gabe perks up and confidently strides into the store.

FADE OUT:

THE END

[nanowrimo]

Writing With Mobility Issues: How to Draft a Novel

We’re getting ready for Camp NaNoWriMo this July! This month, we’re talking to Wrimos who have tailored the Camp format to suit their writing habits. Today, participant Karen Haakma shares how to write a draft of your novel when some of the more commonly prescribed methods don’t work for you:

Meet Mackley. He has spiky hair, his forehead is wider than his chin, and his right limbs are shorter than his left. He has no fashion sense. A very indecisive dreamer, he hides it beneath a carapace of dependability and loyalty.

Mackley would never have existed if I had followed one of the more “traditional” formulas for planning a novel: “Go to the nearest mall / architecturally interesting building / sports game. Take multiple notebooks. Ask yourself screes of questions about what and who you see / hear / taste / smell / touch. Answer each one thoroughly in longhand. When you get home, transfer everything to index card. Lay them on the floor. Stand up. Examine the layout. Get down again and move the cards around. Stand up. Lather, rinse, repeat, until you’re satisfied with the result.”

This method presumes I can move around freely and read my handwriting on a 10x5 cm card from a standing distance. I can’t do either. Heck, I can hardly read my writing when it’s sitting on my wheelchair tray less than half a meter from my nose. It also presumes I can leave my home independently, and that wheelchair access is the norm. I can’t, and it isn’t.

So, should I give up because I have mobility issues and staring at pages of text leaves me lost and confused? Should you?

 No. Not yet. At least try these tips first:

1. Identify your abilities.

Can you:

Draw, paint, or sculpt?

Cut, glue, staple, or tape?

Take photos?

Work a remote or a mouse?

Taking stock of what you are able to do can help you figure out the best way to gather and store ideas, inspiration, and information for your writing.

 2. Identify your workspace.

Is it:

A small area like a tray, over-bed table, or your lap?

The circle of your arm’s reach?

A table or bench your wheelchair won’t fit under?

Can you use multiple areas to give you more room?

Try to make sure that your physical workspace allows you to use those abilities you just identified.

 3. Identify your resources. 

Do you have:

Regular deliveries of medical / incontinence products?

Packaging from ongoing prescriptions?

Materials you use for the skills identified in Step 1?

Food & food packaging?

Having all of your materials in a list and close at hand can help you feel prepared to begin.

4. Choose appropriate storage.

Once you’ve answered the first three questions, you can start to decide how you are going to store the information and inspirations you gather. Why storage first? Because it’s extremely frustrating to jot an exciting idea down on a scrap of paper, only to find it a week later and think “What does ‘Mackley’s circular dachshund’ even mean?” (I still don’t know!)

Some storage ideas are:

A mini filing box made from a pill box.

Memo cards folded over a ribbon strung between two portable objects or pinned to a wall. Wire racks (like those from the oven) can also be used.

A spiral-bound pad can be the basis for a visual Mind Map. Thread a piece of wool through the top and hang it somewhere. I am going to use Mackley’s photo to inspire one of these about him.

Voice recordings are handy when you’re low on energy.

Some ideas are “instant storage.” This means that the information gathering and the storage happen simultaneously–Sculptures, models, pictures, and photos are some examples.

Find your inspiration, then store it immediately–don’t wait!

5. Look to commonplace objects for inspiration.

Be creative!

I’ve watched a TV show through a camera lens just to get a photo of a particular person / place / object.

Movies, video clips, and TV shows, especially when muted, can teach a lot about movement and interaction. Documentaries and news bulletins give realistic snapshots of nature.

I needed a river for a 3D map, so I cut the excess tubing from an IDC bag, wrapped it in blue ribbon, and taped it in place.

Plastic packaging can be moulded into hills and mountains.

Small boxes can be made into buildings.

Textures are my favorite for internal character development. Close your eyes. Take into account not only what your skin feels, but what you know about the object you’re touching. Does it melt or harden when hot? When squeezed, does it keep its shape or explode?

I’ve gotten free note pads by ordering free paint sample cards online.

Pretty much anything can be used to conceptualize a physical description of a character.

For me, writing is the most accessible activity of all. It doesn’t cost a lot of money. It doesn’t need travel. It doesn’t need a lot of bending and stretching. All it needs is you, your imagination, and some out-of-the-box thinking.

Karen Haakma lives in Hamilton, New Zealand. Though she has wheels for legs, she hates the word ‘disabled’, preferring to be called a cripple. (To see why, read the explanation on her fanfiction profile). She has participated in NaNoWriMo for 4 years and won each time, though she has only finished 2 of those stories. She has written 23 fanfiction stories, and has ideas for 3 original novels. She enjoys amalgamating her love of craft with her love of writing. Visit her on Twitter @rhinosgirl40.

[outlawqueenbey]

The Proverbial White Light (Darkness Verse Pt.3)

Previous Chapters can be found here:

Pt.1: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11702125/65/Life-and-Times-of-Outlaw-Queen

Pt.2: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11702125/66/Life-and-Times-of-Outlaw-Queen

PART 3: 

“Hello My Love”

She freezes, breath stalling in a painful hitch at the sound of his voice, a voice she has been clinging to for months, one that is seeming to be right behind her all of a sudden. It can’t be though. He isn’t here, he is somewhere else, somewhere she can never bring him back from. This is just her imagination running wild thanks to the memories of being in the forest with him. That’s all this this. A facade. A farce. An impossible reality.

When she closes her eyes, she still isn’t really sure, but her other senses heighten in the blindness. She tries to breathe, counting in a slow five seconds as she pulls in air, holds it for four and lets it seep out her nose in a seven second breath. Again and again she does it, goes to draw in a third inhale, but there is crinkling of dead shrubbery on the ground crunching under behind her, a sharp contrasting noise, she pleads it to be from his boots, leather and worn making their way towards her. The air is warm on her skin, warmer than a few moments ago, her heart beating frantically when the sound suddenly stops, halts dead quiet and there is nothing but the sound of her shaky breath and the ripple of wind through the forest. The forest. It smells like forest. Thick and vibrant in the overwhelming pine.

“Regina?” She clenches again at the soft whisper of his voice, inhales it greedily through her nose, and staggers in a dizzy sway on the spot. Her balance shifts, the world tilts on it’s axis, pulling her sideways. Her knees begin to buckle, and she waits to fall. But something tentatively touches her hips. Ten fingers brush against her, two palms burn like wildfire into her skin beneath the wool coat. She leans desperately into it, the touch that is throwing everything out of proportion and yet keeping it all steady at the same time. The hands that hold her waist slowly move around her stomach, anchoring her back to the sounding beat of a heart. His heart.

