#How to Clean a Wool Hat

[daily-crabbys]

i was gonna ask this on my main but I'll probably actually get answers on this blog

how does one clean a wool hat?

i obtained a wool hat through thrifting means, and every instruction, both on the hats tag and online, have told me to just lightly dab it to clean it, which is probably the correct way to do it. the issue is, again, the fact that i thrifted it, so i dont really trust that to clean it all the way

do i just gotta suck it up and accept the hat will never be entirely clean, or is there another way i could clean it?

[ginnyw-potter]

Sticking to one's knitting

@ginnystrophyhusband prompt: ex

Ginny stared at the newspaper viciously, hoping it may spontaneously burst into flames but it didn’t. She hadn’t even bothered to sit down yet.    “What do they mean?” she complained as she gestured towards the paper. “Ex-Chaser? Ex? I have been off a broom for a week! I am pregnant, not retired!” 

Looking for support, she turned to Harry who was buttering his toast by the table. He met her eyes and let out a little sigh as he smiled. 

“Are you smiling because you think it’s funny I’m annoyed or because you just remembered I’m pregnant?” She crossed her arms. “Think carefully before you answer.” 

He put his knife down and stood up. He walked up to her. “You always tell me not to think about the load of dragon turd they write because it’s just gossip. Where is that Ginny now?” 

She resisted pouting and turned her body towards him. “Hibernating,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes.

Her eyes darted up anyway to meet Harry’s amused look and she broke immediately. She smiled, letting out a huff and planted her forehead against his chest. 

His arms wrapped around her and he softly brushed a hand through her hair.

“It’s just that… if one single person asks me if I am retired today, I’ll be pissed—and I may actually burst out crying,” she admitted reluctantly.”

“You can’t cry, Gin,” he offered. Before she can ask why, he continued, “You need to see where you’re aiming your hexes.” 

She did not reply, instead enjoying the feeling of Harry’s fingertips massaging her scalp.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked. “Diagon Alley is off the table for sure.”

“No flying, no shopping, no coffee…” she rattled off. She looked up. “What else is left?”

He shrugged. “Reading, knitting, I’m here…”

“Oh!” Her excitement suddenly grew. “I am going to go knit with mum.” She stepped sideways away from him to go upstairs and get dressed. 

“But I’m right here…” he objected mildly. 

“Yes,” she told him. “Very nice. Tomorrow.” She grinned at him. “Make me some toast, will you?”

She got dressed, had some toast and then she flooed out, leaving Harry to clean up the table—but he said it was fine because he had nothing else to do.

She walked into her parents’ living room after a short knock on the door and found her mum already knitting. “Can I knit with you today?” 

There is a flash of recognition on her mother’s face and she nodded eagerly, patting the space behind her. “What do you want to make?”

“I think perhaps I can start off with some baby socks, but perhaps also a hat? I don’t know.” 

Though her mother taught her how to knit, she never quite did it of her own volition. Her mother helped her get started and then they knitted away all day. They took turns getting up to brew more tea so there was always a warm tea pot on the living room table to pour from and only stopped to have lunch when Mr Weasley came out of his shed when he got hungry. 

They chatted the whole time. Her mother had so much useful advice and Ginny took it all in. Her mother clearly enjoyed passing on her wisdom to her daughter. 

She didn’t realise how much time had slipped by until she heard Harry’s voice in the kitchen, asking her father where she was. He stepped in a moment later and Ginny thought it was probably quite a sight. There were balls of wool on the couch, on the table, in a basket beside the couch... Among them knitting needles, scissors and notes from her mother where she had written down patterns. 

It occurred to her that he didn’t have someone to speak to about having a kid. She wondered if she would have to put her dad up to it to guide Harry a little. 

“It’s almost time for dinner,” he told her. “Was just wondering if you were coming home or staying here.” 

She shook her head. “I didn’t realise it was so late. Let me finish my row and then we can go.”

“No problem, that’s okay.” 

“Harry,” her father said. “I’ve been fiddling all day with some wiring I can’t seem to understand. Would you care to take a look?”

“Sure,” he replied, and then he followed Mr Weasley out of the house. 

She finished her row and thanked her mum for all the help. They tidied up a little, returning the yarn they weren’t using to the cupboard and collecting the pieces of paper. 

“This was nice,” her mum said. “You can finish that at home but don’t hesitate to come back whenever you like.” 

Harry returned a moment later. “Ready?” 

She held up the small basket that held the baby sock, ball of yarn and needles. “Yes.”

“That’s an adorable little sock you got there,” he remarked. 

She smiled at it. “I also made a little hat.” 

She waved goodbye to her parents and stepped into the fireplace and flooed home. She set the basket down in the living room as Harry stepped out behind her. 

“I’ll get started on dinner,” she said and opened the door to the kitchen. 

She paused in the door opening, looking at the set table complete with unlit candles as the scent of the food pleasantly bubbling away in the oven hit her.

He was right behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist and placed a kiss on her cheek. 

“What if I hadn’t come home?” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably would’ve found another Weasley to eat it.”

She prodded him lightly. “I’m not a Weasley.” 

“By name, but very much by blood,” he told her. “Are you hungry?”

He released her and the candles were lit by a wave of his wand. 

“When am I not?”

He smiled broadly at her and pulled her chair back. “Come on then.”

[marcyiyi]

Wintertime at the Lupin-Black household was the definition of cozy. The house was covered in snow, only the pathway to it clean, because Sirius got up every morning and cleared it. He put on Remus’ thickest jumper and wool socks, added his combat boots and leather jacket and completed the outfit with a bright yellow crocheted hat. He made a point of showing his husband how much was he sacrificing for him, his sleep, comfort, and time, but he enjoyed this chore very much. It was just him, the cold, shimmering snow and the darkness. Going out with his shovel and seeing the house he lived in, with the little light of their bedroom also made him immensely proud and grateful for the life he lived. He usually came back and snuggled back to bed, letting himself be warmed by Remus’ hug. They would probably stay like this, but little Harry wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea. Around seven he would run to the bedroom, singing and wishing them good morning. If he wasn’t too hungry, he cuddled with them for a while, however he mostly pulled them from under the festive covers with deers and snowflakes and demanded they get up. And who were they to disagree? Remus usually made breakfast while Sirius checked that Harry made his bed properly, dressed up and washed his face, and brushed his teeth, which was particularly needed, as Harry’s arch nemesis at this age was the stingy minty taste of toothpaste. They reconciled in the kitchen which at this point smelled of non-alcoholic apple punch Remus made every morning of December. The mix of apple juice, cinnamon, clove and vanilla was one of the best Harry knew. Yet there was another that could overcome it. And that was the smell of almost full English breakfast. Beans, eggs and sausages, buttered toast. And because Sirius loved a breakfast dessert, croissants and strawberries. Harry would have them for a snack later, after they came back from the outside.

Each morning from about eight to ten belonged to a walk. Sometimes with Sirius, sometimes with Padfoot. Sometimes down to the creek, sometimes up to the woods, sometimes west to the city for groceries or to the library, sometimes east to a playground. After a snack, Harry was ready to have some fun in the snow, doing snow angels, building snowmen, going for a sleigh ride. He was tired enough after they came back to eat lunch and take a little nap. His dads used the free time to clean the house, or make some presents. Remus would knit or crochet while Sirius tried to seem like he was writing Christmas cards, but really he was just watching his husband adoringly. The afternoon was full of baking sweets. Vanilla crescents, Linzer cookies, gingerbread cookies, chocolate balls and more. Harry was very good at weighing the ingredients and cutting out the shapes, but kneading the dough or rolling it out without getting flour all over his hair was a mystery to him. Sirius just liked to watch the oven, making sure they don’t burn anything. That proved inefficient when he got distracted by taking photos of Harry in his little apron with flour and sugar on his face. Luckily Remus saved the whole batch and they ended up with two whole boxes of Christmas treats. When the kitchen was warm and smelling of cookies, and everyone’s belly full of them, it was time for a board game. Remus’ influence was very clear here, as Harry preferred muggle checkers over wizard chess. If he got bored of losing, he went upstairs and played with trains. He could go hours joining lego buildings with wooden tracks, making stops and driving his trains around them. Sometimes, when he was especially good, Sirius would enchant his trains to go by themselves and the little wooden people to ride them.

In the meantime, Remus made dinner, occasionally with his husband’s help. They loved cooking together, or watch the other cook. Tomato soup, quiche, rarebit, sandwiches, risotto, whatever Sirius fancied. More often than not, he fancied a make out session on the counter. However, according to Harry’s undeniably relevant opinion, their dinner always tasted delicious. They’d sit around the dining table, surrounded by lit candles and hanging mistletoes, colourful Christmas lights hanging from every possible piece of furniture. Harry had a curious question for each evening, which he asked after setting the table. How is orange juice made? How come the oven bakes so fast? Did Sirius wear a white dress to their wedding? Why are some of Remus’ hair grey? Who teaches at Hogwarts? What does ‘cariad’ mean? That usually got the conversation going, and sometimes his dads talked about it long after he’s gone to bed. Sirius would do the dishes, with or without magic, depending on his mood, and Remus tucked the tired little boy to bed. However, he required a bath first, usually full on with bubbles and ducks. Then he put on his pyjamas with polar bears and listened to his dad reading him a fairytale. Because the day was full of activities, he normally fell asleep before the prince and the princess lived happily ever after. Remus then had time to be happy with his husband, as they watched a muggle movie or listened to some music. But never Christmas carols before the 24th. Cuddled up in their living room, under all the mistletoes, and air still smelling of their dinner, Sirius reminded himself again of how grateful he was for all of this. His husband hugging him, their son sleeping upstairs, a whole house to themselves, secured, provided for, loved. And the thing he’d appreciate the most was that he could do all of this again tomorrow.

@wolfstarmicrofic dec. 25, cozy

[deadchannelradio]

i'm cutting roy out of every story i got him in with jason sorry jayroy stans i still believe in the joyfire dick grayson emotional thunderdome he just doesnt belong in the architecture i am crafting for jasons life nor does Jason belong in his. roy has his own life that is largely batboy free other than Being Weird With And About Dick Grayson. as such jasons stupid little dog Princess Monster Truck's inception (she is staying forever, but this particular inception is going away) i noodled at the beginning of is being put in the trash compactor to die forever. crunch crunch. so you can have it here instead. in my fanfiction abortion morgue.

“Laurie wants me to get a dog,” Jason says as Roy walks in the door, foregoing a ‘hello’ or an ‘I missed you’ or a ‘was the mission fun? It looked like you had fun when you shot the enormous bird-thing in the back of the neck with an explosive arrow and blew its head clean off’. He’s scrubbing a very clean pot with the maniacal focus of a man on the brink, up to his elbows with suds. 

Roy sets his bag down on the floor and tosses his jacket on the chair beside the door, toeing his shoes off. Jason points at the jacket without looking. “Do I look like your maid?” he asks. “Pick it up.”

“I would be a very happy man if you did,” Roy says, briefly transported to a world of short skirts and little aprons. He shakes himself off, then hangs his coat up properly before Jason gives in to the conniptions that are clearly bubbling under the surface. “Hi honey, I’m home, I missed you, we’re getting a dog?”

“Laurie wants me to get a dog,” Jason repeats darkly. They don’t talk all that much about Jason’s therapist or what he does in therapy, but all her best ideas that Roy’s heard about- starting prozac, getting an apartment and living in it full time instead of a rotating to a new squat every couple of weeks- have been accompanied by this tone of voice. “I shouldn’t get a dog.”

“Why the hell not?” Roy asks, coming up behind him to kiss the back of his neck and wind his arms around Jason’s waist, his shirt damp with dishwater. Jason backs up from the sink slightly to give him room, but doesn’t stop washing the soup pot. “You’re an adult. You have adult money and adult time. We can get a dog.” Roy likes dogs, conceptually. He hasn’t ever owned one long-term, but he enjoys them walking down the street and tied up outside of little coffee shops, and Haley and him hang out when Dick goes out of town and Barbara is unavailable to spend time with her dog-goddaughter. 

“I’m a felon,” Jason points out.

“Do no felons have dogs?”

“No good dog owners are felons.”

“Do you personally know every felon with a dog?”

“What if I have to go on the run again? Or something happens and I can’t take care of a dog?” The sound of the steel wool on metal is getting more grating by the second. “What if someone finds the apartment? Or-,”

“How many of these did you bring up with Laurie that she didn’t have a response for?”

Jason does not have an answer to that, given his silence and aggressive increase of scrubbing. Roy bites his shoulder until Jason flails a wet hand up into his hair and pulls him off, accidentally beaning him in the face with a soapy lump of steel wool. They’re totally getting a dog.

“We’re not applying for anything,” Jason says a few days later, tucking himself into a black jacket and grey scarf that he’s wrapping practically up to his ears. “I don't need a dog. This is a free zoo. We’re just looking.” 

“Of course,” Roy says, pulling on gloves and smiling serenely at the dog filled future yawning open before him. Jason gives him a suspicious squint, intensity ruined by the way that his knit hat is pushing his hair in every direction like a smacked dandelion. In spite of his claims, Jason is visibly nervous the entire monorail ride to the ASPCA, jaw clenched and tunneling into his coat like a turtle. Roy links their elbows as casually as he can when he has to pry Jason’s arm away from his body and scrolls his phone mindlessly. He’s been having visions of dog ownership- flyball, bitesports, long morning jogs with a scruffy heeler or blocky bully breed, agility classes and obedience courses. Admittedly, Roy knows very little about most of these things, but he’s willing to learn. 

Gotham ASPCA’s dog kennel contains pit mixes by majority, most rather unhelpfully labeled as lab or hound mutts, fooling absolutely no one beyond maybe a few landlords. The worker- Safia, on her name tag- who’s leading them around is looking at Jason out of the corner of her eye, as visibly nervous as Roy knows Jason is. He doesn’t look it, a hulking, silent presence over Roy’s shoulder, communicating with Roy mostly by eye contact and shifts in his stance. The biggest scar on his face lifts his upper lip in an accidental snarl, showing teeth, and his winter layers don’t make him any less bulky. She’s trying, at least, in that way that people do when they know they’re making a rude judgment based on little evidence but can’t stop themselves from feeling it. Roy’s sure that Jason isn’t picking up on that, though, just that he’s making her uncomfortable.  Roy puts a hand on the small of Jason’s back as they look at a lanky, blonde shepherd named Snuggles Friday, and Roy watches Safia relax by a few degrees. Friday licks at Jason’s hand through the wires as Safia talks about her, whining, her ears so huge they flop over for a second when she shakes her head. Jason’s fighting a smile. Roy gives Safia a conspiratorially hopeful grin and crosses his fingers, startling a real smile out of her. 

“I think all of our play rooms are occupied at the moment,” Safia says apologetically. “But I have a few more dogs I think would be a good fit for you if you want to look around and then decide who you want some time with?”

Roy looks at Jason, who shrugs, which is probably as good as they’re going to get right now. Friday is still licking his fingers enthusiastically, and Jason pulls away with some reluctance as they move along. 

He stops a few steps later, so abruptly that Roy walks into his back. 

Someone has accidentally left a swiffer duster in the kennel in front of them. It’s barking, a high and snappy thing, and it’s doing a little dance on its tiny feet, like it’s tip toeing in place. Its eyes are unsettlingly large. Roy laughs, looks over at Jason to make a joke about how it’s just not a dog if you can use it like a football, stops. Jason’s fists are clenched by his sides, his face going slowly red.

“That,” he growls through gritted teeth, “is the cutest fucking thing I have ever seen.”

Roy sends a mental goodbye note to Snuggles Friday. “That’s Caramel,” Safia says as Jason speed-reads the note attached to her kennel with the clinical efficiency usually given to an autopsy report. He drops to his knees, pauses, then gingerly presses a hand against the wire as though he’ll break it. Caramel leaves off the barking and begins licking Jason’s hand like it’s the last scoop of ice cream in the truck on a 100 degree day. Its hind end seems to be undergoing a seismic event.

[meltedbluecaterpillar]

Welcome to more Headcanons where I discuss clothing. Because it is fun for me. Today we will talk about Jade Leech and how in my mind he dresses like a serial killer; specifically Patrick Bateman. Just kidding. I will talk about that sort of fashion later. When I make these posts I plan to update them with another version of the character dressing in another way. But, let’s keep it short.

Subtle Punk/Grunge

Firstly, Jade has been confirmed in many ways to be more muscle than Floyd. So I like to personally picture him in tight fitting tops. His own mental mind game of showing you; “If I wanted to hurt you I would.” But of course image is everything.

