#violet wool

[yidishuiwater]

[disgruntled-lifeform]

Uhhhhh...who wants to tell them that a ball of yarn is in no way woven?

[richardsiphone]

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word Alternatives: Colours

BLACK atramentous, charcoal, coal, crow, darksomeness, denigration, duskiness, ebony, funereal, jet, inkiness, melanism, melanotic, midnight, niello, obsidian, pitch, raven, sable, singe, sloe, smirch, smoke, sombrous, soot, swarthiness, swartness, tar

BLUE aquamarine, azure, berylline, cerulean, cerulescent, cyan, cyanosis, cyanotic, electric blue, ice-blue, indigo, lividity, midnight, navy, Oxford blue, pavonian, pavonine, peacock blue, robin's egg blue, royal blue, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine

BROWN adust, auburn, beige, biscuit, braise, bay, bronze, brune, brunette, buff, burnt umber, burnt sienna, caramel, castaneous, chestnut, chocolate, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, drab, dun, embrown, fawn, grege, hazel, henna, infuscation, khaki, mushroom, ochre, paper bag, pumpernickel, raw sienna, raw umber, roan, rubiginous, rufous, russet, rust, scorch, seal, sepia, sorrel, suntan, sunburn, tan, taupe, toast, umber, walnut

GRAY ashiness, canescence, cinereous, cineritious, dullness, ecru, fuscous, glaucescence, greige, grisaille, gunmetal, hoar, iron, lead, mousiness, oyster, pewter, slatiness, smokiness, steel, taupe

GREEN aerugo, aestival, avocado, beryl, chartreuse, chloremia, chlorophyll, chlorosis, chlorotic, emerald, foliaged, glaucescence, grass, greensickness, ivy, jade, loden green, holly, olivaceous, olive, patina, patinate, pea-green, smaragdine, springlike, verdancy, verdantness, verdigris, verdure, vernal, virescence, viridescence, viridity

ORANGE apricot, cantaloupe, carotene, carroty, ochreous, ochroid, pumpkin, saffron, tangerine, terracotta, Titian

PINK carnation, coral, coralline, flesh-pink, incarnadine, peach, primrose, roseate, rosy, salmon

PURPLE amethystine, aubergine, bruise, empurple, fuchsia, lavender, lilac, lividity, magenta, mauve, mulberry, orchid, pansy, plum, puce, purpure, purpureous, raisin, violaceous, violet

RED beet, blowzy, cardinal, carmine, carnation, carnelian, cerise, cherry, copper, crimson, damask, encrimson, erubescence, erythema, erythematous, erythrism, erythroderma, ferruginous, fire, floridity, floridness, flushing, gules, hectic, henna, incarnadine, infrared, laky, lateritious, lobster, lurid, magenta, mantling, maroon, miniate, port, puce, raddle, rose, rosiness, rouge, rubefaction, rubicundity, rubor, rubricity, ruby, ruddiness, rufescence, rufosity, russet, rust, sanguine, scarlet, stammel, vermeil, vermilion, vinaceous

YELLOW aureateness, auric, aurify, banana, begild, bilious, biliousness, cadmium, canary, chartreuse, citreous, citrine, citron, engild, fallowness, flavescent, flaxen, fulvous, gildedness, gilt, goldenness, honey, icteric, icterus, jaundice, lemon, lutescent, luteous, luteolous, mustard, ochroid, old gold, primrose yellow, saffron, sallowness, sandy, straw, sulfur, topaz, xanthism, xanthochroism, xanthoderma

WHITE achromatic, alabaster, albescent, albinic, besnow, blanch, bleach, bone, calcimine, chalk, cream, cretaceous, eggshell, etiolate, ghastly, ivory, lactescent, lily, lime, milk, pearl, sheet, swan, sheep, fleece, flour, foam, marmoreal, niveous, paper, pearl, phantom, silver, snow, driven snow, tallow, teeth, wax, wool

VARIEGATION (diversity of colors) spectrum, rainbow, iris, chameleon, leopard, jaguar, cheetah, ocelot, zebra, barber pole, candy cane, Dalmatian, firedog, peacock, butterfly, mother-of-pearl, nacre, tortoise shell, opal, kaleidoscope, stained glass, serpentine, calico cat, marble, mackerel sky, confetti, crazy quilt, patchwork quilt, shot silk, moire, watered silk, marbled paper, Joseph's coat, harlequin, tapestry; bar code, checkerboard

variegation, multicolor; parti-color; medley or mixture of colors, spectrum, rainbow of colors, riot of color; polychrome, polychromatism; dichromatism, trichromatism; dichroism, trichroism

iridescence, iridization, irisation, opalescence, nacreousness, pearliness, chatoyancy, play of colors or light; light show; moire pattern, tabby; burelé or burelage

spottiness, maculation, freckliness, speckliness, mottledness, mottlement, dappleness, dappledness, stippledness, spottedness, dottedness; fleck, speck, speckle; freckle; spot, dot, polka dot, macula, macule, blotch, splotch, patch, splash; mottle, dapple; brindle; stipple, stippling, pointillism, pointillage

check, checker, checks, checking, checkerboard, chessboard; plaid, tartan; checker-work, variegated pattern, harlequin, colors in patches, crazy-work, patchwork; parquet, parquetry, marquetry, mosaic, tesserae, tessellation; crazy-paving; hound's tooth; inlay, damascene

stripe, striping, candy-stripe, pinstripe; barber pole; streak, streaking; striation, striature, stria; striola, striga; crack, craze, crackle, reticulation; bar, band, belt, list

mottled, motley; pied, piebald, skewbald, pinto; dappled, dapple; calico; marbled; clouded; salt-and-pepper

Source: The Concise Roget's International Thesaurus, Revised & Updated (6th Edition) More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[the-storyteller78]

SHAME ON YOU FOR MAKING ME LAUGH SO HARD MY PARENTS THINK I'M LOSING THE LAST OF MY REMAINING MARBLES—

No, but in all honestly, this is SO great 😂💛 I love the way Penelope is like oh you know they get along just as well as they used, Telemachus is as excited to see him as he's always been, but the implication is that they have never gotten along and Telemachus totally hates his guts LOLOLOLOLOL

Get 'em, Stratonice, whack him good!! 🥳

Can you imagine how weird it must’ve felt for Penelope to see all these younger men—many of whom she literally probably held on her lap as babies or children—burst into her house to vie for her hand and her husband’s throne?? That’s the equivalent of your friend’s son proposing to you while your husband is on a business trip. Just think about it. Like, how embarrassing for them. If not for xenia (and their forceful abuse of said hospitality), I feel like she would’ve laughed them out of house and home.

[jet-tags-tradingcards]

Stage 1 : Evolves from Mareep

Flaaffy----HP 90 ⚡

Wool Pokémon

⚡ Thunder Shock 20

Flip a coin. If heads, your opponent's Active Pokémon is now Paralyzed.

⚡🌟🌟 Electro Ball 60

Weakness : ✊🏾x 2--------Resistance : N/A--------Retreat : 🌟🌟

Because of its rubbery, electricity-resistant skin, it can store lost of electricity in its fur.

Illus. Kurata So

[Scarlet and Violet Edition] 067/198 🔷

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 16, vol. 18, 19 avril 1896, Paris. 11. Robe de maison en foulard mauve. Modèle de la Capdeville, 58, boulevard Haussman. 22. Corsage Tannhaüser en lainage violet évêque. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

(11.) Robe de maison en foulard mauve, de forme droite, froncée devant et dans le dos, avec pli rond rapporté retenu par une ceinture de ruban nouée de côté, i rangs de petite Valenciennes ornent le devant et le haut des manches; la manche ballon, très basse sur l’épaule, se termine par un bracelet de ruban, double col rabattu orné de dentelle.

(11.) House dress in mauve foulard, straight, gathered at the front and back, with round pleat held in place by a ribbon belt tied at the side, rows of small Valenciennes adorn the front and the top of the sleeves; the balloon sleeve, very low on the shoulder, ends with a ribbon bracelet, double turn-down collar decorated with lace.

Matériaux: 10 mètres soie ou 5 mètres lainage, 20 mètres dentelle.

—

(22.) Corsage Tannhaüser en lainage violet évêque, rentré flans la jupe, le devant avec col revers est croise de côté; il est ouvert du lia ut sur un plastron en pareil surmonté d’un col de velours, garniture de velours assorti. Manche d’une seule pi��ce avec revers velours.

Matériaux: 3 mètres de tissu, 1m,50 velours.

(22.) Tannhaüser bodice in purple bishop wool, tucked into the skirt, the front with lapel collar is crossed sideways; it is open from the lia ut on a bib in the same surmounted by a velvet collar, trimmed with matching velvet. One-piece sleeve with velvet cuff.

[beansprean]

introducing Katya Zamolodchikova as Nancy the Relentless!!! a concept @vampireshmampire and i braindumped about like a year ago lmao. far before the rumors about Trixie Mattel being in s6 came out owo!

