#I would have worn two pairs of socks and gloves

[simplyghosting]

Ah…I have forgotten..there is..no heater..in the office. It is January.

[undercoverpena]

it means something

joel miller x f!reader | masterlist

summary: compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show; they make you glow, and feel like something worth choosing.

to @joelsflannel, i took aspects of all your prompts. i tried to make it fluffy, her a little romantic, i tried to give you a quote that i hope you adore, with a man i know you already love. and i sprinkled in a hard day for you, but with some stress-easing fun to unwind with. merry christmas <;3

wordcount: 3.2k warnings: softer!joel, soft sex (p in v), talks of love, jackson era joel, mentions of ellie, joel in a towel (like damn). written for @pedrostories secret santa event.

You’re tired, drained.

Somehow, you find yourself able to drag your feet from the livelier part of Jackson to the quieter, almost more peaceful part. The soles of your boots draw lines behind you, all of which will likely be covered by the newly settling snow within the hour.

It's picturesque, this place. The kind of location you expect would have once been on postcards that people would be sent to loved ones saying 'wish you were here'.

You don't have to wish.

If your eyes weren’t like pinholes, you’d take a second to admire it.

Stamp your boots in one spot, and enjoy the crunch of it under your feet. A thing you’d do on any other day, if not for the fact, that you were so ready to be in the warmth, to be with him—to curl into him and breathe in his scent.

The kind of scent which buries itself into your nose, to your soul. It wraps its fingers around you and digs its clutches into you. Not that you complain. You'd bathe in it if you could, happily letting him smear it over your skin whenever the two of you have the chance.

It’s why you continue to move. It's why you force one leg in front of the other, muscles begging for reprieve.

By the time you’re up the steps, fingers wrapping around the handle of the front door, you realise how badly you wish to shed your layers. Desiring nothing more than to slide out of your coat, unwrap your scarf, remove the hat, gloves and second pair of socks.

Twisting the handle, the door doesn't fight letting you inside. Instead, it welcomes you. Allowing you to move quickly inside, more than anyone would expect from someone so fatigued—removing the layers, hanging each in turn on the rack beside his.

A sight which tugs at something inside you. It loops its fingers around that feeling within, gently pulling—it is all warm, unexplainable; all hard to describe, but the closest word is lovely, nice—welcomed.

That feeling had been born before the end of days, but it had been nothing but an ember then. Now, it was a roaring fire, all lit by him.

You're sure he knows. Not that either of you talk about it. It added to the long list of things you never speak, not for his sake, but for yours.

Even when you first began your… thing with him, you’d found it as difficult as him to know what to call it. Especially, when it had all happened so randomly, with no explanation or sight that it would occur. It just did.

Smiling, you allow yourself a moment to think back to it. How warm it was. How the setting sun smudged an array of shades across the sky, how you'd been bitter about something, mumbling under your breath until a noise cut through your dismay. His laughter. All gruff and born from his throat. It had expelled into the space between the two of you, cut through your bad mood.

Because it had been louder than you’d ever heard it as the two of you walked back, as you did on so many other nights. But that night had felt so different—and it was.

One moment you were staring, and the next his lips found yours, all chapped, but soft. His fingers around your cheek, whispering your name so gently. Stroking your skin, all worn, a bit rough.

Now, the two of you are a habit. A routine.

Nothing has ever been discussed, nothing ever exchanged. Just some nights you ate dinner with him—knee pressed against his. Sometimes your things sat along his in his home, bobby pins and whatever book you were reading.

Some days Ellie let herself into your house, had made a bedroom out of one of your spares, and sometimes she asked if you wanted to come round to theirs.

The only constant thing is that at least once every week, your limbs found themselves tangled with his. His mouth latched itself onto your neck, hand grasping at your breast, fingers pinching the peak of your nipple as he gruffly told you how hard you’d gotten him.

You liked it. Craved it.

Enjoyed the way you took him apart as he focused on making you a mess.

You liked seeing his salt and pepper curls cling to his forehead, liked running your nails through the hair on the back of his neck—back arched into him, feeling fuller than you’d ever imagined you could. Hearing his gruff voice in your ear, saying words he'd never say if he wasn't buried to the hilt inside of you.

But then, you only call him Joel when he's between your thighs too.

"Miller?"

His name rings around the first floor of the house.

Checking the package in your pocket, you sigh as the day drips from your tight muscles. Hand moving to rub the back of your neck, staring at Ellie's half-open comic and the pencils you'd lent her over the table.

You knew she wouldn't reply, not when tonight was movie night. A Christmas one, she'd told you. She had already let it slip she was going, told you as she kept watch on the door so you could continue your surprise for him.

Her request for you to join her faded when you looked up at her, likely seeing the same look which now greets you in the dust-covered mirror.

Kicking off your boots, and removing one layer of socks, you sigh at the way your feet can all of a sudden breathe—even inside his thick socks. Wiggling your toes, you smile as you begin to curl and unfurl them, before your hand finds the bannister, dragging yourself up the stairs until you reach his room.

His empty room.

Heart falling, you consider calling out again. Using his first name this time—letting each of the four letters carry around the house.

But, his bed looks comfortable. It calling to you. Somehow finding yourself lying on it, your face pressed into his sheets, your bones and muscles sighing in relief that you're in a bed.

Eyes wishing to flutter shut, body unwinding against the mattress, the sheets. It’s on the third heavy exhale, do you realise you hear water. It falls in pitters and patters, distantly, likely from the bathroom across the hall.