I am desperately clinging to the Punk Jade we could have had in canon with piercings and body modifications but also… Going to a prestigious academy… Jade cares a lot about how he is seen by others on campus. The butler trope fits him very well, but what about off campus? I think he does wear subtle punk fashion when he’s out alone on the island. He loves the belts and black boots and how to layer shirts. All while asking some frightened looking cashier about what kind of mushroom spores they sell.

The reasons for the heavier fashion; A) I personally like it. And it’s okay to disagree with me. B) Jade is a merman, and in my mind their ability to regulate temperature isn’t the same as someone on land. So I would like to think that Jade has issues with cold weather. Please see his club wear card.

I get that camping can be something you need to layer for, but a coat, and a sweatshirt, and a turtleneck, and a wool(?) hat with gloves? He either has horrible circulation or mermen just have issues with cold weather. I think it’s the ladder. Jade also looks good in boots. Being in the Mountain Lovers Club, and even during the Camp event he looks good in boots. Combat boots and kicker boots are also something you usually will see with punk and more ‘aggressive’ forms of alternative fashion. He’s so used to wearing boots when he goes hiking that it feels more natural to wear something like that even on weekends when he’s out and about. Also, the heaviness is like extra weight so he can strengthen his legs. At least that’s what I think. He doesn’t seem like a jeans man but there’s also a lot of things Jade hides about himself. Now for a quick outfit!

Thrifted x DIY

I think he usually will wear things like this as it gets darker and he hangs out at underground music clubs where it’s mostly rock and alternative music playing. Now, Jade comes from money. Which can make him seem like a ‘poser’ because he is a nepo baby. But Jade also loves doing something and getting results. Like taking care of terrariums and discovering things in the mountains. I don’t think when he dresses like this he focuses on the best brand clothing wise. I think he wants to not stand out so I think he would go for darker colors while still having personality with his outfit. So I also gave him those nasty ass crust-punk jeans because I think he would have a pair he made himself and they probably smell like Fritos. He washes them… Sometimes.

Accessories… I can imagine Jade wearing small ones or thin leather bracelets with beads. But also at a music club, he probably would take time to make kandi to trade with some local emos. Rings would look nice on him. Especially big metal ones with chunky charms so if he gets into a fight, it’s like pseudo brass knuckles. He keeps it classy and clean while still upkeeping how he looks and is perceived. He wants to go all out. Shaved sides of his head and all. But he also fears… Something. I think he has to be seen a certain way for family reasons but also because of how he is seen at school. I think Jade… Lacks confidence to be himself. Even if he says he’s happy being a little weird and having such a pristine self image… Is he really? … It’s all my Headcanons and you don’t have to agree with me. But this is what I think.

[tortillamastersblog]

꧁ Angels Don’t Cry - Part 3 | Mor ꧂

Pairing: Mor x reader

Warnings: Mentions of torture, injuries, blood, kidnapping, vomiting and explicit language

Summary: After Hybern’s defeat, the Inner Circle makes a grave discovery in the late King’s dungeons. . .

Next Part | Masterlist

________________________________________________

The bell above the bakery’s entrance door chimes, signaling a customer has entered the shop, so I put down the piping bag I was just using and take off my apron. “I’ll be right with you, one second please.”

We’re about to close and I’m the only one left in the shop after today’s busy day.

I hand my apron on the hook on the wall and make sure my hands are clean before making my way to the front of the shop where the display area is.

“Good evening,” I say , not really looking at the customer as I make sure the cash register is closed. “How can I help you?”

There’s no reply, so I stop sweeping some crumbs off the countertop and look up with a frown.

Standing there dressed in a thick black coat and a bright red scarf is Mor. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold outside and her hair is hidden beneath a wool hat that matches her scarf in color.

“Uhm. . . Hi, what can I get for you?” I ask again, straightening up and ruffling my wings slightly.

Since our fight and moving into my own apartment I haven’t seen her and I can honestly say that I haven’t missed her much. However, now that she’s standing in front of me my heart happily skips a beat and I curse my body for reacting like this every time she’s around.

She insulted me and hurt me to no end and I should be mad at her, but when I look at her all I feel is this emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

“H-Hi,” she stutters timidly which takes me by surprise.

I’ve never heard her stutter before. This is Mor, the Morrigan who fought in the war and slayed more enemies than I can even imagine, and yet her she is, stumbling over her words like a common fool.

She watches me warily for a reaction and when I don’t give her one, she averts her eyes to the display case in front of her. “I. . . Could I-uh-please get a slice of. . . that chocolate-strawberry tart?”

I nod wordlessly and grab the tart from the case. I set it on the counter and take one of the slices and put it into a small cardboard box before putting the rest of the tart back.

“Anything else?” I ask, hyper aware of the brown eyes following my every move. I close the box with a couple of practiced folds before looking back up.

Once again, Mor is quick to avert her eyes. I notice how she tugs and pulls at her own fingers in front of her, but don’t comment on it.

It is unusual for someone of her status to go out and buy her own food, which is why I was surprised to see her here in the first place, but as the seconds go by and she still doesn’t order anything else it becomes abundantly clear that she didn’t come her for the baked goods.

“Y/N. . .”

There it is again, that tug on my insides. I clench my teeth and will the feeling to go away.

I stare at her expectantly, but other than my name nothing else comes out of her mouth. Outside, the snow whips through the lit streets and people scramble to get inside.

“Anything else?” I ask again, only this time I’m aware of the double meaning of it.

Mor gulps which inadvertently draws my attention to her half-covered throat. “I. . . No, that’s it.”

I nod curtly and go to the register to ring up her order. “That’ll be 3.99 then.”

She fishes around in her pocket, another sign that she didn’t come in here with the intention of buying anything before pulling out some change and handing it to me.

I go to count it because it’s definitely too much, but she quickly tells me to keep the change before grabbing the cardboard box.

Then, she’s gone without another word which makes me frown in confusion.

“What in the Cauldron’s name was that?” I whisper to myself before going back into the back of the shop where I finish decorating the cake I was working on.

“You’re here!” Feyre exclaims. She ushers me into the Town House before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug.

I laugh and hug her back, dropping the bag of gifts I brought with me. I did manage to find a gift for everyone after all, including Mor and Cassian. It’s Winter Solstice after all, and even though I don’t plan on interacting with either of them too much tonight, I thought getting each of them a gift as well would be the polite thing to do.

“Well, I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” I teased which makes Feyre punch me gently after breaking our hug. I laugh and take off my jacket, hanging it next to the door.

“Everyone else is already here and they’ve all had quite a bit to drink already, so get ready for that,” she warns which makes me chuckle as I pick up my bag of gifts again.

“It’s nothing I’ve not seen before, so lead the way,” I say just as a drunken shout from one of the guys echoes down the hallway.

Feyre laughs and I follow her into the living room with a small smile on my face. There, sprawled out on all the couches and high-backed chairs is everyone, including Lucien whom I haven’t seen in quite a while.

At first, no one notices our arrival, but then Azriel’s eyes land on me and he beams as he gets to his feet. “Hi!”

Before I know it I’m pulled into a hug and I freeze, not knowing what to do. He’s never hugged me before, not this carefree at least, but I quickly get over myself and hug him back.

“Hello, you look nice,” I compliment with a smirk when he pulls back. He’s wearing a dark shirt I helped him pick out the other day and a pair of slim dress pants.

It’s not too different from what I’m wearing apart from the jewelry. While he’s wearing a thin silver chain around his neck, I’m only wearing a simple golden ring on my left middle finger.

He got it for me when we went shopping the other day and I’ve not taken it off ever since. It has our mother’s name engraved on it on the inside and when I saw it the first time I teared up.

Azriel smiles crookedly, the effect of the alcohol he’s already consumed glaringly obvious. “You don’t look too bad either.”

I scoff and shove him away just in time to embrace Elain in a hug. She’s wearing a dress similar in shape to Feyre’s, but while her sister dress is a midnight blue covered in glittering gems, hers is a simple dark green.

Rhysand is next to greet me with a polite hug and a squeeze to my shoulder. “I’m happy you came. Make yourself at home, please.”

I thank him with a polite nod and smile at Amren and Nesta who simply lift their hands in greeting from their position on the couch.

“Y/N?” Cassian’s deep voice behind me makes me turn around. He’s holding out a glass of wine, smiling hesitantly and even though we’re far from being on good terms again, I accept his peace offering and thank him quietly.

It’s going to take some time to trust him again, but he’s been making an effort ever since what happened. He keeps apologizing and even helped me build some of my furniture.

Lucien shakes my hand with a polite smile and jokes about the size of my gift bag which makes my lips twitch. I can see why Feyre likes him and if it weren’t for the incessant tug on my insides I would even consider him attractive.

The last of the bunch to greet me is Mor who jumped to her feet the moment Feyre and I entered the room. She stayed back however and waited for everyone to greet me before slowly making her way over.

Cassian and Azriel are on one of the couches now, shoving each other around and fighting over another bottle of wine. Nesta, Elain and Amren are on the other couch, chatting with Lucien who’s standing by the fireplace and Feyre and Rhysand are on the armchair.

While the two of them seem to be in a conversation of their own, I can see Feyre warily glancing in my direction every so often as Mor makes her way to me.

Raising an eyebrow, she silently asks whether I’m okay with what’s happening and I nod subtly before taking a sip of wine and turning my attention to the blonde who’s now next to me.

“You look nice tonight,” she states softly, keeping her eyes on the wineglass in her hand.

It seems as though she’s not out for another fight, so I sigh and say, “So do you.”

And it’s true. She looks nice tonight, beautiful, really, but I’m not going to say that to her face. She’s wearing a long, one-shoulder, a-line dress that matches her maroon lipstick and her blonde hair is in a high ponytail. It reveals her smooth neck and shoulders, the sight of which makes me swallow thickly before looking away.

“Thank you.” She looks up and smiles tentatively. “I. . . I really liked your tart.”

“Huh?” I raise my eyebrows and take another sip of my wine.

“The chocolate-strawberry tart,” she elaborates quietly. “It was delicious.”

“Oh.” I almost forgot about that. Her coming into the shop was awkward, so I wasn’t expecting her to bring it up. “Right. . . I’m glad you liked it.”

Mor smiles once more, a quick lift of the corner of her lips, before she averts her eyes again.

Silence settles around us and I direct my attention to Azriel and Cassian who are now full on wrestling on the ground.

“I told you I’m stronger,” Cassian grunts as he pins Azriels to the ground.

“Maybe, but can you do this?” Azriel counters before vanishing in a cloud of shadows only to return a second later, this time on top of Cassian who is now pinned to the floor, face down.

“That’s cheating!” The general whines which makes everyone laugh.

I chuckle quietly as well, but then Mor’s shoulder brushes against my arm and I freeze. I keep my eyes on Azriel and swallow thickly, but don’t pull away.

“Y/N?” Her brown eyes bore into the side of my head, but I keep my eyes trained on Azriel who is now being pulled off his brother by Rhysand.

“Y/N?” Mor tries again, but I don’t react. As much as her shoulder brushing against me sends sparks through me, I can’t forget what she said to me.

I bet you really are a filthy spy. . . I bet Feyre would hate to know that you’re defiling her sister. . .

Tensing, I take a step away from her and clear my throat.

Feyre’s eyes are already on us and when she sees my discomfort, she gets to her feet and say, “Okay, everyone I think we should wrap this up in here. Dinner will be ready any minute now, so why don’t we head to the dining room.”

I thank her with a little nod and go to follow everyone filing out of the room only to be stopped by a tug on my sleeve.

“Wait, Y/N,” Mor pleads, her soft voice making my heart sink. “Can I talk to you for a second? Please?

I bet you really are a filthy spy. . .

I pull my arm out of her grasp and shake my head. I hate how much of an effect she has on me, especially in that dress, but I’m still hurt and I don’t want to talk to her because it will probably end in a fight again. “No. There’s nothing to talk about and dinner is ready, so we should go and join the others.”

I turn to leave again, but stop dead in my tracks when Mor blurts out, “I was scared, okay?”

“Excuse me?” I set down my glass of wine and cross my arms. We’re the only ones left in the room now and I know it’s only a matter of time before Feyre returns to rescue me from whatever this is.

“I was scared,” Mor says again, although this time it lacks confidence. “You asked me why I treated you the way I did a-and it’s because I was scared. I still am, actually. . .”

My wings twitch uncontrollably at all the emotions cursing through me. I’m still hurt, but now I’m also confused and intrigued. “You’re scared? Of what? Of me?”

“No!” She’s quick to shake her head. “Not of you. . . The day we found you in your cell—“

“Y/N? Mor?”

As if on cue, Feyre appears in the doorway with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes dart between me and the blonde before settling on me with a questioning look.

Are you okay? What’s happening? she asks against the shields in my mind.

I’m fine. Nothing’s happening, but thanks for the rescue.

Feyre dips her chin ever so slightly in acknowledgment and asks, “You guys coming, or what?“

Mor eyes me desperately, obviously wanting to continue our conversation, but I nod in Feyre’s direction and gesture for her to lead the way.

I am curious what Mor was going to say, but I’m not in the right headspace to stomach it all now, so I follow Feyre without sparing the blonde another glance.

Dinner went by without a hitch and if I’m honest it was quite pleasant, actually. I chatted with everyone, except Mor, and enjoyed the food.

Now I’m sitting on a bench in the garden, having snuck out a couple of minutes ago to escape the drunken idiots inside.

It’s cold, but Rhysand’s magic warms the space just enough to make sitting outside without a jacket bearable.

I can’t stop thinking about what Mor said about being scared and the fact that she explicitly told me she wasn’t scared of me. What else could she be scared of then? She’s the Morrigan for crying out loud and as far as I know the only thing she’s scared of, if you can even call it that, is her father.

“Things are getting pretty wild in there.”

I chuckle and turn to find Elain making her way toward me. Her cheeks are red from the alcohol she’s had, but her eyes are clear as she smiles at me. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” She takes a seat next to me and shuffles closer for a little warmth. “Amren and Cassian are doing shots and Rhysand and Feyre are sucking face in the middle of the living room.”

I snort and drape an arm over her shoulder when I notice the goosebumps on her skin. “Yikes. So I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before something breaks, or someone gets hurt.”

Elain nods and rests her head on my shoulder. “Yeah. . . Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”

I watch a nearby rose sway in the breeze and nudge her gently. “Sure.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating her words. “Have you ever— I don’t know— had this feeling that something in your life was missing?”

I go to shake my head, but then something tugs on my insides and for the first time I recognize what it is. It’s longing. . . For what, I’m not sure, but it’s there and it’s strong. “I guess so, but why are you asking?“

Elain takes a deep breath and clasps her hands together. “I feel this emptiness in my chest sometimes, but then when I’m with all of you, it’s somehow better, but even then, it’s still not completely gone.”

I frown but stay silent until she adds, “It’s like this pull in the pit of my stomach and—“

“Pull?” I ask. “You mean like a tug?”

She nods, not bothered that I interrupted her. “Yeah, like a tug. . . and I don’t know what it means.”

I smile and squeeze her shoulder. “I know how you feel, I feel it too, sometimes, but I have yet to figure out what it means.”

Elain groans. “I hate this.”

I laugh and spread my wings as far as they’ll go before tucking them back in. “Welcome to the club. . .”

We sit in silence and enjoy the fresh sir for a couple more minutes before deciding to head back inside. When we re-enter the living room everything is as Elain described it.

Feyre and Rhysand are all over each other and Amren and Cassian are still doing shots by the fireplace, both of them being cheered on by Lucien and Nesta who are just as drunk.

The only one not participating in the fun is Mor who’s standing by the window with her back turned.

“Look who made it back!” Cassian howls, draping an arm over Elain’s shoulders. He doesn’t dare touch me, but he smiles drunkenly and points at me. “We thought you two might have gotten lost in the snow.”

Elain shrugs his arm off and clings to Nesta who tucks a strand of her sister’s hair behind her ear. “They’re not as daft as you can be, so I wasn’t worried,” Nesta shoots back with a menacing smirk which makes Cassian smile even more.

I smile at the scene, but the exhaustion that settled in the pit of my stomach earlier catches up to me and makes me yawn.

I was supposed to stay the night in one of the house’s guest rooms, but the thought of sharing a bed with Azriel when he’s drunk makes my skin crawl, so I slowly slip out of the room unnoticed and make my way home after putting on my coat.

I’m not too worried about leaving without saying goodbye because come morning no one will even remember it especially when I return in time for breakfast and opening presents.

