#the yarn is for all the christmas gifts i need to make so fingers crossed those go well

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Ravel

A Seams Christmas special oneshot | Moodboard

{ Part IV: Notch | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: Joel swings by yours with a little something before Christmas dinner at Tommy and Maria's.

Warnings: Unapologetic fluff and softness, inspired by this ask from @casssiopeia from the beginning of the year, no use of Y/N, very lightly edited

Word count: 2k

Notes: I'm so proud of writing up this little drabble. I've been in such a weird place with my writing, I'm just happy to end the year on a creative high. Obviously, I'm a few days late to Christmas, but better late than never!

There is a voice in my head telling me that this isn't good enough, that it doesn't hold up to what I was writing earlier this year. But I need to rewire my brain. There is no such thing as 'good' or 'bad' when it comes to fanfiction. All fanfiction is good fanfiction. This is our hobby, not our jobs, and we need to be kind to ourselves.

I am posting this at 11:59pm on New Year's Eve. Happy new year y'all, I hope Joel and Pin can bring you some festive cheer ❤️

Joel is this close to have a fucking breakdown.

He would measure out how close this is between his thumb and index finger if they were not currently tangled in webs of yarn, rapidly unravelling from from the bottom of what is supposed to be a sweater.

Your sweater.

The book that Lucy lent him months ago lies on the table before him, the pages yellowed and dogeared, open at the the easiest pattern of the lot to knit - a simple pullover in chunky yarn, in your favourite colour.

Well, it was supposed to be easy, anyway.

Despite Lucy basically holding his hand throughout the whole project, he’s had far less time than anticipated to work on it. Too many nights he finds himself at Tommy and Maria’s, elbow deep in dirty baby’s clothes and diapers, making himself useful for whatever needs to be done around the house. 

Even Ellie chips in without being asked, often bringing back food from the canteen and making sure the severely sleep-deprived adults are eating, if not well fed. Joel honestly doesn’t remember how he did it with Sarah as a clueless twenty-something, with an even more clueless younger brother.

As he attempts to free himself from the quagmire of wool, he grimaces at the stiffness all over his body, feeling it especially in his back after sleeping in an armchair all night with a rapidly growing two-month old.

He’s too old for this shit - but there’s no saying no to the little rascal with Tommy’s nose and Maria’s eyes.

The knitting needles clatter to the floor when he jumps at the front door opening and slamming shut, a frustrated fuuuuuuck slipping past his gritted teeth. 

Ellie’s voice rings out loud and clear as she scampers up the stairs, getting progressively louder until she’s outside his study. ‘Hey! Did you remember to put the potatoes in the oven? We have to leave for Tommy’s in an hour - dude, what the fuck is happening?’

‘What do you think is happenin’?’ he growls.

Crossing her arms, Ellie leans against the doorframe wearing a far too amused expression. ‘Maria said no gifts.’

Joel rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not for Maria.’

The teenager squints, perplexed, at the bits of wool in his hands. ‘What is that meant to be?’

‘... A sweater.’

Ellie bites her bottom lip, holding in a poorly concealed giggle. ‘I think a sweater is meant to have sleeves.’

‘You think?’

‘Want me to go get Lucy?’

With a heavy sigh, he mutters, ‘Fine.’

At the arch of her half-eyebrow, Joel adds begrudgingly, ‘Please.’

Ellie grins, sneakers skidding on the floorboards as she takes off. ‘Hang in there, old man!’

Despite the cold, his palms are sweaty, sticking to the kraft paper wrapped haphazardly around the even more haphazard package clutched tightly in his right hand. 

The night air mists before him in puffs of white as he shuffles a path through the falling snow. His ears are tingling from the cold, and flexing the stiff, frozen tips of his fingers, Joel knows he should’ve worn his gloves. They weren’t in their usual place by the door though, and he was so frazzled that he barely got his shoes tied up before dashing out the door, sending Ellie ahead with the potatoes (that are definitely undercooked) to his brother’s.

Your cottage glows yellow and orange in the darkness, and your stairs no longer creak when he trudges up them, having fixed them just in time before the first snowfall.

He hears your footsteps come from deep within this house when he knocks. Your eyes are wide when your door cracks open tentatively, but then your lips curve into a smile - the smile that he takes with him and keeps him warm when he has to leave Jackson for days-long patrols.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, ushering him inside, not batting an eye at the snow he tracks inside. ‘I thought we were meeting at Maria’s.’

Pressing a kiss to your lips, he softens at the way you lift your face towards him to catch it, careful to keep the parcel out of sight behind his back. ‘Yeah, we were, but thought I’d see if you need a hand with anythin’.’

‘Such a gentleman,’ you tease. 

A low fire burns in the hearth, the wood he chopped for you in the fall stacked in a tidy pile next to the mantelpiece. Sweeping his eyes across the living space, he spots the book with the cracked spine that he reads when he’s here on the coffee table, next to yours. On the other side of the couch is the Christmas tree that he cut for you, and he watched you dress it up in tinsel and fairylights one night after a quiet dinner and before hot cocoa under thick blankets.

He likes seeing himself at your home. In the things he does for you; in his things, casually scattered around - like they belong in your space.

‘The pies are in the kitchen, could you please put them in a bag?’ you ask. ‘I’ll just grab my coat and we can go.’

‘Sure, sweetheart,’ he answers, waiting until you’ve disappeared into the bedroom before setting down the present under the tree.

He’s leaning against the back of the couch when you pop back in, a few layers deeper than when you left him, the pies nestled safely in a carrier bag by his boots. 

‘Shall we?’ you ask brightly.

Joel hesitates, wondering if he should wait until after dinner to tell you about the present. It only takes his eyes darting to the foot of the tree for the briefest moment for you to catch on. The slow smile that stretches your cheeks and lights up your eyes warms him from the inside out.

You cock your head to one side, playing coy. ‘What’s that, Joel?’

He shrugs, feigning cool. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and find out?’

His chest physically swells at the way you dash towards the tree, landing on your knees in uncharacteristic recklessness, the impact only softened by the rug underneath. You cradle the lumpy package to your chest like something precious. ‘You got me a present.’

He settles on the end of the couch next to you, his heart beating harder in his ribcage than he’d like to admit. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart.’

You frown at him. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see, but I wanted to give it to you anyway.’

You open the package carefully, as if it was wrapped in the fancy paper people used to buy at the shop. Joel holds his breath when you peel it away to reveal what’s inside.

He’s far too inside his own head to hear your inhale that sounds a lot like wonder. You pick up the sweater gently, shaking it out, and Joel winces when he sees it in the flicker of the firelight.

Disastrous doesn’t begin to cover it. Lucy managed to connect the sleeves to the shapeless body in a last-ditch salvage attempt, but one is clearly longer than the other. The stitches are untidy, some have obviously caught onto something and pulled loose. Rough around the edges is putting it kindly.

Joel wants to reach out, grab it, chuck it into the fire and let the flames swallow it whole.

Finally, the silence gets the better of him, and he blurts out. ‘I’m sorry.’

You stare at him, stunned. ‘What?’

Under his whiskers, his cheeks flush in embarrassment, and he rambles, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinkin’. You deserve better sweetheart, here, let me -’

You almost lose your balance keeping the sweater out of his reach. ‘Don’t you dare, Joel Miller.’

Confused, he watches you rise to your feet, shucking your outer coat and another layer. ‘What are you doin’?’

Grabbing the sweater, you slide it over your head and thread your arms through the sleeves. The soft knit drapes over your curves, too big over your shoulders and the hem falling unevenly, higher on the right side than the left. One sleeve is long enough to cover half your hand, while the other sits right on the wrist.

And yet. 

You’re beaming like you just picked up something at Bloomin’dales or whatever the fuck those department stores were called back then. 

‘I love it,’ you declare, no trace of irony in your voice, as hard as he’s trying to find it.

He scoffs in disbelief. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you’re just sayin’ it -’

You surprise him, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and dragging him towards you to plant a firm kiss on his lips. 

‘I love it,’ you repeat slowly, with conviction, as if willing him to believe you. ‘Thank you.’

He doesn’t quite still, but he smiles and kisses you back. ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’

‘Since we’re doing this -’ you trail off, sliding out of his grip to reach around the back of the tree, pulling out a neatly wrapped gift. ‘This is for you.’

Joel pauses. 

For him.

For the longest time, nothing had been for him unless it was soul-crushing grief and pain.

And yet here it is - his name on the tag written in your neat handwriting. Something he can hold in his hands. For him.

His fingers tremble when he reaches out. The package is soft, and the paper crackles under his grip. He all but tears it open, uncaring of the way the wrapping falls to the floor.

A laugh bubbles out of his throat, and you look relieved at his reaction. ‘You like it?’

It’s not quite a Santa hat. It’s a chunky dark red beanie with a white brim folded back, and topped with a white pompom. 

‘My ears were so cold walkin’ over. It’s perfect,’ he says, pulling it over the crown of his head. Of course, it fits just right, sliding soft and warm over his ears. He adds with a wink, ‘Y’know what, I might just shimmy down some chimneys after dinner.’

‘As long as you shimmy down mine too,’ you retort, not hearing the euphemism.

Joel quirks an eyebrow at that, one large palm squeezing your backside through the layers. ‘That an open invitation, sweetheart?’

You duck your head, more out of habit than actual shyness, with mischief in your smile. ‘Don’t be so crude, Joel Miller.’

Adjusting his new hat so that it sits comfortably, he points at the pompom and jokes, ‘Shame I can’t wear this on patrols.’

Right on cue, you hold up a finger. ‘Funny you should say that.’

He chuckles when you pull out a second, plain black beanie, as if out of thin air. ‘You really thought of everythin’, sweetheart.’

You shrug playfully. ‘I’m smart like that.’

‘I know you are,’ he smiles.

‘Merry Christmas, Joel.’

His lips find yours again in a slow, lingering kiss that has you leaning into him for more when he pulls back. ‘Thank you. For everythin’.’

You hold his gaze - heavy with meaning, light with joy. It wouldn’t take more than a tilt of the head towards the bedroom to derail your evening plans, and you both know it.

In the end, you’re the one who stays strong. Taking one step back from his warmth, you reach for your coat. ‘We’re late, we should go.’

His eyes widen. ‘Wait - you’re not wearin’ that to dinner are you?’

‘Of course I am,’ you say, buttoning up your coat over the sweater.

‘You don’t have to, sweetheart,’ he almost pleads with you.

You grin, heading for the door, blowing out candles as you go. ‘Too bad, I’m never taking it off.’

Joel shakes his head with a wry huff. ‘Well, I hope not never -’

You have one foot out the door when you suddenly remember. ‘I almost forgot - you left your gloves here last time. They’re in the cupboard by the door.’

Ah, that’s where they went. He opens the drawer and pulls them on, one after the other, the leather, worn smooth with age, creaking as he wraps his fingers around the handles of the carrier bag.

Joel is about to follow you out the door when he pauses over the threshold. Glancing down at the black beanie in his grasp, he reaches up and hooks it on the coat rack, nestled among your clothes.

He hopes that when the time comes for him to wear it for the first time - maybe on a patrol that will take him away from you for a few days - it will smell like you.

Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics ❄️

More notes: I hope I will return to the main series in the new year. I've missed these two lovebirds, I hope you enjoyed this little interlude! ❤️

[emoisthenewemu]

Favorite present! ~ Megumi Fushiguro x GN! Reader

A/N i live for soft boy megumi like SORRY but he is sensitive I don’t make the rules. i love him sm and plan to write more for him in the future.

If you were to ask Megumi Fushiguro what his favorite present was this year, he would probably say you.

Wc:1086

"Meguuumiiii" You whine from the hall, holding a cardboard box full of your friends' presents. Ones you handmade with blood, sweat, and literal tears. In fact, you had begun the project as early as October (before Halloween even).

What at first seemed to be a cute idea of making stuffed animals soon turned into a pain in the ass, taking up most of your free time.  Of course when you and Megumi would see each other you would refrain from letting it distract you but the very second he left or even fell asleep there you went-crocheting away. When he would walk in your dorm after a long day of class?

There you sat, legs crossed and an ever-so determined look on your face. Hunched over in a way that looked painful-which it definitely was because you had been complaining about your horrible back pain for the past two months.

Every time the two of you would FaceTime you would be groaning and sighing, complaining about how it was crooked or you put too much stuffing. That your fingers were cramping or now you need to start all over because it looks just awful.

Oh how annoying it was for Megumi to sit and watch you suffer over something absolutely no one is forcing you to do. He told you countless times to just give up and ‘buy everyone gift cards like a normal person’.

But he soon learned his lesson because every single time he said anything like that it just ended in a speech about how important it is to ‘finish things you started’ and you ‘promised yourself it wouldn’t be another abandoned project sitting in the closet’. Yes, Megumi understands. He still thinks you are insane. And he will tell you so.

“Isn’t that why you love me?” You say and he can only nod.

Megumi loves your tenacious spirit. How passionate you are about the things you care for. How lucky he is to be one of the things you are very passionate about. It is the only reason he continues to support you in your endeavor. As long as you promise you will not be doing this shit again next year. He even puts a cute little Santa hat on and wears matching slippers with you. It only took like five minutes of begging!

The only thing that continues to bother him is that you did not make him one. Surely you would have mentioned it by now. He would have seen it one of the countless times he walked in to find your room scattered with yarn and your many ‘rough drafts’. He would also be lying if he did not admit he went snooping around a few times when you were showering in the hopes of finding his.

Kugisaki is getting a white bunny. A pink bear for Itadori. There’s an animal for Maki, Yuuta, Inumaki, Gojo, a panda for Panda (duh), and nothing for him.

Maybe you forgot. You’ve been so busy making all of them and it must have slipped your mind. You probably did not even think he would want one. He has no stuffed animals in his room or anything even remotely similar. It’s not like he would cuddle it at night and think about you or anything.

So he delivers the gifts with you-with a smile on his face. Whatever Megumi considers to be a smile at least. Even ignoring the comments of how ‘whooped’ he is to be standing there matching with you. A thing he once swore he would never do.

Until he met you. You softened him up like butter. Gone is the aggression that was always his go-to in any situation. The way you loved him made him feel complete. He used to find it absurd that falling in love could change a person.

But you change him for the better. You challenge him emotionally without trying to change who he is deep down. You bring out the best and suppress the worst of him. Oh how Megumi loves you, more than words can describe.

It is your first Christmas together. As a couple at least so he may have went a bit overboard with the presents. He was trying very hard to impress you. He would be deeply embarrassed if he got you a bunch of presents and you got him nothing.

Surely that would not happen. You gave him a present last year. Why would this one be any different?

He is just anxious, a feeling he knows a bit too well. Megumi is an overthinker, sometimes he will let even the smallest things eat him up inside. He is nervously chewing at the inside of his cheek, holding the now empty box as you finish giving away your last present.

You grab his hand, squeezing it tight before pressing a kiss onto his cheek. “Thanks for coming with me handsome. Im so glad this is over” You groan and he chuckles at the exasperated look on your face. “You were so right. Never again” You peck his cheek again and he smiles contently.

Your touch is so comforting he does not even realize the two of you are heading back to your dorm instead of his. Too lost in the warmth of your smooth hands and intoxicating giggle.

It is not until you open the door and walk him inside that he understands that all of his worries were for nothing. Sometimes he forgets that you might love him just the same way he loves you. Maybe even more like you swear you do. He feels almost silly for doubting you. As he should.

Your small twin bed is covered in presents. His presents. They range all different sizes. But right in the middle, atop one of the gifts sits two little crochet figures.

Two wolves, a white and a black one.

His chest is warm and tingly. Megumi pulls you into a hug. Arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his head digging into the nape of your neck-he swallows the lump forming in his throat.

“Thank you” Megumi sighs into your chest, moving up to kiss your neck lovingly.

“Ohh Megs” You chuckle, trying to jump excitedly up and down but his arms prevent you from doing so. They grip you tighter. “You need to open them first!”

And he says something so cheesy he would have thrown up if the moment wasn’t so sweet. “You’re the only present I need”

[blurred-antics]

STFU MY YARN CAME IN TOO

guess whose rings for maille came in today >:)))

[fireflowersandblood]

Letters From Home - Preview

i promised a preview so. here it is. or maybe. a first chapter. maybe. i'm not promising anything.

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader

WC: 800-ish words

TWs/Warnings: strong language, adult themes

Summary: Knitting for Victory has never been bigger and Tom gets a nice, cozy package from home.

“Hey, look at this, lads!”