That’s when a smile curls across your face because you’ve always found comfort in the sound of running water.

Whether it’s rivers or rain, and showers or leaks. It reminds you of calmness, of things fading from reach—washing away, starting anew. Memories of times trying to colour themselves in your mind, fading before they do as sleep tries to coax you away.

The only thing which displaces the grip sleep has on you, is the comforting sight that comes to a stop at the foot of the bed.

Steam swirling around him, all broad shoulders and still damp skin—the hair on his chest, arms, and stomach, clinging in half-swirled curls and straight lines, the towel clutched at his hip.

The first time you saw Joel Miller naked, you’d almost lost the function to speak. All man—all soft and muscle simultaneously. Something constructed from fantasies, made in real life, carved and moulded by hands you think never thought he’d be real. You were close to not being able to speak all over again now.

Eyes tracing, outlining and shading—squirrelling away a sketch of him you’ll think about when the other side of the bed is cold and not filled with him.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

You hum, lifting up onto your elbows, admiring him, finding him doing the same—even if you suspect you’re not half as good-looking right now as he is.

Least of all when he takes your ankle in hand, moving you sideways with him as steps between your legs now hanging off the bed, the fabric of his towel brushing over your jeans, his palms coming down on the mattress on either side of your neck, staring at you with a look of concern.

“Y’not been sleepin’?”

“Just been busy,” you reply, arms looping around his neck. “Not lots of time to rest.”

You suppose at some point between summer and winter, things became soft—less about need and company, and something along the lines of real.

In another world, one not ridden with fungi and death, you suppose it would have been labelled, added something which tied the two of you together—something meaning more to others than it likely would do to you.

Smiling, you force your eyes to open properly. Watching that look of hunger slowly bleed out over the concern, vanishing entirely when you smirk. If the two of you were different, you suspect you'd tell him you miss him. Tell him you've thought about him.

Instead, you whisper, “Want you, Joel.”

Even more so when you trace the words over his mouth. Aware of his hands on your jeans, and how he's popped open the button, how he's dragging down the zipper. The fabric freely slides from your skin as your hands slide down, dropping to the towel at his waist—thumb digging over it, all ready to pull, unravel it. “Need you.”

His eyes narrow swallowed in darkness. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you roll your lips, dragging your fingers to the tuck, undoing it, not taking your eyes off him. Seeing something in his eyes that is more than just reciprocation of the words spoken, but the ones left unsaid.

“You want me?”

However, you’ll have me.

You’re not sure you speak it, but you're sure he hears it all the same.

For how aloof people think he is, he’s a man who listens—not just to the crunch of branches and the rustle of trees, but to the things people don’t say. He hears their secrets and pulls away their lies. Skills he told you one night he levelled up in when the world tried to keep taking more than it had already.

You suppose it’s how he knows you, your body, what you want and what you crave.

More so as he tangles his tongue with yours, all heady—gripping him firm, tightly as his fingers snake between the two of you. Desperation thrumming through your fingers as you push them into his skin, into his muscles—feeling the coil tighten as he moves his fingers with nothing short of precision. Knowing you, having mapped you out, learnt your cues—it’s why you don’t fight it, the incoming wave ready to drench your taut muscles, let him undo you, unravel you out so you’re nothing but spread out for him.

He likes it like that, you can tell. Likes how you surrender to him, how you lay out for him, letting him move you how he needs you.

It used to be rough, desperate—pure carnal. But, it’s been replaced by something else, something not soft or romantic, but you’re sure it’s a distant relative.

Once you’d gotten a bruise on your hip that pulsed, shifted in shades from being nudged against your kitchen table. Now when he leaves them, he traces them with his thumb, hoping to suck out the sting. Because now you’re treated to comfort—too recently washed bedding and his fingers inside your cunt as your body bends into him, practically curls, sings, hums.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

Compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show. Each lick of his gaze makes you glow, and feel like something worth choosing, having been picked, plucked—and placed on some mantle you don’t even mind being perched on.

Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, breathing a struggle, practically gasping, you mumble his name—murmur it, almost a whine. “Fuck me now, Joel. Want you inside of me.”

Then, you’re overwhelmed.

Bathed in both the scent of fresh soap, dewy skin and absolute fullness. Your legs wrapping, crossing at the ankles as he slides into the hilt—pausing, just as he always does, fingers brushing over your jaw until he’s tilting your chin.

That same look—the one you first witnessed after the kiss under the dusk.

It doesn’t vanish until you show him, either in a whisper of the magic words or a movement he can read as a spell. Your hips rolling, rocking—please, please.

Your hands take in the feel of him breathing, the way his chest expands, fills with the knowledge, the realisation, nails digging, almost all in order. One he answers, delivers, fucking stamps.

Joel makes your toes curl, makes white noise appear in your ears, and makes you forget every important thing you’ve ever filed away. All hot, scorching against your skin as you grasp him closer, hoping you’ll be smothered in burns—hoping the same when you swallow his grunts, his hisses off your name. His hips pistoning, aiming to send you over the edge before him, hands—riddled with the evidence of his survival and his new hobby keep you rooted, don’t allow you to wander off into bliss without him.

“Too good f’me, sweetheart.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, right against your pulse, before he licks against what beats under your skin.