Perhaps this isn’t heaven, but hell. Getting the chance to feel him breathing again behind her, to feel him so close, it’s torture.

Tears flame into her squeezed shut eyes, brimming thickly into her lashes as they fall onto her warm cheeks, winding slowly down in heavy droplets as she feels his stubble scratch against her cheek. She stills, freezes in place. He feels so real.

“I missed you.” Her words catch in her throat. It’s near painful how much she truly has missed him. How terribly she has longed for him to hold her like this again. So so much. Her fingers shake as they feel the skin on the back of his hands around her abdomen. He feels so real. So god damn unbelievably real. The speckling of light hairs on his hands, the round dullness of his fingernails, even the coarse texture where she knows the built up calluses from years of living in the forest are.

“I’ve missed you as well my love.”  He sighs into her, letting her fingers twine into his own.

She lets her eyes flutter open, blurred by the tears, but she can see their hands are laced together, a feeling she’s longed to have back. “Are you real?” Her words stumble but her eyes refuse to turn from the trees in front of her, her entire body frozen to the spot, terrified that if she turns around he won’t be there, that this is just a trick of the mind.

He smiles against her temple, “In a sense I suppose.” His lips pressing a lingering kiss to her hair, and she feels him start to turn her, and regardless of the fearful pumping of her heart that this is a lie, she lets him do it, move her body one hundred and eighty degree around. She wobbles in her heels as his frame comes into view.

It’s just how she remembers him, a perfect picture she’s branded into her mind. The worn dark brown trousers, thick green coat, beige shirt draped over his chest, framing his body up to the burgundy scarf that hangs from his neck. She can’t look up. Can’t find the strength to trace the muscles of his neck that will surely fade into the hard line of his stubbled sandy blonde jaw where his dimples lay hidden. She can’t bring herself to trace his thin pink lips with her eyes, opting to use her fingers to do so as she stares at the way his chest pulls in a breath and lets it go steadily, over and over again. He is smiling, that she can feel through the shake of her hands that cup his cheeks, thumbs smooth over his beard beneath the slope of his straight nose. His hands hold her close, encased at the base of her spine, letting her wander blindly up to the bridge of his brow, running through his tousled hair, and back to his eyes he shuts for her.

“Let me see you.” He begs quietly, tilting her chin up with two fingers, before he follows her path, and runs his hand over the smooth porcelain of her cheek, anchoring behind her ears and through her hair, “Open your eyes My Love.” She lets out a scared shudder, a tear falling for a moment before his thumb brushes it away, as her lashes flutter open, and the world stands still.

Crystal bright blue, rimmed in dark ocean coloring, the dotting of hazel and gold flecks, it holds her eyes like a vice.  They are everything she has dreamed about and more. And it’s all there. The hope, the curiosity, the love. It swims and burns into her gut.

“Hi.”

She squeaks shyly, disbelieving that he is truly standing in front of her, alive and breathing, touching her, holding her tight to him. He smiles back, dimples on full display as his eyes shine in tears that match her own.

“Hi.”

She moves, or he does, she isn’t completely sure, but it doesn’t matter, not when her arms swing around his neck, his chest melting into her own as she hugs him, fierce and unrelenting, and he does nothing but hold her tight back, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck.

Heaven. This has to be heaven. Only something this...this...perfect could be the eternal happily ever after she’s craved for years. “You’re here.” She cradles into him, carding through the short hairs on the back of his head, “You’re real.”

Tears be damned, she is crying uncontrollably, smiling through every droplet, but crying nonetheless, because for once, hope, long lost hope suddenly blooms in her heart again, and it’s a very welcome feeling.

She hears him muffle into her hair that he is here, that he has missed her so much, so much it’s painful. His hands wrap a little tighter, a heavy breath puffing hot into the nape of her neck as he buries a little further into her, a little closer, a little more, always more.

They stand, beneath the shade of oak trees, in between thick pine and underbrush, for what seems like hours, and she doesn’t care. Hasn’t a single thought in her mind but to hold him forever and even longer than that. Robin however pulls back a fraction, his nose nuzzling against her cheek and he swivels his head enough to catch her eyes again.

He simply stares at her. Wanders her face with his gaze, holding her cheeks in his hands, brushing back a lock of hair from her face. “You’re so beautiful.” He smiles, and she can see the tears cloud his eyes. It’s not happy tears though. Not with the crease in his brow that follows, nor the downturning of his lips into a small frown. “I’m sorry Regina.”

Well of all the things she expected him to say, that was not it. She grimaces, uncertain guilt licking up her spine as she shakes her head, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” The smile she tries to placate him with doesn’t do much, his expression barely changes, but he pulls her face gently to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her forehead before leaning his own against hers. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And where exactly am I?” Her nose bumps his, and he does smile at that. Their own secret little love sentiment. She lets her fingers card through his hair, soft and smooth just like she remember it, and maybe it doesn’t matter where she is. This seems good enough.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve been here ever since…” He swallows. She feels the pain he can’t quite voice. They trade a sad smile, “Since you died.”  Robin nods, blowing out a heavy breath through his nose as he leans back into touch his forehead to Regina’s. “I never meant to leave you.”

“Robin.” She tilts her chin up so their eyes can meet. “You saved my life. You saved your daughter’s life.” Her fingers wipe away the tears that fall from him, “I am the one who is sorry.”

“Oh Regina, no.”

“Hush.” She smiles, silencing him with two fingers on his lips. Her lungs burn as she looks over his face, at the little creases in the corners of his eyes, the small flecks of gray hair lining his temples. “That was my fault.”

“No---”

“I said shush.”

He grins, nips at her fingers, an action that stirs deep in her gut. “You died because I wanted to believe in my sister. In the possibility of redemption for her. I wanted to trust her.” She sighs, running her spare hand back through his hair. “I knew better. In my heart. I knew that I should never have given your daughter so freely away to her. That was not fair of me.”

“Regina.”

“Do you ever listen.” She chides him gently for speaking again. And something hits her. A deep rooted wrench in her gut that soaks into her bones. She’s missed him so much and having him here, being able to talk to him, to feel him again, she may never get this opportunity again.

“Robin.” He looks up at her softly. “I love you.”