Tom’s head snaps up. Immediately, his lips curl into a smirk. One of the men has jumped up on a box of supplies, holding a paper in his left hand. With his right, he’s trying to ward off the poor sod who has just lost his picture. Tom can’t see what it is with all the waving about, but he’s almost entirely sure it’s a lady, maybe even a lady with very little clothing. Little else gets the men this worked up.

“Bennett, for you.”

Before he can react, a paper wrapped package has been placed in his lap. It looks almost like a wrapped Christmas gift, with the string that ties it together, and is no bigger than the Encyclopedias that Lois collected when she was younger. 

“What’s this?” Tom glances down at the package and frowns at the handwriting. It’s nothing he recognizes and he can’t think of anyone who would want to send him something. Maybe his dad, but even that seems unlikely. 

“Red Cross”, his superior explains. “Knitted socks and the like. You’re not the only one.”

Tom gives an appreciative hum and glances back down on the box. The handwriting is neat, neater than anything he could manage, and spells out his full name. To his own surprise, he runs his fingers across the letters, before he takes care to open it.

The box is filled to the brim. He finds not one, but two, pairs of navy blue socks. A matching pullover and hat, as well as a small box of hard candies in all sorts of colors. It feels strange to hold something so normal in his hands, and it reminds him of when he was smaller. His mother used to have them, he remembers, in a small tin box by the radio. She’d always give him and Lois one each, and let them pick between the fruit shaped ones.

“You got socks”, someone next to him complains, and the sigh is nothing if not envious. It makes Tom feel just a tad superior, and he immediately kicks his boots off, tears the old socks from his feet, and pulls the new pair on with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I did”, he boasts. It’s all in good fun; now that the first few months have passed, there’s not as much fighting. Everyone has seen battle one too many times to spend any time asking for trouble, even Tom. “And they’re cozy.”

Everyone close enough to have heard laughs, and Tom takes the opportunity to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He would hate to leave another tin of candies for the rats. 

Tucked away in a corner of the box, he finds a letter. Again, with a handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Not the same as on the wrapper around the box, but something a little smaller and cleaner. He tears the envelope and is met by a sweet, light scent. It takes a moment too long to realize it must be perfume. It reminds him of the one Lois wears, and the thought makes his nose scrunch up. To take his mind off the rather unpleasant thought, he unfolds the letter.

Dear soldier,

When I’m writing this, I have no idea who you are. I might never know who you are. You, however, will know a little something about me when you’ve read this letter.

I’m the person who has made you the socks and the sweater. I hope you’ll find them useful and warm. The rationing has made it difficult to get a hold of yarn and I decided to unwind an old sweater of my father’s. I know he would much rather it be used by you.

I know our Navy must need as much as our Army, but if you have no use for two pairs of socks, perhaps you can give the second pair to a friend. I know the endless walking that the Army does tears the garments rather quickly, but two pairs might have been too much. I couldn’t help myself, when they said that the packages will be delivered to people who rarely, if ever, receive mail. I wanted you to know that there are people who think of you back home. 

The candies are made in London and remind me of my childhood. I hope it brings back pleasant memories for you, as well. 

I don’t know if people actually spray their letters with perfume, but I read it in a book once, and I thought it might lift your spirits. Pass it along and let the boys sniff it like a pair of used knickers, for all I care. 

Write, if it would please you. I would love to hear if the clothes have come to use, and make sure that you’re safe. I will pray for your safe return and a quick end to the war. 

Most love.

Tom flips the letter to find a name and an address.

“Mate, you got paper and a pen?”

[rere-the-writer]

Can I request an imagine where the reader is mad at the Mikaelsons and she pretends to forget anything about them (maybe through compulsion like Stefan forgot about Klaus?) to teach them a lesson? And I would also like to say that I love your fics!

Yes time for some angst. And thank you also sorry for this angst.

Warnings: Angst like all the of the angst again sorry

You knew it was stupid and knew they loved you but you were feeling ignored by your lovers. You understand that Hayley needed to be protected as she had Klaus's child. But you saw how she seemly had both Elijah and Klaus wrapped around her finger.

Kol was always around Hayley too so was Rebekah, while Hope you completely understood but why Hayley. The more you thought about it the angrier you got and was tired of a cold bed and being seemly cast aside so you had packed a bag feeling an anger you never felt before. You texted Marcel to meet you at the train station as you headed down stairs pausing seeing Hayley practically nuzzled up to Elijah as she happily talked to the others.

Angry tears clouded your eyes and left knowing that once they knew what you did they'll be upset. But so were you and left for the train station.

"Are you sure about this? What about the baby?" Marcel asked as he stood in front of you as you smiled sadly looking at your best friend placing a hand on your abdomen as hurt wrapped around your heart.

"Yeah Marcel.....maybe they'll learn a lesson but I know I'll go crawling back if I don't. So here." You say taking off your vervain necklace handing it to the vampire ready for him to compel you.

"You will forget all you know of the Mikaelsons. You'll forget that you loved them. You'll live a happy life, find love....you will happy with your baby."

The composition settled over you and Marcel left watching you blinked confused then looked at your train ticket. You hurried to your train ignoring the odd pain in your heart.

"Where is she!" Kol called out from your bedroom that felt oddly cold as it had been three months since you left. Kol was looking for you when Rebekah brought up your anniversary was coming up.

"Who?" Hayley asked as Elijah gently removed the female hybrid from his side frowning. Elijah knew who Kol was talking about, you their little Queen who seemed to be gone at the moment.

"Y/N isn't in her bedroom?" Elijah asked Kol looking up at his brother who was on the catwalk while Hayley followed after him.

"No."

"Check my bedroom if she isn't there then she's in Niklaus's."

"She isn't there either!" Kol said making Elijah frown listening for your heartbeat coming up with nothing. Klaus and Rebekah was walking in with bags of gifts for you.

"Something wrong?"

"Y/N isn't in the compound." Elijah answered Rebekah who smiled placing the bags down.

"Maybe she out getting gifts. You know our little wife Elijah, things need to be prefect."

"No she would have told Kol and I if she was leaving." Elijah said this made Klaus and Rebekah frown while Hayley was confused.

"Wait....I thought Y/N was only dating Kol?"

"No, Hayley we share her. She is our lover but now seems to be missing." Rebekah tells the hybrid as Klaus searched their home for you. Hayley looked to Elijah who nodded this made Hayley a little jealous knowing this new information.

"She isn't here." Klaus growled as Marcel walked in carrying a box when Klaus grabbed his attention.

"Marcel! Do know where Y/N is?" Klaus asked the vampire who was your best friend. Marcel was a little annoyed that it took them three months for them to notice you were gone.

"Yeah but I am not telling you." Marcel tells Klaus as he had a guy watching over you as you were happy and safe. Marcel grunted surprised to see Elijah was the one holding him by his throat.

"Speak. Where is she?" Elijah growled eyes narrowed at Marcel as the younger vampire flinched.

"She is in New York."

You were shopping getting some Christmas presents for your work friends and your boyfriend. You had settled in New York after leaving New Orleans and you gotten a job as a historian at a museum.

"Oh sorry." You say bumping into a man dressed in a long coat and suit, he was handsome too handsome. He caught you and right away noticed your bumb and helped you stand.

"My apologies." He breathed as you felt like crying for some reason and saw four other people with the guy. You felt heartbroken for some reason seeing them but let go and stepped out of the man's arms.

"Well I need to go. So once again sorry." You say picking your bags up walking off missing the heartbroken look in the man's eyes. They watched you run to a man smiling at him as he wrapped his arm around you touching your belly.

"She doesn't seem to know us." Rebekah said frowning as Elijah nodded watching the man kiss your forehead. You both talking about a Christmas party something that hurt your vampires seeing you with another.

"It seems she had Marcel compel her." Kol said frowning as Hayley stepped forward wrapping her arms around Elijah's arm.

"Sounds like to me she doesn't want to be you with anymore." Hayley said rubbing Elijah's hand as he frowned.

"No she would still want us." Klaus said hurting as Kol and Rebekah agreed so they stayed going to win you back even though Hayley thought it was a waste of time.

They arrived to a Christmas party that Kol compelled their way in and stopped seeing you dressed in a gorgeous dress that flowed over your curves perfectly. You were with Ryan when you noticed the Mikaelsons blinking as the weird heartache was back

"Baby? You Alright?"

"Yeah Ry. Just the little bean being restless."

"All this lawyer talk got your little bean tired." Ryan teased lightly kissing your neck making you giggle pushing him away. Jealousy flooded the Mikaelsons as Hayley didn't understand why they wanted you back if you left and having Marcel compelled you to forget.

"Compel this Ryan and undo what Marcel compelled her to forget." Kol said as they agreed while Hayley got a drink shaking her head finding this all stupid. Hayley watched for the rest of the party of the Mikaelsons getting closer to you.

"Can we just go home? Who cares that she left. Because from what I'm seeing she doesn't want you all anymore." Hayley said wrapping her arms around Elijah's arm who was ignoring her.

"Heading off Ryan and Y/N?" Larry called out as Ryan laughed nodding wrapping your scarf around your neck getting the vampire's attention. Hayley was quite impressed of the apartment Ryan and you lived in still finding the Mikaelsons wanting you back stupid.

They reached your door and Kol knocked on the door which Ryan answered blinking seeing Kol. You looked up from knitting seeing Ryan walking in smiling with the Mikaelsons and Hayley following.

"Ryan, what is hap......" You cut off when Elijah was suddenly in front of you cupping your cheek.

"The composition you are under is lifted. You will remember everything." Elijah said watching you blinked as Ryan was compelled to stay in his office. You surprised them when you slapped Elijah as angry tears fell from your eyes.

"Why are you here?! And I am not surprised you guys brought her ." You said glaring as Elijah touched his cheek finding it hard to believe you smacked him.

"Now love, no need to be hostile."

"No need to be hostile? Fuck you Nik! You all seemly set me aside for some new pretty face!" You said standing anger filled you as they were taken back as Hayley crossed her arms.

"Rich coming from the pregnant woman that ran off. Maybe you don't satisfy them no longer." Hayley said as you glared darkly at her clutching your fists that were shaking.

"Or maybe you were just some lonely little wolf who took advantage of the fact she was pregnant with Klaus's daughter." You said lowly making Hayley freeze.

Now your lovers had never seen you like this before and this angry before as Rebekah stepped up to calm you down.

"Now sweetheart no...."

"No what? Be angry? Be upset? You all ignored me and that I gave you what you wanted suddenly you want me back? Because you finally notice I was gone."

"Guess what this isn't something you can fix with a sorry and we'll do better!" You said pulling away from Rebekah which hurt her as she other than Kol was the most affectionate with you.

"Look sorry I slept with Klaus and had Hope. Sorry you feel like I am so call stealing them away from you." Hayley huffed rolling her eyes annoyed with the situation. You held your head high a gilt in your eyes.

"Then say it Hayley if it ain't true. Tell Elijah that you aren't in love with him. Tell him your feelings for him means nothing. In fact tell them all how you didn't just sleep with Klaus to get information about the Crescent wolves."

You stood there a fire in your eyes anger in your heart as Hayley stared feeling the Mikaelsons eyes on her. You were ready to burn every bridge while Klaus couldn't take his eyes off you. You were reminding him of a Queen ready to wage war.

"I....you guys can't seriously believe her?! I have no feelings for Elijah." Hayley said looking at you frowning.

"If this is done. You guys can leave and undo the composition on Ryan." You say going back to your knitting things as Kol frowned.

"Darling, we can't leave you here to raise Elijah's child with some lawyer."

"How did you?"

"Figure it out? Easy Elijah was the last one in your room after me," Kol said crossing his arms, "also over heard you and Freya talking about getting you pregnant."

"Fine I'll give you that but I am not leaving." You said sitting down as Klaus groaned.

"Love, you are being stubborn. Come home.....it is cold without you."

"I could say the same when I was home. My bed was just as cold and lonely while you all fawned over Hayley." You said hitting them in the heart.

"Then why not speak to us how you felt?"

"Oh sorry Y/N Hayley needs help with the wolves. Sorry Y/N I am doing this thing for Hayley. Sorry for missing dinner love but had dinner with Hayley." You said mocking their accents while putting away your yarn since you won't be knitting.

Kol snorted a laugh getting a glare from Rebekah as Elijah knelt by you grabbing your hand. You looked at him raising your eyebrow at him.

"You're right. If you wish to stay here baby then we won't force you to come home. Lesson learned but promise you will come home when you forgive us."

"I will but don't hold your breath." You say taking your hand away as Elijah stood nodding to Klaus who fixed Ryan. They moved to the door hoping you'll change your mind but it never came.

You waited until you heard the door close before the tears fell from your eyes as you let out a sob and Ryan came out pulling you into his arms. You knew it hurt but you couldn't bring yourself to follow after them.

"We should have dragged her home, Elijah."

"Then she would have been more angry, Niklaus. We can only hope she'll return to us."

"Better hope you didn't make a mistake Elijah." Klaus growled walking out of Elijah's study. Elijah looked at his drink frowning.

"I hope so too Niklaus."

[somethingwittyorother]

Creative goals 2021

@kingsofeverything tagged me to post my yearly creative goals (not writing). Mine will all be yarn based as I can't see myself starting a new hobby this year.

I've had a little think about it, had a look at my stash, shook my head and here it is:

1. Finish the 2 rainbow crochet blankets I had for Christmas. The stripy one is 90% finished. The granny square one is much bigger and should take quite a while so might wait a bit to start it done and love them

2. Finish my wips (or at least some of them). I currently have 3 baby crochet blanket started so would like to finish them for gifts or to put in my Etsy shop. I've finished these but I haven't put them on Etsy 🤣 failing at the last hurdle again...

3. Knit myself a shawl. I've bought the yarn. I've got the pattern. I just need to get it started. It's black white and pink and I think I'm going to really like it. It's super pretty

4. Knit my sister a scarf she didn't ask for. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Just saw a pattern and thought she'd like it. Fingers crossed she does. Done and she liked it 😃

5. Knit more for charity. I'm hoping to make at least 50 little hats to put on smoothie bottles in aid of Age UK. I'd like to knit more hats for the homeless charity I knitted for in 2020. Maybe if I try to make one a month... Partial fail at this. Made 20 tiny hats but didn't send them to the charity so will carry on and send next year.

6. I want to make a Christmas wreath. I've put a reminder in my calendar to start that in September so let's see how that goes. Abandoned the idea. Too time consuming and I couldn't find a pattern I loved. Bought a fake plastic one instead and added lights, baubles and plastic holly. Looks quite nice and more solid for outside.

I probably should stop here cause I think that's probably quite ambitious already.

Main goal though is to only use yarn from my stash to do all this cause I worry I might have already reached SABLE status(stash acquisition beyond life expectancy) 🤣

6 goals - tagging 6 people @chickenstuffedwithmozzarella @pasmwa @dinosaursmate @doushk @phd-mama @mediawhorefics

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thought I'd revisit those before I even start thinking about 2022 goals. Didn't do too badly actually this year

[pergaias]

aron & aaron?

here you go, anon! idk if this is considered fluff, but it’s definitely not angst lmfao

“I miss you,” Aron said into the phone, wrapping a blanket more firmly around her shoulders. “It’s cold here—really cold. Ummm what else—my socks have holes in them and there’s no one else I can complain to.”

Aaron’s voice was warm and teasing, his accent more prominent now that he was back home for the holidays. “Ru, you can complain to anyone about anything. And I miss you too, you know that.”

Aron sighed dramatically into the receiver, making a face at Luna when she popped her head out of her bedroom door to gag. “It’s a gift.” she said sadly, wiggling her toes. There was a huge hole in the heel of one that Aron had clumsily patched with a piece of another shredded sock. 

Aaron was humming a song—some nameless generic Christmas carol—and Aron could hear him clattering around in a kitchen, perhaps. It was around dinnertime in his timezone. 

Snow was lazily falling and banking against the house’s eaves. Ty and Tate were snuggled next to Aron on the couch, and Aron’s chapped fingers were gently stroking Ty’s silky ears. She was—for the first time in a while—content.

“Did you get the postcard I sent you?” half of a smile played across Aron’s face as she petted Ty’s head and tucked her feet under the blanket and scrunched her nose at Tate, who was chewing on a loose piece of yarn that had unraveled from the sleeve of Aron’s sweater. 

“Ahh yes,” Aron could hear Aaron’s smile, “Wish you were here but not really but wait actually I do, xx Your-Name-But-One-Less-A.”

Aron laughed. “Hearing you say X-X is very strange, to say the least.”

“X-O baby,” Aaron teased. Yes, he was definitely clattering around a kitchen—Aron could hear pots clanking against each other and the faint sound of something simmering. 