You snort amidst your whine, clutching all the strings which keep you whole as you close your eyes—banish him from looking into your soul. He’s seen all there is there, let him in before, provided flashes, evidence of your shattered soul and broken mentality. It comes to the surface easier here, when your walls suck him in, and your body calls for him in a chorus of pleading and begging.

Because you’re close—not needing too much from him tonight, the sight of him is enough. The knowledge of his existence, knowing he’s yours without confirmation.

“There, right there,” you moan, heels digging into the base of his back, feeling the jostle of him, the way he rears and fucks.

He smirks, shifting, just enough to make the head of his cock hit the spot which makes your thighs shake, tremble, fucking quake. His mouth still split open, words there on his tongue, all ready to drape over your skin—

But, you just feel it’s incoming arrival. All white-hot, blinding—too much pressure, yet needing just a little bit more. Your body is not yours, mind empty, gone, faded. You want to sink your teeth into him, bite down, cut into him and leave a mark like the ones he leaves inside you each time the two of you do this.

Because it means something. This. The two of you in this little house in fucking Jackson. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?

“Yea’,” he grunts, palm on your face, tilting you up roughly, forcing your eyes to open.

And you swear he smiles when they flash open. You swear it.

“Means somethin’, sweetheart. This—fuck—us.”

The words grind into you. As though he's the pestle and your mortar. Your breath is lost, unable to be grasped, your body hanging, pleasure a bigger force—swallowing the room, casting you in shadows and misting over you—until you cry out. Squeezing, fluttering.

Not able to see anything but his face, the look on his face—the twisted expression of his lips and the deepness of his eyes. More black, than brown—but they’re somehow still soft, still full of something you hope is pleasant and full of emotions.

It only vanishes briefly when he spills inside of you.

When he collapses on top of you—his heart hammering against your ribs. And, even if it isn’t the first time, you feel yourself still—pause, no rash movements, because this is nice, this is something you want without asking for it.

“Can’t believe I can hear y’brain already.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes, glancing over—finding his lips have slid into his cheek.

It gnaws at you, the reason for your lack of sleep. The thing which you've traded hours of rest for. That dormant part pushed to the edge by exhaustion, now awake and very much worrying.

“Got you something,” you whisper, biting your lip, watching his brows furrow and lines appear between them.

Standing up, you steal the dressing gown from the back of his door—the one you’d traded for months ago. The one which is far too big, even for him, making it only cosier when you borrow it. Shooting him a smile, you almost disguise it, worried it's far too soft, too normal, before you mumble about being right back.

It's a hurry to the front door, all feet hammering down on wooden steps before your hand digs in your coat pocket, retrieving the wrapped thing you’ve lost shuteye over.

When you enter, he’s under the sheets—hair at odd angles, looking both a mixture of energised and fucked out that you wish you could paint with your fingers, so you'd forever have it.

“Didn’t wanna give this to you on the 25th—just in case you popped a vein trying to figure out what it means.”

Kneeling on the bed, you take a levelling breath, before handing it to him. His eyes travelling from you to it, fingers taking it—all delicate, measured. Before he unpeels the ribbon, undressing it with more care than he often shows you, before it rolls free of the paper you managed to find. It catches the ceiling light, glinting, gleaming, the handle looking even more detailed in this light than under the candles you’d had to use to remain discreet.

In your hand, the knife had appeared large, and menacing. In his, it looked right.

Yet, his face looked as though it was anything but.

Enough for you to prod, needle. To nudge closer on your knees, to smooth out the sheets and then flick your lashes up, finding him already staring, weighing it up—whatever coated his tongue, had been written in his mind.

“Sweetheart… I don’t… I don’t deserve this—”

More words fall in silence, not quite spoken, yet somehow loud.

Enough for you to say his name, to rest your knee on the bed and deeply sigh.

“You…’m not a good man.”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Crawling up, placing your hand on his chest, you take a shaky breath. “I’m not sure I care.”

And you don't.

Because it's easy to feel something for him, to love him. It's natural, there one day and the day after. It wasn't hard or difficult, but very fucking easy.

Your mouth even opens to say as much, but you close it again before a syllable is muttered.

Wrapping the gift, he moves it from between the two of you, to the bedside table. His fingers linger, hovering over the carved wood—the one which caused splinters and made your eyes almost cross over. “Y’should. M’not an easy man to love.”

“I disagree,” you whisper, fingers having slid up to the base of his neck, your fingers teasing his curls. “Since I’m pretty sure I already feel those things for you.”

His brows lift, and you smile—letting it speak the words you can’t say, and you’re sure he’s not willing to hear.

“Don’t sweat it, alright? You’re mine, I’m yours. Yeah?”

Nodding, he bites his cheek, placing the knife back into the packaging—moving it, replacing what he’d been holding with your wrist as he pulls you close.

“Got you somethin’ too.”

Nose bumping his, you shift closer, thighs finding themselves on either side of him—his hands finding a place on them, sliding up, callouses grazing on your skin, before squeezing.

“But y’gotta wait until the 25th. Like a good girl.”