He beams at her. Bright like the sun, overwhelmingly blinding as his lips brush over her own, “And I you.” She kisses him, or he kisses her. Either way, she drinks in his taste her mouth has been longing for. The proverbial fountain in a desert. She wobbles as he moves in harder, teasing her tongue with his own, popping and nipping at her lower lip, creating a burning wildfire up and down her spine as she clings to him tighter, losing herself in him. It’s been too long. A shiver licks at her skin when his hands run up her back, around to the front, resting just below her breasts, squeezing gently at her ribcage, a leg pressing into her own, guiding her back slowly. She follows. She always will. Moves cautiously with trust as the mulch beneath their shoes crunches until her back is met with the sturdy bark of a tree trunk. She groans into him, wedging her legs between his, inhaling his fervour as his fingers brush along the buttons of her blouse, thumbing them provocatively.

She wants him. Wants this. Wherever she is, it doesn’t matter, he is here, and that is good enough. He whispers that he loves her, mouthing his way across her jaw, up to that point behind her ear that makes her knees shake. He tells her between each kiss. Down her neck, and over the growing expanse of exposed skin on her chest, he loves her. She wants to tell him she loves him too, but her mind is dizzy, sparking and muddy when he shoves her coat from her shoulders, pooling the fabric on the dirt ground. He loves her with every button he pops open, every taste his tongue takes over the swells of her breasts. Her shirt follows suit quite quickly, floating down as his hands roam her body, over the curves and across the expanse of her stomach.

His breath puffs hot against her breasts as he pulls back, his eyes closed as he grips her hips tight, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t be—”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, removing his coat and scarf in quick succession before her fingers tug at the white cotton fabric that hides his body from her. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” He groans at that, possibly also at the feeling of her hands running along the bareness of his torso as she throws his shirt over his head, her nails scratching gently at the hair between his pecs. It feels good, so bloody good, and he does want her, more than he can actually form words to say. She is giving him those eyes, the ones that are dark and seductive, sparkling with mischief as he watches her hands lace between his own, moving it up slowly to cup her lace clad breasts. They are soft, so god damn soft and perfect in his palms as he squeezes them gently.

She watches him battle between his gentlemanly side and the side she really wants from him, that hungry overwhelming desire to take everything she will give to him. If the way her hips rock up and down his thick, tense thigh, she is more than willingly to give it all to him. She always is.

Always.

Leaving his hands to attend to her breasts and pluck teasingly at her nipples, she makes her way back to his body, curling around his arms, feeling the strength they hold her up with, the way his stomach flexes and tenses at her nails moving to run along the band of his trousers. She smiles at the hitch in his breathing, the way his tongue peeks out to wet his lips as he stares down at her hands. And she thinks he is finally about to give in, what with the provocative moan that escapes him.

“Regina, wait.” She huffs, as he stills her hands on his unbuttoned pants, inhaling heavily for a second before catching her eye. “We need to talk first.”

“Talk?”

He nods, kissing her lips gently, “Talk first, then if you allow, I’d like to ravish you.”

Well… that could be okay. More than okay as she comes back into the reality that she is standing in a forest clearing with Robin… who is technically dead… which should mean that she — “Are we in the afterlife?” She chews on her lip, letting her eyes leave his to look around once more, humming, confused yet amused, “The afterlife is a forest?”

“It changes.” He pecks her cheek from behind, lacing their fingers together as he walks them gently to his makeshift camp.

“Changes how?” She sits beside him, well on him, but that’s not here nor there, she just wants to be close to him. Watching his eyes as they flutter around the clearing, her fingers can’t help but scratch against his stubble softly, a little purr rumbling in his throat at the action as he leans into the affection.

“Well, mainly, yes, it’s been the forest, but some days I wake up and I am in your mansion, or your vault, occasionally it’s Granny’s Diner, but oddly enough wherever I do wake, it’s always somewhere that meant something to me.”

That’s strange, and oddly endearing at the same time. But the afterlife is supposed to be for people to find their better place… so how can he possibly be changing locations? His thumb moves to sweep across her cheek, placating the frown that edges into her brow. “Are you in some sort of limbo?”

“Perhaps?”

“Why?”

He sighs, pressing a kiss to her palm resting on his cheek, “Honestly, I have no idea.”

It’s unfinished business, it has to be. It was the same in the Underworld with Hades and the residents yet to pass on from there. But what could be keeping him here?

“Is it Roland?”

Robin sighs, a heart heavy thing, the longing on his face clear as day. “I miss him, I feel like the worst father leaving him.”

“You can’t think like that. Roland knows you died a hero.”

“He’s so young, Regina.” A tear falls from his eyes that she quickly wipes away, pressing a kiss into his hair to hide her own tears. Falling apart won’t help him move on. Regardless of the pain in her heart, she needs to be strong for him. “There is so much I still wanted to teach him. So much I am going to miss.”

“I know. And I am sorry. For everything.” She sniffs, tucking her cheek against his temple, swallowing back her guilt. “You never should have died because of me.”

“Regina, no.” He pulls back, turning her to face him, sad eyes and all, “I wouldn’t take any of it back.”

“But you’re right. Roland is going to grow up without a father. I never wanted that.”

“I know, but it’s not your fault.” She tries to turn from him, but he cups her cheeks, holding her to him, “It’s not. Don’t you dare think that way. Not for a second, Regina, do I regret giving my life for you. I’d do it again.”

This is why he is too good for her, why she doesn’t deserve him. It’s not fair that the once Evil Queen was allowed to have this man love her so much that he died for her. It’s not right. None of this is right. He shouldn’t be here.

“You know, I’ve been allowed to get a glimpse into what’s been going on since I’ve been gone.” He interrupts the cycling words of her self loathing, and she cocks an eyebrow at him, wiping away her tears as she frowns. “There are mirrors here, and sometimes they let me see you.”

“How?”

“Honestly I don’t know, but I can show you if you’d like?”

She nods, stands from his lap and lets him lead her through the forest, between the trees until he stops at the crest of a hill, and there it is. The mirror kept in her vault, hanging against the bark of a solid tall oak tree. He stands behind her, holding her hips as she traces the dark onyx lines of the glass, watching as it swirls purple in front of her eyes, and her office swims into view.