Aron groaned. Aaron laughed. They both sat in comfortable silence, and Aron imagined what Aaron might be doing. Maybe he was wearing sweatpants, and was barefoot in his kitchen cooking something for a family dinner. She could picture his brown hair, messy like it was when he didn’t bother to style it. She could picture his wry, crooked smile, and if she focused hard, she could pretend that he was sitting there next to him.

You didn’t realize the space someone took up until there was a hole in their place—the holiday season was a time to be spent with people that you loved. Aron had her parents and her siblings, and of course the three Milans—Mara with their ferocious sense of right and wrong, Maia and the gravity she had about her, Maven and his outstretched arms, kinder than his sisters but just as stalwart.

And then there was Aaron and the place he had started to fill—the person he had become. Her friend, her secret, and now her . . . what could she even call him that summed it up? Boyfriend, lover, soulmate?

No, her soulmate was Maia. You didn’t have to love someone romantically to be the other half of them in that way—Aaron was the other half of her that she didn’t know was missing. He smoothed out her jagged edges, brought calm to her chaos, peace to her storm. 

The line crackled. “You still there, Ru?”

“I’m here, Swift.”

“I miss you,” Aaron’s voice was low, wistful. “I wish you were here, meeting my sister and my parents and my cousins.” 

Aron smiled, heat creeping into her cheeks. It was such a strange feeling, to be wanted. It was the kind of wanting that wound Aron’s heart into a spring, waiting, waiting, waiting to burst.

“I wish you were sitting next to me and I could put my head on your shoulder and complain about my busted socks.” Aron managed a wry smile, combing her fingers through her newly-cropped hair. She lifted a finger to her lips and tore at the callused skin of her fingertips, letting the silence of the call wash over her. It was a good kind of quiet, the quiet that came when two people understood each other.

“When I come back we’ll drive to the coast,” Aaron said suddenly, and there was a clattering of cookware. “We’ll take your car.”

Aron rolled her eyes and drew her finger across her throat at Luna, who had put a pillowcase secured by a headband on her head and was dramatically walking down the hall, a bunch of fake flowers in her hand like a bridal bouquet. 

“There’s an unfortunately high chance of the Beetle breaking down halfway to the coast,” Aron smirked good-naturedly. “And why the coast? It’s the middle of December, and it’ll be bitter January when you get back.”

The words were a punch to the gut. Two more weeks of phone calls and sporadic FaceTimes, with Aaron usually cutting short because his mom needed him or Aron’s siblings barging in and demanding her attention. 

“True,” Aaron mused. “Hmmm . . . we can drive up to Tahoe and go skiing.”

“Neither of us know how to ski, and you don’t know how to snowboard,” Aron said amusedly, her fingers tracing the waves in Ty’s soft fur. Tate had stopped chewing on her sweater and had started dozing against Aron’s thigh.

Aaron laughed. “You could teach me with your wonderful, patient teaching skills.”

“That’s just mean,” Aron whined, her mouth curling into a smile against her will. “I’m not patient by nature and you know that.”

“Am I pushing it saying ‘I’m the only person who can tease you like this and not get brutally murdered in my sleep’?”

Aron smiled again, wider. “Possibly.”

More clattering of pots and pans from Aaron’s side of the line. Tate yawned contentedly, her little pink tongue stretching out. Outside, Hadley was almost completely dusted in snow, softening the little town’s hard edges and severe lines.

In Aron’s hand, her phone started shrilling out her ringtone for Maia Milan. “Crap, Swift, hate to cut this short but—Maisey’s calling.”

She heard the mild surprise in his voice, startling a particularly Southern-accented sentence out of him. “Of course, Ru, I’ll call you back later?”

That thought brought a smile to her face. “FaceTime me tonight?” she asked, almost shyly. She combed her fingers through her hair in the heartbeats between her question and Aaron’s reply. “Sounds good. I’ll be up later.” she could hear his smile, and her chest felt strangely warm.

“Merry Christmas, Aron,” Aaron said, bashfully, and hearing her name—not just Aaron’s pet name Ru—felt strangely intimate. 

Aron mustered a smile, ducking her head. “Merry Christmas, Aaron. I miss you.”

She swore she heard his light chuckle before the line clicked silent, and Aron flopped back onto the couch and let her heart pound for a second. She felt—she felt—

Her phone rang again, and this time Aron picked up. “Hey, Maisey!” she couldn’t help it. A grin slowly overtook her face, one that not even the sourest of Aron’s moods could have dampened. 

“You’re sounding chipper,” Maia’s British-accented voice, melodic and silvery, floated from her speaker. “What’s up?”

“Why did you call? You first,” Aron insisted, crossing her legs and patting her lap, looking pointedly at the two black-and-white dogs. Ty wagged his tail and stumbled onto Aron’s lap, promptly falling asleep. 

Maia laughed into the receiver. “I just wanted to say hello, Ronnie. Also, Leora and I just came back from an impromptu date and—” Maia dissolved into giddy laughter. “I’m gay panicking so badly, I should do this with my sister. Anyways—enough about me, what have you been—”

“Aaron and I were calling,” Aron said softly, propping her elbow on her leg and resting her chin on her hand. “I—I really like him, Maisey. I really do.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Maia groaned. “Don’t tell me that I cut your talk on the telly short—”

Aron waved it off. “It’s fine, it’s fine, we were talking for ages before and he was already cooking dinner.”

Maia laughed into the receiver again, but it wasn’t the giddy lovestruck laughter of earlier. It was full-blown cackling, and Aron knew enough about her friend to know that she was probably swaying back and forth. “You really like him? Darling, good job, you’re officially the last person to know.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aron rolled her eyes, but then glanced around to make sure Elliott wouldn’t pop up out of nowhere and scream QUACK in her face. 

“But—do you—” Maia’s voice lowered conspiratorially, and Aron had the vague sense that the two of them were at a sleepover and Maia was trying to coax Aron’s deepest secrets out of her at 3am. “Do you feel forever about him?”

“Maia Milan, I’m seventeen.”

Maia clicked her tongue. “Ahh yes, you don’t know anything.”

Aron snorted. “But I know I miss him.”

“You two are so in love it hurts,” Maia sighed. “I’m glad you’re happy, Ronnie, I really am.”

There was a tiny bitter note in her voice, but it was quickly covered. “I love that you love him. I—you two have something that a lot of people would be lucky to find.”

“We’re seventeen,” Aron said again, laughing. But something was in her chest, almost like a string tied around her heart. It was easy to imagine an invisible string connecting her and Aaron. “And what about you and Leora? Every time I see you two together I want to gag.”

“The feeling’s mutual, love,” Maia deadpanned. But she sighed wistfully, and there was an oomph from the phone, like Maia had fallen backwards onto a pile of pillows. She did that a lot. 

“Anyways,” Aron’s throat was tired, from talking for so long. “I should probably make tea or something, it’s getting really cold.”

“Get your pyromaniac sister to start a fire or something,” Maia advised. “She started one here this morning when Mavey called her over—it’s still burning, bright as new love—”

Aron squinted suspiciously at her phone. “Am I picking up what you’re putting down?”

“I put down nothing at all, Aron Rucyznski.” Maia lied unconvincingly, Aron’s last name newer and prettier in her accent. Rucyznski. All the hard sounds smoothed by her voice, like stones in a river.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Love you,” Maia air kissed the receiver and it clicked dead. 

Aron stared out the window, at the snow slowly falling into soft white heaps against dead grass and concrete and asphalt and roofing tiles. She felt content. It was such a strange feeling, to not be wound up as a kid’s toy or so stressed that she felt like breaking down on her bathroom floor every few minutes.

She smiled. 

[royalcordelia]

i found my voice (in her sweet melodies)

Summary: Christmas with Gilbert has never been traditional, but it always manages to steal Anne’s breath away. (A S3 + Married Shirbert Christmas Story).

This story is for @mariamancini who was one of three winners of my fic giveaway. I do hope you like it, dear!! ♥

***

December 1898.

For once in his life, Gilbert Blythe was blissfully unaware of the winter chill. It might have been the scarf Mary had just finished knitting for him with soft midnight blue yarn, or his father’s old sweater that he was finally beginning to fit into. Each breeze brought faint scents with it - the flowery perfume of Mary’s soap, the lingering essence of his father. 

Yet, Gilbert was only half aware of these comforts as he marched through the snow. Perhaps what really was warming him was the trail of footprints leading from his back door directly to the Green Gables homestead. The small boot tracks, without a doubt, belonged to the youngest member of the Shirley-Cuthbert household. Gilbert’s eyes glazed over as he walked, following the footprints, though his mind was off elsewhere. As it was, he couldn’t help but notice hints of Anne in everything he saw - the white-tipped tree branches, the cardinals on their high perches, the unique stellar shape of each snowflake that flurried before him. 

His thoughts were consumed by her up until the moment he saw her through her window. Anne - as lovely as she ever was, floury apron tied around her waist and her braids tumbling down her back. With movements somehow laced with affection, she kneaded a sugary dough on her kitchen table. Her lips moved in a song Gilbert couldn’t hear until he nudged the side door open. The melody from her lips was her favorite Christmas tune, “The Holly and the Ivy,” but the words were entirely of her making. 

“My footprints fall behind me, across this crystal field. It’s you I’ve come to see, my love. It’s you that brings me here.” Her voice echoed through the peace of the house like a hymn loose in a cathedral. “So come and stand beside me. And hold me in your arms. I long to lay close with you, beside our warm hearthfire.”

Already rosy from his trek through the cold, Gilbert felt his cheeks tingle. How tempting it was to pretend that this kitchen belonged to him and Anne, that the pastries she crafted with her loving hands were for their very own Christmas dinner. Just the two of them. She’s keep singing her song, and he’d heed its lyrics to reap all of its marvelous benefits...

With a shake of his head, Gilbert rapped his knuckles against the door before letting himself in. He’d been subject to too many of Marilla’s “Gilbert Blythe, you know you’re welcome anytime. Please let yourself in!” lectures to wait for Anne to get the door herself. Her head rose from her baking, and the sight of Gilbert made her face split into a grin. 

“Hello Anne,” Gilbert greeted warmly, unwrapping his scarf from his neck so that he could speak. If he’d been looking, he might have seen Anne’s eyes linger on his chin and neck as they became exposed, and if he’d been looking even closer, he might’ve noticed her bite her lip. But instead, he smiled and took a few steps into the room, tracking some melting snow in behind him.

“You look like a mountain man just now returning to society,” she teased, crossing over to him. With a captivating softness, she brushed a flurry of white flakes from his hair. Gilbert’s eyes watched her face with tenderness.  She was so close that he could smell the vanilla on her hands. Seeming to notice the boldness of her action, Anne gave a friendly sweep of her hands across his shoulders and then patted it firmly. “Ah, there’s the Gilbert Blythe I know. Next time wear a hat!” 

“It’s only a short walk across the field,” he argued.

“The field and the orchard,” she corrected.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, though he was smiling. 

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” 

Anne moved back to the table and began to roll out her dough until it was as smooth as ice. 

“Do you ever need a reason to visit?” She peeled off a tiny bit of the dough and held it out to him. “Try this.” 

Gilbert smelled the sweetness of the biscuit dough seconds before he tossed it into his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to prepare him for how divine it tasted. His expression must’ve betrayed his thoughts immediately because Anne smiled in victory and began to press a circle shaped cutter into the dough. 

“You’ve outdone yourself, Anne. What are you baking for?” 

With a gasp, Anne slammed her hand down the table. The various bottles and containers of flavorings and flours rattled at the impact, but thankfully, nothing capsized onto the floor. 

“I nearly forgot! These biscuits were going to accompany me as my persuasive gift when I went to invite you and your family to Christmas dinner. I was going to leave as soon as they were out of the oven so they’d still be hot.” She paused, realizing she’d confessed her surprise plan. “I’d still like to make a formal invitation, if you don’t mind.” 

“I do mind, in fact,” Gilbert countered. Anne dropped her shoulders incredulously. “I’m afraid I’m here to make the same exact formal invitation, only I hope you will still accept even with my lack of baked goods.” 

“Gilbert Blythe, you mean you came here to-” 

“-to invite  you and your parents to Christmas dinner at our house, yes. You were kind enough to invite Bash and I last year. It’s only right that we return the invitation.” 

For a moment, Anne hesitated. She’d had been planning the Christmas dinner decorations for over a week, collecting the necessary stray ribbon and pinecones in her room. Anne felt it was far more comfortable to play hostess to your loved ones than be the guest, however perhaps that was merely her proclivity to hospitality rearing its head. 

But then she remembered the sweet laughter of baby Delphine and the fact that it likely had been many years since Mary had the chance to host a Christmas dinner for a full sized family. 

“Well?” Gilbert asked. Anne crossed her arms across her chest and pursed her lips.

“I tentatively accept on a few conditions,” she stated firmly. Gilbert cocked a brow but nodded for her to continue. “My first is that Matthew and Marilla must agree.”

“That’s a given.” 

“My next is that Mary absolutely let us bring a dish or two.”

“Alri-” Anne cut him off.

“ And I’d like to help Mary cook and decorate,” she concluded. Then remembering her manners, quickly added, “Only if it isn’t an imposition on her. I think it would be so lovely to spend time with her that way, especially since she’ll need an extra pair of hands to cook and take care of Delphine.” 

“You act like Bash and I don’t know how to take care of the baby,” Gilbert bristled, though not genuinely offended. Anne couldn’t help but smile warmly as she slid her tray of sugar cookies into the oven. 

“Oh, I’d never. Between the three of you and my family, that little girl will grow up with more love than she’ll know what to do with.” 

An unreadable expression crossed Anne’s face, but Gilbert noticed it before she could hide it completely. Maybe she was remembering the childhood of another little girl who never knew such an abundance. A sigh slipped through his lips. Things were different for Anne now, but if he could go back and provide all the love she’d been lacking, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Lost in his thoughts, Gilbert did not notice Anne dip her finger into the flour and walk up to him. With a dramatic flourish, she tapped his nose with the powdery substance.

“Do you accept my conditions or not, Mr. Blythe?” she asked playfully. Any hints of her past haunting her were gone now, but the ache in his chest that urged him to merely love her was still overwhelming. Gilbert rubbed his sleeve across his nose and smirked at her.

“I accept your conditions and offer one last offering of my own.” 

Anne nodded, eagerly awaiting whatever he had in store. She was too busy staring into his forest hued eyes that she didn’t flinch when he took a step closer. With the stealth of a storybook hero, Gilbert reached behind her into a small pile of flour and swiped it across her cheek. The white streak made it that much more endearing when she beamed up at him, but her smile turned heavy when his fingers lingered on her skin. For half a second, she felt his fingers move ever-so-slightly against her cheek to hold it, then-

“Why! Gilbert Blythe is here!” 

Anne and Gilbert jolted back a few steps, the latter wiping excess flour onto the sleeve of his coat with heated cheeks. Marilla took no notice of the tension she’d walked into, or if she did, she was kind enough to spare Anne any indication.

“Gilbert invited us to Christmas dinner with his family. Isn’t that positively grand?” Anne said, enthusiasm barely masking her distress. Surprise lit up Marilla’s countenance. 

“That’s awful kind of you, we’d be delighted!” Marilla said. 

“Wonderful! Bash and Mary will be thrilled to hear it,” Gilbert replied. He pulled his scarf from the hook and began to wrap himself back up, as neat as a Christmas package. “I ought to be heading back. I promised Mary I’d collect a few things for her in town so she can get a headstart. Anne, I’ll speak with her about you assisting her with the cooking.” 

Anne’s face was still the same color as her hair, but she nodded with a tight smile. He was halfway out the door when he turned back, sending her a look so intense with adoration that she shivered down to the soles of her feet.

“Until then,” he said softly. Then he was off back into the flurry of Avonlea snowfall, a figure of warmth amongst the blanketed crystal field. 

~*~

December 1907.

Initially, Gilbert thought it might be interesting to see what it was like to have the house entirely to himself, but all he felt was a dull loneliness in the background of his mind. Without work or Anne to distract him, he found himself keenly aware of a thousand oddities he’d never noticed before. There was a spot on his collar that was oddly itchy. A weird stain looked like a shadow of a spider above the kitchen stove. The tiny apron tied around his waist, which he borrowed from his ever-generous wife, constricted him like a snake skin, but was resolved to keep flour off of his pants and waistcoat.

Gilbert peered down at the countertop before him, analyzing the sticky dough he had just mixed together. Anne’s never looked quite like that. Maybe if he kneaded it more, it would take a more familiar shape? Clapping his floury hands together resolutely, a tiny cloud of flour exploded into his face. He coughed, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand and began to fold the dough over on itself. 