Smirking, you cup his cheeks. "Okay, Miller. I'll wait."

an: merry christmas, i hope you love this <3

[octuscle]

i'm a skinny nerd from the northeast who goes to college in Kansas i'm about 5 foot 7 tall who was on my way to  the Chemistry Lab when a pair of big burly hands grabbed me , punched me in the gut. When i came to ,i was tied to a bench with rope in the male locker room. my legs were tied to a bar below the bench and my hands two the pegs above. my mouth was coved with duct tape with a mouthguard inside my mouth. i look down to see all my clothes were gone i was wearing only a jock strap . i have never worn a jockstrap before it was so uncomfortable .i look to see my red star trek t-shirt , my jeans, my sneakers and socks & my "geeky" white briefs were are cut up on the floor. i look up to see that i was surrounded by the hairiest, most manly, most self-centered, most muscled guys on campus : The college football team. the football team was wearing gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts. the football players were who look like normal corn fed Kansas farm boys. they were at least 6 feet 3 inches tall in height and is broad-shouldered and muscular in build .they took off their tank tops i saw they all have 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms are also are broad-shouldered . they pull out a gym bag with my name on it with other pairs of boxers& jockstraps& clothes such as gym shorts, tank top including a red star trek tank top , sweats,  and a table right in front of me on that table was a football uniform, The helmet, cleats, jersey, and gear .they show me the jersey with my last name. they told me i was going to become a corn fed Kansas farm boy like them i will still be a geek. they told me all the guys on campus in town even the nerds on this small Kansas college campus has a 6 pack, substantial pecs and arms& are also broad-shouldered cause even the nerds work on farms & have to join the football team & get modeling gigs so they pay for college. when they put the football uniform on me turning from a skinny geek into a geeky Kansas farm boy.

Dude, I'm sorry, but sometimes it really pays to read the fine print. Your college has a partnership with us. When you enroll, you agree to undergo a Chronivac transformation if needed. And there is no need to justify the need. The mere fact that your upper arms are too small is sufficient. So welcome to Kansas, farm boy, I'm activating your jockstraps now, let the transformation begin!

Your body starts to tremble. Your hips shake. And your cock gets rock hard. The jockstrap fits your narrow hips and tight ass like a glove. A glove that is quickly soaked in precum while the twitches spread from your cock in all directions. Your thighs become powerful and hard as boards, your belly flattens and with every twitch your six pack becomes more and more prominent. At first you react in horror. But you enjoy it more and more. You would love to jerk off. But you have no control over your arms. Instead, your growing pecs start to dance. Your calves turn into real diamonds. And then the twitches reach your neck. It quickly becomes wider than your head. Your Adam's apple protrudes prominently, your moans become deeper and deeper. And as your facial features become more and more angular and masculine, your bulging muscles spread across your shoulders towards your hands.

Bruh, that was two weeks ago now. You have quickly become accustomed to your body. The only thing that bothers you is your smooth skin. But your body hair is already starting to grow. Soon you will be in no way inferior to your bruhs. Your brain and your cock are in a constant battle to see who controls you. But you are and always will be a geek. Your brain usually wins. But mercy on the ass you fuck if your cock wins.

You're still the same in your mind. Okay, you don't remember going to the philharmonic or art museums in your youth. You played football with your buddies and cleaned your old man's stable. But you're a geek and your goal is to get a good college degree. Even without a football scholarship. Although I'm sure you'd get it. Enjoy it, geek! There are worse things than growing up to be a really big boy in Kansas.

Pic found @backwardsnapback

[starlightomatic]

Guide For Dressing In Super-Cold Weather

The two main principles are lots of layers, and keeping air from getting in.

Torso: LOTS of layers. You’ll want multiple sweaters. This morning it was 9 degrees F and I wore a t-shirt, flannel, two thin sweaters, a thick fluffy sweater, and a coat. At least one layer should have a hood. Wear the thickest coat you’ve got.

Edit: Actually don’t wear cotton as your base layer!! It absorbs moisture rather than wicking it away and can make you colder.

Head: A basic beanie will work. Make sure it goes down over your ears. You will also need a hood to protect your neck — there will be exposed parts that your hat and scarf won’t cover and you need the hood for this.

Face/Neck/Chest: If your coat doesn’t have full coverage over your chest, you’ll want a scarf or shawl there. You will need a scarf or face buff to protect your neck and face. You’ll want something you can pull up over your nose.

Hands: Ideally wear big thick gloves, but if you don’t have them I’ve found that thin gloves work if you keep your hands in your sleeves (my coat sleeves are too long for me so this works for me).

Legs: Leggings or long johns under your pants. You can wear a second pair of leggings under your pants two; I was pretty cold (but ok) in just one (thin) pair.

Feet: Wear thick (ideally wool) socks if you have them. Personally I wear really thick REI hiking socks — I actually don’t know what material these are made of but they work. If you don’t have thick socks, layers a bunch of thin ones. And they need to be tall — no ankle socks. For shoes, wear your chonkiest boots. I was fine in Blundstones, but would have worn hiking boots if I had them.

It’s important to make sure you don’t have cracks where air can get in. So, tuck your leggings into your socks and tuck your shirt and innermost sweater into your leggings.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A Kindness

CW: Runaway whumpee, referenced hunger/malnourishment

Timeline: After Jameson escaped from Robert but before he found a safehouse

For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 3: A Long Cold Night

-

It’s fucking freezing out here. Jameson thought California wasn’t supposed to get cold like this, but just his goddamn luck, it definitely does. 

He’s curled up against the heavy concrete beneath the overpass, using it to block the worst of the wind. There are a scattering of tents around him, others who have figured out some slim form of shelter. There’s a couple fires going, too, but Jameson doesn’t want anything to do with the people circled around them, sharing stories and in-jokes. They’ve been out here for long enough to know each other. To trust each other, more or less.