It’s her. Lying there in a pool of drying blood, cold and horridly still in her black pants and crimson blouse, chocolate brown hair splayed erratically about her paled face, her limbs draped limply over the tiled floor. It’s strange and unsettling, to see herself dead. The sight has her heart twisting, and she hears Robin grimace behind her, landing a row of kisses along her shoulder and up to her cheek, a mumbled, I’m so sorry, echoing into her ear as her eyes flick over to the wish realm version of him, laying beside her, the lack of breath in his body stealing her lungs. She doesn’t really remember him being there in the office, the memory is just the clashing of steel and hot piercing pain.

“Is he dead?” She panics, it’s bad enough she is the reason her Robin died, but to be held responsible for putting this other Robin in danger, the guilt bubbles deep, “What’s wrong with him?”

He doesn’t answer, at least not right away, takes a moment to compose himself from seeing her still body in the mirror, a sight he never wanted to witness. “I think…” He blows out a breath, “I think he is the reason why I am still here.”

“What? Why? How is that possible?”

Robin chuckles at Regina’s confusion. While he would explain it to her, his idea over this residual feeling in his gut, the tether that’s kept him here for a month’s wandering, he can’t figure out how to put it into words, doesn’t exactly know the finite details. Maybe it’s better to not confuse her more, perhaps it’s best to just whisper into her ear that he loves her once more. She smiles into his words, leans into his body for a moment, but there are still questions she has.

“Do you know why you are here? Why you haven’t moved on?”

He pecks her cheek and guides her back between the trees to the clearing she’d found him in. If they are going to have this conversation and try to figure out this tight rope in his chest that won’t allow him to leave, he’d rather be back in the comfort of his camp where he can build her a fire, and snuggle her body into his own. A feeling he’s longed to have again.

Regina doesn’t say much as they make their way back, just lets him lead her wherever he wants to go, it simply feels nice to be holding his hand again, being here with him again, even if here means she is not among the living anymore. A fleeting thought that they could spend all of eternity together crosses her mind, she doesn’t have to be separated from him anymore. But that leaves Henry, and the glow in her heart dims at that. In the clearing, she sits on the log, their log, smiles as he kisses her hand and lets it go, turning to stoke up a fire, the warmth immediately hitting her cooled skin now that night has begun to settle. She watches, and he sends her a wink that makes her tingle from tip to toe, a blush rising deep in her cheeks. She holds his eyes as he sits down beside her, linking their hands together and running his thumb across the expanse of the palm.

“It’s hard to explain, but when I died, I…” He frowns, trying to figure out the words, her gentle nudge for him to keep going as she presses her side into him, a relief from the confusion riddling his brain. “I spent a while in a white fog. There was nothing around, just white light. I figured it was the afterlife, but then I started to hear something.” He turns to find her staring at him intently, a single eyebrow arching high in question. “I could hear you.” Make that two eyebrows near touching her hairline in surprise.

“You could hear me? Like in memories?”

“No, that’s the thing. At first I thought maybe that’s what it was… but I could hear you, or your thoughts as they were occurring right now. Muffled and distant, but it was still you.” He smiles for a second, before sadness clouds his features, “I listened to you rip yourself in two, I could hear the anger and confusion in your mind the second before you did it.”

“You could hear my thoughts?”

Robin shrugs, hopes that she doesn’t see this as an invasion of privacy, he doesn’t want that, just wants to explain how her voice has been following him every second of every day. He’s heard it all. The way she cried at night missing him, missing his son, felt the rooted anguish that wrapped around her day in and day out.

The most startling was probably that he could also hear the Queen, after their separation. He had two voices battling in his brain, yet both saying the same thing, they missed him. Both of them. Even through the Queen’s rage, at the quietest moments in the night, her thoughts would wander to him, baffled by the other Robin’s presence, at war with herself over what she was going to do about Regina and Snow White. It was oddly amusing, listening to her inner monologue. Yes, she may have been hellbent on revenge, but underneath it all, she was just riddled with pain, dejected and lashing out at the fact that Regina had wanted to throw her away.

He spent many hours sitting against this log, listening to them quietly. Sometimes it was just Regina, heartbroken and regretful, the low glow of her voice asking to no one in particular to help her, to give her something to hope for, to look for how to defeat the Queen, how to be happy again. It caused his heart to ache, hearing her muffled tears seeping from her soul, and that’s how he figured it out.

He is tied to this place, this in between because they are soulmates, he can’t move on until they are united again. And while he is thrilled she is here and he can have the chance to hold her, it also means they are both lost to the living, and that is a thought that breaks him.

“Robin?”

“Sorry, love, just thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything. I have sat here for weeks listening to you, hearing your pain, your loss and confusion and I felt helpless that I couldn’t tell you I was there, that there was nothing I could do to ease your mind.”

She kisses his cheek, tucks herself tighter into his side, doesn’t say anything because she isn’t really sure there is anything she can say. He’s right. She did wander alone in the darkness, unknowing how to fix everything, how to find some light again. Perfect masks in place in front of everyone else be damned, inside she was spiralling.

“When you found this other version of me, your voice suddenly became sharp and clear, and the fog I had been walking through lifted and I was here. In this forest, standing beside our log, and I think it’s because no matter what version of us there is, we are still soulmates, I am still always going to be tethered to you in some way.”

“You think you’ve been waiting for me here?”

“I do.”

It’s oddly romantic, in its own strange, bizarre way, and Regina can’t help the tug on her lips, nor the flutter in her stomach. “Can you still hear my thoughts?”

“You mean right now?” Robin tilts his chin down, eyes sparkling cheekily. She lets him stare for a few seconds, not quite ready to break the contact, her teeth peeking out to bite down on her lip playfully as his gaze shifts to her mouth, for a second only before returning to her eyes.

“Well…” He hums as she moves to straddle his lap, linking her arms around his neck as they settle hip to hip, her thighs encasing his own. “I believe…” his hands snake up her back, and then back down to rest on the dip in her spine, “that you are thinking…” Regina smiles, arches into his hands and plays with the hairs on the nape of his neck, tugging gently as she sighs into him, “you love me.”

She blinks, blushes momentarily, before shrugging, “You got me.” Leaning down she captures his lips, inhaling the soft, sweet taste of him, swallowing the moan that rumbles in his throat, and sinks down further into his arms, letting his tongue tease her own.

He pulls back first, chuckles at the pout his eyes are met with, “I love you, Regina.”

“I know.”