That was how Anne found him ten minutes later, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, kneading biscuit dough with all of his manly strength. Under his breath, he sang a song that was too quiet for her to hear. Icing sugar was smeared across his cheek and his forehead, making Anne bite her lip. 

When the door closed behind her, his gaze shot up to hers. In all of her glory, Anne S. C. Blythe stared upon her husband with appreciative eyes, a bundle of firewood in her arms and dirt on the knees of her trousers. The sight of her broad shouldered and confident made Gilbert swallow, but his face was contorted in confliction. 

“Welcome home, my love,” he said, with controlled evenness.

“Thank you, darling,” she replied sweetly, wiping her snowy feet on the doormat. She made no move to rid herself of the logs tucked in her bicep. Gilbert’s brows knit together at the sight. “Charlottetown was positively rife with christmas spirit! Usually those townspeople are so dreadfully-”

Anne paused, noticing the somewhat pained look on her husband’s face. 

“Alright, out with it, Gilbert Blythe,” she ordered. Gilbert set down his dough and tried to look nonchalant, but only succeeded in appearing hesitant. Slowly he began to explain himself. 

“As your doctor, I logically know without a doubt that you are more than capable of lifting a few fire logs without any sort of danger to your health,” he began.

“Uh huh,” Anne drawled, amused. It wasn’t often Gilbert was so bunched up.

“And you know I respect your desire for us to do equal parts of all the work in the house, and return that desire.   I recognize that you specifically asked not to be coddled.” 

“But…?” 

Gilbert’s resolve melted away as he unburdened himself.

“But as your doting husband - who, by the way, loves you more than anything and anyone - it positively kills me to see you doing heavy lifting. What are husbands for if not to wait on you hand and foot so that you don’t need to lift a finger?” he exasperated.

With a patient sigh, Anne dropped the logs next to the stove and came to stand by her husband’s side, arms wrapping comfortably around his neck. Gilbert’s hands immediately cradled the bump on her stomach, rubbing the tiny spot where a growing baby could just barely be noticed. A print of his strong hands was left on the soft fabric of her dress in white flour, sending a chuckle through Anne’s throat. 

“Oh Gilbert Blythe, you have no idea how much I appreciate that you care for me to such extremes,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the spot on his cheek where the icing sugar was smeared. “I’d be lying if I pretended to be completely unaware that my, as you say, heavy lifting would bother you. But I’m just so anxious to get everything ready in time for when our families arrive, that when I saw the logs at the side of the house, I figured I’d knock one more thing off our to-do list.” 

“That’s what I’m here for!” Gilbert argued gently. “I’m baking your favorite cookies from Mary’s recipe, I cut down that tree you said you liked, set it up in the living room, and brought down the candles and ornaments. I’ve even started decorating the house.” 

With a hand running through his hair, Anne scanned over the house. Gilbert’s heart lifted in relief when an impressed smile filled her face. There were candelabras in the windows with sprigs of winter flowers underneath them and a garland of pine was placed on the mantle. Gilbert had channeled Anne’s artistic soul as he adorned it with pinecones, ribbon, and holly. 

“I left the table centerpiece and the wreath untouched so you could decorate them. I know how you love it so,” he explained. “I thought we could do the tree together, just like last year.” 

Anne held his face lovingly, nuzzling his nose with with hers before planting a soft kiss on his lips. The second she pulled back, something caught her eye. Above the fireplace,  Gilbert had hung not two, but three stockings - two adult sized, and one tiny one. Stepping away, she neared the stocking with a growing lump in her throat. With the stocking completely in sight, she noticed one word embroidered across the red fabric with an unskilled hand: Jem. 

“Gilbert…” she muttered with a bittersweet heart. “You don’t even know if the baby will be a boy, yet.” 

Anne relaxed when she felt her husband’s strong arms wrap around her waist, his  lips in her hair. 

“That’s why I put Jem instead of James. Even if the baby is a girl, she’ll still be our little gem. Joyce’s stocking is on the tree, up near the star.” 

Anne’s throat was too thick to say anything. She held Gilbert’s arms close to her and leaned her head back on his chest. It would be her first Christmas since she’d lost her first baby, but her and Gilbert had decided it wasn’t going to be a sad time. They’d make sure it was bright, peaceful, hopeful. That was why had invited the Lacroixs and the Cuthberts to their home this Christmas - to bring family near, to prove that they were alright. 

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Anne said quietly, spinning in his arms until there was hardly any room between their lips. “Since you’ve respected my wishes, I’ll respect yours and resolve to be slightly more relaxed.”  

Gilbert pressed his lips to the spot underneath her ear that made her shiver, and nodded against her skin. When he pulled back, he glanced at the clock. 

“Our families will be here in a few hours. Will you please help me salvage the gingerbread cookies? I fear I missed a step.”  

With a burst of laughter, Anne caressed Gilbert’s cheek. How wonderfully dependable he was, this husband of hers. She couldn’t remember what Christmas looked like without him by her side, and cherished the future of many, many more holidays spent together. In a few hours, they’d reveal the impending arrival of their family’s newest addition, but for now, Anne was quite content to bake biscuits with the man she loved and smear icing sugar along his lips for her to kiss. 

[sophiexwrites]

A Gift from the Ghost King

Inspired by this awesome headcanon from @give-nico-a-gun, thanks a ton for the inspo! It’s come to be a long-ish one, 2.2k words.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Christianity and needles, but not in the medical context... it’s really just harmless and sweet.

Setting: General Riordanverse/PJOVerse with canon/established Solangelo.

Mentioned couples Christmas sweaters from the shop (link).

Note: because most people recognise American-English more than normal English, I’ve decided to go American this time, like dropping the u when I have to and using ‘sweater’ instead of jumper so that no-one gets confused (fingers crossed I do it properly).

Nico and Will, for all their opposites, had one major thing in common: they were raised Christian. Neither were quite sure why, since their mothers were well aware of the Greek pantheon of gods rather than a monotheistic one, but they supposed their childhood communities wouldn’t have taken sweetly to the change. 

Which meant the emo teen wasn’t focusing on Halloween this October, but on Christmas. Already. What do you get someone who claims to have it all? 

Talking to his friends didn’t help much. Most of them suggested medical equipment or a simple day off; there were even a few jokes about sunscreen that Nico didn’t quite understand. Those of them who knew Will better said they were buying him new arrows, notebooks or trinkets to fit his sunny-surfer-dude aesthetic - those were great ideas but Nico couldn’t copy them. Will knew him well enough to tell whether it was Nico’s idea or not. The pale teen scowled, wondering why he even asked. He was completely stumped. 

Until early November, that is, when Will began to drop hints. Nico only realised it when when his boyfriend convinced him into a store just to look at their collection of couples Christmas sweaters, covered with sickeningly sweet messages and nicknames.

"Aww. look Neeks - this one says ‘Don't go bacon my heart’!" Will laughed a laugh that turned Nico's cheeks to bright red, pointing at the sweater closest to them. It was attached to another one, reading ‘I couldn’t if I fried’, along with a drawing of a fried egg reaching out toward the other’s bacon.

The hints came a few more times before Nico swallowed his pride and decided to learn how to make one from scratch. Why DIY? Because everything Will did for Nico was done himself: from writing and playing his own music (nevermind how Will’s voice was definitely not winning X-Factor material), to the fake Mythomagic set full of realistic depictions of the gods, or the admittedly adorable summertime picnics with more food and baked goods than Nico could ever eat. Nico felt it was time to return the favor, and step one was learning how to knit.

It started clumsy and full of holes. Nico seemed to have a talent for dropping stitches. The section he was working on started too tight, then so loose that it was almost falling apart. After two weeks of constant secret practice, however, along with more YouTube tutorials and undone rows than he was willing to admit, Nico made something basically shaped like clothing. 

But it was just regular, boring clothing. Of course, Nico knew Will would be overjoyed at just that, but this was the first Christmas the couple planned to spend together, at camp. It was time to go big or go home.

Long story short, Nico swallowed his pride again: this time, to ask his step-mother how to embroider. He was met with suspicious glances and wary questions before Persephone began cooing in delight.

“Oh, that’s the cutest thing! Who knew you could be so soft?” She giggled, already rushing around for threads, test fabrics and needles. “Though I suppose you take after your father, he’s secretly a big softie, y’know - now, are we doing patches, appliques, or diving in the deep end and sewing right onto the yarn?” Nico had a rule not to dive into anything, but with Christmas soon approaching he had to learn fast. Somehow, too, he had to keep it a secret from Will. By December 10th, he’d pretended the wide-eyed needles poking out of his cabin floorboards were totally a prank from Cecile, and Hazel definitely left behind the scrap of paper filled with wobbly cursive last time she visited... Will simply hadn’t noticed. Nico was just glad his boyfriend didn’t have time to read what was on the paper before he snatched it away; that would have ruined it all.

Christmas came quickly, fronted by sleepless nights of embroidery and fingers full of pinpricks for Nico. But he was glad to have it done by Christmas Eve, all wrapped and stashed under the black tree in the Hades Cabin. Usually, he would be spending the night alone, but tonight a warm Will-shaped bundle of joy hugged him while they slept. Nico could only hope he would be as happy the next morning.

“Is this one from you?” Will asked, voice quiet with hidden excitement. Nico nodded, too nervous to speak, pulling at his plain hoodie. The wrapping fell away as Will teared and tugged, soon left left cradling a lump of fabric. “This is... beautiful, Nico!” The nervous boy’s chest sagged in relief, smile stealing onto his face as Will threw off the sweater he was wearing and donned the new creation, spinning around in his rush to the nearest mirror.

“Do you like it?”

“Oh Gods, Nico, of course! Did you make this? Thank you so much!” Will held it up before putting it on, gifting Nico with a laugh like soft rain pattering down on a warm summers day as he read the words out loud. “Significant Annoyance? That’s perfect!” Nico laughed with him, glad the nickname was still well-received, as the teen slipped it on.

He was the greatest model Nico could have asked for. A narrow frame showed off the fabric well: a stunning blue, deep and bright at the same time. Nico thought he’d chosen it because it was cheap, but when Will put it on he realised it’s because it matched the doctor's eyes perfectly. The body of it fit well, even if the arms were a little loose, which made Nico glad he hadn’t painstakingly added rows upon rows of purled stitching for a cute pattern or edge. It wouldn’t have been worth the struggle - the embroidered words were centerpiece enough. They spilled across Will’s chest in a haze of silver, grey and white; threads mixed and blended in the way Persephone had learn from Athena herself. The 20 letters had taken ages to get right, but to see them coupled with Will’s pure joy and excitement as he studied them in his reflection made all the effort worth it.

Needless to say, it beat Will’s gift to Nico that Christmas... which may or may not have been a good thing, because Will’s competitive nature soon swarmed up, and he was already making a gift of his own by the New Year.

“Kayla!” He rushed, panting, into the Apollo cabin from the infirmary. “Please tell me you know where I left my other needle?” Will held a lonely knitting needle in his right hand, pointing it at his half-sister.

“Laundry pile.” She replied, waving behind her towards said pile. It was mainly full of denim and orange cotton, but Will managed to extract the pale wooden tool after some digging. “Why, are you making something again?” It had been years since Will had done any knitting, having been taught by Malcolm Pace of the Athena Cabin during Will’s first few weeks at camp, so Kayla had every reason to be curious. 

“Yep.” Will fell onto his bed, after fishing out a ball of yarn from under it. “You know the sweater Nico made me?”

Kayla laughed, sitting up straight. “The one you’ve been wearing almost every day since?” 

“Yeah, I want to make him one too.”

“What, for Christmas next year or something? Are you just going to hand it to him now?” His head was bent too far over his busy fingers to see as she raised an eyebrow at him, but he knew her sass too well. 

“Oh, totally. You know me, just can’t wait to be organised and do everything in advance.” He grinned down at his work, shaking his head slightly with concentration. He didn’t want to drop a stitch, after all. “It’s his birthday on the 28th, I’m going to give it to him then.”

His sister aww-ed in delight, deciding (for once) to leave him be so that he could get it done on time. Will appreciated that, because he had a lot of work to do in the coming month - or, rather, 27 days.

Will certainly worked hard in those four weeks. Between shifts at the infirmary, general camp stuff and counselor responsibilities, he barely had time to himself let alone keep spending enough time with his boyfriend to make everything seem normal and knit him a sweater. Much like Nico had, he considered just buying one ready-made or getting someone else to help him, but he was eager to do it properly. So, it was a relief after sleepless nights and busy days that Will was finally finished with the sweater three days early; only the embroidery left. But Will was tired and had already misspelt half the terms on his latest patient file, so he had to keep it simple.

GHOST KING 👻  He finished, snipping the end of the silver-white thread. Will held it up to Kayla and the light, dusting off any last threads. “What do you think?”

“Ghost King...” Kayla read, a small smile on her face. “With a tiny ghost, too! That’s adorable, Will.” She wandered a little closer, inspecting the gift in the light cast from the sunrise. “You used a template, right? Because you can’t draw, and your handwriting has never been that good.”

“Geez, Kayla, no need to be so harsh.” Will smiled, clearly joking. “Of course I did, it’s got to be perfect for tonight.” It was already Nico’s birthday; Will stayed up all night to finish on time. Kayla knew this and sighed, deciding to make her brother get some rest.

“I’m covering your shift today, you need to sleep before you have your date tonight.” She decided, swinging Will’s bag over her own shoulder and giving his weary face a last look. “Seriously, sleep. I’ll make up some worthy excuse and tell Nico, he’ll understand.” Will protested for only a moment before yawning, and flopping down onto his bunk.  A sleep couldn’t hurt...

He woke up near sunset that day, almost time to meet Nico. It was a rush for him to get ready and properly awake, but he made it to the woods just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. 

“Will!” Nico waved from the edge, a small look of worry on his face. “I was, um... beginning to think you wouldn’t come.” He admitted, and Will felt his face burn in shame for making his boyfriend worry, even a little.

“Of course I’d come, I just slept in all day. Sorry.” He said, and they wandered a little deeper into the woods, searching for the clearing. Nico insisted it was no problem, which made Will feel more at ease. He was still excited, however, to show Nico what he made (the gift was hidden in his bag, with food for the birthday picnic). 

The two made their way into the clearing in content silence, Will secretly itching to see Nico’s reaction to his gift. But he remained as patient as he could, happy to enjoy Nico’s smiles, quiet laughs and stories, enjoying his birthday together in the peaceful way Nico loved. In fact, Will (and Kayla, but she was sworn to secrecy) was the only demigod at camp who knew it was the Italian boy’s birthday - all Nico’s other friends were off in New Rome or the mortal world, after all. It made for far less stress on Nico’s half: he didn’t want random people wishing him a happy birthday all day. No, Nico di Angelo was perfectly joyful to spend the night with his Significant Annoyance under the stars, especially when he surprised him with a gift.

“Here you go.” Will said, presenting a soft package wrapped in black paper with tiny ghosts. The Son of Apollo bought it specially for that, and the remaining roll would stay unused in his cabin except from wrapping Nico’s other gifts: so he was relived to see the other boy smile ever so slightly. 

“Thanks, Will.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t opened it!”

“Okay, okay!” He almost laughed, ripping the paper to reveal an equally dark sweater. “Wow, did you make this?” Will hummed in excited agreement, watching Nico unfold and hold it up to the moonlight. 

“Oh my Gods.” He read the words and for a moment Will thought he was going to hate it. But then Nico laughed - no, giggled -  a clear, pure sound cutting through the crisp air like a knife through cake. “It’s pretty cool, thanks Will.” The compliment wouldn’t seem like much to an outsider, but Will knew it meant a lot. Nico turned to look at the blond with his dark brown eyes, plain and simple in a way Will could get lost in forever. They were creased at the sides as he smiled, a true smile with his eyes that Will enjoyed so much. He looked good, too, with the well-fitting black sweater on, small letters and tiny illustration embroidered on the neckline. 

“Stop staring.” Nico suppressed a smile, going red as his boyfriend shook his head slightly before looking Nico in the eye again.

“Aww, but you look so cute!”

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

This is just some Evanstan that I dabbled in years ago with priest!Chris and demon!Sebastian. I never really got the chance to finish but I figured I could share some of it just for the hell of it. ((heh, get it?))

~~

Demons don’t always lie.

They can, of course. 

They can spin yarns as twisted and long as the roots of the oldest trees themselves. But what fun can come from telling lies to creatures who will believe a flower is not poison just by capping it with a blossom? Creatures who will walk the path to Hell just because it’s lined with rose petals? 