Like everywhere else he goes, Jameson doesn’t fit.

He sure as fuck doesn't trust.

When he finds other runaway pets, they think he’s frightening. The twisted scar near his mouth catches the firelight too well. He's too brash, too angry, someone who might be violent.

When he tries to stick around non-pets, they read him like a book and treat him like shit on the bottom of their shoes. Or try to sneak up on him when he sleeps and get a hand down his pants, assuming that he won’t fight back, because everyone knows Box Boys will lie back and take it, right?

Well, Jameson isn’t like other pets.

He isn't just any Box Boy.

Nanda taught him how to survive, no matter what it cost. Nanda taught him-

Goddamn fucking dead Nanda.

If he wasn't so fucking dead none of this would be happening.

Jameson closes his eyes against a hot rush of tears he refuses to allow out, not now. Not when he knows he's being watched, considered for whether he might have a few dollars that could be stolen or if he could be held down and made to accept their touch. He won't be.

The ones who try learn that real fast not to try again, once they have busted lips and black eyes and, in one case, a set of balls so bruised and twisted that the asshole who tried to make Jameson kneel for him is definitely sterile now.

Cold nights make his legs ache, the final loving legacy of the braces he’d worn for too long that never let him stand all the way up. Two goddamn assholes had put those on him, and he'll never be free of the pain. Jameson ignores it, grinds his teeth until his jaw hurts worse than his legs ever could. He can ignore it just fine until the weather gets cold.

Mostly.

There’s a scraping off to his left, footsteps crunching on gravel and shards of broken glass. Jameson’s knife is in his hand as easily as he breathes and he’s already got it brandished when he turns, putting a sneer on his face, leaning into the ugliness of the scar that twists one side of his mouth more than the other. “Listen, motherfucker, try to stick your dick anywhere near me and I’ll fucking cut it off-... shit.”

His voice dies as he takes her in.

She’s small, almost dainty looking. He reads her for what she is in a heartbeat, the grace in every movement carefully trained until it was no longer a conscious choice, the soft skin that had spent a long time moisturized and cared for at odds with the hackjob and clumsy box-dye red she’d done to her hair to try and make herself less recognizable. She’s drowning in a man’s overcoat at least four sizes too big and so long it’s dragging the ground, heavy boots that she has to be wearing at least three pairs of socks to fit into. She’s wearing leather driving gloves too big for her hands. 

Her eyes are wide and frightened.

But she's not frightened of him.

She reads him right back, and they recognize each other before a single real word is said. She manages a slight, trembling smile. Jameson feels the snarl fade off his own face. They might have trained together, not that he remembers much of training.

“... can I sit with you tonight?” She asks, voice low, glancing nervously over her shoulder and then back to him. “Please? You’re, you were one too, right?”

Jameson’s jaw works.

He should tell her to fuck off, this is his spot, leave him alone. That he’s not nice, he’s no one anyone can trust. He’s been owned three times and twice they made him live on his hands and knees, once he starved, once he watched people die over and over again until he sees their faces every time he sleeps. 

He didn't deserve to be the one who lived after it all, but he's the one who would do anything not to die, so here they are. Here they fucking are.

Instead of rejecting her need for even one small kindness, he replies instead, "Yeah, whatever. Go ahead. Don't try to talk to me about it, though."

He closes the knife, letting it slide back into his pocket as she makes her way to him, dropping down to sit beside him, curling her knees to her chest and pulling a hood up over her head. Jameson feels… settled, at the gentle unassuming touch, her weight barely noticeable when she leans slowly until her head rests on his shoulder. She smells kind of gross, but he probably does, too. Who knows when either of them last showered?

“Sorry,” She whispers as she slides her gloved hand into his, twining their fingers together. 

“Uh-... what-... what the fuck are you doing-”

“There’s a guy who won’t stop following me around.” She keeps her voice low, turning and lifting her chin so she’s almost kissing Jameson’s cheek right over his scar as she speaks. “I told him you were my boyfriend. Can you-... just pretend to be, for a while? We’re good at pretending we’re in relationships, you can do it, right? I knew when I saw you that you’d been like me.”

Jameson fights the twist of pain.

Pretending we’re in relationships.

That’s as close as he’s ever going to get, and even that was ripped away from him. Jameson never even got to tell him-

He shuts that thought down.

He doesn’t think about Nanda anymore. He doesn’t think about anyone unless it’s to hate them - that’s easier. 

All he does is nod, giving a smile - fake but to anyone else it looks warmly genuine. He can make any expression an owner wants on command, still - the scars and bald patches where hair used to be, rubbed away by the muzzle day after day, make it a little scarier. But it never looks like a lie. 

“I got you,” He murmurs back, and kisses her forehead like they’ve known each other for forever. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man lurking, skulking around, one eye on the girl all the time, watching Jameson slide an arm around her waist with barely concealed jealousy. Jameson shoots him a serene smile, pulling the girl tightly against him. 

It’s going to be a long, cold night, and he’s not going to sleep at all.

The girl dozes off almost immediately, finally feeling safe enough to sleep, and that… that helps. A little bit. 

It's a kindness.

-

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[delicrieux]

hello :) can i request a Cedric Diggory x male slytherin reader, where hes a bully, but for some reason cedric falls for him and the reader starts having a soft spot for him?..