________________________________________________

[marchsfreakshow]

Can I Sew Into Your Heart? {Dandy Mott x Reader}

Requested by a wonderful @randodummy <3

You work closely with Dora at the Mott Mansion, and in the winter, Gloria has asked you to sew something for Dandy because of how sensitive he is to the cold.

No one's perspective

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ◕ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

You were sat in the kitchen, distracted, and Dora was making dinner. She was your mentor and only friend in the Mott Mansion. The big and empty place had plenty of empty rooms so you slept in a different one every night. Gloria never seemed to mind and she was kind to you, even if she was a bit naïve to her son's own problems.

The only difference between you and Dora is that you mainly did the sweeping and cleaning now. Dora kept on the food and laundry. Equal chores for both of you kept you happy. Sometimes though, there was always a time when you felt bored and tired since you managed to keep the place so clean. So, you sewed. Sewing was your favourite thing to do, and it kept you busy before Gloria employed you. You sewed Gloria and Dora jackets, small hats and gloves. They were small, never a big project like jumpers or a winter coat.

Until, one cold day on a dark December, Gloria came into the room you were currently sleeping in as you were reading. "Y/N, I need you to do something."

"Sure Ms.Mott, what needs doing?"

"Sew Dandy a jumper. He's sensitive to the cold, and has been dealing with a sniffle." She smiled slightly at you, and you nodded to just go along with it, but inside you felt like this was going to take up too much of your time. Begrudgingly you got up once Gloria left, and opened one of the small boxes by your bedside. It held different types of wool, cotton, needles and threads.

Thankfully, however, Gloria bought you a brand-new sewing machine. You were never able to get one, being an orphan had its downsides. Many, downsides. They were never kind to you, but you were kind to those who offered you calm, sweet silence, instead of yells and shouts. Karma would hit those people soon, you always thought. Karma exists.

Despite your busy mind, remembering where you came from, you turned the machine on. You grabbed everything from the open box and got to work. Whizzes and brrrs filled the quiet room. The door couldn't stop the loud machine from making the mansion sound like it was a construction site. Although, everyone left you alone. Dandy was simply out, probably to try and talk to the freaks again. Gloria, most likely was watching television or reading. Then Dora, out of everything, was in the kitchen, washing vegetables and preparing dinner for the evening.

So, truly, you weren't disturbed in the slightest. To busy your mind even more than it was already, you hummed songs. In The Mood was the first one to come to mind. It was a fun song, and you danced with Dandy to it once. The man-child was being a brat again, and you took his hands, leading him to an empty room with a record player. "Y/N what is this? I don't care about what you're trying to do!" He asked grumpily, as always. You just smiled your sweet smile that made Dandy melt inside, (he'd never tell you that of course) and took his large hands towards the record player. Putting yours on top of his, you both placed In The Mood on the record player. He hid his smile, but Dandy knew you liked the song, so he let you lead the dance.

"Dandy darling, pleaseee come on join me!" You chuckled, dancing around awkwardly. A few seconds went past before Dandy took you in his arms and started to dance with you.

"You're a horrible dancer."

"you love me." A giggle escaped your lips as Dandy and you danced around the whole room, not missing any corner. "I love you." You whispered to Dandy. The song ended, and he dipped you down for half a second. He held your waist and gently placed a kiss on your lips. Once you returned back, a hand on his face.

"I love you too."

But the whirrs brought you back to reality. Already you were done with the sleeve, somehow it didn't look terrible despite being in a dazed state the whole time. It was a dark blue, mixed with some blacks and shades of grey.

Your own humming continued as you kept sewing and still, the machine was louder than ever. But soon enough, you heard the door slam shut. Dandy was home. He walked towards your door and opened it quickly, seeing you sew with the machine. "Turn that off!" He shouted, somehow louder than the sewing machine itself.

Quickly, you did so, and looked up to Dandy, confused. "Is it too loud Dandy?" He sniffles a bit. His nose was red, and he was shivering. "Oh dandy...my love you know to not go out in this weather." You shook your head, getting up and hugging Dandy close. He was freezing, and sneezing.

"I don't care. I wanted to see the twins."

"Dandy..." You just take his hand and up the stairs to his room. It was warm and it was best for the cold man. In both ways. "Come on, let's get you warmed up." Dandy just nodded, wiping his nose on some tissue. He was cute to you, even if he was a massive brat at times.

"I'll go and get you some soup okay? Tomato with some toast." Tired and cold, Dandy just nodded again and accepted it while you placed a blanket over his shoulders. He was clingy so it took you a while to just get to the kitchen. Dora smiled at you and held out a tea kettle.

"Are you taking a break Y/N? I've made some tea." Dora poured you a small cup anyway.

"Thank you, Dora. I was going to make some quick tomato soup with toast. Dandy is freezing, and a sniffling mess." You sighed but smiled. Dora was too kind to you sometimes. She opened up some cupboards and took out ingredients. Salt, pepper, tomatoes, red peppers, cream, etc. Everything was fresh since you and Dora went out a day ago to get groceries.

"You gonna be alright makin' it? I know he can be horrible and ungrateful at times."

"I'll be okay Dora, thank you though. I know how to put him in his place." You chuckled a bit and winked at Dora, who just rolled her eyes, smiling before walking off. Everyoneeee heard how you 'put Dandy in his place' and it was obvious to them he wasn't the one in charge.

You brought yourself out of your fantasy though, starting to quickly make up some soup for the sniffly man. After a few minutes, it was smelling nice, and it was warming you up, even though you weren't the one eating it. It only took a few minutes for the soup to be done, so you placed some in a bowl, put that on a tray along with some hot cocoa, and brought it up to Dandy who was still sniffling away and reading comics.

"Hey love, I made you the soup. Plus some cocoa." You smiled and it melted you inside as Dandy immediately grinned and sat up, placing the comic down next to him. "Tomato and red pepper."

You placed the tray on Dandy's lap, and he started eating immediately. But he dropped his spoon back in the bowl, cringing and placed a hand over his mouth. "Burnt my tongue."

"Well, it is hot, baby. C'mere, just leave it for a bit to cool down, then take small sips okay?" Running your fingers through Dandy's hair, you giggled slightly, and Dandy just looked annoyed before kissing your head as an affirmation of your words. The silence was long, occasionally broken by a kiss so Dandy felt better. Soon enough though, you took the spoon again and helped Dandy eat. The soup was finished in a matter of minutes along with the cocoa.

"..thank you Y/N." He said, shrinking back down into his duvet.

"You're always welcome my love. I'll be back soon okay? I'm still making something." You grinned and kissed Dandy's forehead. Picking up the tray and taking it downstairs, you immediately thought about how to continue making the jumper.

You had hoped Dandy would stay in bed and rest now he had eaten, but you could never be too sure. Sighing to yourself, you went back into the room and started to sew again, distracting yourself with songs in your head.

Time had passed more quickly than you thought and you had a look at the clock. "5?! Shit!" Then you looked down at the machine, an almost finished jumper in the machine. There were a few embodiments that needed to be added, so you made fast work of that. "Jesus Christ, I should have an alarm clock built in me or something." You got up and jogged into the kitchen, to find a little plate on the counter with a note.

' Y/N, you were so distracted with your work all day, I couldn't disturb you. So I made some extra for you, eat it whenever you can. - Dora.' You grinned and took the plate with some cutlery, and sat in the kitchen, wolfing it down as swiftly as you could. As soon as you finished, you washed everything up and put them away. You walked back out, seeming alone in the house. Shrugging to yourself, all you did was go back to your room and finish off the jumper.

It ended up being a navy colour, with hints of a lighter blue in it. It was so big, but you hoped Dandy would like it anyway. "Y/N?" Oh perfect. Dandy called out to you from upstairs, you ran up to him with the jumper in your hands. "What's that?" He asked through small sneezes and coughs.

"It's a jumper for you baby. You're so sick, and you need something to keep you warm." You sweetly cooed, holding it up. Excited, dandy took it in his hands and immediately put it on. "That looks great on you sweets." You clapped and grinned.

"I like the colour." He said, admiring it on his own body. Soon enough though, he picked you up and placed you next to him, cuddling you in close. "You're sleeping next to me tonight."

"I'd love that my darling." You answered, Dandy keeping you tight and close to his own body. "Are you still cold?"

"Mhm." He nodded.

"My sweet boy, I'll warm you right up." You just kept smiling at him, moving yourself to lie on top of Dandy. You also put the blanket over yourself, you kept Dandy and yourself warm. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you more."

[ourlittleforever]

First Meeting

Rewrite of Xander and I's first meeting. Also on AO3.

Rated T, 2642 words

Thunder rumbled somewhere off the coast; another day, another storm. Millicent Halloran sighed as she lit the last of her candles. This rite was technically supposed to require at least three Sisters, but Millie was the only one fit to actually perform such a task. Liesel, Sister Helen, and Mother Royse were all tucked away in the Sisters’ House on the back of the property, sick as dogs and likely on their way out of the world. 

Millie stared down into the tiny flame in front of her. Mari had died that morning; the last standing Sister had wrapped her in one of the last burial shrouds and dragged her down to the sea, rolling her off the cliff and into the waters. It wasn’t the best job, but at least Mari had gotten a proper burial fitting for a Sister of Vetra. Millie could be proud of that.

Yeah, right. Millie shook her head. The Sisters’ population had been dwindling for years. Millie, Liesel, and Mari had been the last generation of Sisters, and they were in their mid-twenties now. Mother Royse had insisted the girls learn how to be modern women, so any time not spent tending the chapel was spent in the city of Gloomwood, apprenticing to various tradesmen and shops. 

Millie was supposed to be apprenticing under the florist, Mrs. Bowen, that week, until the woman had died from whatever plague had befallen the city. Death swept through Gloomwood on the daily – Mrs. Bowen’s funeral had been a group funeral with a few other citizens. Millie had sat in the back of the church with Grezzo, who seemed oddly nonchalant as the priest gave a cough-filled sermon. Then again, he’d never liked the florist.

She thought of Grezzo then. The old man was one of the last remaining members of the Mercantile Council. Before the funeral had started, he’d complained about the Countess, as he always did, and about Mr. Ainsley and Mr. Van der Meer, too. How strange, Millie mused, that Grezzo was so preoccupied by matters like the economy when people were dropping like flies. She chalked it up to him being a strange man with strange fixations.

Oh, right. I need to pick up his bread today. Millie laughed to herself. The Emerald Eye’s proprietor sent her on errands he could easily do himself, like retrieving his dry cleaning and baked goods. Lucky for him, Mr. and Mrs. Conroy were still alive and healthy, and still very good at baking bread.

Millie stepped back from the altar and ran a hand through her hair. She missed Mari. They weren’t friends, not really, but Mari was the easiest of the Sisters to talk to, and she was the only one who made Millie feel like a person and not a piss-poor facsimile of one. Most days, Millie felt like she was some kind of creature who’d crawled out of the sea and accidentally became trapped as a real girl. But Mari was so easygoing, so personable, that she made everyone around her a little more human.

Feeling sorry for yourself when Mari is dead in the sea. Ugh. Millie smoothed the front of her wine red pinafore’s skirt down. She was wearing her casual clothes, not her clerical garments, since she had errands to run today. Vetra didn’t care about what someone wore when they performed his rituals. Hopefully.

Who knows. Maybe I incurred his wrath when I wore my out-and-about clothes, and that’s why there’s a plague. She wrinkled her nose. You’re wasting time.

The door to the chapel suddenly swung open – and a man was standing there. A man in a fancy wool coat and a top hat, sporting an elegant cane in his right hand and a briefcase in the other. He was a handsome man, tall, with an aquiline nose and inquisitive green eyes. He smiled at Millie, who stared at him, completely dumbstruck by this beautiful stranger in her chapel.

After a moment of gawking like an idiot, Millie realized she was being a terrible host. “Oh, goodness – let me get your coat and your bag, I’m so sorry –” She awkwardly approached with a half-jog, half-tiptoe gait, cursing herself for being less human and more stupid seal. “Here, here. I’ll take these.” The newcomer graciously handed her his coat and hat, and she politely set them on the coat rack by the door. “Um. What can I do for you?”

“I was just curious about this church,” the man said. This close, she could see a dark five o’clock shadow starting to form on his handsome face. “I’ve never heard of the Sisters of Vetra.” His cane clicked on the cobblestone floor as he leaned into it. 

“We’re a local religion,” Millie replied, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I wish Mother Royse was well enough to tell you about us. She’s the prioress here.” 

“Is she one of the sick?”

“Yes.” Millie glanced toward the back window, where she could see the Sisters’ House against the dark gray sky. 

“May I see her?” the man asked, and at Millie’s confused expression, he laughed. “How rude of me, I didn’t introduce myself.” He clasped the girl’s hand, his own hands warm through his thick leather gloves. The man leaned close, and Millie could smell his fancy cologne. “Doctor Alexander Thane. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh – the Council said you’d be coming, right?” Millie thought back to Ms. Linwood, the gift shop proprietor, gossiping to Mrs. Bowen before her death. Apparently, the Mercantile Council had sent hundreds of letters out, seeking a doctor to try and stop whatever plague had befallen Gloomwood – and Doctor Thane had answered. 

“That’s right,” he said, his voice low with a pleasant lilting accent. “And what’s your name?”

“Oh – Millicent, but um, you can call me Millie.” She glanced away from his piercing bright green eyes. How could anyone’s eyes be that vivid? It was like she was staring into a fern-green field… 

“Well, Millie, if you don’t mind, I’d like to examine Mother Royse.”

“I can ask her, but… she can be a little prickly…” That was an understatement. The prioress was a deeply stubborn, sharp woman – Grezzo compared her temper to a feral alley cat more than once. But no one could say that Mother Royse didn’t care about the church, or about the youngest sisters’ futures. It broke Millie’s heart, thinking of snippy, persnickety Mother Royse, laid up in bed with her body rotting away. Even now, though, she would fuss at Millie about her blankets and soup and the weather, so maybe she wasn’t totally lost.

“I’m sure I’ve met worse,” Doctor Thane replied, and Millie nodded and led him out the back of the chapel. 

When Millie opened the door to the sisters’ living space and led the doctor to the sleeping quarters, it was eerily silent, save for Liesel’s ragged breathing. Mother Royse and Sister Helen were sleeping – yes, sleeping, Millie thought, breathing a sigh of relief as she watched the women’s chests rise and fall. Mother Royse’s chest just barely lifted. Millie’s heart dropped in her chest. She doesn’t have much time left…

Doctor Thane squeezed by Millie and knelt at Mother Royse’s side. He took a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff from his briefcase (Doctor Thaterson and Mr. Tremblay, the barber, had instructed her in the basics of nursing, so she recognized the implements) and began to examine the old woman. Mother Royse had declined significantly, even in the few hours Millie had been tending to matters in the chapel. Guilt flooded her veins. She took the prioress’s hand and squeezed it. I’m sorry.

Liesel and Sister Helen weren’t much better. As Doctor Thane took notes on Mother Royse, Millie attended to her other sisters, repositioning them and switching the cool rags on their foreheads. Neither reacted much to her presence, but Sister Helen did groan as Millie adjusted her in the bed. So she wasn’t totally gone, then. At least there was that.

Doctor Thane finished his examination and cleaned his instruments with a rag he kept in his bag. He then analyzed Sister Helen and Liesel, though they took less time. The doctor took a few more notes, then nodded to Millie. 

Millie led him to the living room. Here, in the low light, the golden bird on his cane seemed to glow. A dove – a symbol of peace.

Peace. We all need that right now, don’t we?

“They’re very well cared for. You’ve done an excellent job,” Doctor Thane said. He smiled at Millie, easy and comfortable, and it put the nun at ease as well. “You should be proud.”

“Thank you.” she replied, shifting uncomfortably. He was looking right at her, and eye contact was difficult. Millie clasped her hands in front of her skirt and smoothed it out again. 

“Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do for them at this stage,” the doctor said. He stepped closer, and while normally, such a gesture would feel suffocating, his presence exuded warmth. Millie didn’t step back or shy away from him, much to her own surprise. “However, I am going to leave you–” he opened his bag and pulled out a vial of medicine “–with morphine. That will help with the pain.” The doctor took Millie’s hand and pressed the vial to her palm. “There’s a syringe on the bedside table. Draw up half the syringe for a full dose.” Doctor Thane’s voice was gentle, yet serious. 

“Thank you.” Millie slipped the vial into the pocket of her pinafore. “Thank you, really. I’m grateful.” This close, his cologne filled her senses. She could feel her face heating up. This handsome man with no sense of personal space… damn him! Finally, Millie managed to step back. “Is there, um, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, yes,” the doctor said. “I have a list of house calls to make, but no map. I was wondering if you’d help me get around town?”