My Familiar’s Ghost part 80

Masterpost Masterpost 2

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Small panel, waist up of Nandor and Guillermo on a vague grayish-blue background. Nandor has one hand on his hip and the other pointing upwards as he leans toward Guillermo sternly and says 'Now I will show you how to call long distance.' Guillermo looks up at him, rubbing his arm awkwardly, still flushed from the previous page, and responds 'Ok...' 1b. Chest up of Nandor on a brighter blue background with his eyes closed in concentration, palms held up and out. He clears his throat and says, in a wispy bright blue speech bubble, 'I, Nandor the Relentless, am calling out to the etherrrr to inquire about available familiarsssss...' 1c. Shoulders up of Nandor and Guillermo lurching to one side in shock, Nandor's hands flying up, shoulder crashing into Guillermo's, as a glowing blue bubble suddenly shoves into their panel. Inside the bubble is a thin white vampire in drag with long white-blonde hair styled half up in a high ponytail by a sparkly red scrunchie. She is wearing a thin red dress with a black leather corset, a red-violet leopard fur capelet with gold coins dangling from the hem, a red jabot at her neck with a bat shaped gold brooch decorated with rubies, and shoulder length red gloves with ruby-encrusted gold caps shaped like claws on each finger. She lurches into frame with a huge, devious grin, shouting, 'Nandor, babygirl! Is that you?!' 1d. Repeat of Nandor and Guillermo standing side by side, Guillermo now having moved to stand slightly behind. Nandor slumps and scowls, already looking exhausted by this encounter, and greets poisonously 'Hello, Nancy the Relentless.' Guillermo frowns up at Nancy but stays quiet. From offscreen, Nancy coos, 'Heyy, mama! Still shopping in Turkish Cryptkeeper Kohls? I love that for you.' Nandor replies, irritated, 'This kaftan is not coal, it is made of wool from the sheeps of Al Q-' Nancy interrupts and asks, 'So, you're looking for a familiar?'

2a. Waist up of Nancy in her ether bubble, right arm crossed over her chest to rest on her left bicep, left hand reaching up to tap a jaunty claw on her cheek. She raises a brow and grins, tongue curling around one fang, and asks teasingly, 'Does that mean your scrumptious little slayer-boy is finally availableeee? 2b. Chest up of Nandor and Guillermo side by side. Glare fixed on Nancy, Nandor throws an arm out in front of Guillermo and shouts, 'No!! I have told you before, he is mine!' Guillermo startles, a green glow beginning to creep up behind him as goosebumps skitter up and down his shoulders. Nancy replies to Nandor, 'And your title is mine, Nandor the Plagiarist!' Nandor snaps back, 'I have been called Relentless since before you were born, Nancy the- the Pretender!' 2c. Repeat. Guillermo blushes and looks away, lips pursing as if attempting to whistle nonchalantly as his hand reaches up to grip the arm Nandor is holding in front of him and move it away from his body. Nandor's eyes flit over to him curiously, color rising to his cheeks. Nancy continues, 'Ooh, baby, you know how I feel about older men yelling at me. You should call more often.' 2d. Close up of Nandor in profile in the foreground, Nancy's bubble beyond. He glares at her and asks sharply, 'Do you know of any familiars looking for work or not?' Nancy, full body visible now as she perches on the edge of a table and leans back on one arm, legs crossed at the knee to reveal the high slit in her dress, fishnets, and thigh high black leather boots. She closes her eyes haughtily and stretches her free arm outward in a clearly rehearsed pose, replying, 'Well, gorgeous, effortless, beloved vampires usually receive applications directly...' 2e. Repeat. Nandor arches his eyebrows and turns his head away from Nancy toward the viewer, muttering, 'Then you must alert me if you find such a vampire.' Nancy wheezes with shocked laughter, kicking her legs wildly and flapping her arms, delighted rather than offended by the dig. Through her laughs, she declares, 'Read!!' 2f. Chest up of Nandor and Guillermo, the latter standing just behind and gripping the edge of Nandor's sleeve. Offscreen, Nancy recovers from her fit and says, 'Well, since I'm nice, I'll forward you a few. But- hello! Is that the slayer behind you? Did you turn him?! You bitch!! Guillermo, call m-!' Nandor scowls and interrupts, saying quickly, 'YesthankyouNancygoodbye.' He then flaps his hand in the air, dispersing Nancy's bubble and ending the call. Behind him, Guillermo frowns, flustered and blushing. 2g. Repeat. Nandor lowers his hand and glares where Nancy once appeared, sneering, 'Yeesh, why could you not have slain her?' Guillermo aims an unimpressed glance toward him, still purple in the cheeks. /end ID

[hydrangeapartridge]

Spiderman Kiss (Pro Hitoshi Shinsou x reader)

Seeing Hitoshi hanging upside down like spiderman altered my brain chemistry, and I had to write a little something including the iconic spiderman kiss (from 2002... I'm getting old...).

So here it is! (under the cut).

It is a stand alone drabble but in my head it is set in the universe of my ProHero Shinsou x Cat Café owner reader fanfiction Chocolate Kisses and Catpuccinos. (So the characters are adults).

You cursed against your idiocy as you struggled to lock your shop. You had forgotten your gloves again this morning, and with your fingers numbed from the cold winter air, you couldn’t get the damn key in the small keyhole. You let out a frustrated groan when a gust of icy wind blew in your hair. You nuzzled deeper into the too big scarf around your neck, seeking its warmth, and the scent of its real owner. The scent of him, fresh and flowery. It gave you courage, and you finally succeeded in locking the damn door. You indulged into a little victory dance before stepping away from the door and heading to your bike. Unlocking it was difficult too with how cold your hands were. You started feeling frustrated. It was late and you were eager to be back in the warmth of your home.

You were struggling with the bike lock when you heard noises coming from the alley beside your shop. Curious, you left your bike to head there. For all you knew, you could find a stray cat in need of care. You loved cats. And so did he.

So you stepped into the dark alley. It was a bit narrow, barely enough for two people to fit in. Another noise caught your ears, and you yelped when a voice followed.

“Kitten”

Of course you recognized Hitoshi’s voice the second you heard it, and the jolt of fear that seized you gave way to a warm feeling of affection. You turned around, looking for your boyfriend; your hero. However, your eyes found no trace of him. You frowned, perplex. You were sure you heard him.

“Are you sure it’s safe to step into dark alleys alone like you just did?”

You turned around again, following his voice. And to your surprise, there he was, but upside down, hanging from the nearby building by clever twists and knots of his capture weapon. At first you recoiled in astonishment upon seeing him starring at you from this unusual position. With how narrow the street was, his face was mere inches from yours, his pretty violet eyes almost at the same level as your gaze. The mask he usually wore over his mouth was lowered around his neck, letting you see the whole expanse of his pale features.

“Hi!” You beamed at him, once the surprise gone, simply happy to see him. He was on patrol duty tonight, so you never hoped to see him before he came home.

“Hi” He lowly replied, a soft smile gracing his thin lips.

You admired his pretty features, simply getting lost in the unexpected joy to see him.

“Is there something on my face?” Hitoshi teased after a moment, and you shook your head, smiling even brighter if possible.

“No, just happy to see you” You honestly told him. “But what are you doing here?”

Hitoshi grinned, and rummaged through one of the many pockets of his uniform. He retrieved something before offering it to you in his opened palm.

“Here, you forgot them this morning” He said, just as your eyes fell onto the pair of wool gloves you usually wore when it was cold.

You carefully took them and put them on. Warmth instantly returned to your numb fingers, the feeling first weird, but then pleasant.

Your eyes met Hitoshi’s again, and you were sure that he could see in your eyes all the affection you had for him. How much you adored him.

“Thank you” You simply whispered, but words alone couldn’t express your deep gratitude.

In a rush of affection, you placed your now gloved hands on his cold cheeks. You barely had time to see surprise paint Hitoshi’s features before you closed your eyes and kissed him.

With the strange position you found yourself into, the kiss felt different. Hitoshi inhaled sharply through his nose when your lips pressed against his, but soon, his lips parted, accepting your kiss.

His lips moved against yours in an unusual dance. Kissing like that in public, so differently from your usual sleepy make-out sessions in the comfy couch in your apartment, made the whole situation thrilling. You were losing yourself in the excitement your hungry kissing brought, keeping Hitoshi’s face in place as he indulged you, his tongue caressing yours until your knees felt weak.

You boyfriend was on duty, and he should be going back to his patrol. You shouldn’t be distracting him like you were. There were more important things for him to do. You knew about that, but in that moment you really did not care.

The kiss went on until your lips felt swollen and your brain turned to mush. Was it because he was starting to feel as light-headed as you, especially while upside-down, or because he remembered his duty, but Hitoshi soon progressively toned down the kiss, placing one last tender peck on your lips before pulling away. He was always the reasonable one.

Your eyes fluttered opened, and you were met with the delicious sight of your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed, and his lips reddened. You had trouble calming your breathing, and you knew you would have even more trouble letting him go. But you had to. His job was important.