KNICK-KNACKS  | endless drabble series (summer edition)

summary: a boy’s bag and it’s secrets pairing: cedric x m!reader a/n: loves it also used prompt 3. backpack 

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open for the august prompt list! make sure to check out the summer features as well <3

In the far off corner of the Hufflepuff boys’ dormitory there lays Cedric’s backpack, thrust between his open suitcase and a cluttered nightstand. The flap is open and the mouth gapes full of secrets - secrets shared between two rivaling houses that, perhaps, would never be so openly displayed if he wasn’t in a hurry to meet you.

It’s long past evening and the sun rolls down into the lake where you and he sit by the boathouse. The upcoming summer air is full of pollen. But back in the dormitory, in the mess of clothes and socks and scattered papers, the air is stuffy by the kitchens; clouds of dancing dust descend from the ceiling onto the yellow carpet. Laid in bed on sleepless nights, Cedric would wonder what the Slytherin common room was like: was it cold, damp, and shadowy, like the depths of the lake?

In his backpack, next to a hastily scribbled essay, there’s only one word scrawled in your neat handwriting: boring. That’s how it all started, with one adjective and a feedback session between Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. You had, somehow, gotten Cedric’s essay to fix, whilst he was given one of your housemate’s. You were never easily impressed nor all that friendly, and your lack of constructive critique left a sour taste on Cedric’s tongue. He recalls seeing you there, sat among your peers, watching him with slight interest, as if to say, what shall you do? Pressed between the pages of a Herbology textbook was a flower Cedric had grown and you had trampled. It was a rainy day, and the blow to his shoulder as you pushed past was no gentler than the wind outside the greenhouses. The flower fell, crushed under your feet, left with an imprint of dirt and your sly smile.

There are many things like these in his bag: a burned quill, a torn scroll, crumbled notes of him getting hit by lightning. 

But there are also your Quidditch gloves given to him when his had worn out; the course synopsis had written and shared with him to study; a bottle of your expensive ink and a few letters you had written him that he rereads each night before going to bed. Those he’s afraid that someone someday may find and expose whatever it is that has grown between you - an affection that’s not easily described, despite your efforts. 

You’re the youngest son, a sensitive creature, even if you hide it well behind a dull expression and sharp eyes. And your touches are always careful and precise, like a musicians. Cedric thinks you’re a better spellcaster than Quidditch player, but he’d never say it aloud - it would probably upset you.

He thinks he might love you, but he isn’t sure of how to tell you yet. With you, and the lake, and the sunset, times comes to a standstill as those words freeze between his lips. But you look at him and he thinks that you know, somehow, that you have it all figured it out. And it calms him, makes him relax in your presence. Your hand gently lays on his. He would gladly hold it forever if you let him.

hope u liked it <3

[bulle-d-bulliver]

Politico-Pillow Fight

Fandom : One Piece

Rating : SFW, Teens and up

Pairing : Smoker/Reader

Tags : GN Reader, no pronouns, Slight tension, Resolved, Hurt/Comfort, Reader is a civil

Summary :

When it came to pirates, Smoker and you didn't always see eye-to-eye. Alabsta changed that, even if only a little.

The door opened, closed, and noises of shoes and clothes shuffling could be heard from where you were in the living room, socked feet thumping on the floor from the hallway to the couch. The steps were heavy, much more than usual, indicating the state of your lover. You put down what you were busy with, walking in your turn to the couch, standing behind it and placing your hands as gently as you could on Smoker’s shoulders.

He tensed so hard under your fingers you wondered how you didn’t get thrown off. Nevermind that, you did your best to massage the tight knots in silence, giving him the time he needed to at least settle down. Only when you heard his mumbled ‘c’mhere’ did you stop, doing just that, sitting next to the marine. Smoker made no move towards you, nor did he give any sign of wanting comfort, like he usually did.

It looked like he wouldn’t talk first, but him asking you to be around was his way of showing he wanted to. Knowing that, you broke the spell first, asking what happened, giving him space. It took a minute or two, but he started, and didn’t stop until he reached the very moment he got home, not sparing details. Everything that happened, the events that transpired in Alabasta and the feelings that spurred from him, having to face the reality of how things were, although not in as clear words.

Silence settled, for so long he turned to you, surprise clear on his face, finding you deep in thought, slouching on your seat, linked hands between your knees and face to the ceiling, wearing a troubled expression.

“No ‘I told you so ?”

You looked offended, scoffing and immediately getting all in his space. “I told you so’s are for when you insist you don’t need an ingredient despite me telling you so-”

“That cake was just fine, thank you-”

“-not for hyper-complex political and societal situations that can and will create complex emotions and cocktails of feelings and reactions.”

Smoker blinked.

“Point taken.” He said, sighing, running a hand across his face, worn down glove making it slightly painful. Another silence settled..

“Except if you despised me, right ?”

“Well yes, obviously, duh. I told you so’s are good weapons for bastards.” You waved a hand, like he didn’t even need to say it. He snorted. You sighed. “You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Smoker, you know that.”

He avoided your eyes, and slouched in his turn, elbows on his knees, all the exhaustion taking place. You felt a pang in your chest, feeling for him, moving to stand up in front of him; you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, bending down to be at his level, letting him hide away in your hold. The marine didn’t wait to move his hands to let you closer, placing them around your legs. You heard the little sigh he gave after kissing his neck, hummed, and continued placing the softest possible kisses on his skin until he relaxed even just a little. The silence stretched, and you wanted to break it, but the words wouldn’t leave your mouth, nervous about where this situation could head.