Her lips melt to his once more, and something white hot licks up her spine, burns into her heart, and her muscles tense around him. Surely he can feel it too, the way he digs a little harder into her hips, groans and presses his mouth to hers more firmly. It flushes, sweeps across her skin, her hair flying erratically in the hot wind, and it’s like electricity, sparking and zapping into her brain, almost painful, charing wherever her fingers touch Robin, smoldering like Dragonfire in her stomach. There is a rough tug at the base of her spine, a heavy gust of pine that invades her lungs, and then just silence. Not a pin drop heard, save for her breath panting. Her eyes are still closed, a dull throbbing in her head has her grimacing, something cold is under her knees, hard and sending a sharp sting into her bones.

“Regina?”

She stills, snapping her eyes open, and his eyes lock onto hers first before anything. She’s on his lap, still holding onto his shoulders, straddling his thighs, and he looks terrified, and yet not really. There is confusion and bewilderment, but the longer she looks at him, regaining her breath, the more calm and ease swirls inside his eyes. He’s stunned. But happy. Disbelieving for sure, and looks as though he is about to cry.

“Regina… we are in your office.”

What? How?

Her eyes break from his own, and her heart clenches tightly. They are certainly in her office, in the office she just died in, but there is no sign of her body.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“It feels different than the forest.”

He nods at that, helping her up off his lap, but keeping her hand tucked into his own. Perhaps they simply transported somewhere else. Something is off though, the air isn’t quite as sparkly here, the warmth not as thick.

“Robin… do you think we are….”

“MOM!”

The office door bursts open, and thank god for Robin standing behind her or else she surely would have tipped over with the impact Henry’s body smacks into her with. Her hands wrap automatically around him, but her eyes flicker to Robins, who is caught between a frown and a smile. “Are you okay? There was a this massive eruption of magic an hour ago and no one knew where you were!”

What the hell…

“I— I’m fine, Henry.”

She is supposed to be dead.

“You promise? What happened? We tried to break in here but magic locked us out. Was the Queen here?”

The Queen… where the hell was the Queen…

“Henry, I—”

“Did she hurt you?” His hazel eyes snap onto hers, fear swimming in them as he clutches to her. “You’re okay thought right? I was so scared, Mom.”

She is at a total loss as Emma and the Charmings walk into the office equally as confused, they didn’t know the Queen had killed her… didn’t know she in turn stabbed the Queen… they didn’t know any of it…

“I’m okay, Henry. I promise.”

Robin’s hand squeezes her hand not hugging her son, and she is pulled back to his eyes. They are back. He is here. Her Robin. She can see his bewilderment, and she has no idea how this is even possible. You can’t bring people back from the dead, can you?

Tears spring to her eyes, her breathing rattling at the thought that she has him here again, he is real and breathing right beside her, holding her hand and heart beating strong against her back. “I don’t understand how this is possible.” She whispers out to no one really, but Henry steps back, perplexed at her words, “I— this doesn’t make any sense.” She stumbles over her words as the Charmings stare puzzled back at her.

“Henry.” Robin’s warm tone brushes beside her, and she watches as her son frowns for a moment, his eyes tracing Robin’s face silently, confused and disconcerted at the mention of his name. He met the other Robin, but their interaction had been brief, Henry had exited quickly out of their conversation flustered, it was strange for him too. Seeing another man who looked identical to a father figure he’d just lost, and yet it wasn’t the same person at all.

“Henry, it’s me.”

He stands beside Regina, half a grin etched across his face as he slowly extends a hand out to the younger boy. He can see the hesitancy, understandable given what is going on, and he can see the pain behind questioning eyes.

“How?”

“I don’t have a clue to be honest.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Ask me anything. Something only you and I would know.”

Regina’s heart thunders in her chest as she watches Henry’s brow crease though Robin’s face remains unchanged from its gentleness. She feels Robin grip her hand an imperceptible fraction tighter as he waits, steady in his breath.

“Henry? I promise—” Regina starts, but is cut off by her son’s whispered question.

“Where were we when you told me you loved my mom?” For a moment she is thrown, Robin hadn’t even told her yet before he died, hadn’t said those three words before he was taken from her, and yet apparently he told Henry? She turns from her son, wide eyed and stunned as Robin’s face breaks out into a smile, dimples on full display as a bristle of blush creeps into his cheeks when his eyes glance her way.

“We were in the backyard. After I returned from New York. You were sitting under her apple tree and I came to join you. It became somewhat of a tradition for you and I, talking underneath it.”

She didn’t know they did that…

“What did you say to me? What were your exact words?” Henry huffs out as tears fill his eyes.

“You were upset that I had left in the first place, were uncertain if you could trust me again, if you could trust me to hold her heart again, and I told you that I loved your mother with everything in my soul, and that I would rather die than put her through that kind of pain again.”

Henry smiles, grabs Robin’s extended hand, “Next time, don’t take it so literally okay?”

Robin laughs as Henry launches himself into his arms, sandwiching himself between his mother and Robin. Regina feels her boys hug her fiercely, feels Robin press a kiss to her temple as he sniffs, the only sound that makes her realize he is crying, that her own tears have fallen and she leans into both of them.

“I don’t understand how this is possible.” She whispers between them.

And it’s not Robin who answers but a very, very, happy Henry, “It doesn’t matter.”

She smiles because he's right, it doesn't.

Fin.

[riannahairproject]

Final Evaluation

At the beginning of the project I created a mind map to explore different themes and concepts revolving around hair. The themes I was most interested in were animal hair, and iconic hairstyles. At the start I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to go in with this project, and because of that my research at the beginning was very broad. 

To decide on my concept I started by creating a Pinterest board about hair to get more visual ideas. Although I liked the images I found I wasn't inspired to design anything, so I decided to explore animal hair in more detail, and I started by creating an animal themed Pinterest board. From here I decided on my concept which was 'Deer'. I was really inspired by the natural patterns of a young deer's fur, as well as the colours and the textures.

For my primary research I took photos of hair (human, animal, and synthetic), then created yarns inspired by the photos. I struggled to make the yarns look similar to the hair in the photos, and at this point I realised that I was more interested in the colour and pattern of the hair rather than it’s texture. I didn’t do as much primary research as I should have because I found the secondary research more inspiring.  For secondary research I looked at a range of different artists, including Yulie Urano, Balenciaga, All Roads design, Sandrine Pelletier, and textileartsstudio. The most inspirational of these was Yulie Urano who inspired me to create thick, chunky knits. I also looked at the hair exhibition at somerset house, which clearly linked to my project. 