Millie blinked. She’d asked a rhetorical type of the is there anything I can do for you question and received an actual answer. Normally, she would hate that. But Doctor Thane… she wouldn’t mind standing awkwardly outside a house, waiting for him to finish an exam so she could lead him to the next one. “Sure.”

“Perfect.” Doctor Thane clasped his hands together with a friendly clap. “Why don’t we discuss the route over lunch? I’m staying at the Drunken Waterfowl. The food is much better than I thought it would be.”

And then he offered her his left arm. When Millie just stared in confusion, he chuckled. “You take a man’s arm when he offers it.”

“Oh! Thank you.” Millie conjured up images from every romance novel she’d snuck back to her bed, of dashing heroes offering their arms to the quiet heroines. She placed her palm on the crook of his elbow. His bicep was surprisingly defined. Millie tried not to think much about how strong he must have been as the duo walked out of the Sisters’ House and into the city.

—

It was after hours when Millie finally got around to delivering Grezzo’s baked goods. As an apology, she’d picked up a few extra pastries for him – sweets were the easiest way to win his favor. She tried not to skip like a giddy schoolgirl as she approached the Emerald Eye with the paper bag full of bread. 

She and Doctor Thane had enjoyed a pleasant lunch at the Drunken Waterfowl, and she’d even convinced him to try the jellied crocodreel (which he loathed, but very admirably ate the entire portion she’d given him). And he’d even paid for lunch, before the two went on the doctor’s rounds. Millie had been invited inside alongside him, and she’d helped during the exams; Doctor Thane had asked for her assistance again the next day, and promised to teach her more nursing skills. “You have a knack for it,” he’d said, causing Millie to turn a bright shade of pink.

As Millie went to knock on the shop’s door, it swung open, and Grezzo stood there scowling. “You’re late. Very late.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Millie said. She handed him the bag of goodies. “I got you some strawberry puffs. Your favorite.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.” Grezzo opened the bag and examined the pastries. “What kept you so long?” His tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“You remember the doctor the Mercantile Council summoned for?” Millie asked, following the shopkeeper into the back of the store. “Well, I was helping him get around the city. Doctor Thane.”

Grezzo plopped the bag onto his dining room table and then plunked himself into a rickety old chair. “If you spend too much time with the outsider, people will talk,” the old man warned, taking a strawberry puff out of the paper bag and examining it like he would a piece of jewelry. 

Millie snorted. I’m an outsider, too, she thought. Saying as much out loud, though, always ended in an argument with Grezzo. The old man insisted that because Millie was born in Gloomwood, she wasn’t an outsider – but that couldn’t be further from the truth.Her parents had been outsiders, and she was an outsider, too, now and forever. The way people looked at her, spoke to her… even her Sisters treated her differently, even after twenty-five years. Millie wrinkled her nose. “I was just helping him,” she finally settled on saying. “The Sisters are supposed to help people, y’know.”

Grezzo frowned. “You can be very naive, Millie.” He took a bite of the pastry. “Be careful.” 

It was such a simple sentiment. His tone would’ve sounded even, calm to anyone who didn’t truly know him. But Millie could sense bitterness in his words. 

Millie felt her heart sink. She loved Grezzo; he was the only father figure she’d ever known. But he could be so prickly, even pricklier than Mother Royse. And unlike Mother Royse, whose criticisms were the generalized complaints of a crabby old woman, Grezzo knew how to hit someone where it hurt, whether he meant to or not. Millie forced a smile. “I will. I’m… I need to go now. We’re starting early in the morning, Doctor Thane and I, so I need to get the ladies cared for beforehand.”

Grezzo stared at her over the pastry, a nearly imperceptible flash of pain in his face. What was that for? Doctor Thane? The Sisters? Strange as always. “Alright, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Grezzo.”

As Millie headed for the door, he called to her. “Millie?”

“Yes?”

“I need my dry cleaning picked up in the next few days.”

“Okay.”

“...See you soon.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

Millie stepped out into the chilly evening air. She wished she had brought her coat. But it had been so nice earlier, when she and Doctor Thane were making their rounds, that she hadn’t even thought of it. 

Truth be told, she had been thinking more of him. You’ve only just met him, Millie. Quit thinking you’re one of your romance book heroines, she scolded herself.

A tiny, nagging voice in the back of her mind added, You aren’t worth it, anyway.

Millie shook her head, willing the thoughts away. As she walked back to the chapel for the final nightly rites, her mind kept wandering back to Doctor Thane, of his warm hands and strong arms and friendly demeanor. Maybe she’d offer him one of Vetra’s blessings, if he believed in those sorts of things. She’d have to gauge his reaction to that suggestion. Among other things.

Yeah. Millie smiled to herself as she opened the door to the Sisters’ House. He could come by the chapel, I could make him dinner…

Surely, she could allow herself this one itsy-bitsy, silly, romantic dream.

[duffyyy911]

A Line in Black - 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 4 - 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔

Summary: The detective gets a rude awakening after trying to block out the previous night's events.

Content Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and smoking. Mentions of prostitution. We aint getting freaky just yet gang dw

Word Count: 8k Author's Notes: I wanted to get some more dialogue and tension into this chapter, so nothing precisely exciting happens besides a riveting back and forth between the reader and Lest. I am going to be starting a new job soon, so Idk how frequent chaps are going to come out after the next one, but I'll work hard as long as yall keep reading!

Proofread by: @6selkie @sillyb0nez Masterlist: Here

The faint hiss of the waters mist, a gentle greeting that was followed up with the roar of the tide hitting its mark and tumbling back into the sea. The bitter taste of salt on the air, the same savory feeling that invited itself onto your tongue every time you took a deep breath in. You felt the frail chunks of paint chip off beneath your thumb as you gripped onto the rusting railing of the stern-side bridge deck. You pulled your eyes open with great difficulty, prying the two lids apart as if they had been glued together for a length of time that had all but slipped away in the moment. You looked out onto the waters, a curved horizon of deep blue washing into a cascade of rich orange and grays as waters met an open painted sky in the distance, the evening clouds falling down to the skyline in front of the embers of a sunset. You could hear the distant cawing of the seagulls turning in circles far above your head, the whipping of the short nautical flags hanging from their mounts, and the creak of the ship’s elongated hull breaking the waves. The harsh wind blew in from your side and you braced, then quickly fastened the buttons of your tall blue wool jacket. You think for a moment as you do, pausing on each twist of the buttons through their slits. You try to remember where you even found the jacket. Or when you even put it on. You looked back out over the horizon, side-eying a flood of blackened dark clouds rolling in from the distance and beginning to wipe the slate of the sky clean. The rock of the tide picked up and shifted the ship beneath you, the vessel billowing out a low, deep groan as it took the ocean’s whipping. You felt the sailing cap upon your head slip and slink lopsided against your ear. You slowly readjusted it, and you looked on in silence as the storm blew in.

As the winds picked up and a heavy rain blew in with a sea storm’s darkness, you headed inside for the night in the bridge quarters. You hadn’t even stopped to look at the messy state of the wheelhouse, a picture’s example of the kind of quarters sailors keep, before you had grabbed a hold of the valve to the hatch door at the back of the cabin and began to give it a turn. With great force, the wheel slipped and slowly spun out of its place. You toed in through the hatch and took a moment to shut the heavy metal door behind you and twist the wheel back. The loud splatter of the whipping rains outside died down a bit, mixing into the gentle roar of the waves and the distant crackle of thunder on the air beyond the waters. You hung up your coat in your dim bunkroom, catching the collar on the hook screwed into the motley coat of dim green painted on the wall. You go to throw your hat on your bed, glancing at the empty bunk lying half-made and wamthless. That’s when you got a glimpse of them. The person sitting in the low armchair at the end of your bunk, between the back and a tall slim wall closet. You only caught a glimpse of their legs and the legs of their quite expensive looking pants, but every time you tried to recall what they looked like, you couldn’t. Their color, their shape, nothing came to you once you looked away.

“Rough sea out there, captain?” They hummed, cupping their hand around a crystal ashtray in their lap. They puffed on the end of a slender cigarette, ashing it into the tray from time to time with a hollow flick beat everytime the paper tapped against the glass. Fwick. Fwick.

“Not until just now. Storm’s coming in, might be a long one.” You grumbled back. You turned about and slowly sank down to the creaking bunk mattress as you took a minute to breathe. Your hands looked a lot more worn and aged since the last time you looked at them. You rub the callouses built up by reigning in lines at night and hauling up trappers boxes in the morning, wondering where you even found the time to do all of it. Your thoughts began to linger for a moment, dancing away until they were pulled back by the almost silent fwick of the cigarette being ashed once more. “I thought you were going out on the boats?”

“The whales didn’t come back today.” The person sighed deeply from over the shoulder of where you sat. Every glimpse you got of them, unrecognizable once you blinked away. Fuzzy and featureless, like a little kid’s drawing that had been scribbled over. “So I had them bring the dingy back in.”

“Figures.” You murmured as you slipped off your shoes and moved them under your bed bunk with a kick. “I’ve got the line in, all I have to do is make the rounds before turning in.” You mentally go down your list of many chores one could not just leave until tomorrow when they run a vessel.

“I was thinking.” They spoke up as you slowly laid yourself back into your thin uncomfortable mattress. You threw your wrist over your eyes to block the sharp light of the cabin’s ceiling lamp that wobbled back and forth from the rock of the wave. 

“Does it pay well?” You joked to keep yourself from dozing off.

“No-” They paused with a breathy dismissive chuckle on their voice. “No, it’s nothing.”

“What? Come on.” You encouraged them. You blindly threw out your arm across the bed in their direction. Although it didn’t land its mark, eventually you could feel warmth on your fingertips as they grazed the ends of another’s. Your bones ached, a body in need of rest. And if you had to stand back up, you just might fall apart at the joints.

“Well, I was-” They paused again. You could almost picture the stupid smile on their lips. Whatever they looked like. “Do you remember that little village? It was somewhere south of Ionia, I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” You hummed half-asleep. You had no clue what they were talking about, but you weren’t about to pull aside a detour conversation about remembering the umpteenth place you had stopped along the way.

“I was thinking-”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

A series of heavy knocks on the door of the cabin thundered out. Neither of you two said a word, or seemed to react at all. You sighed deeply, feeling your chest rise and fall as you pinched the bridge of your nose. The comment about falling apart at the joints may yet to come true.

“Captain. I think she’s here to see you.” They hummed with a monotone canter.

“What? Who? What for?” You sat up from your daze on the bunk. 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“She sounds very displeased, captain. You’d better hurry.”

“Yes, but what for?” You huffed as you stood up from the bunk, blindly putting your shoes back on after what seemed like only mere seconds.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“The door. Captain.”

“But what for!” You barked coarsely. You grabbed a good hold onto the valve to the turn locks and gave it a good spin. You wondered at who was making all that racket. Something big enough to shake such a heavy metal piece. The rusted hinges to the hatch wound up, and the door swiveled open. And in the nothingness of the void beyond the frame, you fell through like flopping limply into water. An ocean.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Detective!”

“What? I’m up!” You jerked awake from your stiff slumber on your old mattress. You didn’t even know who you were responding to yet, the way you were ripped from that dream that was now beginning to fade.

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

The knocking was practically shaking the drywall at this point. The thudding of a closed fist against wood did not help out your now increasingly tightening headache that had creeped in on it que. “I’m up!” You hollered once more. You tasted your dry mouth with discomfort creasing across your face as you looked about. Your room, as empty and sad as you remember it. Your jacket was laying crumpled up at the foot of the bed, draped over your legs. You took a second to check your clothes, still the same ones you had on last time you remember, damper now that you had overheated in the night. You glanced out the window, looking to the sky above the rooftop surrounding the alleyway. Bright, blue, cloudless. A restful day, it seemed.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Now who’s the deaf one!” You called out. You rubbed the corners of your eyes with your dry hands as you breathed in with some struggle. The muscles in your chest felt tight, and there was a weird swell in the back of your nose that bothered you every time you inhaled or swallowed. You were starting to hope this wasn’t the start of another cold, one that you could not afford right now.

“I’m coming in.” You heard your caller announce through the thin door. You already knew who it was. There would be nobody else in this entire city that would be able to get a hold of you so quickly. Because if it was Lyric, he would have already invited himself in. “You’d better have clothes on.”

“It’s not a red carpet night at the cabaret. So, yeah.” You groaned as you sat up fully and scooted to the edge of the mattress. You planted feet onto the cool slickness of the floorboards, your knees sticking up and against your chest as you took a moment to collect yourself. Your head spun like you just got flattened by a freight train, but your senses were slowly returning to you piece at a time. You watched the knob twist and the door swing slowly open with a gentle and hesitant push. 

Lest stopped half way in through the doorway, pausing when she took a good look at your living conditions. You weren’t sure if the brief twitch in her right ear that shot up its spine and flicked off the tip, or the subtle flare of her bottom eyelids, or the single step back she took before she masked the actions in an instant, were signs of shock or disapproval. But there her eyes went, flicking around and silently casting judgement that would never be shared. 

“Is this where you’ve been all day?” She asked impatiently, leaning against the frame of your door with an undecided half-fold of her arms. She herself, however, looked entirely out of place in your habitat. She stood tall before you in a maroon peacoat, one long enough that its trim was glissading down far past her knees and almost all the way down to the floor. She kept her same headscarf, the folds of which she still hid behind at times when she spoke to you. Overtop of the pinkish scarf, she wore an equally wine hued breton cap with a single band around the base of its trim, which seemed to also have slits fashioned into its top to accommodate your boss’ ever tall ears. 

You blinked at her in silence, your right eye closed to block the light coming in from the window while the other followed the yellow of Lest’s irises subtly darting around the room before they came to a stop after meeting yours.

“I mean, where else would I be?” You wiped your palm down your face in exhaustion, a vain hope that maybe something could speed up the recovery. You felt like you were a schoolboy in trouble for something you weren’t quite sure what you did. You scratched behind your ear in thought, what had you done recently? “Why? Were you looking for me? For how long?” You croaked out the measly questions one at a time.

“All day.” Lest exhaled with feigned disbelief. “First I looked in the nearest bars, none of them had heard or seen of you except for one. They said you had got in a fist fight, then left and they hadn’t seen you since.”

“Oh yeah?” You idly asked as you slowly stood up with great difficulty. You could feel the blood rush to your already tight head, its pulsating rhythm growing more intense for a short few seconds before dying out again. You threw your arms back and up behind your head, stretching with a cat’s yeowl as you felt the muscles in your back stretch apart reluctantly. 

“Then, I went to the police department across the bridge, to see if you were in the tank.” Lest continued on, a droning working its way into her voice as she caught on that you were only half listening. “Aren’t you going to ask how I got in?” She cocked an eyebrow, fully committing to folding her arms as she watched you walk by her and into your cramped bathroom.

She might be good at keeping a straight face at a poker game, sure, but you could read a little more into the contents of a person’s book than most people. Whatever you did, going missing like that did genuinely worry her. Most people would have just asked around, maybe sent a letter. Wait some more. But her? No, she came to look for you directly and she didn’t stop until she reached your bedroom door.

“I probably left my door unlocked.” You shrugged as your bare feet made contact with the cheap tile. You flipped on the stingy fluorescent light with a flinch and a shudder that trailed up your spine. You bent over your bathroom sink to get a better look at yourself. You had to admit, you felt a lot worse than you looked. But you looked far from ideal, about only a single dollar out of a million. You pulled the skin of your right cheek down, checking under your eyelids as the flesh shifted and stretched. “Or, you unlocked it. Bavo, if so.”

“Your landlord.” Lest snorted. “She was dropping a cardboard box off, told me it was for you.” She peered at you from around the door, in a spot where if you craned your neck just right you could see through both doors and get a full look at the reflection of the mirror.

“Where’s the kid?” You inquired gravelly, noticing that the boy was all but missing. You back stepped out of your bathroom and squeezed past Lest at the door, who seemed to insist on keeping herself planted to where she was standing. You trod through your open office, or living room, kitchen, whatever you had resided in calling your pitiful two room apartment. 

“I sent him home, what do you think?” Lest remarked with a short waver in her voice, a subtle sneer pinching back her nose that you didn’t need to look back at to visualize. “I’m not his keeper.”

“That’s fair.” You hum absentmindedly. You approached the squarish low cardboard box by the doormat, your footsteps dancing between the juts of sunlight cutting past the checkrails of the kitchen window. “That’s really sweet of you to have me bailed out. Looking for me in a Pitlie police station, no less.” You tagged on with a croak of sarcasm.

“I would have just asked you through the bars, detective.”