If you often felt selfish in your desire to keep him to yourself, Hitoshi was selfless, always putting the job he dreamed of first. But it was alright; you would be seeing him in the morning, as always, when he would be done helping those in need.

“I have to go” Your boyfriend apologetically whispered.

You nodded your head in understanding. You were glad he already went as far as bringing you your gloves.

“Be safe. My hero” You told him, leaving one last caress on his cheek.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus ii)

a/n: I'm back on this bonus feature, a special episode of the Stark-fluff, I'm giving you deleted scenes! Yay! So these did not make the cut for the chapters I wrote, they were either repetitive or just meh, but I did work on them so I thought you'd all love a glimpse :)

SCENE #1 (part i) - I DON'T TRUST YOU

Winterfell had grown colder since her arrival.

It wasn’t just the weather. The halls felt different—quieter, more shadowed, the cold biting sharper than it had in years past. Since the day Claere had stepped across Winterfell’s threshold as his bride, whispers followed her, as persistent as the wind that howled through the keep.

Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, a ledger spread open before him. The flicker of torchlight danced across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His supper, a hearty stew that had long gone cold, sat untouched beside him. But it wasn’t hunger gnawing at him tonight.

His thoughts were tangled, circling back to the same place: Claere.

She unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain, though he prided himself on reason and instinct. She moved through Winterfell as though she were of another world—her silvery hair catching the light in a way that seemed otherworldly, her violet eyes drifting to things no one else seemed to notice. Her habits baffled the household. She barely ate, spoke sparingly, and often vanished for hours into the grey skies on her mighty dragon. The servants whispered of seeing her wander the halls at night, murmuring to herself in a language older than the North.

Cregan had witnessed it himself: her wandering, barefoot, as if in a trance, her lips forming soft, lilting words that left him uneasy. There was something haunting about her, something unknowable. Even the dogs kept their distance, tails tucked low when she passed.

He tried to dismiss the gnawing whispers as nonsense. Claere was a young woman far from home, a stranger in the harsh, unyielding North, navigating customs as cold and unrelenting as its winters. Of course, she would struggle. Of course, she would seem strange.

And yet, the stories clung to him like frost on iron.

The Valyrian witch, they called her. The true queen of pale fire and blood magic. Beautiful, yes, but unnatural—a creature of strange songs and sleepless nights. Whispers filled the keep, spoken in low tones by bannermen and servants alike. They said her kind preferred the taste of human flesh to that of beast, that her gifts were double-edged: capable of charm and destruction in equal measure.

Cregan had never been one to indulge superstition. The North demanded practicality, not folly. But Claere...

Her harp’s strange, haunting melodies still lingered in his mind, dissonant and otherworldly. Her violet eyes, too large, too sharp, seemed to see into places no mortal gaze should reach. She walked the halls of Winterfell in silence, barefoot and unflinching, her expression distant as if caught in a dream—or a curse.

With her, the line between myth and reality blurred in ways he hated.

A sharp echo of boots on stone pulled him from his brooding. He looked up from the ledger to see two figures approaching the long table, their movements halting and uncertain. A man and a woman, wrapped in wool cloaks patched from many winters past, their faces pale and taut with worry.

“My lord,” the man began, his voice trembling as he bowed low. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, twisting the frayed fabric nervously. “Forgive the intrusion, but we... we need your help.”

Cregan closed the ledger with deliberate slowness, the thud of its binding echoing in the chamber. He stood, his dark brows knitting together. “Help?”

“Our children,” the woman blurted, her voice cracking as she clutched her husband’s arm. “They’ve not returned from the woods. They went out hours ago. They were with...”

She faltered, her throat tightening around the name.

“With?” Cregan prompted, his voice cold and edged with steel.

“With the princess,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the floor.

The name landed like an axe stroke.

“Claere?” The word came sharp, almost incredulous, but the knot in his chest tightened.

“They were curious about her, my lord,” the man added hastily. “About that dragon. My lady, she told them stories, and... well, they followed her.” His voice grew quieter. “We thought they’d be back before long, but they haven’t. It’s... it’s nearly sundown.”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the narrow window, where the last streaks of sunlight bled orange into the encroaching dark. The North woods were no place for small children, not with wolves and worse lurking in the shadows.

“How old are they?” he asked, his tone clipped, his jaw tightening further.

“Six and four,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “Their names are Jonnel and Betha. Please, Lord Stark. Please bring my pups back to me.”

Her words cracked with desperation, the kind only a mother could summon. But Cregan barely heard her. His mind was already racing, drawn inexorably back to Claere.

Her strange, sleepless eyes. Her murmured words to herself, were too soft to catch yet unsettling in their rhythm. The echoes of the harp still rang faintly in his mind, haunting and cold.

The rumours clawed at him like unseen hands. Could she truly have harmed the children? The image of her, pale and otherworldly, the fire casting strange shadows across her sharp features, surfaced unbidden. He thought of the dragon she claimed was hers, a beast as enigmatic as its mistress.

No. He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. It was ridiculous. It had to be. But still...

“Ready the horses,” he said, at last, his voice a low growl.

The woman sobbed with relief as her husband bowed low. Cregan turned away without another word, fastening his cloak and striding toward the courtyard. His men fell in behind him, ready to patrol, their silence speaking to the gravity of the task ahead.

As they mounted, he cast one last glance toward the keep. Somewhere within its ancient stones, she was likely unaware of the turmoil she’d caused—or worse, unbothered by it.

He spurred his horse forward, his thoughts darker than the woods they now entered. Whatever they found out there, he knew this much: Claere was not a woman to be trusted.

x

The woods swallowed the last light of day, the shadows deepening to a near impenetrable black. The only sounds were the crunch of hooves on frosted leaves and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. Cregan rode at the head of the patrol, Ice strapped across his back, its weight a constant reminder of duty.

The trees closed in around them, gnarled branches clawing at the sky, and the cold bit sharper here, as if the forest itself sought to repel them. His men called out the children’s names—Jonnel, Betha—voices ringing out into the empty expanse. But none dared call for her.

His breath misted as his thoughts churned. The bloodied image of Claere from his imagination melded uncomfortably with reality. The rumours whispered in Winterfell grew louder in his mind. He gripped the reins tighter.

“Lord Stark!”

The shout snapped his attention forward. One of the men pointed, and there she was, emerging from the underbrush like some ghostly specter. Claere.

Her hands were slick with blood, crimson streaking her pale fingers and arms, as though freshly painted. Her skirts, once pristine, were smeared with mud and more blood, dark streaks dragged haphazardly across the fabric as if she’d wiped her hands there in haste. Her feet were bare, toes red and raw against the frostbitten earth, and her hair had fallen from its usual bindings, wild tendrils framing her gaunt, hollow face.

Cregan halted his horse so abruptly it reared off the track, and he dismounted in a single swift motion. Ice sang as he drew it, the great blade gleaming even in the dim light.

He approached his wife slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

Claere’s head lifted at the sound of his boots crunching against the frost. Her violet eyes, tired and strange, met his. She took a hesitant step forward, but he raised the blade. Wordlessly.

Her steps faltered. She blinked, and though her expression remained still, her hands trembled, her fingers twitching at her sides. Slowly, she stepped back, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"My lord," she said, her voice hollow, as if the words were spoken from a great distance.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The stories screamed in his mind—the Valyrian witch, blood and fire, the maneater, the beautiful demon.

“The children?” His voice was low, hard, edged with suspicion.

Claere did not flinch. She turned her head, glancing westward. “The brook by the tall trees,” she said, her voice faint and uneven. “I only tried—”

But he didn’t wait for more. He sheathed Ice and strode past her, his pace swift and resolute. His men followed, their torches bobbing behind him like fleeting will-o’-the-wisps.

The landmark came quickly, the brook glinting faintly in the moonlight, its surface not yet frozen over. At its edge stood a towering tree with roots gnarled and exposed, reaching toward the stream like claws. Beneath its shelter, he saw them.

Jonnel and Betha.

The children were huddled together beneath a cloak far too large for them, their small feet tucked into the softness. Claere’s cloak. The fire before them sputtered weakly, the last of its life fed by scraps of leather—her shoes again, he realized, sacrificed to the flames.

For a moment, he simply stared, the scene pressing on him. The children were unharmed. Warm. Protected.

The men moved quickly, retrieving the little ones, murmuring reassurances as they wrapped them in blankets. Cregan didn’t follow. His gaze remained on the remnants of the fire, on the makeshift items strewn about—the cloak she’d offered, the shoes she’d burned.

When he turned back toward the woods, he saw her standing at a distance, her shoulders hunched as if against the cold. Her hands hung limply at her sides, stained red but empty. She did not meet his eyes, staring instead at the children being carried away.

The suspicion that had burned so fiercely in his chest faltered. He looked at her again—not the witch, not the monster, but the woman who had given what little she had to keep two helpless children safe. The moment stretched, and he felt something stir—an unease that wasn’t borne of mistrust, but of something far heavier. Guilt.