The feedback I received from students and teachers helped me a lot. From the feedback I got about my blog I decided to make it more interesting, and to include a page that details who I am and what my blog is about. I also decided to pick a collar design that was a bit less time consuming to create after talking it over with another student. I'm glad I listened to this feedback because it helped me to meet my deadline, and to create something that I think is more effective.

With the photoshop work and the design challenge, I think the design challenge was more effective as I find it easier to get my ideas out onto paper instead of using photoshop as a design tool. I also liked that we only had two minutes to draw each design, because sometimes I overthink my drawings and designs so much that I don't end up drawing what's actually in my head; this challenge gave me the opportunity to explore a large range of designs, from which I picked out my three favourites and created more detailed designs. I enjoyed the photoshop work but I felt more limited in what I could achieve, whereas with a pencil I can draw anything I want.

With the 3D problem solving, I felt that I created a lot of effective constructed textiles samples. The first I created was a big knit sample which was my first time knitting, and  it went well. I also tried finger knitting, and creating my own yarns. I liked the finger knitting but I found it difficult to create yarns, and I ended up mainly braiding pieces of existing fabric together. I saw other students experimenting with rugging, and I thought it looked really interesting so I decided to try it. I ended up liking the sample I made a lot, and even though I didn't use rugging in my final collar design, it is a new textile technique I have learned that I can use in future projects. I have looked at weaving quite a lot in the project so it was an obvious choice to experiment with. I don't have my own weaving loom so I used a tutorial online on how to create a weaving coaster out of cardboard. I enjoyed learning how to do this, but I didn't really like how the end product looked but I think this is because of inexperience as it was my first time trying it. I won't be using weaving for this project but I found other people's weaving really lovely to look at. I also bought Pom Pom looms and create many different sized pom poms from lots of different wools. I really enjoyed doing this, it wasn't too complicated and was a fun technique that I could see myself doing in my free time as well as for projects. I decided using Pom poms in my final collar design would be a good way to imitate the natural pattern of a deer's fur.

At first I was confused about how to make the shift dress because I had never made a dress before, but making it had defiantly improved my sewing skills, as well as my measuring and accuracy. It wasn't as fun for me as creating the collar because it was just a basic dress design but this is to be expected because the dress isn't the main part of the design. I think for my first ever dress it went well and I am pleased with how it turned out. With my collar I decided I wanted to create a high neck snood-like design that went down over the shoulders. I also wanted to arrange Pom poms on it to look like the spots of a deer's fur.

I think my blog is effective and shows my work well. The layout is interesting and nice to look at without being too overloaded and crowded. At some points during the project I didn’t keep my blog as active as I would have liked, but towards the end I defiantly feel my blogging skills have improved and I enjoyed keeping the blog a lot more. I did research into different bloggers which helped me decide I liked a simple layout instead of over complicated and multiple column blogs. I thought I preferred journals over blogs but now I am undecided. I think it depends on the type of project you are doing. For this project I defiantly think the blog was the best option. It made it easier to record my progress and post visual development.

My final collar isn’t as effective as I wanted it to be. If I was to do it again I would have used thicker, chunkier wool to achieve a proper thick knit effect, as this didn’t show through with my collar. I also would have started making my collar earlier. I might not have picked knitting as my technique because I’m not very experienced in knitting and this made it a lot more difficult to create my collar. The design I wanted couldn’t be achieved with the materials and technique I chose, so I don’t think my collar turned out very well, and it wasn’t executed as well as I wanted it to be. I think my strong point of this project has been my 2D designs, but I have enjoyed making the collar and have learned lots of new skills. 

[agreementtale]

Chapter 9: 1.Never give all the information.

They were trapped.

Running.

Tired.

Didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know where to go.

The underground had gone empty.

They called for their friends, someone, anyone.

From the dust covering their hands, came the answer.

On the shape of gut-wrenching screams.

“What is wrong with you?”

They were suffocating.

“Why do you have to do this every night?”

Hands trembling on their mouth, they rocked themselves.

“It’s just a nightmare!”

Soft whimpers came out of their sore throat

“What are you, a baby?”

Their brother was on their side holding their arm supportively.

“Scared of every little dream?”

They let their hands fall to his vines, taking deep breaths and trying to calm themselves.

“You’re lucky she was already sleeping this time” He was close, holding a fluffy thing to their arm, they took it.

It was the plush goat. Mom had restored it for them, it was all white, with soft fur, they touched the little curvy horns, and the small cute paws, fidgeting with the delicate wool, breathing deeply, listening to their brother’s voice.

“Or she would go another night with only four hours of sleep” The warm blanket, the vine patting their back, the familiar room, slowly it all made sense.

“Is…” they struggled to form a sentence.

“Yes, we are here and alive and blah blah blah” That was the only thing that mattered “So what was the stupid dream this time?” He never failed to ask.

“Underground…” they wheezed, feeling the texture on their hands, imagining their mother was the one holding them “Empty”

“The one we all left and you stayed here all alone?”

The guilt was crippling, but they battled for the strength to nod.

“It’s a stupid dream, we are trapped, remember?”

Yes, they knew that well.

“And even if we were free… Now that she has her claws on you, you aren’t going anywhere alone”

They could relax at that thought.

“Now go back to sleep, I’m tired” They cleaned their face with the sheets, grabbing the glass of water she had left on the nightstand.

“Good night... Flowey”

“Night” He made a cocoon of the little blanket around him.

They couldn’t sleep, though.

Their mind wandered to dark places every time they closed their eyes.

So they kept them wide open. It was night, the lamp as off, the room was faintly illuminated by a small star beside their bed, the golden light was pretty, they could stare directly and still don’t hurt their eyes.

Flowey could see it too, the save point had appeared in the room on the first night they saved here.

Mom could not, she had even commented how good their night vision was, when she caught them writing in the bed. They had thought the lamp was on, but it was just the star.

She had then proceeded to give them a lecture about eyes and the importance of a well-lit place to study, and posture and a good reading chair with proper back support. Flowey had looked smug the whole time. He always got this weird satisfaction seeing her scolding them, maybe because they actually listened when she was the one talking.

Lately he had even started to deliberately threaten them with it, when he wanted something they were not in the mood to do, he would became smug and say in a sing song voice ‘I’m telling her’, it was most of the times enough for them to rethink the situation, they didn’t want to worry Mom.