“I had a friend who was a pirate…” You started, voice trailing off with hesitation. You felt Smoker tense again, and huff against your chest.

“Let me guess, he got killed by a marine, end of story.” He groaned, tone aggressive in the way an injured dog would growl. But words venomous, and uncalled for. Immediately, he pressed his forehead harder, tapping it gently against you, a hand tightening into a fist and then going to your waist, mouth coming up to your cheek. “Sorry.” He said, voice rough. Smoker felt you tap your fingers on his skin, letting you think and decide on how to handle it, closing his eyes when he felt you shake your head. Not enough.

He backed away a bit, looking for your eyes - and kept his eyes on your face, not avoiding you for his words. “That was fucked.” And he apologized again, calling your name in it. You murmured an ‘apology accepted’ against his skin, pressing a kiss to his cheek and gathering him back into your arms - only to be stopped by his hands, that invited you to his lap so you wouldn’t hurt your back; you settled down, bringing him to your neck so he could rest, even if just physically.

“I had a friend who was a pirate,” you started again, voice trailing off again.

“What happened ?” Smoker mumbled, slightly muffled, trying to encourage you.

“He’s not dead.” You clarified, and he hummed. “He was a pirate, he’s not anymore. Got a wife and kids. A dog, last I heard. He writes to me from time to time.”

You paused, and picked back your thoughts.

“He wanted to be a pirate, and do crimes, but he refused to be someone horrible and hurt people if he could help it. I’m not gonna sugar coat the fact that his stealing probably did end up hurting some people, but he wasn’t pillaging like others did, he wasn’t killing freely, and he especially refused anything to be done that could hurt kids.”

“He still killed.”

“He did, yes. I’m aware of that. He knows what he’s done and he’s not defending it. I met him because he stole my wallet, and I saw him kill someone who tried to harm him later in the day. He didn’t regret it, and he never will. You’ve killed too, even if indirectly through your orders.”

At that, he said nothing, but you knew it wasn’t something he’d argue against. He knew what the job meant, and there was no use denying it.

“Just.. things aren’t as black and white as the jackasses up there make it out to be.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Smoker said quietly.

“You’ve been aware of it… but not fully. I’ve seen it enough, as a civilian, that I got desensitized to their bullshit. You were still in the high wave of it, no matter how much of a stray you were-”

You giggled at the pinch that rewarded you, wiggling in his sudden tight hold, teeth lightly but full of somewhat offended energy biting your neck. You kept snorting until he kissed the spot, placing his chin on your shoulder.

“We’ll stop the topic here. I know how you feel about it, and I know you know how I do, I don’t want to turn this into an argument.” Your hand came up to his fluffy hair. “We’re both way too stubborn.”

“You’re stubborn, I just know better.”

“Sure, okay, puppy boy.”

If the both of you made a mess of the living room with the impromptu pillow fight session that turned into a beautifully chaotic pillow fort where you crashed, holding on to one another and whispering loving words to each other, no one saw it.

At least thoughts were out in the open to be turned around and around in your minds, to be processed and heard, now.

hope you liked it ! leave a comment and reblog !

[racfoam]

Hello best author in the world I have a doubt harry has a lot of money both form her parents and Sirius so couldn't she buy something for the Weasley like buying ron a broom from one of your spoilers , can I have a scene where it shows that Harriet is rich , by rich means loaded

Hello, hope you’re doing well! Thank you for the ask.

I think Harry — since it is from Harry’s POV — she doesn't really talk about being loaded. She definitely is, but she never goes talking about it like some people *cough* Malfoy *cough*

Huh, I never wrote any sort of scene in nynn of Harry buying her friends sth expensive to show she is rich. She absolutely is. Harry bought three omnioculars on Quidditch World Cup, after all... Hmm, I think Harry gets them expensive stuff for their birthdays and for Christmas bcs it's the only time she can get away with buying the Weasleys expensive things without making them feel bad... Hang on...

---------

Gift shopping for Christmas has become Harry’s favourite time of the year. This time — and birthdays — was the only time she could spent some extra cash on a gift worthwhile. Of course, she set herself a limit. Nothing more than fifty galleons (too bad, she wanted to buy Ron a Firebolt) each.

Hermione was the easiest to shop for. Harry bought two books for Hermione — Arithmancy and Warding — which cost twenty galleons each but when she asked the librsrian in the Hogwarts library for the best material, she swore up and down on those two books.

Ron could be a bit tricky. She would have bought him some robes, but Fred and George already got him those. Harry decided to buy him the best Keeper gloves, ones worn by professional, star player Keepers. They cost fifty galleons. Worth every coin.

For Mrs Weasley — and this gift was brilliant in Harry’s mind — she got her a full-day package at the best spa and massage salon in London.

For Mr Weasley, Harry bought him the Culture of Britain and Its History that would teach him all about Muggle history in Britain and the current culture — something he didn't learn in school. She thought about buying him a ticket for theatre, but she didn't know what genre Mr Weasley liked, so she settled on this book. It cost her fifty pounds, but it was university grade learning material. It was bound to be very educational for Mr Weasley.

For Snuffles, she bought red paw shoes (they were too cute, all right?) for snow, and for Sirius, she bought the best wizarding cologne, with a scent like fresh clouds. It was a comforting, nice scent. It cost sixty galleons, breaking the budget, but it was worth it.