Yet still, the concern lingered. The blood on her hands, the strange air about her—it was all too much. Too foreign. Too other.

He shook it off and turned away, climbing into his saddle. The ride back to Winterfell would be long, and the questions clinging to his thoughts longer still.

“The horses, my lord,” one of his men called, gesturing toward the horses. An extra one.

“Leave her one,” Cregan commanded. “Let her do as she pleases.”

He cast one last glance over his shoulder. She had taken to kneeling by the brook, a silent figure against the shadowed woods. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if she was praying—to whom, or for what, he could not say.

And then he rode on, the ghost of her presence trailing after him like a haunting he could not outrun.

x

Cregan leaned against the cold stone of the ramparts, the weight of the night pressing down on him. Below, the gates of Winterfell stood sturdy and silent, the soft glow of torches marking the perimeter. His breath came in slow, heavy puffs, mingling with the frost of the air. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, and yet his eyes lingered on the road leading from the woods, scanning for the faintest silhouette of a rider.

Her bloodied hands plagued him. He shook his head, frustration knotting his chest. What had he done? In his anger, his doubt, he had left her. The memory of her kneeling by the brook, her skirts muddied, her face hollow with exhaustion, burned itself into his thoughts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a gloved hand through his hair.

The sound of hooves on stone broke the quiet, and his heart stuttered. He leaned forward, eager, catching sight of a figure dismounting in the courtyard below. It was her—already within the keep. She hadn’t taken the horse he’d left; she’d come through Winter Town. Barefoot, frostbitten, her steps faltering but determined.

By the time Cregan reached her chamber, the air was thick with the sharp tang of herbs and damp wool. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint orange glow spilled out into the dim corridor. He paused, his hand resting against the rough wood, listening to the muffled movements within.

She was there, alone, perched on a low stool by the hearth. Her head was bowed, a curtain of silver hair falling across her face, her shoulders trembling as she worked. The basin at her feet was darkened with blood, the water tinged red and nearly frozen again. Her hands moved in slow, mechanical strokes, dabbing a cloth over the angry cuts on her fingers. Her frostbitten toes rested in the frigid water, the skin cracked and raw, as though she didn’t feel the sting of the cold.

It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him. She worked as if her body were something apart from herself, her expression distant, eerily calm, even serene.

“Claere,” he said, his voice rough, filling the silence.

She didn’t stir. Her focus remained locked on her hands, wiping at the blood as if she could somehow erase it from sight.

“Claere,” he said again, louder this time.

Her head lifted slowly, her eyes meeting his with a hollow detachment.

The sight of her—pale, bloodied, and so utterly calm—set his teeth on edge. Anger sparked in him, but it was an anger born of fear, of guilt, of not understanding sooner. He stepped inside, the door groaning on its hinges behind him.

“Stop,” he ordered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Her gaze flicked down to her hands, and for the first time, there was a flicker of awareness in her expression. Slowly, she lowered the cloth, her fingers trembling.

He crossed the room in two long strides, calling for the maester with a bark that echoed down the hall.

When Maester Kennet arrived moments later, his face tightened at the sight of her. “Lady Stark,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. “Please, allow me.”

Cregan stood back, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on her every movement. She didn’t resist as Kennet worked, applying oils and wrapping her hands with strips of linen soaked in pungent herbs. Even as the maester’s careful fingers pressed against the frostbitten flesh, she barely flinched. Her stillness was unsettling as if she had resigned herself to pain—or worse, as if she didn’t feel it at all.

“She’ll heal,” Kennet said when he finished, rising to face Cregan. “But the cold has taken its toll. She must stay warm, my lord.”

Cregan nodded curtly. “Thank you, maester.”

The room fell silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire. Claere remained where she was, her hands now neatly bandaged, her feet swaddled in cloth. She seemed smaller somehow, sitting there in the flickering light, her head bowed as though waiting for something she knew would not come.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice low and steady, though her gaze dropped to the basin at her feet. The words were measured, devoid of plea or softness. “It was never my intention to cause their parents grief. I misjudged the woods, the snow. The children swore they knew the way to the shrubs I needed.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the bloodied water, then back to her frostbitten toes. “They did their best.”

Cregan’s gut twisted at the sight of her—the bruised, bloodied hands, the faint tremor in her slender frame. But her tone, her words—they struck something raw in him. There was no defense, no demand for his apology. Just quiet truth, sharp and unadorned.

His grip on his emotions slipped. He’d pointed a sword at her throat, doubted her every action, accused her in his heart of monstrous things. She had borne it all without protest and still managed to save two children who weren’t hers to protect. And she had nearly frozen herself to do it.

He swallowed thickly. “Thank you,” he said at last, the words low and stiff, clawing their way out of his chest.

Her head lifted at the sound, her silver hair falling from her face. Her violet eyes found his, and for a moment, the room seemed colder. She studied him in silence as if trying to see past his words, past his name and title, straight to the marrow of the man.

“You doubted me.” Her voice was soft, but it carried a bite—a blade, not dulled by anger, but honed by a quiet certainty. It wasn’t an accusation; it didn’t need to be.

“I…” He hesitated, the truth a jagged stone lodged in his throat. The weight of what he’d assumed, of how he’d treated her, was unbearable now, standing here in this room with her bruised feet in freezing water and her bandaged hands still trembling. “I was wrong, princess.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. But it was gone too quickly to name.

“Even the lord of Winterfell,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet irony, “can be wrong.”

He stiffened at the words, but not from anger. They weren’t spoken to wound. There was no malice in her tone, just an acknowledgment of the raw, human truth that he’d been so slow to see.

Her gaze dropped again to her hands, now wrapped tightly with linen soaked in oils and herbs. She flexed her fingers experimentally, as though testing the pain, but her expression barely changed. Only her lips moved, faintly, a breath too soft for him to hear.

Cregan watched her with a churn in his chest he couldn’t name. She was still too strange, too foreign, her pale beauty both otherworldly and unsettling. But there was something else now, something gnawing at the edges of his certainty.

“You burned your shoes,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.

She glanced at him, startled, as though she’d forgotten he was still there. “The fire wouldn’t hold in the snow,” she replied simply. “Leather burns slower than wood.”

“And the cloak?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sewn with wool and lined with my blood,” she said, showing him her wounded palms. “It was all I had left to keep them warm.” She shrugged faintly as if such a thing were obvious.

His chest tightened. She’d used her own blood to insulate the children, to keep them warm while she bore the frost herself. He thought of the sight of her in the woods, barefoot in the snow, her skirts smeared with blood. How quickly he had drawn his blade. How sure he had been that she was a monster.

And here she was, undoing every dark thought he’d clung to with a calmness that only made him feel smaller.

“Why?” he asked, though the word felt hollow as it left his mouth.

Her brows furrowed, as though the question confused her. “Because they were cold,” she said simply, tilting her head. “And I was not.”

There was no answer to that. No apology would be enough. He stared at her, his chest heavy with something unfamiliar. Guilt, shame, and something else—a growing awareness that this woman, this strange, pale figure who unsettled him so deeply, had a strength that defied the stories whispered behind her back.

As the silence stretched between them, she turned her gaze back to the water. Her fingers brushed the surface, red streaks curling like smoke in the fading warmth. “The children,” she said, breaking the quiet. “They are safe?”

“Aye,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she said softly, as if that were the only thing that mattered.

[ I have no idea why I rejected this scene, I think I didn't explain it as well or just did not have enough evidence to support Cregan's mistrust, the description wasn't up to par, it was just all over the place, so I wrote it off. ]

X

SCENE #2 (part ii) - SOAP AND BUBBLES

Winterfell was meaner than Claere had imagined—colder than the stories ever told. The air seemed to gnaw at her, the chill seeping beneath layers of fur and silk. But it wasn’t just the weather; it was the people, the customs, their lives. Northern life was unyielding, hard as the ironwood trees that dotted the wolfswood. Mercy was a luxury the North could not afford.

Claere had begun to learn the harsh ways of her new home. She spent long hours pouring over maps in the solar, her fingers tracing the paths of rivers and trade routes. She watched with quiet vigilance, absorbing everything—how the men spoke of war and how disputes were resolved swiftly and without sentiment. She’d even resorted to mingling with the maids and stewards, overhearing their fierce remarks about her. It stung, but she endured, knowing that respect was earned here, never freely given.

Cregan noticed. He always noticed.

At first, it was the odd tilt of her head when someone spoke, the way her clothes turned to more cloaks and furs, darker shades of his own colours rather than Targaryen colours, how her lips pressed together in thought. Then it was her diligence—how she’d taken to studying the Stark family ledgers without complaint, or how she lingered longer in the courtyards, her eyes sharp and observant of the children playing. She was... different. Strange, yes. Vigilant, certainly. But hers was a quiet resilience, the kind that never stopped intriguing him.

On his fortnightly ride to White Harbor, the thought of her lingered, as it often did these days. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—the long lists of goods to inspect, the tallies to confirm—but her image crept into the quiet moments between. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the soft cadence of her voice when she spoke of the godswood, her quiet intensity as she studied maps in the flickering firelight.