“Asked me what?” You bent down and spun the box over. Completely bare, only held shut by a loose line of duct tape. You punched into the sides of the box to loosen the tape to open it up, glancing at Lest still in the slanted disapproving lean she had given when she opened your door. You gave her an earnest, but obviously confused grin. You genuinely had no idea why she had stopped by. You must have drank heavily before, because the last thing you could recall was wading through a river of garbage in the sump and some vague memory of wriggling down a vent like a sewer rat.

“For an update, I thought you were following up on a lead?”

“Right.” You hummed once more. You opened the box up slowly, looking into the space to find a pile of folded, albeit second-hand looking, clothes. A little note sat on top of the top stack of shirts, a brief thank you letter from your landlord for the advance on rent. The glad, almost proud feeling rising in you could not be underestimated. This was like the equivalent of finding out you had inherited a lot of money from a dead relative you never knew, or finding some priceless thing sitting in a drainpipe. As you marveled at your new gift, you glanced up to see your employer still awaiting your response. “I don’t do business this early, miss.”

“I paid you a commission, you do business whenever I need it done.”

“You came into my house.” You reminded her as you squatted down and picked up the hefty box. “That’s like if I had a lead, and I just walked into your hotel room while you were still sleeping and started making a report.” You squeezed past Lest in the doorway again, back into your room. You let the box fall from your arms and land with a muffled thud on your mattress. 

“I wouldn’t be sleeping past midday.” She turned her nose up at you as you walked by. 

Despite her little sneers and the wrinkling of her short nose at your lifestyle, your boss didn’t seem like the snooty kind, the opposite in fact. A real woman of the people, hiding in plain sight like those with the moxie for it ought to. Yet she did have a bad habit of talking down to you, not in a demeaning way. But one that showed that it had been quite a long time since she had spoken with someone in the same class bracket as her. If she had collected this ever-relevant list of wealthy clients for this long, your suspicion would be that she mostly works in Piltover. Not only did she work in Piltover, but she also walked through it freely. That means she fit in with Piltover’s society, a necessity perhaps, but one that seemed to subtly leave its mark. It explained her emphasis on privacy, all the little shortcuts she knew, her obtuse but cutting taste for attire. How she treats you like an equal but speaks to you with strange reluctance. It was kind of like putting on a costume, but eventually forgetting you were wearing one. And soon enough, the costume becomes just clothes.

“I’m a detective, not a soldier. Just give me a minute.” You objected honestly as you took some of the second hand clothes from the box and tucked them under your arm. Lest held the impatient furrow in her brow, yet her eyes flicked to the side briefly. “Go find something to eat, go sit down. Go read, or turn on the radio. Occupy yourself, it’s a nice day out.”

“You missed most of it.” Lest muttered under her breath as you closed the door to your bathroom. Even after you had run the water in the shower, you could still hear her outside the door. Pacing around the living room in a soft, troubled tempo. 

As you took off your shirt, you couldn’t help but notice that there was some marking on your wrist. You turned your hand around, your eyes trailing along a message in marker that ran up your forearm before seeming to wind around your back. “Hey, you got a pen and paper?” You called out to Lest through the door. 

“What? No?”

“Look in my desk. I’m about to read out the results of that lead I followed last night.” Your eyes flicked back and forth through the words sprawling up your arm.

There was a short pause in the pacing you could hear before, then the scoot of your desk’s drawer being opened. “Okay?”

“Meet me at the corner of East Side commons and …” You read aloud slowly. You paused as the words spiraled under your arm and around to your back as they went. You turned around and began trying to read the reversed message in the mirror from over your shoulder. “Glass st-reet. Al-cobe di-district.”

“Is your liver finally failing?”

“Shut up, it’s backwards.” You called back as you tried to read faster than the mirror could fog.

“What is? What are you reading?”

“Just keep writing!” You cleared your throat and continued to read. “Nine tonight. Dash, Ronk.”

“What’s a ‘Ronk’ and why does it sound filthy?”

“Ronk is a jobless vagrant I met in a dive bar last night.” You jokingly boasted. 

That’s right, Ronk. Now, it was starting to come back to you. You had lost your lead, and you went to that stupid place and almost got your head kicked in by two junkies. 

You finished undressing and tried to spend the least amount of time under the water because of the present company. Little vague snippets of what you could recall from last night ran through your fingers as fluidly as the water. The sump. The factory. The vents. And the sound of that gun firing. You could still taste the metallic tinge on your gums as you thought about what you witnessed. Your movement slowed to a crawl as you lingered on the image, the scene replaying back and forth like a scarred record. The pipes groaned through the thin wall as it continued to push water out of the showerhead, bringing you back to your senses. The water washed away the repeating thought along with the marker on your skin. 

You turned the valve off and stepped out, taking a long while to dry and dress as you kept trying to pull up more memories of last night. It was like some kind of uncomfortable slideshow, no wonder you ended up drinking so much. You changed into your not-so-newer clothes, an unlikely gift from a landlord you were assuming hated you. Dark and faded but new-ish slacks, a blue button-down that was one size too big for you. Old wool socks that had most of its holes patched. To someone across the river, they wouldn’t even donate this stuff. But to you? It was quite literally the one thing you needed. You gathered your old clothes and tossed them in one big ball at your suitcase still hanging open by your bed, scooping up your jacket as you passed by.

“Are a fifth of whiskey and a single tomato the only things you have in your house that’s food grade?” Lest asked when you caught her looking into your refrigerator as you rounded the corner. She batted the door with her hand inattentively, swinging it back and forth in small movements before closing it shut with a single push.

“No way, there’s whiskey in there?” You quipped as you brushed past her. You put on your jacket, then took a leaning sit against the doors of your lower kitchen cupboards. 

“When was the last time you bought groceries?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged sheepishly. “I’m more of a buy by the meal kind of person, I guess.”

“When was the last time you ate, then?”

You hummed in thought, though you only were dragging the answer to her question. “Last tuesday, I think? Probably then.”

“And you’ve been surviving off what? Bar peanuts and grain alcohol?”

“And these little cracker things that I’m given at the stalls up the road.” You articulated, drawing a little square in the air. “I don’t know what they make them out of but they’re saltier than a mineral lick-” Your humor deflated when you looked back to Lest’s unamused stare. “What can I get for you, miss?”

“Results.” She batted her eyes once, awaiting a real answer. It made sense, the switch up. You rushed her for money, now she rushed you for results. Cash didn’t buy time, it shortened it. It was the mitigation of society, and its erosion. It was all that you needed. So you could swallow the bitter pill of grovelling after another paper trail. Maybe all it took to convince you was a pretty face and a cigarette shared.

“Listen.” You exhaled a very audible and lengthy sigh. You mulled over how to break what happened to Aquil to her. You weren’t sure just how invested she was in this guy. Was he just a client? Were they friends, then would she be friends with someone like him? Did she know him well, or not at all? More so? You shook yourself out of that kind of thinking, it felt wrong to theorize about someone like that. “I don’t think that guy is going to be a recurring client anymore.”

“What did you do to him?” Lest asked sternly, bowing her head slightly and looking up at you past the black end of her nose. You were used to the inconsequential disappointment she had shown you so far, but this was different. This was like staring down a wild cougar, and you weren’t sure whether to talk, or run.

“I didn’t do anything at all to him.” You threw your open hands up concedingly. You stared at her silently, the words you wanted to say catching on your lips as you slowly lowered your posture. You weren’t good with things like this. You barely could handle breaking bad news to people, and this was beyond that scope. “He-” You paused. “He’s dead, miss.”

“Oh.” Lest stated plainly. It was like watching a tire deflate in slow motion. The tenseness in her expression slowly faded bit by bit, her body language laxing until she too took a sitting lean against your kitchen cabinet. Mirroring you in a way, adjacent in front of you. You read her eyes, her silent language, the way she held her elbow with one hand while the other put a thumb to her lips. There was regret stirring in her, sure, but not grief. Her stare at the ground held dejection, but also thorough thought. 

“Did you know him at all? Know well, I mean.” You inquired hesitantly. 

“Aquil? No.” She shook her head softly. “I mean, in a way. We were from the same neighborhood, but it wasn’t like I knew him back then.”

“Back then?” You asked. You retrieved a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from your pocket, a leftover from the previous night. You took a second to find the least creased one, then offered it to Lest.

“You have to be from Zaun to really understand. It’s an old country without a new one. Things felt and looked a lot different when I was a child. The sump used to be a real community, it had to be. We were packed down there like sardines in a can. Slums, sure. Poor, sure. But a bond? That’s all we had.” Lest simpered with a half-feigned smile. “It’s always so strange to hear about someone, who grew up a block away from you, dying. You hear that kind of news from now and then, but the feeling doesn’t really change.” Lest took the cigarette gracefully, lighting it with her classic scratch lighter. “How did it happen?”

“The people he was meeting up with decided that he was a loose end, I guess.” You paused, bowing your head into her peripheral. “Can I get you water? I don’t have any food, but there's stalls up the road, like I mentioned before.”

“No, no water. It just makes me thirsty.”

“How’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Lest flicked her cigarette with her thumb by the filter, ashing it onto your floor without thinking. “Why did they do that? What happened to Aquil, I mean.”

“I think he figured out too much for his own good.” You shrugged. “He learned one too many names, and that meant he had to go.”

“Names. Whose name?”

“I’m not sure, someone I’ve never heard of before. He just mentioned a person called Lenare. And then what happened, happened. Do you know it?”

“Lenare…” Lest hummed in thought, then took a drag of the cigarette. “No, not really. Lenare.” Lest paused, her eyes reading the space in front of her, then flicking back to you. “It sounds a bit rich to be from around here, don’t you think?”

“Rich, sure.” You nodded. “But Piltover rich? No.”

“Did they mention anyone else?” Lest took another drag of the cigarette. “Anything else that could have given you an idea of where they came from?” She exhaled the smoke with her words in one breath.

“I mean-” You paused. You already followed up the lead about the bar, there was no point bringing it up. You didn’t really want to gloat that you got into a fist fight over a drink the previous night, though she seemed to already figure that out on her own. “One of them mentioned prying the other off a black cat. The bar I went to last night was the only black cat I know, and they weren’t anywhere to be found.”

“Huh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Did they say ‘the’ black cat? Or ‘a’ black cat?” Lest hummed in thought.

“I don’t think it makes any difference.” You shrugged. The question was rather semantic. The men could have said it any kind of way, it didn’t really change all too much. Besides, your memory of it was still in a blur.

“It makes a world of difference, detective.” Lest pulled her stare from a thousand yards, planting it on you as you made eye contact with her. “Did they say ‘a’ black cat, or ‘the’ black cat?” She asked again firmly before flicking her cigarette once more.

“They just said black cat, I think.” You murmured. “Like I said, the only black cat I know was a dive bar in the lanes.”

“Black cat isn't the name of a place.” Lest paused. “It’s the name of a person.”

The icy wind blowing off the eastern seaboard tended to be cut down by the aggregate of taller buildings in South Piltover. Though it was across the bridge from the triumph of the Piltover of the new age, the South district retained a modicum of its splendor in relative safety. Low, paved streets towered over by stone city dwellings, tight packed offices, lackluster institutions, commerce halls, and expensive skinny townhouses. A wave of neo-classical mixing into a newly emerging art deco design of architecture.

Your heavy work boots clacked against the smooth pavement of the lower city’s sidewalks in a tandem temp with your boss’ light step. You kept your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets in your usual manner as you walked, keeping yourself alongside Lest as both of you knew where you were headed. You had been distracted from your thorough conversation for a moment as you absently looked over your shoulder to make sure there wasn’t anybody trailing behind you two. Not that you’d need any reason to think so, but you can never afford to not be too careful until you’re over the river and bridge. And you never cross that bridge, not ever.

“Besides the point, I think it was a conservatory before that techno-whose-it church bought the building. Never been in it myself, but at least they kept the greenhouses intact. It’s the only pretty thing about the place anymore.” Lest commented, finishing an answer to your question about a building you had passed only a block away. 

The building had been taken over by a sect of the church of the Gray Lady, some technology cult that helped the down-and-outs of the fissures. Nowadays, the place had been boarded up and kept a shut up secret behind a terrifically tall iron barred fence. Some even wonder if anybody even occupied the place, or if it was simply bought and left alone once more.

“Come again?” You asked, turning back from looking over your shoulder.

“Are you religious at all, detective?” Lest asked as she kept pace alongside you. It was more like you were trying to keep up with her, the way she’d walk.

“Me?” You chuckled. “I mean- I’m not a believer in anything.” You paused. “But I’m also not a non-believer, you know? There’s enough mythos to go around in the world, anything could really catch me. I guess I just haven’t been given the opportunity for it. The only god here in Piltover and Zaun is progress, I suppose.”

“It’s all relative, you’re right. Just happenstance.” Lest shrugged. “People here in Zaun aren’t really given that opportunity.”

“What about you?” You asked sheepishly. “I thought the Vastaya were supposed to be descended from the Arcana? Isn’t that all second nature to you?”

“I thought Humans descended from the apes? Why aren’t you all swinging from branches and flinging your excrement at each other? Isn’t that your second nature as well?” Lest retorted with a snort as she walked. She glanced at you, a look that you knew all too well by now. It was time to pay the cigarette tax. “Things change, detective. Like I said, it’s all happenstance. Did you know, in Stonewall, they worship goats? Just because they give the people milk.”

“It’s all harmless, though.” You chuckled. You took your creased pack of cigarettes from your coat pocket and tried to find the second best from the one you had offered her earlier in your apartment. “Everyone needs hope, you know?”

“That’s the irony of it, though.” Lest remarked as she took the cigarette you passed her. “People look for hope anywhere, but never in themselves. It’s like a disease that makes you blind to it.”

“Okay, hold the line.” You shook your head as you came to a sudden pause on the pavement. This whole analytical game Lest liked to play was beginning to wrack your nerves, it was pedantic. Lest came to a stop as well, turning to you as she lit the cigarette. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“This whole psychological semantic philosophy. That people are categorized and hope is a disease. It’s an old act, Lest.”

“I’m supposed to be playing an act, now?” Lest raised an eyebrow.

“This whole jaded mystique and smoke stained glamour.” You paused, gesturing to Lest’s whole self. “And what’s with this cardinal press girl look?”

“What’s with your washed-out sleuth getup, hm?” She flashed you a smirk. “I wasn’t informed that part of your contract entailed a critique of my person, detective.” Lest continued walking ahead of you, disregarding whether you were following her or not. 

“I’m just trying to get you to lighten up a little.” You huffed as you jogged to catch up with her now fast stride. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just take some time to talk to me normally.”

“Lighten up.” Lest snorted at the comment. “Or is it that you just want to pick my brain? Oh so badly, detective.” 

The both of you rounded the next corner at a junction in the street. You glanced at the street sign sticking out from its post, the name reading Drop Street. The turn at the corner opened up the view of the descender stations. They were little metal shacks, of sorts, sticking out of the ground by the sidewalk like covered entrances to a subway. They were solid in structure, kept together as one giant unanimous welded piece. Two wide entrances stood opposite from one another, kept open by a folding grate fence. A large solid metal beam bridged the gap between the tall rooftops of the buildings lining the wide road. Huge winch systems hung from two points on either side of the beam, the wire being held back by metallic struts as they latched onto both of the descenders adjacently. 

Lest stepped into the unclean cabin of the left descender first, as she had still insisted on walking just a tad bit faster than you. You stepped in second, your eyes kept glued to where you placed your foot. The descenders were held up by only the wire, and if they weren’t there then it’d just be a stark hole in the ground. As you stepped onto the carriage, you watched it wobble and reveal a peak of the dark descent into the earth when the metal flooring moved away from the ledge.

You hated heights. It wasn’t falling that scared you, it was the height itself. You couldn’t explain it well, not even to yourself. You kept a cool composure despite the glimpse of how far the tunnels really went. To your right when you stepped in, a large lever stuck out of the metal flooring. It was elongated with a squeeze trigger, sticking out from a wide semicircle cap that had been painted with black marks. Single tallies, three in all. First was for the Promenade, second for Entresol, third for the top levels of the Sump. As you knew far too well, the only way to get to the bottom was to go by foot. You squeezed the handle onto the lever, pulling it back until it reached the second mark. The winches hanging above you began to whirr, their motors jumping to life after being given a command. After a short moment, the wire fences folded back out and the cabin shrugged, then began to slowly descend into the hole.