There is none. Which is why it is better to tell truths.

A truth, however, is not always as simple as humans believe. Truths can be just as twisted and long as silver-tongued lies and have just as many consequences. For when a demon tells the truth, take great care in listening to what they say. Each and every word. They may not be lying, but the truth they tell may very well not be the truth you hear.

This is the harsh lesson learned of every human who unknowingly makes a deal with a demon.

~~

Rain pounds on the church. It’s one of those nights. It’s been years since they’ve been able to afford a new roof. Thin and creaky, it makes even lightest of rains sound like thousands of angry footsteps running across it. Thunder claps hard and frequently, after bright strikes of lightning that flash through the church. Coating the altar, the almost-ever empty pews, the long, maroon carpeted aisle in an eerie white light before it all falls dim again.

Father Christopher–just Father Chris to the neighborhood kids and still Chris to his family and friends–sits in the back office. Lit only by the table lamp. His eyes strain as he counts through the week’s offerings, comparing them with the church’s financial books. Uneven. By a lot. A whole lot. Chris sighs and slouches. Feels those all-too-familiar tears begin to prick at his eyes. They hurt as they try to push their way out. He won’t let them.

Chris takes hold of the gold cross around his neck. Simple, plain. A gift from his mother the day he told her he planned on being ordained. He wanted to help people. Thought priesthood was the best way. Now he whispers prayers to a God that might no longer be listening.

The lights flicker with another crash of thunder. Big, fat drops of rain slam up against the stained glass window. Chris closes the books. He locks the money up in the safe. There’s raffle this weekend. For the Christmas tree sale at the end of the month. Maybe that will give them enough month for the rest of the month’s bills.

Turning the office down--lights off, computer off, everything in order--Chris puts his jacket on and heads into the church to leave for the night. He bows his head at the altar, blessing himself before bending down on one knee. Offers a quick prayer to the Blessed Mother and to his Lord and Savior, and would have just left, made it home to his quarters across the street if not for the light. Like an eye glaring at him in the middle of the dark, wooden wall across the aisle.

Over the confessional booth. 

Chris stops and stares at it. Unblinking and heart pounding. He glances at the front doors. Shut up tight and locked just as they have been for hours. As they’ve needed to be for the past few months if someone is there alone. The neighborhood is just not the way it used to be, not like it was when Chris was a child. Has someone broken in? A polite thief that just happened to lock the doors behind them? Chris might chuckle if he didn’t feel so oddly off-balanced.

Danger has goosebumps rising up on his skin, pulling the fine hairs up along with it. He could leave, of course. Just walk right out those doors and lock them up behind him. Call the police and wait for them to arrive. But it…doesn’t feel right. Chris’s a priest. Meant to help people no matter what the situation. Wind shouts up against the front of the building. Sings a melancholy tune that shoots through the Holy water.

He takes one last look at the doors, his last means of escape, and then back at the confessional booth. Chris swallows the hard lump that’s formed in his throat and shrugs out of his jacket. His feet drag across the carpet, bring him over. Hand trembling slightly, it feels draftier than usual in here, he steps into his side of the booth. The door seals him inside. A coffin-like fit as he sits on the wooden bench inside. The air feels dead. Unmoving. Sweat dots his brows, wiped away by the back of his hand as he sucks in a few deep breaths. Quells the quickly forming anxiety attack before it takes over. Chris has never felt so unnerved in here before.

Chris uses another private moment to gather his bearings. Still unsure if there’s anyone there at all. If there’s a threat or just someone who needs help. Thunder shudders in the skies above. He slides the partition open.

“H-hello?” Chris says.

There is someone there. Chris can just make out their silhouette as they shift positions. His stomach clenches.

“Are you the priest here?”

“I…” His voice is strained. Hard to get out. “I am. Are you in need of guidance, my child?”

Chris hears a soft chuckle. “Guidance? In the business of offering directions these days, are you?”

He hesitates. Has heard the few who still come for reconciliation try to dance around their confession.

Chris responds, “But when He, the Spirit of truth, comes, He will guide you into all the truth; for He will not speak on His own initiative, but whatever He hears, He will speak; and He will disclose to you what is to come.”

He’s met with a moment of silence. A brief sniff and a long, heaved out sigh.

“John 16:13,” he replies softly.

“You know the Bible.”

“I read it in my youth.”

“How old are you?”

His voice is quiet when he says, “I’ve seen some years.”

“Do you need help, my son?”

“I don’t know that you can give me the help I need, Father.”

“What sort of help do you require?”

“Well…” He pauses. Might lean his head back against wall. “I have blood on these damn hands of mine.”

A chill shudders through Chris’s entire body. The once hot, stuffy booth feels laced with ice. For just one second, he could swear misty fog comes out with his breath. A trick of the light. Had to be. Chris is tired. The storm. Stress. This confession.

“We’re speaking…metaphorically…of course?”

Not much can be seen outside of the confessional booths, but the entire place must light up with another strike of lightning. The illumination climbs in and jumps up at Chris from the crack under the door. What little light the bulb above him provide snaps out. Chris glances up. Hears the person a thin wall away move. The light blinks back on.

“If you say so.”

Chris thinks over that for no more than a few seconds. Needs to address the obvious before anything else. 

“Have you hurt someone tonight?”

“No.” His answer comes out cool and casual. Too light to be a lie. Chris is used to being lied to. “Can we do this right, Father?”

“Right?”

“Yes.”

At first, Chris isn’t sure what he means. Not until he sees the shadow of a person slide off the wooden bench and fall to his knees on the stool facing him. The red light above his side of the obscured window goes on the second he’s kneeling. The penitent makes the sign of the cross and laces his fingers.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he whispers. “It has been…” He stops. Doesn’t pick up again on his own. 

Chris does for him. “A long time since your last confession?”

“Da. Yes. I can’t remember.” Chris sees his head shake. “No. That’s not true. O minciună. Forgive me. I do remember. It’s just...complicated.”

“It’s okay. What sins are you here to confess?”

“My relationship.”

“Your relationship? Are you in some sort of trouble, son?”

“I’ve done bad things, Father.”

“Because of your relationship?”

“Yes.”

“Is there fear in your relationship?”

The light above him flickers again. Chris glances up at it. The wire it hangs from seems to be swaying slightly. As though an uninvited wind has passed through unnoticed.

“You don’t know what fear is,” his penitent answers. 

“Would you like me to call the proper authorities for you?”

“No. They can’t help me. There’s only…one who can help me.” He pauses again. Takes a deep breath. “I was hoping, maybe, you could send a message for me.”

“Are you…are you talking about God? Are you asking me to send a message to God for you?”

“Is that not what you do?” he asks. “Talk to God for those of us who cannot?”

Chris doesn’t realize he’s holding onto his cross again until he turns it between his fingers. A nervous twitch. One he picked up a long time ago. The urge to do something with his hands. Fingers busy at all times.

“Everyone can talk to God, my son. You just need to accept Jesus into your heart.”

“Nu. No. It does not work like that for some of us.”

“It works like that for everyone. God is in all--”

“No!” A hand slams up against the copper grille. “Not everyone!” There’s a strange sound. Feral. Like the growl of an animal. Chris backs away a bit. “Forget it. This was a mistake.”

He rises to his feet. Rushed. His pace hastened like he wants desperately to escape the booth. The door is already opened by the time Chris catches up with him. Hops to his own feet and almost opens the door. Forces himself not to. That’ll break the confidentiality sought for. He can’t do it. 

“Wait!” 

He’s got his hand gripped so tightly around the knob it almost hurts his palm. There’ll be an intent, that’s for sure.

Chris doesn’t hear anything for a moment. Not until the second door closes. Quietly latching and then there’s silence again. Eerie, unnatural silence that slips through like a breath over a pair of lips. His eyes flick up to the red light above the window. It’s off. 

Off. 

Off. 

Off. 

Off. 

On.

The brightness of it, even though there’s no real shine to it at all, startles Chris when it flares up. He needs to put his hand on his chest. Push down on it to keep from breathing too hard. 

“Why?” He’s asked. “Why do you want me to stay?”

Chris is still on his feet. He sits down. His knees are shaking so hard he’s not sure how he managed to stay up so long. 

“I want to help you,” he whispers back. “You sound lost.”

“I am lost,” he replies. “But you can’t help me.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

“Chiar așa?” He might chuckle. Chris isn’t sure nor does he understand the language he’s spoken more than once now. Latin based, he believes. “And why is that?”

“You didn’t leave. You could have. But you chose to stay.” Chris strokes his fingers over his chin. Feels the rough stubble there and does it again. And again. “You want me to help you.”

“You won’t even do what I asked,” he points out. 

“I’ll pray for you,” Chris says. “If that’s something you want. But…isn’t there more I can do for you?”

Fingers’re picking at the tiny spaces in the grille. Pink skin that pushes through for a moment in one spot and then again in another.  

“You want to call the police for me? You think that that will help, da?”

“It might.”

“It won’t, though. I know it won���t. It’ll only get more of you hurt.”

“Who’ll be hurt?”

“People.”

“Listen to me. If someone is threatening you, threatening to harm you in any way, we can offer you sanctuary here.”

“You still do that sort of thing?”

“You can stay here if you feel you’re in danger. We can call a safe house for you.” It wouldn’t be the first time Chris has had to do it. He’s helped usher more than a few abuse victims in the less than two years he’s been here. “They’ll escort you to a safe place.”

“There is no place safe.”

Chris can barely hear that. The words have come out like the shadow of a breath. A tremble hits him hard. He wants to hold this person. This penitent that’s both unnerving and heartbreaking. 

“Please…” Chris whispers. Presses his palm to the spot those pink fingers last touched. “Let me help you.”

“And what will happen when you don’t?”

His voice is different. No longer soft, holding hints of arrogance and beyond-the-years wisdom. It’s smooth as velvet and yet rough like a back alley fuck. Chris feels his throat tighten. He knows that voice. Somehow. Been hearing it his whole life. In the back of his head. Feeding him lies and insecurities. 

“W-what?”

“What happens when you don’t help me? When you let me down? Just like you always do?”

“Always…?”

“Let everyone down, Father. This is what you do, isn’t it? What you fear the most?”

“I don’t…”

“Come now, think about it. Who haven’t you let down?”

Chris’s hands shake as he pushes those images from his head. Of his loved ones’ downcasted eyes on him. Disappointed, ashamed. 

“What about your family? Where are they while you’re here?” 

Chris doesn’t want to think about it. About all this time that’s separated him from them. They’re proud of him. They are. 

“What about the family you wanted? The kids you wanted.” 

No. He can’t think that way. Or about the pitter-patter of little feet that’ll never grace a home. 

“You don’t even believe in God anymore, do you?” 

His stomach flips at the mention of thoughts he’s never spoken aloud. Thoughts whispered in his ear during the blackness of night. It’s getting cold in here again. A cool breeze slithers along Chris’s skin. Pricks at it. Hurts even.

“Think of all the people in your congregation.” 

Not all that many. Enough, though. Too many that he preaches to every Sunday. Chris shivers. Rubs his hands across his arms as he tries to keep warm, thoughts of his own shortcomings and failures floating around his ears. Rising out of his soul and latching onto him tightly. 

“All listening to you. Up there while you talk about things you don’t even believe in. You preach and you guide and read from your silly little book and they all watch you knowing that you’re nothing but a hypocrite. Help me? How can you help me when you let everyone else down?”

“Please…stop…”

Tears are sliding down Chris’ face. He wipes them away and feels more when that voice goes on.

“Help me? Tell me something, Father. When you lie awake at night thinking about all the things that you’ve sacrificed for the God you don’t even believe in, what hurts more? Letting your family down? Your community down? The Vatican down? Yourself down? Maybe the whole fucking world down. You’ve done it your whole God damned life, haven’t you?”

“I…”

“Haven’t you?”

The light above his head bursts, glass shattering over him. All’s left now is the harsh, red glow of the small bulb above the window. Chris is shaking. So hard that the rosaries he wrapped around his hand sometime during those taunting words were being carved into him rattle against the wall. He’s shivering. From the cold. He’s so, so cold. And dizzy. The dark walls spin round and round. Darkness descending upon him. His elbow leans up against the windowsill and Chris’s head feels so heavy, he has to rest it in his hand.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Ever since you were a child.”

It’s not a question.

Chris whimpers. “Yes. I…I can’t do this. I’m a failure.”

“Why did you even become a priest?”

“Because…I wanted…to help…people.”

“But you don’t.”

He cries harder. “No.”

“Because?”

“I…can’t do anything right.”

There’s a clicking noise. Quick, rapid movements that sound like lots of tiny bits falling to the floor. It takes Chris a moment to realize it’s his teeth clacking together. His shivers have gotten violent. That is his breath he’s seeing. Coming out of his mouth with each heavy, miserable pant. 

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why is he saying these things to this stranger? Confessing fears that keep him up in the middle of the night. Anxiety in the form of monsters and lies that creep up and nestle comfortably in his mind until he figures out a way to best them.

Chris squeezes his eyes closed. Tears sneak out anyway. Streaming down his face and make a mess of his cheeks, his lips, his nose. There’re noises in the booth with him. Creaking noises. Ice cracking and slithering up the walls. He can’t see it. He hears it. Creeping closer and closer, caging him in this freeze he can’t escape. A cage of ice lit up in fires of red.

“Please…don’t…”

“They needed you. And you weren’t there.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” His voice cracks. “Please…”

“You let them die.”

Chris shakes his head. Over and over and over. Face scrunched, painfully. Buries it in his hands and can’t find the words to refute these accusations. In the back of his mind, hidden behind all these evil thoughts that prey on him whenever possible, Chris knows it’s not true. He knows he did everything he could.

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?”

Chris’s hand finds the end of his rosaries. His lips fumble over Hail Marys as he’s asked the same question over and over again. 

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?”

The creaking ice gets louder and louder.  It booms in his ears, so loud he can barely even hear his own breathing.  Echoes of it carry along the walls of the church. Cracks and snaps as it thickens and hardens. Leaves Chris trapped in this eternal icy tomb. 

He slams palms against his ears. Tries to block out the sounds. Needs to block out the sounds. It hurts. The ice, the noises, the questions…

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?!”

“Everyday!” Chris screams. He drops to his knees on the kneeler and sobs into his folded arms. “Everyday...” 

“And you think becoming a priest could absolve you of your sins? You think your soul won’t writhe with anguish and misery in the icy fires of Hell? You think you can find forgiveness for yourself just because you became a priest?”

“I’m not going to Hell,” Chris swears it through his teeth. Feels a bit of the ice retreating. “God…wouldn’t…He wouldn’t punish me.”

“Wouldn’t punish…” A sick, twisted laugh filled the entire booth. More than one voice. Wrapping around Chris and making him cold once more. “Is this the same God we speak of, Father? The same God who banished humanity from paradise over a fig?” His voice is getting louder. Unearthly loud. “The same God who flooded Their most precious creation in a hissy fit? The same God whose fire tore through Sodom and Gomorrah? Do we speak of the same God, Father, who stole the lives of innocent firstborns? That God? That God, Father?” 

“STOP IT!” Chris punches the wall. Has to. He needs to get him to shut up and can find no other ways to do so. Chris is breathless. Vision faded and blurry from all the tears. There’s a pain in his throat as he finds his voice, pushes it out meek and hoarse to ask, “Who…who are you?”

“When seeking answers, Father, one must first ask the right questions.”

Most frost bursts from Chris’s lips. He can see it now. The ice, just a thin layer of it crawling, inching--achingly slow--out of the grille. Tremors rock through his body as he stares wide-eyed at it.

“What are you?” he whispers.

The grille is meant to keep people on either side unseen. Chris can just make out the thick set of lips that come up close to it now.

“I am the things that go bump in the night.” 

Chris smothers his face in his arms. Nausea rolls all over him. Wave after wave of sickness that he swallows down. Skin pale and clammy. Terrified. 

“I’m sorry…” he weeps. Doesn’t know why. Chris just feels an overwhelming need to find forgiveness. “I’m sorry…sorry…I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? Father, are you all right?”

His voice has changed again. Changed back to that lost soul who first started talking. Chris picks his head up. From a seated position. Not on the kneeler, but on the bench. A breath catches in his throat. He glances around. The light is back on. No broken glass. No cold either. There’s no ice. Nothing. Not even a lingering chill of any kind. Chris feels warm and comfortable, physically. Fingertips brush his cheeks. There aren’t even any tears. None to be found. He’s not been crying at all. 

“Father?”

Eyes droopy and heavy, Chris is afraid he may have fallen asleep. Had a nightmare. Horrible, twisted. Real and vivid like the very worst of his own fears sneaking up and suffocating him. 