Winterfell’s larders were vast and well-stocked, but White Harbor offered treasures the North could not produce—southern goods that reminded him of her, a woman so different from the hard, unyielding stone around them.

He moved among the crates of grain, smoked fish, and wool with the practised eye of a Stark lord. Each decision he made carried the weight of his house, and his men knew better than to question his scrutiny. But when he came upon the crates of southern wares, he paused.

“What else do you have from Dorne?” he asked the merchant, his tone sharp with interest.

The man looked at him, startled, before recovering. “Fruits, spices—cinnamon, saffron, dried lemons. They fetch a high price, my lord.”

“Bring more next time,” Cregan said, his voice brooking no argument. “Fresh, if you can manage it. And anything else of quality from the capital—items meant for royals.”

The merchant nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lord. Is there anything specific you seek?”

Cregan paused, considering. “Vegetarian fare,” he said at last. “Dried herbs, cheeses, and anything light. She...” He stopped himself, feeling the weight of his men’s curious gazes. “The Lady of Winterfell has particular tastes,” he finished curtly.

It wasn’t intentional, not at first. As the goods were sorted, his gaze wandered to another stall nearby, smaller but filled with curiosities from Essos—glass beads, bolts of silk, carved wooden idols. But when he saw the little bar of soap, nestled between silks, it stopped him in his tracks. It was a lovely thing, carved with intricate patterns and scented like lilies. He turned it over in his palm, imagining her expression if he gifted it to her.

“She’ll think you’re courting her,” one of his men teased, his grin wide.

“Then let her think it,” Cregan replied gruffly, tucking the soap into his saddlebag.

When he rode back to Winterfell, the cold biting at his cheeks, the thought of her remained a quiet warmth in his chest. The blood oranges, dates, and soap nestled in his saddlebag felt like small tokens, yet they carried a significance he didn’t yet have the words to express.

In his mind, he pictured her as she might look when she found the soap—a small, private smile tugging at her lips, the kind that made the world outside Winterfell feel momentarily distant. It was a thought that stayed with him, warming him far more than the furs on his back.

x

He left the gift in her chambers that evening, no note, no ceremony. The next day, he knew she had found it. The scent of lilies wove its way through Winterfell like a secret, light and intoxicating. It clung to the cold stone, a defiance of the North’s austerity.

By the time he passed her chambers that evening, the fragrance was stronger, laced with warmth from the hearthfire within. Her door hung ajar, as it often did—a small defiance she had taken to after remarking how Winterfell’s doors seemed designed to shut out the world. Cregan paused, his hand brushing the uneven wood of the doorframe. The hinges needed mending, he noted absently, his eyes narrowing.

He meant to pull it closed. He meant to walk away. But the faint sound of water—soft, sloshing and rhythmic—stilled his hand. His instincts told him to leave, to respect her privacy. But a flicker of motion within drew his gaze like a lodestone.

Just one glance. One little peek.

Gods, this was hell. The hearthlight gilded her bare shoulders, turning her skin to honeyed gold. Steam curled lazily around her, softening the stark edges of the chamber. Her hair, a tumble of silver silk, was piled atop her head, loose strands clinging to the damp nape of her neck. She moved with an unhurried grace, her back to him, the soap he had gifted her sliding over her skin.

Cregan went immobilized, his breath caught in his throat. The soap’s lather trailed down her shoulder, gleaming against her bare arm before vanishing into the water. Her movements were deliberate, sensual without intent, a quiet intimacy that made his pulse pound. He drank in the curve of her back, the subtle lines of her ribs, the delve of her spine, the elegant slope of her neck.

She was a sight to rival the old gods themselves.

A muscle in his jaw tightened as heat flared low in his stomach, an ache sharp and sudden. She was so different here, stripped of the Northern chill and her careful composure. She was soft. Vulnerable. A creature of fire and moonlight, wholly unguarded in her private sanctuary.

For a man of the North, accustomed to restraint, this was dangerous ground. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles whitening as he struggled against the urge to step inside, to close the door behind him, to join her—

“Lord Stark.”

The voice shattered the spell. He turned sharply, his shoulders stiff, to find one of her handmaidens standing behind him. Her gaze flickered to the open door, her expression caught between curiosity and amusement.

“The hinges,” he said gruffly, his voice lower than usual. “They need mending.”

She arched a brow, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Lady Stark prefers it that way, m'lord. She likes the air.”

Cregan forced a curt nod, stepping back and away from the door, away from the golden light and the intoxicating scent of lilies. “See to it,” he muttered, his tone clipped.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode toward his chambers, his steps heavy and deliberate. Once inside, he pushed the door shut with more force than necessary and leaned against it, dragging a hand down his face.

The scent still clung to him, subtle yet maddening. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the image of her—bathed in firelight, her skin glistening, her form so achingly bare—to fade. But it didn’t. It stayed with him, carved into his mind, an unshakable temptation.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, sinking into the nearest chair. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, and for the first time in years, Cregan Stark felt truly undone.

She was a storm he hadn’t anticipated, and she was far more dangerous than the winter winds ever could be.

[ I love how i deleted so many horny Cregan scenes, like I have two more of him just being a simp for his wife. lmao we love a pathetic lovey-dovey king ]

X

SCENE #3 (part iv) - BOW SHOOT

When Cregan sought her out to share the latest developments, he found her in the courtyard, not with her harp nor wandering the keep, but standing alone by the practice yard. She was a pale figure against the rough-hewn timber and frost-covered ground, a giant bow in her hands. Her eyes narrowed in quiet concentration as she drew the string back, the soft morning light catching the strands of silver in her hair.

Cregan paused by the stockades, his brow furrowing in curiosity. She was an unusual sight here, out of place among the cracked leather targets and straw dummies. Yet there was a determination in her stance, something raw and deliberate, even as the arrow she released flew wide, thudding into the frozen ground with an audible lack of grace.

She frowned, her lips tightening, but said nothing as she adjusted her grip and notched another arrow.

“Planning to shoot your way out of trouble now, princess?” Cregan called, his voice carrying over the yard. Though the words were light, his eyes lingered on her, taking in her unflinching focus.

Claere’s head turned slightly, her gaze meeting his for the briefest of moments. There was no smile, no coy remark—just that same steady resolve. “The bow was left by the yard,” she said, her tone as cool as the frost beneath their boots.

He approached, boots crunching against the frozen dirt. “And you thought to pick it up?”

“I thought to try,” she replied, not looking at him this time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she drew the string back again.

The release was awkward, the arrow wobbling and veering far from the target. Cregan sighed and stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow over her. “A bow’s no use if you don’t know how to wield it,” he said, his tone softer now, but still tinged with amusement.

When the second shot went wide, he couldn’t help but smirk. “A bow’s no use to someone who doesn’t know how to wield it,” he said, stopping just short of her.

Her grip on the bow tightened, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But instead, she turned her head, her gaze meeting his with that same unsettling calm. “Then show me,” she said simply.

The words hit him like a challenge, quiet but loaded with meaning. Without a word, he stepped behind her, closing the space between them until his chest was nearly flush against her back. The sharp scent of pine and leather clung to him, and she stiffened, though not out of fear.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. He adjusted her stance, his touch firm but careful, like a sculptor shaping something fragile. “Relax. You can’t shoot if you’re this tense.”

She inhaled sharply, her body responding instinctively to his nearness. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, sliding down her arms to guide her.

“You’re stiff as stone,” he chided softly, his hands sliding to her arms, steering them gently. “Let go of some of that pride. A bow doesn’t care for it.”

She inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the target ahead. But all she could feel was him—solid, steady, and far too close. His fingers brushed hers, calloused and warm, as he helped her notch another arrow.

“Draw slowly,” he instructed, his hot breaths against her cheek. “Feel the tension. Don’t fight it.”

Her pulse thundered as she drew the string back, the bow creaking under the strain. His hands moved over hers, steadying her grip. She could feel the rhythm of his breaths, deep and even, and unconsciously, she matched it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, closer. She swore she felt the faintest graze of his lips against the shell of her ear, though it could have been the ghost of her imagination. “Focus. You’re not thinking about the target.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears as the bowstring thrummed under the tension. Her fingers felt too cold, her cheeks too warm, and his hands too solid, too sure as they held her steady.

“Let go, love,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just an instruction. It was a command, a promise, a challenge.

She released the string, the arrow slicing through the air. It struck the edge of the target—not perfect, but far better than before. A breathless laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself.

“A fine attempt,” Cregan said, his voice laced with approval. But he didn’t step away. His hands lingered on hers, the rough calluses brushing against her softer skin, his touch deliberate, deliberate enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“And if I miss?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her head tilting slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. The movement brought her lips close—too close—to his.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his fingers slid along the inside of her wrist, his touch featherlight, tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin.

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said.

The silence that followed was thick; charged. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—their breath mingling in the cold air, the tension crackling like the belly of a beast.

And then he stepped back, the absence of his warmth a jarring contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Try again,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burned with something unspoken.