You and your employer found yourselves engulfed in darkness once the cabin had fully descended through its slot, moving through the hole burrowed through the earth. You looked for her in the dark, trying to catch the glow of her cigarette that seemed to have gone out. It was just the wall of darkness in front of you, the twitching pings of the taught cables, and the hollow hushed flow of wind flowing through the tunnel. The scratch of zinc on flint startled you a bit as a small flame emerged from Lest’s lighter. She brought it up to relight her cigarette between her lips, the flame illuminating a portion of her deadpan face. The light glared off her eyes, turning them into wide saucers of yellow before the flame went out and the darkness returned once more.

The descender lowered through its exit in the earth, bringing light from the Promenade level as the cabin descended over the boundary markets in full rush hour. You quickly averted your eyes to look at anything else before Lest noticed that you had been trying to stare at her the whole time. You looked out at the boundary markets through the metal grating. Merchants running their stalls that were hobbled together by rotted wood, bent nails and tattered tarps, all in rows numbering by the dozen. You saw the common man, the vagrants and the people just trying to get by. Scavengers with wheelbarrows full of junk, and urchins running about begging for money that nobody had to spare. You watched a line of people, which winded all the way to the end of the market boundary and disappeared behind the side of a tall brutalist structure, a cathedral of sorts. The line moved forward body by body, each person waiting to buy what measly foodstuffs they could afford.

People were hungry. This whole damn city was hungry. You were hungry. You forgot about food for so long, remembering it made your stomach churn. “Give me a hit of that.” You muttered to Lest as you turned back and extended your arm.

Lest gave you a confused, yet curious look, a flare of her amber eyes. One that told you to get your own, but with an air of sympathy as she read your tense expression. She passed you the cigarette reluctantly, and you took a heavy drag. “Sometimes I wonder if you can handle ideas that go beyond what you’re going to wear, or eat for lunch.” Lest muttered, finally commenting on your conversation from before.

“I don’t eat lunch, remember?” You faked a chuckle, then took another heavy drag and passed it back. “Have you ever been hungry, miss?”

“We all have.” Lest shrugged.

“No, I mean real hunger. The kind of feeling that makes you want to eat a handful of dirt, or bark off a tree. The kind of hunger that makes you shake. The kind that makes you stop being hungry if you ignore it for long enough.”

There was a long pause between you two. The only company in the way of sound being the murmur of the busy streets below and the creaking. Lest didn’t look at you, keeping her eyes to her cigarette as she moved it around between her fingers. She took a final drag of it, put it out on the metal, then pushed it through the hole in the grate. “Like I said, detective.” She glanced at you, then back to the grate where her stare remained. “There’s things that you’d never guess in your wildest dreams.”

The descender reached the bottom of the Promenade level and cut through the earth once more, travelling deeper into the Entresol and returning the cabin to the pitch darkness of before. The darkness returned with the silence between you two. That invisible wall felt like it was being built back up brick by brick. What felt like an eternity passed, just the two of you and the darkness. The cabin emerged from its second pass through the earth, coming out into the light of the second level of the city. The cabin came to a slow, agonizing stop before a raised platform constructed from rebar, old pipes, and corrugated tin sheeting. A grand stand of rust, elevated to allow people to step down into the portion of the Entresol.

You looked out through the thin slits of the gates as they folded back in on themselves with sluggish struggle. The station was in the back end of one of the largest housing projects above the Sump. A shanty town of scrap shacks and hobbled-together structures, packed so tightly within the small space that one would forget that they were in the lanes at all. It was called Drop Street after the one above ground, but local residents had given it a new colloquial name. Alley of alleys, as the only thing that divided the labyrinthian maze of favelas was a single wide lane that split the wall of residencies like a straight, unmoving river.

You peered down the narrow lane, the ending to which seemed to fade into a dark endlessness as the district had barely enough power to spare for lighting the way. It was just a lane of shack houses stacked upon one another, reaching high up and beyond where you could see the end of it. The only main source of light was a harsh mining lamp that hung from a post by the platform, lighting just that portion of the alley in a warm but uncomforting orange glow. The alley split off into separate offshoots, each giving the Alley of alleys its name. In a way, it was like the mine shafts that the people of the Fissures had toiled in a long while ago. It was an ironic mirroring of their serfdom, like the people hadn’t known how else to build a town. Or, they simply couldn’t. And yet nobody walked the street, not a soul. It was like they were ashamed to be seen here.

You glanced back to Lest, who had already strode forward once the gates had retracted. She descended down the staircase of rusted sheet metal that led up to the platform, taking one careful step at a time until she was on solid ground. You half expected her to glance back to you in return, to wait for you to follow. Yet she continued walking as if you weren’t there at all. You got the queue to catch up, and you descended the stairs with a hurry, your work boots stomping the loose metal as you descended. 

“I’ve got to ask.” You spoke up, finally catching up to your employer and keeping pace besides her as the both of you took a cautious stroll through the wide lane. “Whoever those guys mentioned, surely they’re not down here. I mean-” You paused, glancing down the offshooting alleys as you passed them one by one. Each lane was labeled with a name embroidered onto sheets of scrappy metal and pinned to the sides of the shanty walls, the only identifier to separate the rows. Waterhall, Captooth, Stormway, Emberfit, Dogheal. All of them sounded much more interesting than they looked, as every glance you gave to each of them held a sadder and more depressing sight than the last. “I don’t think anybody’s down here that wants to be seen.”

“Maybe you’re the one that doesn’t want to be seen down here, detective.” Lest hummed as she walked. She didn’t seem bothered at all by the surroundings, like she’s seen it all before, and worse. “It must be so convenient living up top. I’m sure one forgets places like this exist, once they’re out of sight and mind.”

“It’s not like that.” You muttered. She was talking to you like you lived across the river. Things may be bad down here, but they certainly weren’t perfect around where you lived. You followed Lest as she turned down one of the alleys, one marked with the name Epswell. This lane was as dark as the last, so thin you could barely walk down it. You felt like you were going to bang your shoulders against the scrap walls with every step. You passed door after door after door, like you were wading through and endless purgatory of locked doors and glimpses into impoverished lives through holes in the tin sheets or rifts in walls.

You kept your attention to your boss who walked in front of you. This wasn’t your home, and it wasn’t your business. You were here to follow a paper trail and follow it you would. All the way up to a single door, painted with chipped blood red. A tiny triangular sign dangled from a post above the frame, spelling out the title ‘Madame Blance’s’ in a yellowish glow in the dark paint.

“I know this place.” You hummed, looking up to the sign as Lest finally turned back to you and awaited on the other side of the frame with crossed arms. “I’ve heard of it- I mean.” Madam Blanche’s was almost mythical sounding in the mentions of it you’ve overheard at bars or on the street. It was cheap, it was always open, it was hard and yet so easy to find. It was a brothel. “Why here? It’s not my birthday, you know” You tried to joke to lighten the mood.

“You want to know who Black Cat is?” She crooked her eyebrow, then nodded to the door. She seemed more impatient with you than usual, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the scathing critique you gave her earlier, or if it was because she realized you didn’t belong down here. “You’re just going to have to be brave and head inside.”

“No objections from me, boss” You shrugged, looking back up to the sign again. “How do you know this place?” You snorted. “What, did you hang around here before you picked up painting?”

“Oh, you’re a real comedian, aren’t you?” Lest croaked with a clenched jaw, the feline irked squint in her eye giving you the impression that you should probably stop being a smart ass.

“Right. Right.” You yielded, taking a small step back. “You want to find our lead at the bottom of a whorehouse?” You reached forward and grabbed the knob of the red door. As you turned it, the handle felt so loose you could have pulled it off if you gripped too hard. You pulled the door open towards you, and held it for her. “You lead the way, then.”

𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 Taglist: @6selkie @madschiavelique @roku907

[milkweedman]

TDF DAYS 5 & 6 (July 3 & 4)

On day 5 I combed and spun some of the Jacob lambswool.

I didn't take a picture of it in progress apparently, but I did take some notes.

This lambswool has a lot of dandruff and potentially a little scurf. I'm not very familiar with scurf but there were a few sections where the flakes were much bigger, ragged, and more tenacious than the rest. Sounds like scurf to me. The combs were able to remove the majority of it, but I think it might need an extra pass or two to get fully clean. Otherwise, it was very pleasant and felt both strong and soft.

On day 6 I carded a rolag from the same fleece and spun that.

It was a very pretty rolag.

The carded wool caused more problems with scurf, if that is what it was. The cards didn't remove them and also left a fair amount of vm in.

With this fiber, it kind of needs to be spun finely because of the dandruff already--it will only come out as you draft it finely. So the vm doesn't matter that much, because those largely fall out at the same time.

I spun today's batch on the wheel, which was probably too much for me given how much my knees hurt lol. I also wasn't really able to add enough twist because I struggle so much with treadling. It only got enough twist right at the end when I was desperate to finish it and started treadling as hard as I could. I definitely couldn't sustain that though. I think I might need a flyer with a smaller whorl so I can get drive ratio to work in my favor. Augh. Anyway:

Look at them ! I love them, this fleece is going to make such nice yarn. I'd love to do a sweater tbh. And a shawl. And maybe a hat. Its so soft.

Comparisons between the two: the combed wool has much more twist, maybe slightly overtwisted but still next to skin soft. Very beautiful and crisp looking. Also much much more dense. More even.

(These pics are post steam blocking btw.) The carded wool is very undertwisted. I will need to do another test on supported spindles to get it right, I think. But even so, it's a beautiful yarn. Very very soft, and I love the barberpoling. Much more slubby. Much more fuzzy.

Anyway, that's another good set of tests. I've been jumping from fleece to fleece a lot and will probably keep doing so... so I may come back to the supported spin later. We'll see.

[cjgladback]

And that's a wrap! On the first 100 grams of this oyster-colored Wool of the Andes roving. I'm very happy as my yarn quality and understanding continue improving; definitely getting to those consistent thin yarns I wanted. The green skein is absolutely the favored child, but I swear it is actually better than everything else, not just green. Which gives me some hope for all the wool I intend to card, actually.

My rambles got extra long, as were the image descriptions, so please enjoy this cut:

I wanted to test blending fibers with the same staple length before I get into more complicated things with the fiber festival fleeces (I am still slowly accumulating what I need to wash and dry them) and was honestly a little worried about how disorganized and snaggy it felt to card and draft, both. But my oh my that squishy, soft, wonderful yarn. I'm gonna keep trying to emulate it, though I still love the organization of just spinning nice long semi-compact roving. Versus even once I get a diz aka drill a hole in my designated piece of curved laminated cardboard, I expect carded sliver to be loose and fall apart if I do things like wrap it around my wrist as a proto-distaff. For the green yarn, I tried making kinda loose sideways rolags that I both compacted and drafted the tiniest bit so they could be wrapped into nests.

So! Mayhaps I should try carding something that isn't already organized. Like the little bit of very lanolin-laden wool that was packed with the e-spinner (EEW Nano, original flavor) I recently acquired from a thrift store. And maybe I won't want to wash all the lanolin out and lose the learning experience if I also blend it with other, clean fiber. Perhaps if I cannibalize the first skein here...? Good thing I never fulled it after all!

The above is not actually the train of thought that lead me to wanting to combine those two; I'm just realizing that there are basically no projects that I want to do that would actually use that yarn as is, and I'm already planning my limit of small and patchwork projects for other things. One is that I'm planning to put together all of these oyster skeins into maybe a hat? to commemorate my improving spinning skills, maybe with lace for the underplied and color work for the green, and I already have my actual first spin in a scarf so I don't feel too beholden to preserve this. I really like textured knitting that needs even, solid or slow-transition, thin yarn, whereas this wild and lumpy almost-twenty-feet would maybe work for someone who did tapestries? But that is not me. And I think if I calm down and maybe tweed up the bright colors I'll enjoy them more, as well. So. These may be the last photos of the yarn in its current state.

Whether that's my next project or if I try to get some mileage on the Nano with the next bundle of oyster, I'm not sure. I'm already missing my fidget activity after just a couple days of washing and drying the last skein, but I also wanted to design some bookmarks with the clearance yarn I got at the same time as the roving. So if I can get a prototype pattern laid out so it's not as much ongoing brain power, that might fit the bill.

[ID: Three images of various small hanks and balls of yarn laying on a wood table with notes digitally hand-written in light purple around them.

The first photo shows all eight of the skeins in the order they were spun, all but two a light cream color. The first is a chunky, uneven skein spun from a bright purple, pink, and orange gradient, labeled "chain ply" and 6.6 yards. Next is a cream center-pull ball that is 36.25 yards, and next to it a smaller, more even center-pull ball of 22.5 yards, perhaps 21 wraps per inch. Next is a forest green skein, labeled "hand carded," 49 yards, balanced and soft! Next are two cream skeins that were "underplied and broke," 116 plus 33 yards, 30 wraps per inch. The penultimate skein is longer than the rest (having been wound around more than one chair back) and 158.25 yards. The final skein is labeled "intentionally thicker to pair with green," and 99.75 yards.

The second photo compares the green and final skeins, with winding notes starting with a cloud of hearts by the green. It is a "50/50 blend of Oyster and Aurora roving colors on handcarders," and "took no notes so of course it's balanced, soft, and sturdy." Its cream counterpart has a smoother surface, more even thickness, and is slightly more tightly plied, with the note "didn't card but made an effort to match on ply back tests -- decent weight, almost balanced, not soft" (flat-mouthed face).

The third image compares the first and last skeins, the first labeled as 23 grams of gifted cheviot or shropshire, chain plied from ball with core, for a total of 6.6 yards. The latest is 24 grams of clearance peruvian highland, plied via book-wrapped bracelet into a two-strand ball, totalling 99.75 yards. End ID]

[horny4hetfield]

Everybody Loves a Parade - Part 4

Warnings: Mostly Fluff.

Thursday

Reaching to his side of the bed, it’s empty.  I blink awake.  It’s barely sunrise.  I can smell onions cooking.  Kicking my way out of the covers, I pull on my robe.  Our clothes from the Gala are draped over the chair in my room.  Padding out to the kitchen, there stands James.  He’s engrossed watching the onions brown in the pan.  I lean on the counter and watch him.  Those tattoo laced hands that had me screaming in pleasure last night, that make amazing music, are now expertly chopping up celery.  He scoops the celery into the pan.  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“The smell woke me.”

“Sorry.”

“I love the smell of onions being browned.  That’s a comfort smell for me.”

Stirring the pan, “Me too” he grins.  He moves the pan off the heat, “Do you have spices?”  Pointing to a drawer, “Ah.”  His eyes light up.  Kid in the candy store.  “I figured that I could get the bird in the oven before we leave on a slightly lower temp and it should be ok until we get back.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

He smiles at me, “Coffee?”

Moving into the kitchen, I set about making a pot.  I end up shoving the stuffing into the bird since I have the smaller hands.  Being small does pay off every now and again.  Putting the bird into the oven, we clean up the kitchen.  Fixing our coffee mugs we move to the sofa.  I power up the TV.  All the local channels are showing the parade prep.  The weather forecast is snow flurries and light winds.  I curl up into his side.  James wraps an arm around my shoulders and gently strokes my hair.  When the news cycle repeats, I turn off the TV.  Stretching some, “We should get ready.”

Standing up, he pulls me to my feet, “I want to check on dinner.”  He takes our coffee cups to the sink.  I go to the front door.  There’s a stack of papers there.  I pick them up and close the door.

Dropping the stack on the dining table, I open the top one to page six.  There in glorious color photos is a full spread of the Gala last night.  Of us.  James wraps his arms around me from behind.  He points to one of the photos of me, “Nice ass.” 

I laugh and spin in his arms grabbing his ass, “Yours is pretty good too!”  He snorts a laugh.

“We need to get ready” he says holding me tight.  I hug him back.  He walks me backward into the bedroom as I giggle in his arms.  When we get to the bed, we tumble into it as his misguessed the distance.  We both laugh loudly.

Sitting up, I look at his reclining form.  “What?”

“You amaze me” I almost whisper.

Rising up on his elbows, “How.”

“Watching you this morning.  Your hands.  The tattoos.  Your music.  Cooking.”  I bit my lower lip, “What they do to me.”

He smiled at me.  “I love watching you.  I love watching you while I make love to you.”  He pulled me closer.  “I am so glad that we are sharing this weekend.”  He kisses me deeply.  “Together.”  His blue eyes filled with compassion.  And something more.  I wasn’t sure what I saw there.  He pats my hip, “We need to get dressed.”  He gets up off the bed and pulls me with him. 