“Are you still there, Father?”

His voice sends a shiver through him. Like the one in his dream--nightmare.

“I…I think it’s best if you leave,” Chris says. 

Those fingers are back again. Pushing at the grille. Chris wonders if they long for physical contact. Contact he cannot give. 

“Perhaps you are right.” It sounds like he might be crying. He sucks in a jagged breath, even sniffles, and Chris can see him wipe his arm across his eyes. “I...Father?” Chris doesn’t answer. He whispers, “I’m sorry, Father.” 

The light above the window goes off. When it does, Chris feels a huge weight slip away with it. As though he’s had a massive headache caused by the glaring red eye that’s been cured with its departure. The door opens and doesn’t close again. Chris can’t hear anything else, but he stays in the booth for a little longer anyway. Not just out of confidentiality. He can’t move. Can’t really feel much of his body. 

His mind is hazy. His stomach feels queasy and he’s not sure why. Something just happened. Something as heartbreaking as it was horrifying. Bits and pieces of fuzzy memories brush the edge of his brain and fade away again. 

When he regains the sensations in his body, when his legs no longer feel like jelly, Chris is tired. Exhaustion aches in the very marrow of his bones. He might not even make it to his place if he doesn’t get out of here soon. Picking himself up, he wants to get out of here. The room spins around him. Chris holds himself up, hand pressed up against the door. He needs to go home before he’s ill.

He manages to get the door open. Stepping out, he’s greeted by a loud boom. A noise that echoes throughout the whole church. Vibrates through his entire body. The front door crashing into the wall. Left wide open. It’s still pouring. Rain hitting the church hard as though trying to break through the roof. Chris’s place is only just across the street. He doesn’t need to bother with his jacket. The door to the other side of the confessional booth is ajar. His hand reaches for it. For both a bit of balance on his wobbly feet and to shut it before he gets outside. Chris peers inside. 

Small chunks of ice melt into the carpet. An intricate layer of frost sparkles across the grille. 

Someone was here. 

Someone not of this world. 

Someone who sounded so desperate for Chris’s help and just didn’t know how to go about asking for it. 

“Come back,” Chris whispers. “Come back tomorrow and, please, let me help you.” A name sits on his lips. He doesn’t know why. He’s never met anyone with this name before. Yet it’s there. In his mind. In his heart. In his soul. “Sebastian...” 

[cynical-gamer-media]

Someone To Be There (For You)

An early surprise Christmas gift for my friend @linsneedshugs! Have a Lucisev bonding fic!

“Do you enjoy putting yourself in danger!?”

Lucina winced at Severa’s biting words, and it was soon followed by a yelp as the mercenary tightened the bandage wrap against her arm. Currently the two sat a few metres away from the campfire due to Lucina having tried to leave before anyone noticed how injured she truly is. Naturally Severa picked up on the princess’ discomfort and followed her here, to where she then insisted (really demanded) to treat her, otherwise she’ll cause more injuries. The mercenary let out an exasperated groan as she glared at Lucina.

“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” Lucina insisted. Her eyebrows knitted and she bit her lips in frustration as she stared at the floor. “Everyone is looking up to me to defeat Grima... I can’t show any signs of weakness.”

Severa gritted her teeth and her expression hardened. How very much like Lucina to put everyone’s problems unto her, even though everyone is fighting alongside her and supporting one another. Stupid princess just had to be this selfless! It is... admittedly... a quality Severa admires. Lucina expresses care towards everyone, regardless of their histories or family background. By Naga the fact that she willingly spends time with her, a girl that never could compete to the same level of her mother, is something.

“I’m here for you.”

Wait... why did she blurt out-!?

Lucina’s sombre expression shattered as she looked up with wide-eyed flabbergast towards the mercenary. Severa groaned at how she sounded. She attempted to hide her face as a means to avoid those shimmering blue eyes of Lucina. Peering through the gaps of her fingers she noticed the princess blinking owlishly and expectantly at her. There is no way she can brush aside what she said. Rubbing her face she stared at Lucina with a determined expression.

“You always think you have to handle everything on your own, even though there is an army willing to support you all the way,” Severa began, wanting to state the facts before potentially becoming sappy. “Even idiots like Owain and Yarne are out here wanting to shoulder your burdens.”

“Yet here you are acting all high and mighty-”

Lucina appeared hurt; her heart just shattered. “I do not act high and mighty!”

“Then stop throwing your life away!” Severa argued with barred teeth. “I care about you, okay!?”

Damn it she’s now getting to the sappy part. She could feel her ears ring in embarrassment. The insides of her gloves felt sweaty and gross. Why is she being so nervous? She’s fought monsters and bandits! What is it about Lucina that makes her blurt sappy stuff and pushes her to make her happy!? 

“Just...” Severa took a deep breath to calm herself. “Just know that there is someone out there for you, that someone being yours truly.”

Silence graced the two for a moment. Crickets chirped, and an owl hooted to break the unbearable silence. Soon Lucina’s hurt expression softened as she gazed lovingly and warmly at the mercenary. Severa gulped. Stupid look of sincerity crossing Lucina’s face made her cheeks light up red and her heart stop beating for a second...!

Without wishing to be more humiliated than she already felt Severa shot up, quickly uttered that she needs to return to camp, threatened Lucina that if she gets killed then Severa will kill her, and stomped away.

“Severa!”

Severa came to a halt and suck in air between clenched teeth as she turned to look at Lucina.

“Thank you... I’ll always be there for you too!”

The redhead scoffed. “Sappy loser.”

She turned away and resumed walking, a smile adorning her face as she thought about Lucina.

[coffeecomicsgalore]

25 Days of Adrien (+ 6 of Marinette)

A little Marichat moment.

Part of the MLHolidays2k19 Prompt.

Ao3

Chapter 6 – Scarves

Strips of fabric strewn across the room. A partially sewn dress was pinned against the mannequin. Sitting on the table was a half-finished sweater with knitting needles stabbed in the center of the ball of yarn.  Dozens of crumbled pieces of paper lay around her sketchbook, which was flipped open to a new crochet pattern that was currently in the works.

There she was sitting in her chaise, her hands meticulously crocheting the newest design. You could always tell when she was hyper focused; her tongue liked to poke out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated.

Oh man, how he loves it when she gets this way. She was busy working, one hand held the yarn while the other weaved the crochet hook fed with black yarn in and out of loops.

She was so focused that she didn’t notice a special little feline that was laying on her bed, hands propped up to hold his chin as he stared at her as she worked.  

He loves watching her work. While it is always so nice to see his girlfriend as Adrien, he also loved transforming into Chat Noir just to continue the fun friendship they developed over the years. It was his little secret, and he enjoyed seeing this side of her that is specifically reserved for friendships.  

He was so enamored in watching her, that he didn’t realize he let out a loving sigh. This promptly made Marinette stop her movement and subtly peep through her fringe only to see the silly cat laying on her bed.

Marinette went back to crocheting, smirking a bit before responding. “Look what the cat dragged in. I didn’t realize the mangy stray needed a warm home.”

Chat, realizing he had been caught, became wide-eyed. “Sorry to come in uninvited, princess, but this purrfectly well fed kitty just thought he would come by and see one of his favorite civilians.”

She stifled a laugh. “You know you are always welcomed here, kitty, but please knock next time. You wouldn’t want to see me in something less...” she looked up at him, “impractical.”

He quickly sat up and blushed at the thought. “Yeah. Sorry. Won’t do it again.” He lifts up two fingers and places it over his heart. “Cat’s honors.”

She giggles as she goes back to her design, finishing the last few lines of the black color before moving on to the red.

“What are you making, Marinette?”

“I am making a scarf for my best friend. She’s getting something Ladybug and Chat Noir inspired that I came up with earlier.”

He smiled. Her love of design always came across in her eyes; those beautiful, bluebell eyes that make it look like you’re swimming in the ocean when you look deeply into it.  

“For Alya, right?” He asked like he was remembering as Chat.

“Yep.” Popping the “p” as she said it. “The girl that runs the Ladyblog and is proud over it. You know, she still ships both you and Ladybug together no matter how many times I tell her you guys are best friends. She also collects anything that represents them in any way. So I designed a black scarf with red polka dots and green paw prints all over it.”

“Can I see the design?”

“Sure.” She quickly glances the sketchbook from her seat to see if the design of the present she was making for him was on the page. When she concluded it was safe, she motioned for him to go over and see it.

“Woah, Marinette. This is so cool!” Chat beamed.

“Thanks. I came up with the design earlier while I was working on my dad’s present. I had to stop what I was doing to get started on the design.”

All too quickly, and in a joking manner, he gestures to all the unfinished projects. “I can see that starting and stalling is one of your favorite things to do.”

“Shush you, or you won’t get your present this year.”  

Chat places his palm over his mouth, mock shocked over her empty threat. “Rude.”

“Says you.”

He crosses his arms and moves his nose to the air. She only snorts in response.

After seeing all the half-done projects and the fact that she barely stopped her crocheting to have an actual conversation, he thought it would be best to leave. He knew she was busy and didn’t want to interrupt her with their usual banter, snacks, and video game sessions when he was here, but he didn’t want to leave either. He just wishes he could flirt with her properly.

An idea crosses his mind. “Could you- could you show me how to make a scarf?”

Marinette stopped crocheting and slowly dropped the yarn and hook into her lap. She stares at him for a moment before smiling.  

“I would love to make one for my girlfriend for Christmas.” He says slyly. Really, he would just keep it with him until the day he could finally tell Marinette he was Chat Noir.

She was excited to help him. It was so sweet of him to make something for his girlfriend. She’s been treating him so good lately that she deserved a handmade gift. And it would be something that he made? Swoon. She would love it. She would show him the easiest pattern, something that even a novice wouldn’t be able to mess up.  

“What’s her favorite color?” she asks as she walks towards her closet for supplies.

“Pink. Kind of like the pink of your walls, actually.” He looks around the room.  

Marinette sorts through her piles of yarn and pulls out three shades of pink. One of them has a tri-color affect to the yarn, giving more personality once the maker creates a few feet of length. The second is just a plain pastel pink. The third has a pink with a thin silver tinsel streak in it.  She shows Chat the three kinds for him to choose.

“Which one do you like the most?” Chat asked.  

“I personally love this one.” She grabs the one with the silver tinsel.

“Then that’s the one I’ll choose.”

She places the unchosen yarn back in the closet and grabs a loom of black yarn for demonstration. She grabs two crochet hooks and hands one over to him. They sit on her chaise as she shows him how to work the yarn.

“So hold you yarn like this and create a loop.” She starts. “Then you want to grab some of the yarn by twisting the hook and bringing it through the loop you just made.”

Chat loops the yarn a bit and then watches her intently, copying her movements as she went along.

She weaves the first line, being careful to count how many squares she created.

“You always want to count to make sure you don’t mess up your lines.”

When Chat completed making the first row of boxes, he looked up to her to move on to the next step.

Marinette spent the next 20 minutes teaching him and watching him work the rows, helping remove any mishaps that he created.

She was very skillful at crocheting this simple pattern and before long, she finished the scarf while Chat had only completed a third of the scarf. She moved back over to Alya’s gift, working in the green yarn to create the paw prints.

Every so often, Marinette looked over to Chat to see how he was doing. A smile crept upon her lips in amusement when his concentration brought out his tongue. His brows furrowed when he realized an error and needed to go back a few boxes.

Soon enough, a smile beamed across Chat’s face when he picked up his completed scarf and showed Marinette.

“Chat, it looks great!” Marinette beamed along with him. “She’s going to love it.”

“Thanks Marinette. I know she will.” He looked over to look at the time. “I would love to stay and make another scarf, but alas, it is my time to leave. Thank you for the lesson.” He grabs the pink scarf and makes his way towards the skylight.

“Chat, wait.” Marinette called out as he walked up the ladder. “Here, I made the black scarf for you to match hers.”  

He smiled. “You’re seriously the best, Marinette. Merry Christmas if I don’t see you before then.”

“Merry Christmas, kitty.”

[tehartofficial]

Eudora’s Gift - 1.3k words

Day 1 of TUA Winter Holiday Prompts: Mitten

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640873  

Yarn moves over needles. Knitting needles, that is. Diego doesn’t like to think about the other type. 

It’s a beautiful color---navy blue, like her favorite turtleneck. When she wears it and gets flustered, her shoulders raise and she retreats just a little into the fabric. Diego knows; he’s seen it. Of course, his knitting project has to match her sweater. Then, when she wears the gift, she’ll have to pair it with her sweater, so he can see even more of her cute tics. 

The knitting needles click like a camera shutter. Like how his memory captured the instant Mom taught him how to knit. Not that he got it at first---no, actually, Diego was quite bad at knitting. Considering the mass of stringy, frizzy chaos in front of him, he might still be bad at knitting. He sighs, tossing it aside onto the couch with a thunk. On the wall of the apartment Eudora and him share, the clock ticks away the seconds. The seconds until she gets home. It’s the twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve. One of the rare days Diego gets off from the academy. Eudora didn’t stay at home, though---crime doesn’t take the holidays off, as she said. His mouth pulls into a smile to match his doe-eyed expression. One of the many, many things he loves about her is her work ethic. She is so dedicated. 

He bites his lip, looking down at the knotty mess of blue yarn. Eudora wouldn’t have left her gift for him until the last minute. But he has a good excuse! The mittens have to be perfect. And this… disaster that he’s been working on since October isn’t good enough. 

The collectible birds clock continues to count down the seconds. Mocking him. 

Diego bets the clock is still ticking as he jumps to his feet and runs to the street, a wild idea in his mind. He bets the minute hand is still moving as he scrambles down the apartment building’s stairs, like training in the old days, and shoves his car keys in the ignition. He bets the hour hand is still edging over, over the edge, halfway between the five and the six, but he needs to get there and back before Eudora can make it home. 

“Son of a bitch.” He nearly laughs, the full force of his idea hitting him. The roads are packed. It’s Christmas Eve---of course they are. People are rushing to their families, to get last-minute gifts, to buy food at the last possible second. Just like him. 

Diego’s fingers drum on the steering wheel, and he wants to floor it. The precinct is close to home; that’s one of the reasons that Eudora and him picked the place. SUVs crammed full of suitcases and screaming kids edge along the road. Honking fills the city like the sweet, sweet sound of Jingle Bells, but a million times more annoying.

Fifteen painful minutes later, his car pulls up to a corner store. The driver’s side door slams behind Diego as he gets out of the car and admires the shambles in front of him. Its windows are plastered with old movie posters and neon signs for soda. A plexiglass sign crowns the old wooden door, reading, “C TY COR ER ST R”. Once, it said something else. Now, chunks of the sign were gone with age. 

The steel railing is cold against his gloveless hands as he climbs a couple of stairs to the entrance. 

-

Summer brought a lot of nice things to the city. Most importantly, it brought more recreation time. Hey, even Reginald had a heart, apparently. Sundays in June, July, and August had a full hour of free time for each member of the Umbrella Academy. The sun carried warm rays onto everyone’s faces. But, there was a downside to this. It was boiling freakin’ hot. 

Diego slid the cooler door open in the corner store. Before his eyes was the largest selection of popsicles he had ever seen. (He hadn’t seen that many before, but still.) The cool air, rare in this weather, tumbled from the rectangular box of ice pops. He grinned. The gap in his two front teeth showed in his smile. His hands reached out towards the plastic-wrapped popsicles, and he grabbed bunches of them, eyeing each and every one of them before he was oh-so-rudely interrupted by-

“Hey! Don’t do that!” A stern voice chirped from behind him.

Diego turned around, hiding as many popsicles behind his back as he could. He saw a girl his age, with brown hair tugged into tight pigtails. Her face was screwed into an expression of disapproval. Even upset, Diego had to admit that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. 

“Duh-duh-do whuh-what?” His face flushed at his stuttering. Of course he had to have trouble talking in front of her! 

“You think I can’t see the popsicles behind your back?” She crossed her arms assertively over a t-shirt advertising a cartoon. Her brown eyes the color of stripes on a bumblebee narrowed. “I wanna be a police officer when I grow up. I can see the clues that you’re hiding those popsicles.” 

He opened his mouth to disagree, but nothing came out. The heat was already starting to melt the Fudgesicles and Rocket Pops behind him. Finally, he gathered himself, and shouted, “Who e-even are yuh-you, anywuh-way?!” 

The girl smirked, holding out her open hand. “Eudora Patch.”

Diego set a few of the popsicle bags down in it, not realizing she wanted to shake his hand. “Di-Diego.” He couldn’t help but smile back. 