She turned back to the target, her movements steady, though her heart was anything but. When she drew the string again, she couldn’t help but feel his gaze on her—not just watching but waiting.

X

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[yidishuiwater]

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: In the aftermath of the 100 days in the End Barrens, Wato can't help but want Wifies's company. It's a double edged sword.

Notes: spoilers for wato's 100 days in the hardest minecraft biome!!!!!!! anyway. huh. wuh. i feel like i wrote this possessed. this is a rough and quick fic, using my partial voidwalker clonefies headcanon bc uhhhhh teehee it'd be funny???? definitely not a perfect work and i didnt explore everything id have liked to but i think it's fun. enjoy! divider

Wordcount: 3,165

Wato doesn’t usually spend all their time with others. Not that they’re antisocial, just that escape room planning and building can become an all encompassing set of tasks that pull them away from talking to people. It's involving, fulfilling, and sometimes a quiet, singular endeavor.

But Wifies is here.

He's been here all day, even, filling up Wato’s space, though he does so quietly. He sits across from them on the other side of their desk, writing notes over the plan for one of the rooms Wato is working on. He breathes evenly, though his breath hitches with frustration when things don't add up on paper, and he writes with an easy rhythm that Wato can just about tune out when they focus. He's wearing a black and white sweater, and his headband glints silver in the light, and he's real, and he's here, and he's been here all day because Wato asked, and he's never said no to them.

Wifies glances up. His eyes are a deep, dark violet that makes Wato's skin crawl. Their ears pin back before flicking back into place. He looks back down to his blueprints without comment.

He's so good to them. Wato knows that they've been staring a lot. Wifies takes it in stride, had laughed awkwardly at first before accepting that this was just how Wato was today.

“Is it turning out well?” Wato asks. The silence is getting to them.

“It is, just a couple things that I wish would work better,” he says with a sigh, tapping his pencil on the page. “Like here. I know that it's impossible, but I wish there was a way to guarantee a player left their wool behind, because carpets would be basically an ace for the next room. They'd barely have to puzzle solve if they have carpet.”

Wifies's voice has a kind of consistency that unnerved Wato once upon a time. It reminded them too much of the factory for a while. Now, it's the most comforting thing in the world, the perceived consistency actually crackling with emotion and variance, always soothing and never raised. Wifies is talking and Wato is listening. It's good.

“— and that's all I can think of doing right now, but adding a skulk sensor is kinda a whole different can of worms isn't it?”

Wifies rests his head on his fist, looking at his blueprints like they personally offended him.

“Maybe it's time for a break then. Tea?”

Wifies perks up and Wato laughs. Wato likes tea fine, though they really drink more coffee than anything, but they keep some of the good stuff around just for Wifies. They make their way out of Wato's office and Wifies is behind and his footsteps are muffled, despite Wato’s exceptional hearing. Wato keeps looking over their shoulder at him. He's there, of course, slightly shorter than Wato and not nearly as sleep deprived.

“Hi,” Wifies says as he catches Wato's eye, a little awkward, mostly sincere.

“Hi,” Wato says back. “I have a new tin of rosehip tea.”

Wifies makes a pleased sound, happy and high, though high for him is still pretty low. He loves his teas. Wato doesn't get rosehip, the flavor a bit bland and unlikable to them, but Wifies likes it well enough.

“Rosehip with jasmine is good, they give each other extra flavor and body,” Wifies says, reading Wato's mind as usual.

The kitchen is a small, tight, highly decorated space. Wifies navigates it effortlessly, just as easily as Wato can navigate his kitchen. They're intertwined like that. Easily, effortlessly. Wato measures out coffee grounds, sets his coffee machine up, loses track of Wifies in the noise of the kitchen.

“Wato, can you—”

Darkness, violet, the staticky scent of void and its magicks— Wato jumps, knocking over the sugar container in one fell swoop.

“Fuck,” they say eloquently.

“Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, let me help.”

Wifies cleans up the sugar on the counter, rights the container, and refills it, all while Wato breathes through their initial panic. It was just— they know, they know they're home, they know the End Barrens are long gone, server deleted off the face of the universe, but for a moment, Wifies was just—

“Sorry,” Wifies says again quietly. “I noticed you were jumpy, I should've been more careful not to scare you.”

“No, it's— you're fine. It's fine.”

Wato shakes it off, or at least tries to. Wifies is looking at them the way he always does when he isn't sure what he's done wrong but knows for a fact something’s gone awry. He's surprisingly expressive when he wants to be, eyes round and warm and violet. God. Wato suppresses a flinch, tail lowering.

“Sorry,” Wifies says again.

Wato feels bad. They pat the top of Wifies's head (touch is like an ache, in a way, it's been so long since they've really been skin to skin with anyone, but Wifies's hand touched theirs as they exchanged blueprints and it almost hurt, so deprived of it that it's presence becomes painful) and revel in the springiness of his curls.

“I didn't mean to react so harshly, sorry.”

They finish making their tea and coffee in a spiderweb of thin silence. Wifies stays in their line of sight, leading on the trip back to the office and holding the door open. Wato appreciates it. They work until the sun sets and the daylight sensors activate the redstone lamps in Wato's ceiling.

“I should get going,” Wifies says, which Wato hates to hear. “I need to edit some footage, see if I can get some work done. But, uh, I'll be back tomorrow?”

The way his voice lilts is soft, hesitant. Wato would prefer to not be away from him at all. How could they even explain it? Hey, I was so lonely I imagined you, and now I can't stop myself from wanting your presence to know that you're real and I'm free. And also I missed you. Also your voidwalker traits set me off. Wato hasn't even told him anything about the challenge! Wifies didn't ask. Wato had messaged him, please help me with blueprints?, and Wifies had come with a single minded determination to do so.

Wato thinks maybe that's why it was Wifies and not anyone else. Wifies is kind, thoughtful, always holding his hand out for someone to take. He helps. Even back in the factory, the little Wato remembers of it, the clones were meek things that always wanted to know what Wato was doing, if they could help. Wato could never respond, the mask uninterested in such mindless puppets, but they remember the feeling of it.

It always felt good. Felt like being seen.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Wato drums their fingers on the desk. “Yeah, bright and early. Or whenever you can I guess. I would— I'd really appreciate it.”

“Of course. Bright and early.”

Wifies smiles. He still leaves, and it still sets Wato’s stomach rolling, but Wato spent most of a hundred days alone, and one more day won't kill them. It won't. The isolation had tried and failed.

At least they can sleep here. Their petal pink bed has never been so enticing a sight. They keep the lights on in their room these days, daylight sensors connected to every room through newly opened redstone channels in the roof and walls. The dark is— it's not good, uncomfortable, they don't want to say the word that comes to mind at first.

Wato pops blocks into a jukebox. It's the longest disc they have and it fills the room with whimsy as they lay in bed and try to sleep. It's kind of hard, sleeping with noise and light, but it's more comforting than it is difficult.

They don't dream.

Wato couldn't be any more grateful for that as dawn cracks the sky open and the redstone lamps shut off. They’re sure that the morning will pass like a blur until Wifies arrives, routine deeper than bone taking over, but there’s a knock at the door as they’re eating. When Wato opens it, it’s Wifies. The morning light makes him golden, but only just; he’s so pale and dark that gold doesn’t work right on him.

“Bright and early,” Wifies says after a beat of silence.

“You took that so literally,” Wato says, opening the door wider and waving Wifies in.

Wifies walks in and he jingles. It’s the strangest thing. Wato looks down and sees a glint of silver on his boots. Wifies notices of course, and he kicks up a heel. Hanging off the loop at the back of his boot is a silver hoop decorated with a colorful feather charm that rattles against the hoop every time he moves.

“Parrot got them for me,” Wifies says, lifting up his pant leg so it’s more visible. “They come in pairs, but I took the other one off and put a different charm on it.”

He shows off the other boot, and Wato sees that the hoop has a black and white yin-yang charm instead.

“You’re so predictable,” Wato says with a snort, closing the door behind them.

“I like having a brand.”

“Yeah yeah, c’mon.”

The irregular weight of each charm makes them reasonably noisy as Wifies walks, makes it easy for Wato to keep track of him with a flicked ear, and they don’t want to ask why he’s suddenly started wearing them.

Their day goes the same as yesterday— time spent at Wato’s desk, scratching through blueprints and discussing different solutions. Soon it’d reach the point where they’d have to start building to fully work out any kinks and get it running.

“You think Ken is gonna break it?” Wifies asks at one point. He’s chewing on the end of his pen— his pen, because Wato banned him from using their pens after he popped one with his teeth a few months ago— and he’s not looking at Wato.

He knows he’s done something wrong. Or, he thinks he knows he’s done something wrong. He’s dodgy the way a dog might be, still committing the crime but looking preemptively apologetic about it.

“Ken. . . I’m not sure if I’m gonna ask Ken to do anything for a while,” Wato says carefully. It’s not like they want to string Wifies between them like a knot. “The 100 days. . . Ken left me alone before the first quarter was even done. So I’m not really in the mood to share with them right now.”