It was a two way street though, since he moved with them he had to control his tongue. Mom would not have kind of degrading comments, he would only ever call them ‘idiot’ or ‘stupid’ when they were exploring the ruins, far away from her. And when he slipped and called them names inside the house they would just smile smugly, seeing his face as he realized his mistake, and either smugly call for her, or hear his pleas of mercy, whatever felt funnier at the moment.

Seeing him sleeping on the boot was soothing, he was calm, he was safe. Mom was too. She was clearly doing better than when they first found her.

But it wasn’t enough.

And they had a list to prove that.

Maybe if they couldn’t sleep, they could start the day early.

They started writing down their thoughts and doing some drawings. Not that they were particularly good at drawings, but schemes were easier to remember than words.

They had gotten used to their lack of memory, if they really concentrated they could remember a thing or two, but they had to have a clear goal in mind. Putting themselves through different situations helped, a kind of learning as you go, they instinctively knew how to deal with a few monsters and better yet, they hadn’t lost a single fight since eating the pie.

Their muscles had more memories than their brain, apparently.

But then again, drawings.

Sometimes they would remember things in dreams, things that were not easy to put in words. On their dreams their friends were shadowed figures, nameless and voiceless.

There was a happy red and white and a calm white and blue, they drew the two patterns on the paper. For some reason it felt like they needed a little bit of indigo connecting them, then a little bit of orange and green for the first, and yellow for the second. They ended up with a page full of messy colors. But looking at it made them feel warm.

Next page they drew a strong indigo and a soft yellow, adding green to the first and purple to the second, the colors became fuzzy in this page, the forms were more important, they drew something like an arrow and a TV.

The third page they drew Mother, themselves and their brother, in a much less abstract way, they were holding hands and happy… but there was someone else that should be there… circling the three of them they drew a circle of white and yellow, on the outside of the circle they filled the page with blue and orange with bits of purple all around.

It took them quite some time, but they were proud of their art. Knowing that only they would know the meaning of it was rewarding.

But enough of drawing for today, they heard door noises and saw glimpses of light outside the door. Got out of the room silently, careful not to wake him up, they were taking too much of his sleep as it was, he deserved to rest.

She was in the kitchen, and seemed to be carrying a bag? It didn’t seem like she had just woken up. They approached quietly.

“You are up early, child” or at least they thought they were being quiet.

“Good morning” since they failed at being stealth, they just approached giving her a big hug, she gently brushed their hair, battling to keep a few rogue strands out of their face, they just giggled at the concentration on her face.

“Are you hungry?” Giving up from fixing their hair she grabbed something from the bag “I have something for you” pouring it on a cup she handled it to them.

“Apple!” they cheered while she grabbed a few more items for breakfast “How?” the liquid lingered on their mouth, it tasted like human food.

“It was a little tricky… but this old woman still has a few tricks up her sleeves” but how? There was no apples on the underground “Let’s say I have several little friends I can count on” little friends? She laughed at their confusion “if I’m willing to pay, that is” Oh! So the spiders had brought new items, they had to go take a look, after a whole month of waiting for their request, it was about time for it to arrive!

Having juice and a snail dish for breakfast, they negotiated having the classes for the afternoon instead, they were excited to see if the spiders had gotten the right items, and to start plotting how to use them.

They got out of the house without problems, but hadn’t walked too far before a displeased grunt made them aware of the flower following them.

“So you would just ditch me there?” they swore he had bags under his eyes.

“I just wanted you to have a little more time to sleep” he was following them on the ground, boot forgotten on the house.

“Yeah, and leave me alone with her…” they didn’t understand why this bothered him so much.

“I didn’t know she would wake you” It was no use, he kept complaining the whole morning, all the way from the spiders, who had fortunately brought a package for them until their way back home, when they found Napstablook.

They still hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with him, every time they were lucky to find him he vanished… at least the last few times they could talk a bit, before he disappeared. He seemed lonely, despite affirming he went here to be left alone, maybe it was just a matter of time until they grew on him.

They got home before lunch, quietly entering the house and hiding the package under their bed, they set Flowey inside the boot.

“Already back, child?” Her voice came from some unidentified place on the house, they could tell she was far, damn, she must have a super hearing or something…

They could test that “I am, is lunch ready?” they spoke in a soft voice, but she didn’t answered “I scrapped my knees a little, could you heal me?” said in a normal volume, it should give them a reaction... but it didn’t.

“You fell again?” he asked instead “How hard is walking with your human legs?” They made a shushing noise, so he quickly proceeded to ignore them. Still only calm and distant steps approaching.

When she finally reached the room she just called them for lunch and that was it, maybe she didn’t heard a thing, which was confusing, but they let it slide.

They spent the afternoon focusing their energy on the lessons and trying to ignore Flowey’s weird faces. He wanted them to miss what she was saying, and tried to cause a fuzz in general, they could see he was tired, but still he successfully hide every time she looked at him.

The afternoon went slowly, and the lessons were not that particularly interesting, but they still managed to pay attention for Toriel’s sake. Still they couldn’t be more happy when she released them for the day, going to her room, saying something about planning the next lessons.

They quickly ran to the kitchen, school activity always took her some time, and they were eager to get something done. Flowey just eyed them from the table on the other room, he knew better than question their weirdness, but they knew that if she got out of her bedroom he would find a way to warn them.

Scanning the kitchen they eyed the shelf, there was no way they could just reach there, maybe if they climbed…

With careful steps they balanced their feet on the cabinets, they successfully avoided making noises, the wood was strong, it didn’t even creak under their weight. The cabinets were far too distant from the shelf, but they had a nice view from there, something metallic caught their eye, she hadn’t moved the silverware since then.

Good.

It meant they could snatch a knife before running away.

…

It meant she trusted they wouldn’t…

Ignoring the surge of guilt they jumped back to the ground, they could steal a knife on any other day... not on the one she brought them their favorite juice…

Talking about juice!

They poured a big cup for themselves, enjoying how it tasted. It was definitely human made. It didn’t have the frizzling touch of magic, and left their breath smelling like apples, mouth watering from the weird sensation of a food made completely of matter.

Mom’s pie had matter, but it was mostly magic, this juice was more than just tasty, it was necessary for their development and survivor in the long run, it was very thoughtful of her to get them this.

They poured themselves another glass, a bit of juice on their stomach will be nice after the nightmares, maybe this time they can spare Flowey the trouble of comforting them.

Filling the cup till the brim, they left the bottle on the fridge, almost empty, they ignored this, going quietly to their room, one step after the other, so the liquid didn’t spill.