-

The apartment door flies open on its hinges, and Diego sucks in a breath of air after having vaulted all those stairs. He chuckles, and drops as many popsicles as he could hold onto the kitchen table. Hey, maybe it wasn’t a diamond ring, but it’s the thought that counts. And it’s not like she won’t get a diamond ring someday. Just not yet. That has to be perfect, but not like the failed attempt at knitting. The proposal has to be perfect-perfect, where there’s everything short of a rainbow in the background and everyone standing and clapping. 

Eudora looks up from a newspaper. He nearly melts again, because it’s the simple things. A newspaper. He’s seen her read them before, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t as cute every time. “Where have you been?” Her eyebrows draw together, then raise at the pile of flavored ice. 

“Happy Christmas,” he sighs and falls back onto the couch next to her. 

“Is that my gift?” Eudora asks mischievously. She rolls her eyes and elbows him when he wrinkles the crossword section resting on the cushion underneath him. 

Diego nods. “Sorry. It’s-it’s supposed to represent the first time we met, at that corner store when we were eight. I-I did anuh-another thing too, but…,” he trailed off, averting his gaze from her too-beautiful face. She deserves better than a pile of Rocket Pops. 

“Oh,” Eudora says softly. She folds the newspaper section she’s been reading, and sets it down on the coffee table. The wooden floorboards creak as she carefully makes her way over to the kitchen table. Diego’s heart thumps.

Her fingers push around the popsicles on the table, and then she giggles, and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. He lights up with the noise. It’s better than any song ever sung, ever will be sung. And her smile is better than any masterpiece in history. 

“It’s perfect,” she whispers. Her shoulders rise and the neck of her turtleneck sweater rises up to attempt to cover her blushing face. 

“I-It is?” Diego gets up from the couch and studies her face. She’s being genuine.

“It is.” Eudora repeats, and today, he feels like he could propose to her. 

[theawkwardterrier]

Stitch Together

Summary: Peggy and Steve can't leave a particular competition behind in the twentieth century.

It’s Steggy Secret Santa tiiiiime!! This one is for @roboticonography, with best wishes for a very, very merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy!!

AO3 link here.

As with so many things, perhaps the trouble would never have started without Tony’s big mouth.

“Are you knitting over there, Cap?” he asked, too loudly, breaking the quiet that had settled over the jet as they flew back from Australia. Even Peggy and Clint, the furthest away, turned around from the pilot’s controls. “If you wanted upgrades on your suit, you could’ve just asked.”

“It was going to be a Christmas present for you,” Steve said, fingers continuing their consistent movement. “But if that’s your attitude, maybe I should reconsider.”

Tony held up his hands. “Carry on. Should never have stepped in. I’m sure it’s going to be the best…?”

“Sweater,” Steve inserted.

“The best sweater I’ve ever worn.”

Steve said dryly, “Considering that you own a sweater that cost a thousand dollars because it was made from rare yak wool, I wasn’t too worried about the competition,” Tony snapped his gum consideringly, and that would have been that. Except that Peggy had heard the words “best sweater” and her eyes had narrowed.

So it might have been more accurate to say that, as with so many things, perhaps the trouble would never have started if Peggy could pass up a challenge.

Despite his best efforts not to think about it at all, Steve had spent every visit with Peggy wondering if it would be their last. So he could be forgiven for staring, stunned, for several minutes when she walked into the office he kept at the Tower looking exactly as he remembered her during the war.

“I know that I told you recently that you were always dramatic,” she said, amused, “but you needn’t have taken it as an order.” Then, seeing the way that he leaned back against his desk, his breath catching, she came over and placed a soft hand on his arm.

“It’s alright,” she said, and without making him ask, told him the whole story.

That Peggy wasn’t truly mentally competent at the time to have made the decision to enter the Stark Industries reverse aging trial was something that he would later take up with Tony. Just because she had signed up for it a decade earlier, it didn’t make it alright to go ahead once her cognitive decline had begun. But even as he had marshalled his reasoning for why it was inappropriate, almost unacceptable, he knew that he was, deep down, too illicitly glad to argue well. That Peggy was one of very few candidates to come through at all and the only one to have such a perfect outcome didn’t surprise him exactly (he had known from the first day he’d seen her that she was made of sterner stuff), but it did make him feel luckier.

They ended up talking on the cramped couch in the corner of his office for hours. He had Tony around to occasionally bring up incidents carefully mummified by Howard, or passed down by his Aunt Peggy, but to truly talk to Peggy herself about these things, to have his own memories reflected back by that familiar, consistent sharpness, felt like nearly too much.

When sunset and twilight had long since passed, he finally mentioned, “There’s food downstairs.” She gave him a knowing, fond look that he translated so easily that he wondered if he would cry. “Well, sure, there’s food here too, but it’s not as good.”

“It can’t be worse than what you used to have around,” she said. That was true; keeping extra rations might have been necessary to support his accelerated metabolism, but the serum was certainly the only reason he hadn’t gotten a medical discharge from eating too much of Hitler's secret weapon. But instead of standing to go searching with him, she yawned and reached for the soft handmade afghan he kept on the back of the sofa. “Though I think I might need a bit of a rest before we go scavenging.”

She spread the blanket over herself (“This is nice. I assume that you still consider yourself the superior at knitting?” “That makes it sound like an opinion.”), and a little corner over him, and fell asleep leaning on his shoulder. He stared straight ahead and thought about how she had lived a whole life, that she had had a husband who wasn’t him, raised children, that she’d built SHIELD and run it admirably for decades. It was ridiculous to think that she would even consider a romantic relationship with a barely employed ex-SHIELD contractor who she had kissed once seventy years ago, and it would only make things awkward to ask. He had Peggy, miraculously back with him, and that was all he needed.

That Christmas Eve, Natasha glanced at the presents under the tree and stopped halfway through her second piece of the chocolate gingerbread cake with which Thor had cheerfully presented everyone. (“Bakery,” Darcy had mouthed from behind him, then, giving up pretense, said, “Do you really think I’d let either of them use a mixer? Jane hasn’t made unburned toast in the entire time I’ve known her. Neither of them could pull off something this good.”)

“Smart of you to avoid tomorrow morning,” Nat said quietly to Sam as he got his bag together to head down to spend Christmas Day at his grandmother’s big house in Maryland.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll know,” she told him, and swallowed the last of her cake. (You never knew the next time you’d get cake.)

But Sam didn’t know, not yet. Because when Tony opened his presents the next day, the gray-violet hooded Aran pullover he received from Steve got only the expected compliments. Steve had given handmade gifts to nearly everyone (a painting for Pepper to hang in the empty space in the guest bedroom that always bothered her, a pair of new throwing knives that he and Thor had worked on together for Natasha) and they had known about the sweater for months. Even when Tony opened his package from Peggy to find a cable knit sweater in navy and light blue with large buttons, it was seen simply as another lovely gift and the overlap chalked up to coincidence or some obscure 1940s tradition.

Only Natasha saw the narrow-eyed glance Steve gave Peggy, and the small, decisive nod.

Even for Nat, it was difficult to tell that anything had changed over the next few months. Steve and Peggy laughed and sparred with each other, recounted old war stories to everyone in the jet or around the Tower, bent their heads together as they planned operations, and noticeably did not knit in public. It was only in May, after their first week of consistently warm weather, that the sound of raised voices drew everyone to the glass-fronted office which Peggy had claimed as her own, where they found Steve saying through clenched teeth, “It was rigged!”

“In what way,” Peggy asked him politely, “do you think I could influence Tony’s wardrobe choices?”

“He wore yours more because he’s scared of you and he knows that you notice everything.”

Peggy turned toward the doorway. “Tony, are you afraid of me?”

“Course I am,” Tony told her promptly. “I used to tell kids on the playground not to mess with me or I’d call my aunt Peg.”

“Flattering as that is, it has no bearing on the question at hand.” She turned back to Steve, her fingertips pressing gently but deliberately into the desktop as she leaned forward. “It’s clear to me, given that my sweater was worn on six more occasions than yours, that Tony considered mine to be more attractive, more comfortable, and of better quality.”

“That doesn’t—” Steve started, but Bruce cut him off.

“Can someone explain what the hell is going on here?” He looked between the two of them. “Are you two really having the first fight I’ve ever seen from you over sweaters?”

Peggy and Steve glanced at each other, then turned toward Bruce with mutually crossed arms. “Sweaters,” Peggy said dangerously, “are very important.”

It hadn’t been the plan for Steve to go on the mission at all. Marcus Harrington - Harry - a more experienced SSR field agent who Peggy had worked with before, had been tapped to join her again. But then Harry had broken a leg during a foot chase, Steve happened to be in London for three days of leave while the Commandos rested up between assignments, and the operation simply couldn’t wait.

Steve and Peggy had rescued the captive SSR operative fairly easily - he was still being dragged by a small group of soldiers through the woods back toward an established Nazi base when they found him - but returning him to where he needed to be proved more difficult. Finland was never exactly hot, but they had picked a particularly terrible week to be outdoors. Steve would often sit with his broad back facing into the cutting breeze in an attempt to act as a windbreak. But finally they managed to get him to the safehouse, enduring with embarrassment the effusive thanks of the two sisters and multiple Resistance friends already there.

“Let us give you something to thank you!” someone said, and Steve and Peggy accepted, hoping that this could serve as an appropriate endpoint to the conversation in the way that their protestations that it really was only their job had not.

Food supplies being what they were, it took a bit of time to find something deemed suitable as a gift. Finally a skein of cream yarn and a pair of knitting needles were handed to them, a final round of thanks was exchanged, and Steve and Peggy set back on their way to their pickup point.

The driving snow that cut them off miles from where they were meant to be was a problem. The small and broken shed they found to shelter in was an absolute miracle. Except that, after several hours of forgetting propriety - Steve leaning toward Peggy, or she leaning toward him, to share his warmth - and then abruptly remembering it again, they were both absolutely, incredibly bored.

Steve hadn’t remembered the yarn, exactly, but when he encountered it after sticking a hand in his pocket, it was a relief.

“I can show you a couple of stitches,” he offered Peggy idly, and she looked at him and asked, “What makes you think that I don’t know your ‘couple of stitches,’ and more than you do besides?”

“You’re already a codebreaker and a crack shot,” Steve pointed out. “Where would you find the time to learn to knit too?”

As she soon showed him, she made the time. But Steve, who had gained his own skills during long winters (and autumns, and summers) in bed, guided by the few knitting books available from the public library, was for once determined to hold his own. In anything else he accepted Peggy’s superiority as a matter of course, but in this he refused to yield.

When the pilot asked how they had passed the time waiting for the storm to clear, they both answered, without looking at each other, “Talked.” But a personal battle had been declared, and neither party was willing to back down.

Although Tony congratulated them on their attempt at experimental design, he had to admit that “proximity to hand as he reached into closet” was too significant a factor in his getting dressed to have made it a fair competition between them. New parameters would have to be set.

“Your criteria were a problem. Best sweater is too broad and too subjective, and you didn’t take weather or occasion into account,” Pepper told them. “The sweater you want to wear for a cozy day in the house isn’t necessarily the sweater you want to wear shoveling the driveway, or to work, and it’s practically impossible to make a sweater that fits all of those needs.”

It became quickly apparent that there were too many facets to consider. Half the room was stewing in stumped silence, while the other half talked over each other with suggestions. Finally it was Clint, who had walked in midway through the argument, who said through the slice of pizza he’d crammed into his mouth, “Ugliest.”

The new competition now took shape. The guidelines would not be which was the most attractive or most comfortable, which showed the most advanced technique or held up best in the wash, but instead who could make the ugliest sweater.

“It has to be wearable,” Natasha ticked off. “And the deadline is this Christmas morning.”

Those were the only rules.

That Peggy and Steve retreat to opposite corners and refuse to speak for the six months of competition seemed the next logical step. But they had been happily at war with each other for six months already, and saw no need to let the renewal of hostilities interfere with their relationship now.

If anything, they grew closer. Now that Steve had no reason to base himself out of DC, he had decided to find himself another, less depressing New York apartment, and masochistically asked if Peggy would like to be his roommate. (If he could see Peggy fixing the garbage disposal, or accusing him of eating all of her favorite breakfast cereal, or with disheveled hair finding something to watch on TV, he swore to himself that now it would be enough.) Peggy recognized with some sadness that after nearly dying, acclimating to all the losses of an entirely new century, and spending time with her elderly self, Steve was too battered for a relationship and certainly could not view her in a romantic light. She was also past ready to move out of the Tower. She accepted.

They were good roommates. Their parents would have been scandalized. A schedule was devised for making sure the bathroom was kept clean, and they agreed that if one was making food, they would always make enough for both of them. (This quickly turned into a promise to order in enough for both of them, as their stove remained mostly unused.) Peggy snuck a pair of nicely fitted jeans into Steve’s wardrobe. He bought her a gun safe that matched the red accents of her cream-painted bedroom. They mutually agreed to cancel the History Channel on their television package, but found themselves sharing the sofa often at the end of the day, flipping through the options and bickering over what self-indulgent program to choose.

And in the evenings, they would part, each to their separate bedroom to work on their creations.

Darcy passed Peggy’s office one afternoon when Steve was away and poked her head inside. “If you’re in the apartment anyway, why don’t you just, like, burn his yarn supply? Or at least sneak a peek at what he’s working on?” she asked.

“Well, that would hardly be sporting,” said Peggy, letting the screen scroll through some documents in front of her as her hands kept up her stitching. “And it’s certainly unnecessary. I will beat him, as always, through pure talent.”

Steve was equally confident. “You don’t spend a few years making your own clothes by taking apart charity castoffs and not gain some useful skills,” he told Sam as they headed back on another flight, this one commercial, following a lead in one of the HYDRA files. His needles clicked as he spoke; somehow Steve was never questioned about them at security.

“Considering what you’re competing for, I don’t know if those skills are something to brag about,” Sam commented, and Steve shut up and stewed.

Though the cordiality - which was by this point their hallmark - remained through their shared Thanksgiving and into the beginning of December, there were some cracks starting to show. They shared an open glare during a conversation about strategy which certainly did not merit such anger, and their training sessions in the Avengers gym, which typically had a graceful, mythic quality, were taking on a vicious angle. Yet somehow, even as they shopped for gifts and put on their finishing touches, their time together at the end of the day remained sacrosanct. Neither was willing to give it up. The possibility was never even mentioned.

Sam arranged to do Christmas Eve in the city and then leave again for Christmas itself with his family. As he put it, he was too smart to keep himself in the line of fire.

“It’s like my mother always said,” he told Pepper as they all stood around the Tower drinking eggnog and pretending not to look with trepidation at the gifts beneath the tree. “‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,’ and I plan to get to New Years with the same two I was born with.”

The point was astute. Most of the fun to the competition had slowly worn away, and it somehow seemed to be standing in for proof of something more serious yet unnamed. Still, everyone opened their gifts on the next morning with passable glee, poking at new gadgets and passing thanks around.

No one got further knitwear, which helped.

Finally, the two packages were brought forward. Peggy and Steve took politeness to another level, each insisting that the other go first for so long that - after Tony realized he didn’t exactly carry change - Darcy took out a quarter and flipped it.

The pride Steve had in his creation was understandable. He had clearly been exploring fashions of the 1980s at some point recently, which were recreated in the shape of the...garment (calling it a sweater seemed dangerous and insulting). The shoulders of it were so enormously padded as to be nearly square, and the base color - a vivid and horrible metallic red, with accompanying sequins - was easy to imagine tossed by the skein into the bargain bin. The stripes of silver and green glittery fur yarn gave the entire thing the impression of either a tinsel-covered candy cane or some of the more disturbing types of mold. But it was in the notions department that Steve had truly outdone himself, choosing beads in the shapes of Christmas bells, buttons molded to look like holly berries and leaves, and bows in all sizes, colors, and textures to spangle across his creation without pattern or logic.

There was a moment of silence as he unveiled it. The true hideousness of it needed to be mourned upon sight.

“Okay, maybe it is a real contest,” Tony said, a little awed. He dared only look at Peggy from the corner of his eye; he had enough memories of her steaming when she had been upset with his father, and he didn’t need new ones.

But Peggy, when she brought her own box forward, was calm. If Steve had gone for the more traditional route of unattractiveness through overwhelming the eye, Peggy had decided on a subtler, more simple strategy. The sweater in itself had something of an ersatz quality to it - it was made too wide, so that it somewhat resembled a poncho or a sweater cape, and the snowflakes decorating the hem were lopsided and angular - but it was as the eye drew upward that the true knockout came.