Wifies stops chewing on his pen long enough to say, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Wifies doesn't continue to chew on his pen.

“So you finished 100 days by yourself?”

“I did.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

He means it too. He's not placating or trying to push the conversation, he means it, he knows what the End Barrens are like and he means it.

“It was.”

“Was there— like, what even spawned?”

“No structures or anything. Just. . . a lot of Endermen. Lots and lots of Endermen. Wandering traders, pillager patrols, that kind of thing. Um, underground there was some copper and iron too actually. They generated with blobs of granite and such.”

Wifies nods along, hums at the right times, but he's looking at the blueprints again and not at Wato.

“Must've been really, really hard. How'd you get to the Nether then?”

“Y'know how like— how wandering traders will turn invisible at night? And then in the morning they drink milk? I killed one just as they drank the milk and it dropped the bucket, and I used that to create a Nether portal. I had to haul lava over and over again to spawn, it was so tedious. And then the pillager patrols, the ominous banner they drop? I used that and some lava to light the portal.”

“And from there it was probably easier.”

Probably. The Nether had so many more resources to use. But the lava had been too lustrous and the days too long and Wato had stepped right off that cliff and ended it all.

“Yeah,” they say with a shrug. “Now I just kinda wanna focus on escape rooms again though. These are easy for me at least.”

“It's coming together real nice,” Wifies says. He's back to chewing on his pen.

“We can probably start building it tomorrow. I'm pretty sure we're almost done.”

There's a cracking noise and black ink splatters all over Wifies's mouth and clothes. He curses, and Wato scrambles for some tissues, the acrid scent of ink filling the air. They hand the tissues over, and Wifies presses them to his mouth. Wato finds a trash can and comes around to dump the popped pen into it. Thankfully, the now ruined blueprint Wifies was working on is one Wato has duplicates of, so they dump it out too.

Wifies keeps the tissues to his mouth though, and Wato gets concerned.

“Let me see,” Wato insists, placing the trash can down and turning Wifies's chair so they're facing each other.

Wifies glances up, his eyes are so violet, and then back down. The black ink stains right through the tissues, looks bloody despite the fact it's too dark to be blood.

Endermen don't bleed. Wato hadn't really realized it before the 100 days began, but Endermen don't bleed. They collapse into a dry pile of crackling scales and bones and eyes before poofing out of existence. Despite that, enderpearls are always a little slick with something like blood when first picked up; it's thin, periwinkle, and so quick to evaporate that you almost never get to feel it once you pick the pearl up. Wato had plenty of time to get acquainted with it, though.

“ ‘s okay,” Wifies struggles to talk, clearly holding his mouth open under the tissues so as to not swallow ink. “I just gotta clean up.”

Wifies stands up in a single jagged jerk, and Wato has to scramble back to not get hit by him. He leaves so quickly that Wato is shocked.

“Did you get hurt?” Wato calls out after him, shuffling to the doorway to peer down the hall where Wifies presumably ran off to the bathroom.

Wato waits and waits, but Wifies doesn't respond. Maybe he's just embarrassed? Wato hesitates for a moment longer before making their way to the bathroom. The door is shut. They knock.

“Wifies?”

“I'm good!” Wifies calls out, opening the door and peeking around it. “I'm okay, sorry for scaring you. The— I think a piece of the plastic split my lip, but it's all healed now.”

He's managed to get the ink off his face, and there are wet spots on his gray sweatshirt where the ink has stained it. There's a smudge of wine colored blood left on his upper lip though. It has a blue undertone, much cooler looking than Wato's own. Another reminder of the fact Wifies was made with void.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” Wato says, and Wifies turns back to wash his mouth again.

Does the water sting? Not everything from the End is allergic to water, and Wifies isn't explicitly spliced together with Enderman genetics. The cloning process was a mix of different things— technology, genetics, magic, there was even skulk involved at one point. Each clone was, ironically, unique in how it was made, no formula working the same twice in a row. This Wifies smells like void and the pseudo-citrus of chorus fruit, sees better in the dark, breathes out plumes of frozen breath when he's upset and can't always keep eye contact when angry.

Why did Wato cling to him so strongly?

Wifies turns around again, wiping at his mouth. They lock eyes and Wifies looks away. 

“Did I get it?”

“Why won't you look at me?”

Wifies startles, eyes wide as he forces himself to stare at Wato.

“What?”

“You’re avoiding looking at me. Why?”

“I'm not.”

“I'm not— you are, Wifies.”

“I,” Wifies looks away again. “You look. . . unhappy when I look at you. So I don't want to.”

It's easy to cling to Wifies. Gentle voiced Wifies who wants to be liked more than anything, facing Wato’s unconscious ire and not saying a word. Of course it had to be Wifies, because who else would put up with any of Wato's unsure madness? Who else would avoid Wato's gaze and put— put what are basically catbells on their boots just because Wato’s scared?

And that's the word, isn't it? Scared. Wato's scared. Now that it's over, now that the walls of their prison have fallen, they're scared of going back, of being alone, of fucking Endermen ruining their shit.

But really, they're not scared of Wifies. Hugging him is easy. 

“I'm sorry,” Wato says.

Wifies clams up. He barely hugs back. Contact burns, touch feels heavy, foreign, an unknown country that Wato only remembers as a blur.

“It's okay.”

“When I was almost done with the challenge, I imagined you being there,” Wato confesses. Wifies makes a strange, clicky noise. “I showed you around the world, and you listened to me, and told me little facts, and asked me questions. I was so alone, and I had to imagine you there. I've never wanted anything more than to just see you again.”

Wifies holds onto them in earnest now, tight and warm. There's nothing truly void-cold about him; he may run cool, but it’s nothing Wato can't help with.

“I missed you. The Endermen couldn't even compare.”

“But I remind you of them,” Wifies murmurs. “Not forever, but for now, I remind you of them.”

Wato imagines Wifies pulling away. They imagine him insisting that he doesn’t want to startle Wato so much, that maybe he should leave. Wato shudders at the thought.

“Please don't leave,” Wato's voice cracks, and now Wifies is holding them as they slump further into his body. It’s such a selfish request, and they know Wifies won’t say no, but they can’t stop themself from asking anyway. “Please. I'm sorry, I know I can't be pleasant to be around right now, but please don't leave me again.”

“I won't,” Wifies says. “I won't, you don't have to be alone.”

They don't want to cry. It would be— they didn't cry in those 100 days, even when they thought there was nothing left to give but tears. But Wifies is real, and here, and he's holding them so tightly that he has to be real, and for the first time since Wato got out of that wretched, rotting house of a world, they weep openly into a shoulder that won't leave.

Wifies doesn't say much. He's not the best with these kinds of strong emotions. But he hugs Wato, and hums a tune into their ear, and lets them ruin his sweatshirt even more, and it's more than Wato has had in over a hundred days.

Wato let's themself have this. Have Wifies. It feels good to have someone stay.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Personality Idioms

to describe your characters

All Brawn and No Brains - Refers to someone who’s strong and muscular, but not very intelligent.

Armchair Critic - People who pretend to know a lot about something, but really don’t know anything about it at all; those who sit back and criticize the way you do something without getting up and helping out. There’s a little armchair critic in all of us. Have you ever criticized an athlete’s performance (or, more likely, a ref’s call)? Or judged a dancer or singer on a reality TV show?

Born with a Silver Spoon in one’s Mouth - Means you come from a wealthy family with a high social position. The spoon you actually use these days probably isn’t a great indicator of your wealth, but in the Middle Ages, only commoners used wooden spoons. This idiom speaks more to the spoon-bearer’s personality than just their social status: Entitled, naive, presumptuous. All the qualities you’d expect of someone who wasn’t allowed to leave the palace walls.

Butter wouldn’t Melt in his/her Mouth - Describes someone who appears demure, innocent or sincere, but is actually unkind and devious. It’s saying you’re so cool and collected, that you wouldn’t even be warm enough to melt butter.

Doubting Thomas - A skeptic who refuses to believe something without personal experience or physical evidence. The idiom comes from apostle Thomas (Didymus), who did not believe Jesus had risen from the dead. He said to the other disciples: “Unless I shall see in His hands the imprint of the nails, and put my fingers into the place of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.” While being skeptical and demanding truth are wonderful qualities to have when learning new things, constant doubters can also come off as being overly critical or looking down on others’ beliefs.

Dyed-in-the-Wool - Describes a person’s deeply ingrained political, cultural or religious beliefs. It comes from the fact that when wool is dyed before it is woven, the color is less likely to fade. In the positive sense, you could be a dyed-in-the-wool sports fan, meaning you’re faithful to your team, even when they suck. But, it can also mean you are unwilling to be open to other ideas or beliefs because of how ingrained you are in your own opinions.

Long in the Tooth - Means someone's old. This idiom likely comes from the practice of examining horses’ teeth to determine their age. It’s generally an unkind or humorous way to refer to people who do something they seem too old for.