“Stealing juice? Really?” They stick their tongue out, passing by him in determined strides, apple juice was important enough!

He just rolled his eyes and kept reading the books on the table.

They didn’t have to be judged for the amount of juice they drank, they had done a decent job so far, they didn’t have any results yet, but they were working hard! And yes, their plan involved stealing from the most loving monster underground, but they had to do it! It wasn’t because they wanted to! And it wasn’t like they were hurting anyone, it wasn’t like they were going to hurt her, they weren’t… they–/

Crash!

The sound of breaking glass and sudden cold on their feet made them avert their gaze from the memory to the floor, it was a mess of juice and little shards, they spluttered apologies, paralyzed.

“Oh, child!” The monster formerly engulfed in flames morphed to take their mother’s form “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you” She was over them in an instant, the door to her room open in the hurry.

“Sorry” all her trouble to get fresh juice and they were wasting her efforts.

“No, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t be wandering” It was her house, she had all the right of walk around, they were the one startled for nothing.

“I dropped it” they had to stop being so disperse, it could be dangerous on serious situations.

“I startled you” her insistence caught their eye, she was hunched over them, not caring for the mess and probably stepping on the broken glass, guilt dwelling on her eyes.

“Mom” she looked at them, pupils small in a fear they didn’t understand “You didn’t do nothing wrong” she smiled, strained, empty.

“I should pay more attention” She pat their back softly, the usually comforting gesture was nothing of the sort, they could feel on her touch the underlying darkness dashing her hope.

“It’s just a cup of juice” it made no sense.

“What if you got hurt?”

“I’m fine” They were not the ones stepping on glass.

“But I…” They held her head with both arms.

“Mother” she looked quickly in their eyes “It’s ok” her expression was difficult to read “I’m ok” they smiled, trying to make her believe it, holding her incredibly tense shoulders, she seemed to ease a little.

“How about I clean this then?” She got back to her usual posture, her eyes much more serene than before.

They nodded “I can collect the shards an–/” Before they could finish she had scooped them up in her arms.

“Absolutely not young one” Her height and broad torso made them feel small, the easiness she carried them only added to feeling like a toddler “you are not getting near broken glass barehanded and barefooted”

She delicately placed them on the reading chair, signaling for them not to move “But I can help!” For the first time they felt annoyance for being infantilized, they had dealt with worse things than glass.

“By getting cut and bleeding everywhere?” Flowey taunted from the table.

“I can handle sharp objects” They retorted, he looked at them with a strange expression, then looking at mom, she was walking to the kitchen. He leaned closer, they understood, angling the chair so she would not see their interaction.

“Do not get hurt in front of her” he whispered quickly “you saw how she got” by the seriousness on his tone he had seen the whole scene “she don’t deserve that” they agreed.

“There there” as soon as she entered the room they pretended nothing had happened “Now stay still, there may be some shards on you” She kneeled in front of them, holding a piece of cloth.

Delicately she cleaned their foot, making sure to dry and remove any solid piece. If it was that important to her, they didn’t mind behaving like a child. Diligently she did it again, using a little bit of green magic, just to make sure.

“Cat got your tongue?” His mocking tone confused them, but instead of his evil face he had a serious one, right, they must have been quiet for too long.

“Silence is the best reply to a fool” They countered, he made a disbelieving noise, but they were on the same page. She was looking at her handwork, like convincing herself that they were unharmed “Don’t you think mother?”

“Ha ha” she was quick on disguising her distress “Your sibling is correct, sometimes silence is more powerful than words”

“So they get to call me a fool, but I can’t call them an idiot?” Her hand stopped fidgeting on the cloth, she seemed to be either real quick to get a hold of herself, or have some practice on ignoring her own discomfort to assist the ones she cared for.

“It’s not an insult if it’s true” They beat her to answering him.

A few more rounds of nitpicking earned them long minutes of scolding, by the end of it, she was back to her usual self and they were sent back to their room without any cookie for the night, but only after she attentively cleaned the hall from the glass, still smelt like apple, though.

The whole ordeal had taken longer than they thought, taking the bag from under their bed they held the first item, a flask of powdered cinnamon, deciding to postpone baking to a happier day the flask was promptly hidden on the drawer.

The second item was a unbranded bottle that read ‘make your fur fabulous’ and ‘snow version’, there were a few instructions handwritten on the back. They hoped the money was enough to buy something decent, but if their guts told them to trust the little spiders, trust they would.

“So what?” he asked yawning, safely allocated on the nightstand beside their bed “you are just going to ditch this thing on her soap?”

“I was thinking of going for a swim and convincing her to join me… then ditching it on her soap”

“Sounds dumb” How he could not see how fun an entire day playing in the water would be?

“Have a better idea?” Asked, already expecting a negative answer.

“A hair cut”

“A what?” Her fur wasn’t long enough for it to be called hair…

“Your hair is long, it’s getting in your eyes, she ask if you want her to cut it for you, you say yes, but you want to make her hair too, she laughs, say yes, and you use this thing the right way” he said sleepily.

“That… is actually very thoughtful” if it worked they would comment how pretty she was, and she was surely to want to use that on the rest of her fur.

“That’s cause I don’t do the first dumb thing that comes to my mind” He closed his eyes in another yawn “I think before acting” getting comfortable, a little blanket around his stem.

“Well, thank you, it’s the perfect idea” he had his eyes closed, but he smiled a little, he should be exhausted “good night Flowey”

“Night” he murmured.

For his idea to work they should make it obvious they needed the haircut, so she was the one to offer, then they could demand the exchange. Simply asking her seemed too straight forward, but if she didn’t gave the first step, they could always try it.

“The hallway is clean” she announced opening the door softly and entering on the room “But just to make sure, don’t walk barefoot until I clean it again tomorrow” tucking them in the blankets she looked completely fine now “The night has a habit of hiding small missteps”

“Good night” said making an acknowledging gesture.

“Good night, child” She gave a light kiss on their forehead, turning to Flowey, that slept on the nightstand “Good night for you too, young one” she said tucking his blanket.

“Night mom” She tensed for a second, then relaxed a lovingly feeling all but emanating from her.

“Your brother is a funny child” she said with a smile on her face, he was still pleasantly unaware of the world around him.

“He is” turning the lights off, she walked out of the room. They wondered if they should tell him about his unconscious confession, or if this would make him avoid her more than normal. They decided not to. They would save this memory as it was.

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