Jane, who was a little tipsy, began to giggle. So did Pepper, who wasn’t.

“Oh,” said Bruce. “Oh, wow. Oh no.”

And he might have summed it up the best. For what Peggy had attached to the front of her entry were two mock reindeer faces: plush, tan appendages stuffed presumably with batting, little red noses on the ends and antlers above the tops. She had even included tiny stitched smiles on the lower curves, and sewn on button eyes.

They were placed directly on the chest so as to mimic two nude, decorated breasts.

“Comment cards can be found on the table for easy tallying,” she said generously.

For a moment nobody moved, struck not by an enemy but by the terrible, impossible choice before them. Then, into the silence, Natasha said, “There’s something else under the tree.”

And she reached for a final time beneath the tree, pulling something from the hidden back branches. She set the box in her lap, and slowly lifted the lid...

As they walked home, Steve kept glancing at Peggy when they passed under streetlights. He was enchanted by the color the cold was bringing to her face, a blush in her cheeks and a rosy tip to her nose.

“I had no idea that Father Christmas could be so frightening,” she was saying, and he forced himself back into the conversation and agreed.

“It was bad even with those little lights in his eyes off, but when she turned them on...” He gave a shudder.

Seeing the third, and most disturbing, take on the contest prompt, a draw had been declared, and the afternoon had progressed with food, classic Christmas movies, and the traditional British crackers which Jarvis had ordered specially for Peggy. Only when it had darkened did everyone begin to drift out, including Peggy and Steve, getting a chance to speak on their own for the first time since the morning.

“We both put up a good fight,” Steve said as they reached their block. “Truce?” He put out his hand. Peggy took it and shook easily.

“It really was marvelous fun, and you were a worthy competitor.” They took a moment to wave to their neighbor, Mr. Travellini, as he put his cat out. “I’m only sorry that I was so caught up in the whole affair that I neglected to get you a gift.”

Steve was already shaking his head. “Not like I got one for you, either. And besides, I have all the gifts I need.”

She had climbed one step to their building before she had turned back to look at him. In the warm beam of the streetlights as snow began to drift down around them, his scarf draped indifferently around his neck and his eyes glowed up at her, just like the boy she remembered.

Oh, she thought, as she always had when faced with that gaze. Oh, my.

She wondered if he had become better at hiding the look, or if she had just been too caught up in her own logic, her own assumptions, to see it.

“Steve,” she asked, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “Steve, are you ever going to kiss me?”

His mouth parted just a bit, an amazed kind of confusion on his face. “I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought you wouldn’t want me to.”

“Well,” she said practically, “I absolutely do. And you���ve just said that you owe me a gift.” With her on the step, they were of a height. All it would take was the tiniest lean forward...

Steve might have been more practiced at knitting than he was at kissing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give a perfectly lovely present.

[pineappuu-pineappley]

Knitting/yarn/needle arts + Tweek hcs

Because I Cannot Stop thinking about this

Tweek probably read somewhere that repetitive motions can calm people down and he looked to crafting

He came across a knitting tutorial and ended up watching most of them on youtube then he signed up for classes

He's literally the only kid there, the other people are grandmas but they love him

Because Tweek Tweak is such a talented and artistic boye he picks it up real quick

He only uses wooden needles because they're not that sharp and they got more grip cuz he's paranoid about dropping stitches once he got the hang of knitting

Craig and those guys amazon prime him some pretty wooden needles on his birthday or for christmas cuz all he has are those plain wooden ones

Tweek panics over dpns but once he learns magic loop it's over for you bitches there's only one circular needle to care about not 4-5

He knits in the "throwing" style probably because he feels its more stable. Tweek also never tensions his yarn with his fingers, he's probably a very tight knitter anyway

Tweek brought his knitting to school once, he stabbed whoever made fun of him with his needles

"cAN YOU MAKE STRING INTO FABRIC??? FIGHT ME"

He stabbed one of his sharper ones through cartman probably LMAO

His insomniac ass stays up to 3am looking at knitting patterns

Tweek once tried making lace, he panics over the deliberate holes but it ends up beautiful instead

He assures himself he did a good job after blocking it

Fair isle is "too much pressure", don't even know why lace isnt

Speaking of patterns, this boy would literally match the gauge to the t, even going so far as to wash and block a swatch if it's a wearable,, he's that paranoid about it

Tweek steals craig's fabric softener for his acrylic yarns LOL thank god for laundry bf

Tweek kinda would get sad cuz there are so many knitting group things and he's the only one doing it (not counting the grannies)

If he gets tired of knitting he looks to do other crafts and activities like cross stitch or baking or writing music or building legos

He starts to knit when everyone is taking a break from video games or something. Its comforting for him to have something in his hands (maybe thats why he holds craig's hand so much too ;) ;) )

He only ever picked up crochet to make amigurumi and he would make aliens for craig's birthday

And some stripe replicas

And,,, dinos?

Craig likes to watch him work

When tweek is done with the amigurumi that is meant for craig and if they're hanging out together, he just throws it into craig's face

"I'M DONE!" [flings at craig] "oof, oh thats cute, honey. is this stripe #4?" "yeah,, it's for you" "nice"

Most of tweek's amigurumis are small enough to make into keychains and there are like at least 3 on his schoolbag

Obviously craig has like 4 guinea pigs on his own backpack

And a bunch of aliens and ships

And a cross stitch of the surface of the moon and a water colour painting of oppy

A-and a full sized crocheted guinea pig plush,,,

Tweek gives a lot of his amigurumis as gifts

He might probably get away from working at the back of Tweek bros coffee because Richard decided that they could sell cup cozies

Tweek manages to get some money by lying about the price of the yarn he needs to make those cozies cuz he buys the yarn and keeps the change

Tweek once thought of collecting stripe's fur to make into yarn to make something out of for craig but its too tedious

[morgansmornings]

ship meme Jayden and Beth

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor:

It was hard to tell who’s clothes belonged to who. Red, greens, and blues clashed with pastel and paisley. Skirts and jeans tossed about being left where they landed. Fabrics of all sorts scattered and making a collage of colour across the dark brown floor that was standard within the dorms of the campus. 

“Beth…. Have you seen my green shirt?” 

Wha kine?

“The green spaghetti strap. I want to wear it for my date tonight.”

A pause, the shift of an over sized sweater being pulled around tawny slender shoulders. 

Nooo…

“Are you lying?” 

Nooo…

“Are you lying about lying.”

Mebbe…

A sigh.

“Blue one it is then.” 

forgets to run the dish washer:Neat freak. Organized. Dishwasher always running both us stairs and down stairs to keep up with the health standards. 

At least that was how it usually was. 

But there were times that the Janissary couldn’t be assed to use Forces or Correspondence to poke one stupid button. It was usually after covert missions where she had the hardest time having the will to do much of anything but breathe. During those times she had given Beth permission to make sure that the mountains of leftovers found homes in the bellies of those that needed it most. 

On this night however, Jay was not as bad off as she usually was. No, this night she was just tired. Prue was off digging into a rumor to see if it was something that she could deal with at a later date or not. So she had the brownstone to herself. Finally a moment to unwind. To come down from the soul crushing pain that was both inflicted to her prey and that she received herself. 

She pulled the dishwasher open, taking a cup from the top rack and poured herself a healthy amount of cold coffee. She reached up and scratched the back of her feeling the grime clinging to her skin. Taking a long pull she immediately turned and spit the mouthful out. 

“God… Damnit.” She held back the sudden urge to gag as the taste of dish soap. 

“I love her… I love her so much Andy…” Jay whipped the back of her hand across her lips. “One of these days, I might strangle her.”

Though it wasn’t Beth’s fault. She did wash the dishes. She just forgot that the dishwasher was there to make things easier. pumps gas for the car:“Onna d’ese days, I’m gonna do it.” Beth said curling her legs under herself to rearrange the knitting supplies she had brought with her. 

“I’ll let you pump gas into the Caddy the day you can see over the wheel kid.” A ball of yarn bounced off the door. Jay couldn’t help but chuckle. With all the powers Beth had it was a miracle she was still the same sweet tiny and innocent soul in the world. Jay was certain that Beth could achieve peace among the others and bring the Wyrm to heel and purify whatever had driven it off the deep end. 

There was some mumbling that Jay chose not to make out because they wee already behind their, her, schedule. It was going to be a long drive to the east coast. Sure Jay could have gotten tickets, but there was not enough tranquilizers to put Beth to sleep long enough to fly that distance. Which is why there was a cruise bound for Hawai’i waiting for them in California. drives when they’re going somewhere:

“And then when we get there… Beth are you even listening to me?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“Really?” 

“Mm-hmm.” That was the moment Jayden pulled over into a parking lot. She knew Beth wasn’t paying attention. That much was obvious by how she was leaned against the passenger door with her chin propped on a delicate palm. Green-hazel eyes were glazed over not yet realizing that they had stopped. Jay reached over and took Beth’s hand in hers, tugging gently.

“Hey Tiny Dancer?” 

“Huh?” The Hawaiian turned to look at her best friend over many lifetimes. “Did we stop?”

“Figured we could stretch our legs. And after…” Jay shrugged a shoulder and pulled her hand away leaving the keys in Beth’s hand. 

“But ya alw-”

“I’m tired.” She wasn’t. “Not safe for me to be behind the wheel Tiny Dancer.” 

A light began burning that settled whatever worry had come over the Janissary.

“Copy d’at Rubba Ducky.” 

rearranges the furniture:It was mapped out clearly in her mind. To the point that she could walk around with her eyes closed and not once drop, trip, kick, or stumble over anything. Every item had a place and every item was kept just so. Even when she cleaned. Some called it obsession. Other called it a well maintained lifestyle. 

So when Jayden opened the door and dropped her keys to the floor she knew something was wrong. Looking around her living room, pool table, and most of the bedding from her guest and master bedroom was strewn about. Cushions and fabrics lay draped up over each other and her staircase leading up to the master bedroom floor had been turned into a keep of sorts. 

“Beth?” 

“D’e no be a Beth. Bu’ Lady WiggleWag an’ her fai’ful sworn hound Bitestwice.” 

“Don’‘t forget me!” 

“An’ Lord Noah of da far off lands to the South.” 

“Beth.” 

“Have ya tribute ta lay before mah noble feet?” 

“Beth!” 

“Wha?!” 

“Next time, just text me when you plan on babysitting.” Jay shook her head shrugging out of the leather coat she was wearing. Next came the heeled boot. “But if the Lady, Noble Knight, and High guard dog would allow, the council hath sent me, a humble peasant to bring tribute of cake and cocoa.” 

There was a moment of muttering, hushed giggles, and the soft bouf of Prue before she was answered. 

“Da lord bide ya welcome, stranger. As long as d’ere be ice cream.” 

“But of course.”

falls asleep with the TV on:Beth had always had a hard time sleeping. The Sandman kept away from her and when he did come, so did the Night terrors. Which is why Beth was always working strange hours at the hospital. Or going on late night ride alongs with Luc.  But on occasion there was a movie night. 

And this time, the soft sounds of Beth’s little voice spoke along with Inigo Montoya as he advanced upon the six fingered man. She mimicked his elegant moves with her own hands. Thrust. Parry. Block, slash, parry. Her slender form twisting on the recliner only once nudging the familiar once.

She turned to take Jay’s hand to find the younger woman asleep on the other recliner. one foot thrown over the arm, her head lolled off to the side and one hand still in the mixing bowl of Popcorn and M&Ms. 

“Good Night Jay. I mos’ likely kill you in da mornin’.” gets to use the bathroom first:Pulling herself up and out of the chair every joint she had creaked and popped as protest. Shuffling more in the style of a zombie rather then a human being she headed upstairs for the master bathroom. One hand ran through her hair  to push it from her face. She could already smell the coffee which meant Prue had set it up before the sleep over ended.

Rounding over the last step she could hear her shower going. A raised brow, a deep frown, and one arm crossing over her chest to scratch the back of her shoulder. The Janissary pushed the door open with a yawn. Sitting on the counter, a toothbrush moving with far more vigor than was humanly possible at this early time of the morning. “Dude, did you even sleep?”

“MMM!!” 

“Sorry. Knock first I know. But you’re dressed and a nurse. This isn’t the first time another woman has walked in on you.” “Mmm!” A finger waved way too close to Jay’s face for comfort. 

“Alright downstairs it is. But I’ll remember that the next time you have to piss.” Jay moved just fast enough to dodge the tube of toothpaste. But not the bar of soap that came right after. decides the temperature for the ac/heater:“Beth… it is 89 degrees. How can you be cold?” 

“Please?” 

“Oh.. My Gods okay! Fine!” Jayden flipped the switch for the seats heating coils built into the Cadillac. “Now flip the vents on your side so I can run the AC.” 

“But d’at doesn’t..” 

“Ah! Tch!” A hand puppet came up from the steering wheel. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m hot. Driver gets control that was the deal.” 

“Okay, but ya have any kine blanket?”

A pause. A sigh. 

“For the last time… NO!” sets up holiday decorations:When Christmas comes to town

The lights were strung over all the windows. Garland hung from the banister and the pegs for the stair case. Gingerbread wafted through the air. The Polar Express was playing just loud enough that the girls could sing along.

And all the dreams of the children

Flour coated the front of Jay’s apron, while steady hand folded the shortbread batter together. Small feet galumphed around chasing the clicking of sharp nails. The youngest chuckled at the panicked look in betrayed dark eyes. 

“Don’t look at me, you promised.”  

Once lost will all be found

“Traitor!” A pathetic whine came as the Hawaiian grabbed Prue from behind, with the over sized sweater. 

“Gotcha!”

It took several moments for Beth to bend in ways that would have been painful to others to get the familiar into the human made sweater. It was just this side of Ugly Christmas sweater. The soft fabric all hand woven from well kept and happy Angora Rabbits. 

That’s all I want when Christmas comes to town

leaves the lights on:Prue panted hard and heavy. She was struggling to stay up right but it was hard to do with a gaping hole that the burglar left as a parting gift. The storm raged outside and had knocked the power out a few minutes before hand. Limping across the wooden floor she collapsed not but three feet from the entrance. 

“Jay!” Beth’s voice echoed down the hall from the stairwell. At least that is what Prue assumed as she let out a whine. 

“Beth! Hurry! She’s been shot!” Jay all but sobbed as she dropped to her knees and began petting the dog’s head. 

“I..” 

“Beth please!” 

“Get da flashlights!” Jay nodded and turned on her phone’s light. She was speaking in half words and muted cries of heartbreak. Soon she started getting the mag lights to help illuminate the apartment. Soft but firm hands covered in some kind of gloves started prodding at the wound. Prue whimpered and yowled, but was not willing to snap out. 

“Jay, ya need for get me some candles.” Beth’s voice was a salve to adrenaline fried nerves. 

Minutes, hours it was hard to tell but the power came back on and Both Beth and Jay were sitting on the floor near the couch. Jay’s eyes were bloodshot while Beth’s were sympathetic. Even though all the lights were on, neither moved to turn off the flashlights or put out the candles. 

uses the bathroom with the door open:Beth always had the door closed when she went to the bathroom. It was habit. In through the door, turn, close, lock. When she was done it was unlock, open, and leave. Between the Admiral and her brother it was just a habit that had been instilled into her at a young age.

So imagine the heart attach she had the first time that she came back from class to find their shared bathroom wide open. And a nude Jayden backside pointed towards her. One strong leg propped on the bathroom ledge with razor in hand. 

“I’m sorry!: 

“Oh hey kid. Was wondering where you ran off too. Can you do me a favor and grab me my underwear. I left them on the dresser.” 

“I…” Beth learned and then made Jayden promise to never again, leave the bathroom door open after that. fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber):

Beth reached as far as she could while keeping Jayden pinned onto the couch. It would be the best, fastest, and the least amount of explaining needed. Jay however was of the opinion that He was a last resort call. Plus it wasn’t like he wasn’t already there. Watching and waiting for the right moment to interrupt the squabbling. 

“I said no.” 

“But he’s good.” 

“No. I am not letting that happen.” 

“But d’ats my phone.” Jay put her hand in Beth’s face to try and push her away.

“Ow! Stop with the biting!” 

“Den gimme da phone.” 

“No! I’m not calling Clint!” 

“Good thing I’m standing right here then. Things would get a little awkward if the pipe keeps leaking and you both fall on the floor. Might give the next person the wrong impression.” 

“HOW?!” 

“I texted him before ya took my phone.” Beth said with a victorious tone as she gave a sun-bright smile. 

This Meme: Accepting.Honorable Mention: @brooklynislandgirl and @multi-mused