Shrinking Violet - An exceedingly shy person. This idiom is typically assigned to girls, but who’s “Violet?” The poetic origin of this idiom was describing the flower, not a girl. Sometimes, this idiom is used as “she’s no shrinking violet,” which describes a woman who is outspoken and not afraid to express her views.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[jet-tags-tradingcards]

Basic

Mareep----HP 60 ⚡

Wool Pokémon

⚡ Static Shock 10

⚡🌟🌟 Electro Ball 40

Weakness : ✊🏾x 2--------Resistance : N/A--------Retreat : 🌟

Its fleece grows continually. In the summer, the fleece is fully shed, bit it grows back in a week.

Illus. Narumi Sato

[Scarlet and Violet Edition] 066/198 ⚫

[ranafamily7]

We lost our job because of the war.

My sister Rawan, who is 24 years old, worked hard at a clothing and crochet shop before the war broke out in Gaza. She had her own small project, which was our only source of income, creating unique pieces from wool and crochet. But the war destroyed everything; the shop she worked in was bombed, and her dream of rebuilding her project seems far away. Raw materials have become scarce, and when they are available, they come at exorbitant prices. Rawan needs your support now more than ever to rebuild her simple project that once brightened our lives. 💔 If you can help, please donate any amount you can.

The link is in the bio.

@something-perpendicular @donsofwaste @gvnsey@inkxplashes@snowflakesincalifornia

@4rthstandbreak@lyriumrain@lunaragk

@riottalker @schrodingers-tribble

@macheriegrove @sparvverius @sweetenberries @mischiefmagpie @violet-2084-turkish-warrior@cyberoticism @televy @karineverse @electricseraphimdiaries @skybluethunderhead @lasbrumas @dhmis55-blog. @frogncranberries

@awhimsyreader901 @penwrythe

@absoloutenonsense @envytheroost @pantropikos @little-sunflower-bug

@gridelincarver

@gummy-sharks666 @ohgirliepleasee @jumping= jackalope @electricpterodactyl @let-us-cultivate-our-garden

#evening post #vetted by association

@sunboxinsignia @leeblissy @kidtested-fangirlapproved @1nky-quill @marcillemon

@hiiamredacted @teaspoon-of-salt @merps @gaylobsterd @purplespacekitty

@space-specs @thesubwaymp3 @inky-goddess @itsnotalemon @badolmen

@cannibalistic-vampirefag @cow-stealin-gal @lanliingwang @nov1963 @starfallen-tears

@opalbestcharacter @bruce-greenwood

@viiridiangreen @mimogutz @seaslug24

@flagellant @jjjammerson@verycolourfulflipflops @genericminecraftpotato#afternoon post #vetted by association@wildfeather5002 @caroblogsthings @ragnarockz-boost @lillian321 @sunset-diamond@nightowlssleep @swiftadrift @walnut-kitto @themarias @commiearabgirl|

@rinthesecond@brookepagebe @kixflip@1pOlly1@morihaus @rattlesnake-acrobatics @thatonebored-juniorcolleague @my-multi-fandom-blog @slyfire @constellationriver @moonfox-mumbles @mauvethecolor @banananerdworld@13mon-boy@slipppy @stargazinglesbian @transguyhawkeye @i-am-the half-dead-soul-|@futuristicchaospoetry @antigxnee@uhhh-i-dont-know@charc-arts @hexblooddruid @strawbebbyboba @strawberridrops @rawdvd@bonicedemandarina @radical-lOver @weareweirdpeople @ash-the-bee@ettaberrytea @cryptdmoth @cthulusposts @eastgaysian@probablynotaskeleton @sh4rkh4ts

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[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 39, 26 septembre 1896, Paris. No. 18. — Groupe de toilettes nouvelles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Jaquette de drap vert saule, ajustée, à basques avec pochettes; revers habit; gilet blanc croisé sur une chemise d'homme. Col rabattu, cravate de ruban quadrillé vert et paille. Manches ballon. Chapeau canotier avec pouf de ruban et deux grandes plumes couteau en aigrette sur le côté.

(1) Fitted willow green cloth jacket with peplum and pockets; coat lapels; white double-breasted waistcoat over a man's shirt. Turn-down collar, green and straw checkered ribbon tie. Balloon sleeves. Boater hat with ribbon pouf and two large knife-edge feathers in an aigrette on the side.

—

(2) Corsage de mohair bleu et noir. Corsage montant coupé par des petits velours noirs posés en pointe. Col montant.

Ceinture composée de trois petits velours. Manches gigot.

(2) Blue and black mohair bodice. High bodice cut with small black velvets placed in a point. High collar.

Belt composed of three small velvets. Leg of mutton sleeves.

—

(3) Toilette en lainage tilleul, à pois verts. Corsage plastron à dents de roses, boutonné sur les côtés.

Col montant. Manches gigot. Jupe forme princesse boutonnée sur le côté en haut. Chapeau canotier, orné par un gros nœud de ruban rayé tilleul et noir avec deux ailes posées en aigrette.

(3) Linden woolen dress, with green polka dots. Rose-toothed plastron bodice, buttoned on the sides.

High collar. Leg of mutton sleeves. Princess-shaped skirt buttoned on the side at the top. Boater hat, decorated with a large bow of linden and black striped ribbon with two wings set in an aigrette.

Métrage: 10 mètres lainage grande largeur.

—

(4) Corsage à basques, en satin violet, ouvert sur une chemisette de tulle, recouverte par un rabat coquillé en dentelle blanche. Col montant avec nœud de dentelle derrière; haute ceinture drapée. Manches ballon.

(4) Basque bodice, in purple satin, open over a tulle chemisette, covered by a shell flap in white lace. High collar with lace bow behind; high draped belt. Balloon sleeves.

—

(5) Toilette de lainage bois de rose. Corsage-boléro à grand col rabattu et brodé, ouvert sur une chemisette de surah or.

Col drapé montant, d'où s'échappe un volant de dentelle. Manches ballon, à poignets plissés au-dessus du coude; haute ceinture de velours drapée et à pointe. Jupe plate, plissée derrière.

Chapeau rond, en paille, orné de ruban or, posé devant en oreilles d'ours, avec touffe de plumes d'autruche droites derrière.

(5) Rosewood woolen toilet. Bolero bodice with large folded-down and embroidered collar, open over a gold surah blouse.

High draped collar, from which a lace flounce escapes. Balloon sleeves, with pleated cuffs above the elbow; high draped velvet belt with a point. Flat skirt, pleated behind.

Round straw hat, decorated with gold ribbon, placed in front like bear ears, with a tuft of straight ostrich feathers behind.

Métrage: 10 mètres lainage grande largeur.

—

(6) Corsage-blouse, en mousseline de soie rose montant et tout froncé sous ceinture-corselet en velours ouvrage; bande transversale semblable au milieu du corsage; col Mercure. Manches gigot, en étoffe quadrillée.

(6) Blouse-bodice, in high pink silk muslin and all gathered under a velvet bodice-belt; similar transverse band in the middle of the bodice; Mercury collar. Leg-of-mutton sleeves, in checked fabric.

—

(7) Corsage drapé et croisé à la taille, en lainage pervenche, pointillé rouge; petit plastron semblable, brodé de petit velours rouge; col Mercure; haute ceinture de velours drapée, retenue par une boucle vieil argent. Manches gigot.

Chapeau canotier, orné de grandes coques de mousseline de soie d'où émergent deux oiseaux de paradis, posés en aigrette.

(7) Draped bodice crossed at the waist, in periwinkle wool, red dotted; similar small plastron, embroidered with small red velvet; Mercury collar; high draped velvet belt, held by an old silver buckle. Leg of mutton sleeves.

Boater hat, decorated with large silk muslin shells from which emerge two birds of paradise, posed in an aigrette.

—

(8) Corsage de surah paille froncé mis sous ceinture-corselet, en lainage paille et noir, terminée par un nœud de ruban, avec bas de ceinture en velours; col montant et pointe de guipure sur le corsage.

(8) Ruched straw surah bodice placed under a corset belt, in straw and black wool, finished with a ribbon bow, with velvet belt bottom; high collar and guipure point on the bodice.

Manches ballon, avec volants de dentelle.

—

(9) Toilette de soie brochée sur chaîne noir et or. Corsage-plastron retenu par une ceinture de ruban; col montant, avec volant de dentelle blanche.

Manches gigot. Jupe redingote, ouverte devant sur une jupe de soie unie or.

Chapeau petit Louis XVI, garni par une draperie plissée de mousseline de soie or, avec fleurs en cache-peigne et grandes plumes d'autruche, posées droites derrière.

(9) Brocaded silk toilet on black and gold chain. Bodice-plastron held by a ribbon belt; high collar, with white lace flounce.

Leg-of-mutton sleeves. Redingote skirt, open in front over a plain gold silk skirt.

Small Louis XVI hat, trimmed with pleated drapery of gold silk muslin, with comb-cover flowers and large ostrich feathers, placed straight behind.

Métrage: 13 mètres soie brochée, 3 mètres soie unie.