I pull out a pair of wool pants, a tank top, a silk liner shirt, a sweater, scarf, gloves and a hat.  Finding a thong, I start getting dressed.  James pulls on a pair of heavy jeans, a tank top, a thin hunting shirt liner, a sweater, scarf, gloves and hat.  We both pull on our fur lined boots.  Grabbing the extra warm things, we make our way to the dining room table.  “Oh wait!” James says.  He goes back into the bedroom and quickly returns, “Here.”  He hands me a couple of hand warmers.  “Hope they are still good.  They were buried in the bottom of the hunting backpack.” 

Smiling, I tuck mine into my pocket.  “Thank you.”

James texts Rudy, and then checks on the turkey in the oven again.  “You sure you’re comfortable leaving your oven – your gas oven - on while we’re gone?”

“Very.”  Taking the newspaper stack to my office, I collect my phone and tuck it into my coat pocket.  “I did it last year.  And the year before that, and the year before that.”  Collecting my scarf, “Besides, too late now.”

“ok.”  He smiles at me.  His phone buzzes.  “That’s us.”  He pats his pockets.  “Let’s go!”  He holds out his hand to me and we walk out into the hallway.  James locks the front door.  A quick elevator ride and we are in the lobby.

“Happy Thanksgiving Carl!”

“And to you two!” Carl says happily as he opens the front door.

We climb into Rudy’s taxi.  “Where to?” he grins.

“As close to Hearld Square as possible, please” I ask.

Putting the car in drive, “It’s early, but I can probably only get four blocks away.”

“That’s fine” James says.

“How was the Gala last night?”

James smiles.  “It was wonderful” I say.  “They always put on a glorious show.”

“It is pretty spectacular!”  Rudy chuckles at his own pun.

James joins in the chuckle, “Good one!”

I kiss his cheek, “My king of dad jokes” I giggle.  James pulls me in closer a huge cheesy grin plastered on his face.

Pulling over, “This is as close as I can get you to the Square today.”  There are roadblocks on almost every street.

“No worries.  Thanks!” James says happily.

Leaning over the back of his seat, “Give me a call when you’re ready to head back.  I’ll collect you at this corner.”  James pays the fare, then climbs out.

“Thank you, Rudy.  And Happy Thanksgiving!”  I say as I climb out after James.

“Enjoy the parade!” Rudy says.  He waits a moment as someone is ready to jump in almost before I’m completely out of the car.

“That happen often?” James gives the other rider a dirty look.

“Almost every time.”  I do up my coat and tug on my cap.  James follows suit and we head toward the Square. 

There’s a check in point for Grandmother’s seats.  A young assistant looks up from her tablet and looks at me.  She looks at James.  Her complexion fades a little.  “I hate to ask, but I am supposed to check IDs.”

“Of course.”  I turn to James.  He looks at me.  “Mine is in your wallet.”

“Oh yeah.”  He pulls it out, shows the young woman my ID then slips it back into his wallet then back into his pocket.  He pulls his coat down over his pockets.

“Thank you.”  She picks up a walk-talkie.  “Someone will be here shortly to show you to your seats.”  She fidgets with her gloves.

“Thank you, and Happy Thanksgiving” I say.

She blushes, “And to you too!” 

Hands grab my shoulders, “There you are!”

Turning, “Mrs. Corbett!  Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Thank you!  And to you!”  She pulls me from the check in point.  I grab James’ hand.  “This way!”

She leads us past all the TV cameras and across the street to the stands setup in front of the stores’ grand entrance.  We weren’t quite as far to the end of the bench as I would have liked, but, we weren’t front and center either. 

“So, what did you think of the show last night?” Mrs. Corbett asks James.

“I can see why it’s called Spectacular!” he smiles broadly.  I stifle a snort.  “I really enjoyed it!”

“I am so glad!”  Her radio buzzes.  “I must away!  I will come collect you after to visit the Big Guy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Corbett!”

“Again, with the Big Guy.”  James cocks his eyes at me.  I just grin at him.

The bench begins to fill up.  As families arrive on our bench, I shift us to our left to allow them to sit in the middle.  James looks at me, questions in his eyes.  I point to all the cameras across the street.  “Technically, this is the worst seat in the house as all the performances will be staged to face the cameras.”  James nods.  “Moving us to the side means minimal camera time for us.”  I reach up and tug his stocking cap down a little more on his head.  He slouches a little giving me a side long glance with a gleam in his eyes.  I snorfel a giggle. 

He snakes an arm around my waist and lifts my chin with his other hand and kisses me.  “Hey you.”

“Hey you.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

I reach up and tenderly kiss him.  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

He just holds me close to him, tucking my head under his chin.

The Broadway theatre presentations start.  I lean into him, “Here we go!”

He’s trying to watch everything at once, “This is kinda exciting!”  After the first performance, James pulls out his phone and discreetly snaps a selfie of us.  After some texting, he pockets his phone.  I look at him.  “The kids.”  I smile and nod.  “And Lars.”  I start giggling.  “Rob.  Kirk.”

“What?  Not your manager?”

His eyes light up, “Oh yeah!”  He pulls his phone out again and another text is sent.  He shows me the response from Kirk.  A middle finger.  “Oops.  He’s in Hawaii.”  I grimace.  He checks once more.  His kids each sent him selfies back.  I watch him as he reads their messages.  He tucks his phone into his inside jacket pocket and takes my hand.

I squeeze it.  “I made a promise to you.”  He kisses the back of my gloved hand.  I lean into his ear, “I will never get between you and your kids.”  His eyes glow as he kisses my hand again.

The sirens of the NYC motorcycle cops echo in the concrete canyon.  “This is the start!”  I spend the next few hours watching him watch the parade.  He tries to watch everything at the same time.  Somewhere in the middle I open the hand warmers slipping one into each glove.  The flurries start just as the end approaches, I get a little excited.  My favorite float.  Santa.  I get giggly and little teary eyed. 

James pulled me into a full on hug.  “You ok?”

Wiping away the tears, “This was our favorite.”

“You and your Grandmother?”  I could only nod.  He just holds me.

As the people began to leave the stands, I tug James hand to keep our seats.  A short time later, Mrs. Corbett shows up.  “Well?  What did you think?” she asked James.

“Wow.”  His face full of joy, “This is an experience.  I am so glad that we came.”  His arm still around my waist.

“Well, someone is waiting to meet you two!”  She smiles at me conspiratorially.  “Let’s go!”  She leads us from the stands to a side door, down a hallway and into what looks like a conference room.  “Wait here just a moment.”  She leaves us there. 

I sit on the table and pull off my cap and gloves tucking them into my coat pockets.  “Did you really enjoy it?”

He grabs my face, “Yes!”  He kisses me.

“I’m glad.”

James pulls off his gloves and loosens his coat and scarf.  Standing between my knees, he pulls me into his chest.  I wrap my arms around him.  No words are needed.  Just being together is enough.

I hear the door open and there’s a soft tap.  James turns and Mrs. Corbett is standing there.  “Are you ready?”

“Yes” I respond sliding off the table and taking James’ hand.  We leave the conference room and are led into a winter wonderland.  There are Christmas trees everywhere covered in all kinds of ornaments – each with a price tag.  We walk slowly through them, me leading James.  His blue eyes seem to sparkle with wonder.  There is no one else in the space.  We move past the last trees and there, on a huge chair that’s almost throne like, sits Santa. 

I keep walking forward.  James looks at me, “The Big Guy, huh?”

“uh huh!” I almost skip the last bit.

“There you are!  I haven’t seen you in a very long time Kira!”

“Hi Santa!���

“And you must be James.”

Almost blushing, James nods.  He gives me a look.  I crinkle my nose at him.

“I understand that this is your first time seeing the Parade in person, James.  Tell me.  What did you think?”  Santa leans forward, hands on his knees.

“Honestly, it was amazing.”  James grins.  “The balloons don’t look that big on the TV.”

“Yes, they would look smaller on TV” Santa chuckles.  “Even on a big screen” he chuckles again.  “I know what this one wants for Christmas” Santa nods towards me, “But what would you like?”

James cocks a look at me, “What do you want?”

I raise my eyebrows at Santa.  “It’s the same request every year.  Snow.  From about 9pm Christmas Eve to about 10am on Christmas Day” Santa chuckles out.  Looking at me, “You know that all I can do is forward your request on to Mother Nature.”

“I do Santa.  And I appreciate that.”

Giving a big belly laugh, “Well, you are a very good girl!”

James kisses my temple, “Yes she is.”

“So, what can I bring you, James.”

He thinks a moment nodding.  “Happiness.  For my kids.”

“I will see what I can do for your three children.” 

I watch as James’ eyebrows almost meet his hairline.  Santa just belly laughs. 

“Thank you, Santa.”

“You are most welcome Kira” Santa says happily.

I look up at James, “You want a photo with the Big Guy?”

James laughs, “Sure!”

Santa laughs again.  Mrs. Corbett appears and takes our phones.  James sits beside Santa and I perch on their knees.  Several snaps are taken on each phone.  I almost trip getting up, but James grabs me.

“Good catch there James!” Santa laughs softly.

“Yes, she is.”  James smiles broadly at Santa.  “Merry Christmas, Big Guy.”

Santa lets out a deep genuine belly laugh, “Ho ho ho!  Big Guy!  Ho ho ho!!!”

Heading back into the trees, I stop to look at the ornaments.  A crystal snowflake catches my eye.  I feel James take my left hand into his.  I collect the ornament.  He kisses my hand.  I look at him.  Then my hand.  There on my ring finger is an eternity band with the sparkliest diamonds I have ever seen.  James slips his hand around my neck and kisses me deeply.  I am in total shock.

“This is not an engagement ring.”  James’ eyes are serious.  “I told you that I’d never marry again.  But,” he looks at my hand, “this is a promise ring.”  I’m confused.  “A promise that I will spend every day earning your forgiveness.”  He kisses me again.  My heart soaring higher.  My insides fluttering hard.  My brain saying ‘Ok, we good’.  He rests his forehead on mine, “Don’t say it.  I can see it in your eyes.  Let me have this.” 

“Ok” squeaks out of me.  “This is just a start then….” 

Smiling, “That’s what I want to hear,” and he kisses me again.  Deeply.  Someone clears their throat.  We both snicker.  Pulling me into his side, we find our way out of the trees.  He pays for my snowflake.  It gets wrapped up and we head to the exit.  The flurries have become an outright snow fall.  He texts Rudy as we make our way to the pick-up corner, both of us pulling on our gloves and doing up our coats.  We did have to stand a few minutes waiting for Rudy.  He was most apologetic.  We assure him that as long as he was safe, that was all that mattered.  Getting to the building, James pays Rudy and probably tips him well.  Morty opens the door for us and we quickly escape the wind and cold.  Getting to the apartment front door, James opens it and we get hit with the smell of roasting turkey.

“Oh man!  That smells wonderful!”  I groan.

James dumps his outer layers on the table and checks the oven.  He uses the meat thermometer.  He smiles broadly.  “Almost done!”

I pull off my outer layers and set about making the rest of dinner.  The yams get popped into the microwave.  The rolls get set in front of the oven vent.  The green beans are set on the stove.  I pull out the pie and set it on the counter.

We both clear off the dining room table of our outer layers.  I show James the rack for drying gloves and scarves in the hallway.  The coats get hung in the hall closet, I make sure that the heater vent is wide open before closing the door.  We set the table together.  My new ring still catches me off guard. 

James checks the bird again, “It’s done!”  He sets it on the butcher block.

“How long does it need to rest?”

“About 20 minutes.”

“Perfect!”  I pull the yams from the microwave and shift them to the oven.  Reaching into the cabinet, I pull out the mini-marshmallows.  James opens the bag and grabs some.  He tosses a couple at me, but I miss catching both.  So he pops several directly into my mouth.

I had to dig for Grandmother’s carving set.  “I haven’t used it in years.”

James takes it, “Wow.  This is an excellent set.”  He sits down with it and sharpens the blade with the whetstone in the box.  I watch him.  He was very intent on making sure that it was done correctly.  I pull out a platter and he sets about carving up the turkey.  I put the marshmallows on the yams.  I put the rest of dinner on the table, the yams last.  James sets the main course in the middle.  I turned the oven off and put the pie in to warm with the door open.  I finally sit down at the table.

He turns to me, holding his hands out to me.  I put my hands in his.  He wraps his fingers around my hands, his right fingers toying with the ring on my left hand.  “It’s tradition to say what you are thankful for before digging in.”  I just nod.  “I am thankful that you wrote that note and that it snowed that night.”  He kisses both my hands.

“I am thankful that you didn’t just slam the door on me.  That you are truly trying to earn my forgiveness.”  I kiss his hands.  Then I wipe away the tear that falls from his eye.

He leans into me and kisses me.  My stomach rumbles.  I snort into our kiss.  He just out right laughs.  “Light or dark?” he asks merrily.

“Both.”

It wasn’t a huge bird, but it wasn’t tiny either.  We managed to do it justice.  Along with the other dishes on the table.  There are leftovers that still got put away.  The dishwasher gets loaded.  We plop onto the sofa.

“Pie?”

James belches, “Not yet.”

I turn on the TV.  We settle on watching the classic black and white Miracle movie.  We both chuckle at the old balloons after seeing the new ones earlier in the day.  Once it was over, James stands and goes into the kitchen, “Pie?”

“Yes please.”

He brings back two plates with pie slices on them totally covered in whipped cream.

“Did the patisserie chef have the night off?”  I deadpan and blink quickly at him.

James actually snorts.  Hard.  I take the plates from him – setting them on the coffee table - as he was laughing so hard.  When he calms, “I knew I wanted a dessert that night, and that’s all I had!”

“It was perfect under the circumstances!”

He bowls into me laying me out flat on the sofa.  His eyes shining.  “This has been the best Thanksgiving I have ever had.”  Our lips meet.  “Ever.”

My hands caress his face, “Me too.”

He grabs my left hand and kisses both my ring and my finger.  Then my mouth.  He shifts his leg over me and I push back.  “What?”

“I gotta pee!”

We detangle ourselves and I run to the closest bathroom.  After washing up, I return to the sofa.  It’s empty.  The flush of another toilet tells me where he is.  I collect a plate from the coffee table and dig into it as James returns to the sofa.  “It’s nice to have several bathrooms so close together” he says, picking up his plate and joining me on the sofa.  I change the channel to the local news.  The parade – was of course – the lead story.  The follow up:  US at the Gala and parade.  We just look at each other.  It wasn’t a long blip, but enough to totally unnerve me.  I was the unknown woman at his side.  He kinda giggles. 

“What?” I squeak.

“I wonder what they would think if they knew that everything was under your name!”

I had to giggle too.

The news carries on into the weather.  Full on snow fall overnight with clearing late Saturday afternoon for the balance of the week.  We both look out the front windows.  It is snowing pretty good.  But small little flakes.  James leans into my ear, “Looks like you got your wish.”

I turn my head to him, “It’s not Christmas Eve.”

I turn off the TV.  We eat our pie watching the snow fall.  I put our plates on the coffeetable.  James stretches out and puts his head in my lap.  I play with his silvered locks.  I look down as he snores softly.  I drag a blanket over his damned long legs and watch the snow.  The day replays for me.  His cooking in the morning.  His hands.  The parade.  Santa.  Dinner.  My ring.  I take the time to really look at it.  The diamonds are set in the middle of a wide silver band.  Between every pair of diamonds is a gold cross or x.  I tug it off.  Inscribed on the inside of the band: Tiffany’s.  I almost drop it on his face.  Slipping it back on my finger, I look at him.  He’d not begged off dinner to come home to me.  He’d begged off dinner to go shopping.  At Tiffany’s.  For me.  I was in shock.  The private flight from Denver.  Dinner from the Tavern.  A ring from Tiffany’s.  He’s spent a fortune on me.  James grunts some and shifts in his sleep, his face turning into my stomach.  I tenderly caress his cheek.  It’s a little scruffy as he didn’t shave this morning.  I smooth his eyebrows.  He sighs in his sleep, his body relaxing a little more.  I sit there in my tiny NY apartment with the megarocksuperstargod snoring in my lap.  My upper arms still bearing the bruises from our escapades yesterday morning.  The ring from Tiffany’s wrapped around my finger.  The memories of Colorado.  The laughter that has built up after.  “Yes, James” I whisper.  “You are doing a great job working on my forgiveness.”  Again, I smooth his eyebrows with my fingertips.  “And I will continue to work on not taking you for granted.”  I don’t remember my eyes closing.

“Hey sleepy head, c’mon.”  James’s voice a sweet rumble in my ear.  I sniff awake.  It’s late.  It’s still snowing.  James is standing in front of me.  “C’mon, lets get comfy in bed.”

I make it off the sofa.  James’ arm guides me to the bedroom.  I tug off my shirt just inside the door.  James pulls his off.  I sit on the bed and pull off my pants.  James is stretching right in front of me.  I undo his pants and they fall off his hips.  James reaches behind me to flip the covers down, “In we go.”  He guides me back into his body.  I tuck my feet under the covers.  He pulls the covers up over us.  I curl up around his arm which doubles as my pillow.  He wraps his other arm around my ribs.  His nose buries into the back of my neck. 

Moments later, we are both snoring softly.

[carlsdarling]

Please, another part of Sunset Affairs with anguish, where the reader stops the affair with Carl because she loves him and doesn't want to be the lover anymore, but in the end, a sweet Carl who does love her, with some obscenity too. I can't live knowing that Carl doesn't love the reader. 😭🙏💞

Sunset Affairs Part II

Carl finally has to choose between Y/N and Enid because Y/N doesn't want to be just his side bitch anymore. Bit more of a plot, then sex. Everyone is 18 or over.

WARNINGS: smut, nsfw, oral (female receiving)

Your affair with Carl had been continuing for about half a year now, and during the last few weeks your mood had been changing insidiously; had become worse, more and more often you caught yourself feeling sad and angry after one of Carl's flying visits - at first without being able to name a reason for it. At one point, you even cried hard and couldn't stop, so you sought out Denise and asked her for a sedative. "What's got you so upset, Y/N?" inquired Denise, eyeing you anxiously.

"I... I don't know," you sniffled, swallowing the Valium with a glass of water. "Maybe memories have unconsciously come flooding back, of my parents' deaths." But you suspected yourself that that wasn't the case, because the crying episode had only started after Carl had visited you once again, used you sexually in the usual, casual and somehow disinterested way, and then, without saying much, headed back home. To Enid. You had stared at the wool blanket on the couch, and at the soiled Kleenex Carl had quickly cleaned himself with after he had finished, and had abruptly burst into tears.

"It's not healthy to fight negative feelings with pills," Denise preached with a sigh. "It's better to work through them and resolve the situation."

Admittedly, that was easier said than done. After all, after talking to Denise, you got to the point where you finally admitted to yourself that you had developed some feelings for Carl and that it hurt you that he didn't reciprocate them, that for him it was all about pleasure and that you were only good enough for him when Enid didn't feel like sleeping with him, which was often.

However, you had no idea how to "resolve" this situation, to use Denise's words. All that was certain was that your bitterness was growing. Every evening you spent alone in your house, you imagined Carl with Enid, looking at her the way he never looked at you, respecting her and not you, sharing with her all that he was withholding from you. Your frustration kept growing and you suddenly felt hurt, although there was really no reason for it: it had been clear between Carl and you from the beginning that it was just an affair with no deeper meaning, that he was getting from you what he wasn't getting from Enid, and that the fact that you were having sex didn't entitle you to anything. You had to take what Enid left, so to speak, and be happy with it. Carl had never made any secret of the fact that he belonged to Enid and that all he wanted from you was pleasure and stress relief.

Carl didn't show up at your house for a few days, which made you even angrier; you were very torn. On the one hand, you longed for his visit and closeness, but on the other, part of you just wanted to send Carl to hell. And Enid right along with him.

You wanted Carl to look you in the eyes when you slept with each other.

You wanted to cuddle with him afterwards.

You wanted to fall asleep and wake up together with him.

You wanted to share more with him than a quick fuck now and then.

You wanted to stop being his lightning rod.

You wanted to laugh and cry with him and share your life with him.

You wanted to be in Enid's place.

When Carl finally came to see you three days later, the whole thing escalated. You let him in, and as usual, he immediately pulled you to him, threw his hat on the floor, kissed you demandingly, and directed you into the living room - not even taking the time to go upstairs to your bedroom with you, as he so often did. As if you weren't worth it!

But you had sex with him, of course you did, and while he fucked you with his pants down at the back of his knees, not particularly sensitively, without taking off his flannel and shirt and without even really looking at you (his fleeting, disinterested glances to make sure you were coming and he could let himself go didn't count for you) you made a decision.

After Carl finished with a groan, he immediately got up, cleaned himself up, pulled up his pants and walked over to the refrigerator without a word. He rummaged around in it, picked out the cheese and started eating it standing, leaning back against the sink and looking bored. Now that was really the limit. Carl was just using you, even though he wasn't really interested in you, he shot his load into you because it was better than jerking off, and then he didn't care any more about you and now he ate your cheddar with the greatest of ease!

Only with difficulty you could suppress the tears. "Carl," you finally managed to say.

Confused, he looked at you as if you didn't deserve his attention. "What is it? I've had a rough day." His voice sounded annoyed.

"That's exactly what I mean," you replied, unable to keep your voice from breaking. "It's over. I can't do this anymore."

Carl furrowed his brows. "What do you mean? What can't you do anymore?" he asked irritably.

"This!" you replied, starting to sob and pointing accusingly at the couch as if it was the furniture's fault. "You come in here, you fuck me like I'm just a piece of meat, and then you fuck off back to Enid! But first you eat my fridge dry! You treat me like shit!" you screeched.

Carl looked at you as if you had gone crazy. "I thought everything was settled between us?" he asked, puzzled. "I never promised you anything, Y/N, it was clear that I was with Enid, that you and I were just about sex, and that..."

"Yes, and that's over now! I can't do this anymore, Carl! You don't even look at me when you have your dick inside me, probably thinking about Enid!" you sulked.

"Wait a minute, that's nonsense," Carl retorted angrily. "You almost always cum on me, don't you? You have had your fun." He eyed you with folded arms. "You've never complained, anyway."

"That's not the fucking issue! You're only making a point of that so I'll keep allowing you to rail me whenever you feel like it. But I can't anymore, Carl. I... I love you. I don't want to be your side bitch anymore. I want to be more for you. Or never see you here in my house again." Now it was out, and you looked down at the floor with a red face.

"I guess I'd better go, then," Carl muttered, embarrassed and overwhelmed. "Get your mind off it first, and then maybe we can..."

"No, we can't. Why don't you piss off to your Enid, who never wants to sleep with you, and be happy with her anyway, and with your right hand!" you yelled after him as he headed for the front door. "You can pleasure yourself from now on when you're horny and Enid clenches her legs again. I'm not letting you use me anymore, anyway." Carl wordlessly closed the door behind him, and you sank to the floor weeping, broken and humiliated.

                                                 ***

During the next few days, you stayed mostly in the house - no way were you going to run into Carl or Enid. You were mad at yourself, because Carl was actually right: there had been a clear agreement between the two of you, and he had simply stuck to it; and of course you had been willing to let him fuck you. After all, he was Carl Grimes. That you developed feelings for Carl had not been planned, nor was it Carl's fault, and you had no right to expect him to reciprocate those feelings and leave Enid for you.

But anyway, you couldn't continue the affair with Carl any longer because it was breaking you, you had to get over it and forget about him. Of course, that wasn't easy since you both lived in Alexandria and you couldn't stay hiding in the house forever. Possibly moving to Hilltop was an option; you would talk to Maggie, she knew both Gregory and Jesus pretty well. Then you would never have to endure the sight of Carl and Enid as a couple again.

You put your plan into action the very next day and went to Maggie and Glenn's house. Unfortunately, you encountered Carl, of all people, who was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee with Glenn, but you ignored him and his hello. "Can I talk to you in private?" you said to Maggie. Carl looked puzzled.

The conversation with Maggie revealed that she would help introduce you to Hilltop. Fortunately, she had been discreet enough not to ask why you wanted to go after you said it was private. As you were walking home, you suddenly heard rapid footsteps behind you. "Y/N, will you just wait a second," Carl gasped breathlessly, but you just kept walking. Still, he caught up to you effortlessly and grabbed your shoulder.

"Carl, leave me alone," you spat, "I told you I didn't want to see you anymore! That's so disrespectful of you again!"

He flinched, concerned. "Is it true you want to move away?"

"How do you know?" you asked defensively. "Were you eavesdropping?"

"Yes," he admitted straight out, looking at you faithfully with his one, oceanic eye. "But before you make that final decision...I wanted to talk to you again." Since you hadn't stopped and Carl had followed you, you had reached your house by now and you unlocked the door and allowed Carl to come inside with you, which you were already getting annoyed with yourself for again. After all, you had told him that you didn't want him around anymore, and now you were getting weak again?

You jammed your hands into your sides and scowled at Carl. "So, say what you have to say and then fuck off," you said unkindly.

"I like you too," Carl blurted out in surprise. "I didn't admit that to myself for a long time because... because I wanted the relationship with Enid to work out, but... I couldn't stop thinking about you. I didn't want to let the feelings happen though, so I acted like a jackass and acted like all I wanted from you was random sex, but that hasn't been true for a while now." You were speechless, just staring at Carl until he pulled something out of his pants pocket. It was a jewelry box, and he awkwardly handed it to you. "This... I had gotten it for Enid, but never gave it to her because it suddenly didn't feel right." He cleared his throat tensely. "I'm going to break up with her."

You flipped open the lid of the box. On black velvet lay two gold stud earrings with beautiful purple gemstones. "Carl, these... I don't know what to say," you murmured, overwhelmed by what had happened. "These are marvelous."

Carl approached you cautiously and hugged you more lovingly, unlike before, and he looked into your eyes before kissing you tenderly. "Shall we go upstairs?" he suggested. "I want to make love to you." The new wording didn't slip your mind - earlier, he'd only ever talked about fucking.

Upstairs, you slowly undressed each other, and for the first time you felt that Carl was actually aware of you. You lay down and stroked each other tenderly all over your bodies, kissing each other time and again. "I love you, Y/N," Carl whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't realize it sooner." He spread your legs and started eating you out, this time taking his time, sliding his tongue deftly over your clit, faster and faster, until you came whimpering and soaking wet, only then he lay on top of you to gently penetrate you. He looked at you steadily as he thrust, and you could have drowned in the blue of his eye. You were squirming underneath him, stroking his lean, smooth back, moaning his name over and over. "Do you like it?" asked Carl breathlessly.

"Carl, yes, oh, I love you, oh Carl, pleeeaaaase," you gasped, kissing his shoulder. This is how you had craved it all along, yearned for this loving kind of intimacy with him. Carl sped up his poundings, paying close attention to your reactions. You came so hard you thought you were going to explode, and Carl brought you to orgasm two more times before allowing himself to cum with loud moans. "Do it inside, please," you begged, wrapping your legs around his hips. You just wanted everything from him, including his cum inside you. Carl squirted warmly inside you, filling your desperate pussy.

Tightly entwined, you then lay together, and Carl tucked the blanket around you, looking at you blissfully. "That's better?"

"Much better," you murmured wearily. "I can finally fall asleep with you."

"I'm yours, Y/N," Carl whispered, kissing you on the forehead. Finally, he was. Outside the window, the sunset was in full view.

--

Tags: @loveforcarl

(Send me a message if you want to be added to the tag list.)

[uncle-beanbag-gaming]

21 year old cocky asshole prick coworker was bragging about shit he knew how to do. I asked him if he knew how to skin a raccoon. He said no and why would he need to know. Well to make a hat I said. Just use wool he said. Ok cocksucker, do you know how to shear a sheep? How to clean and spin wool? How to knit with it? No. Well I fucking do. You aint shit.

[sugar-soda]

Rules for them, Rules for us

A/N: I wrote this for my writing class, thought I would throw it up here. No fandom connection, just original characters in a quick little scenerio.

Warnings: None I think? Does hide and seek count?

______________________________________________________________

Every kid had some rules to follow: do your homework, don’t play in the street, clean your room, eat your greens before dessert. All were there for the good of the child and their life. Clover just had a few more to follow. She couldn’t stay the night at anyone’s house and they couldn’t visit hers. No sharing any food with anyone, and jewelry wasn’t allowed.

Luckily, those rules didn’t apply here. One of her classmates was having a birthday party and Clover was allowed to go. Mother had packed a meal for her, stating allergies as the reason. The classmate’s own mom had wanted to make an allergen free meal for her, but Mother produced an allergy list longer than Clover was tall. The pinata had been cracked open and the craft they made was tucked safely into her pocket. Overall, she was having fun.

When all the gifts had been opened, all the adults had gathered on the back patio to watch as the kids ran around the yard playing tag. Eventually, the birthday boy got tired and insisted on playing a different game, eventually settling on hide and seek. Once they decided on who was “it”, the kids had scattered as the countdown started.

There was a small smattering of trees at the end of the yard. Too few to be considered a forest, but Clover could easily hide behind one of the closer, bigger trees. She could still see Mother and hear the countdown reach twenty, but she was far enough that she wouldn’t immediately be seen. She stooped down and leaned against the rough bark.

“What are you doing?”

Clover wasn’t expecting anyone else in her hiding place. She didn’t think anyone else went toward the trees, probably choosing closer hiding places. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone else in her hiding place that was sitting so close.

The boy next to her looked younger, but that didn’t really mean much. His clothes were in good condition, but were all wrong. Instead of a beanie or baseball hat, he wore a flat cap on his head. Instead of a hoodie, he wore a thick, woolen jacket that scratched against her arm, with a large ascot tied around his neck and buttons fully done, and a starch white collar peeked out. Instead of sneakers and jeans, he had wool shorts and shiny shoes with socks that went all the way up to his knees. Frankly, after seeing all her classmates in t-shirts, he looked ridiculous.

“I’m playing hide and seek,” Clover answered, “What are you doing?”

The boy peeked around the trunk at the yard, where the search was about to begin. “Watching,” he said. Clover accepted that answer, and waited in silence for a brief moment. She listened as two kids were found and waited a bit longer before speaking again.

“Your clothes are wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Your clothes. They’re all wrong,” she clarified, “They don’t wear anything like that anymore. They haven’t for a while now. Where did you get those?”

He frowned at his coat, “I took them from a clothesline. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“To us, it wasn’t. To them, it was forever ago. Anyone who wore that is long dead. You should get some from a store, it should be easy to sneak something out.”

“How long have you been with them? You seem to know a lot about them.”

“Pretty long. Mother has been with them longer. She remembers when there was this big war between the French and the English.”

The silence returned for a bit. Clover had won the game and was now just waiting for the other kids to give up and yell that she could come out.

“Why are you here exactly? You gave that boy something. What did he give in exchange?”

Clover reached into her pocket and pulled out her craft. “I got this. It’s sparkly, so I think it's a good trade.”

The boy looked at it for a bit, then back at her. “So, can I have your name? It would be good to have someone like me to talk to if I’m gonna stay here.”

Clover rolled her eyes at him. “Just because I haven’t been back in a while doesn’t mean I forgot the rules. If you need a place to stay, Mother and I’s place is always open to others trying to hide. We will have to move again, but we have to do that every decade or so anyway.”

[ranticore]

some of the outfits i drew up to get a handle on what different classes of men wear in Régian era Inver (1860s. the king is Régis, therefore it's the Régian era). left to right are middle, upper, and lower class getups.

not pictured: bowler hats & top hats. Only two groups of people were known to go out in public without some sort of head covering - rangers and priests. everyone else wore a hat befitting their class. felt bowler hats for most men, silk tall hats for the gentry. women wore bonnets (fancy) or headscarves & shawls (less fancy)

every man in inver wore gaiters as part of their daily dress, these are not stockings because they go outside the trousers and over the shoes, and usually fasten a little way below the knee. it's a rainy, muddy, snowy country, and these gaiters protect your lower legs from the elements. also it's just fashionable. the ability to wear gaiters in a pale colour & fragile type of fabric was a mark of class, with the upper classes expected to wear white satin or silk. it was a way to show off how little you ever had to go outdoors into the dirt of the city or countryside, as the white would always be clean, and a way to flex your ability to have your clothes washed regularly (few people did).

everyone else used either wool or leather gaiters, usually in darker colours (brown/russet was common) that didn't show up the dirt so well. although, cities like Invergorken turned every item of clothing coal-black eventually whether you liked it or not. they were bulky and usually ill-fitting, with the lowest classes usually having the fasteners/buttons on the inside of the leg, to make them easier to put on. wealthier people who would be expected to ride horses had the buttons on the outside (and upper classes had buttons on the outside because they had people do that for them)

aping the upper classes to appear richer has always been a thing so you would see the lower classes wearing white gaiters on special occasions, though they would be very quickly taken off and stored away from dirt as soon as possible.

clothing was nearly invariably wool or linen, with wool being more readily available (linen was imported from hibernia). a winter overcoat (left) usually incorporated some form of cape down to the elbows and closed all the way to the shins or ankles, and was worn over the more usual day suit & coat (right). those are trousers, not breeches; they tend to be pretty baggy, even among the upper classes, and usually end with a stirrup that passes under the foot.