For Ginny, she bought her hair shampoo, conditioner and perfume Ginny always gushed about with Luna.

For Fred and George, she bought them wizarding ties. For Fred, blue — his favourite colour — and for George, an orange one, which was George's favourite colour.

For Lupin, she bought lots of Earl Grey teabags to last him for six months, a wool winter cloak, a light brown wizarding robe (Lupin liked brown) and two pairs of footwear: oxfords and men’s boots. Did it cost more than fifty galleons? Maybe. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

For Tonks, she bought a yellow fluffy sweater Tonks liked in a shop in Diagon Alley but was too expensive to buy — the shop in Hogsmeade luckily had it.

To Luna, Harry bought a hand-crafted, shell necklace of numerous shells and pearls on a simple string, which she would send off with Hedwig.

For Dobby, she bought ten pairs of socks.

With all her purchases placed in lightweight charmed bags with an extension charm, Harry walked down Hogsmeade, very happy with all the purchases.

However, something stopped her in her tracks. A thought she never had before — or maybe she did, when she was young and hopeful, and didn’t remember it.

I wonder what Voldemort would like.

Long moments passed, and Harry stood still among the snow and the snowflakes, face cuddled in the crook of her Gryffindor scarf.

Probably Harry in a big gift box with green ribbon and all. Wasn't it Harry, after all, who was supposed to be Voldemort’s gift for his rebirthing party in the graveyard?

Well, Harry couldn't do that. Maybe some lotions for his skin to appear more smooth? Voldemort was very pale... Maybe sunscreen against sunburn? Or, maybe, she could buy him shoes and socks...

Harry frowned. Why was she thinking so hard about a hypothetical gift to Voldemort? Nothing would be good enough for his standards, anyway...

Harry sighed, looking up to the white sky. A few snowflakes landed on her face; little stars falling from the sky.

Then, the answer dawned on Harry. What she could get Voldemort for Christmas. It was so simple, so obvious, that Harry felt stupid for not realising it before. How could it have taken Harry this long to figure it out?

Invigorated, Harry rushed back to the castle. She needed to find Collin. She needed to ask him to take a photograph of her.

[naminethewriter]

You're Not Alone

Chapter Three: Alone No More

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next | Ao3

Back again with the @sanderssidesgiftxchange gift for @edupunkn00b! It's slow going but it's going! Only one more chapter and the epilogue left. Hope you enjoy 🥰

Summary: Logan, Janus and Remus are celebrating their first Christmas as a married couple but a snow storm strands both Janus and Remus elsewhere, leaving Logan home alone. Knowing that the situation will trigger their husband, Janus and Remus need to find a way home.

Content Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, mentions of panic attacks and flashbacks

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

The door swung open to reveal a person covered from head to toe in thick clothes. Clothes that Logan recognized from this morning when Janus had left for Patton’s. His husband hates the cold so even for the few hours of sledding he had dressed like he was going skiing for the entire day, though he hadn’t worn everything for the drive. Now though, he wore the thick jacket buttoned up to his mouth, the hood up and a pair of sunglasses that were designed to keep snow out of the eyes. And it was obvious that it had been necessary with how much snow was clinging to his clothes.

“Would you let me come in, darling? Despite the many layers, it still feels like I’m freezing,” Janus said after a few moments of Logan simply staring at him.

Logan went from frozen to hectic within a few seconds. He pulled Janus inside and shut the door with more force than necessary. He began to wipe the snow off Janus’ clothes with bare hands, all the while rambling anxiously.

“What happened? How did you even get here?! Why are you here? Weren’t you at Remy’s? You must be freezing! What if you have hypothermia? We can’t get to a hospital in this weather!”

Cold hands grabbing his own startled him out of his panic. Janus had taken off the hood, glasses and gloves and his heterochromatic eyes were staring into his blue ones.

“Breathe, darling. I’m fine. Yes, I’m cold but that is a good sign. If I were hypothermic, I would be running very hot. If you would be so kind and get me a towel, I’ll get out of these clothes and we’ll talk about how I got here when you’ve calmed down, okay?”

Logan nodded, still shaking slightly. Janus gave him a task to focus on, something concrete to do and that alone helped him calm down. Still, he hesitated to leave, a part of him convinced that this was an illusion, that Janus hadn’t actually come home, that he was still alone.

His worries must have been written on his face because Janus smiled and squeezed his hands.

“I’ll be right here when you get back, starlight. I promise.”

That was enough to reassure Logan to set off to the bathroom. On his way he counted his breaths, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. His heartbeat had mostly normalized as he opened the cupboard they kept their towels in. He grabbed one larger and two smaller ones and made his way back to the entrance.

It was silent as he travelled back through the hallway. He couldn’t hear Janus and again, he worried that he had just imagined the ringing of the doorbell and his husband coming home, but as he rounded the last corner, there he was, on the floor, struggling to pull off his boots. He smiled at Logan and suddenly he felt so much lighter.

This was real.

Janus was really there.

He wasn’t going to be all alone.

“Thank you, dear,” Janus hummed as Logan handed him the first towel. He wiped his face with it, then pulled off his slightly damp socks and wrapped his feet in the soft material with a sigh. Logan moved behind him and dried off his long hair, though it was barely wet, safely hidden under the hood and scarf Janus had worn. Said articles of clothing hung on their coat rack, dripping water steadily on the floor. They should move those to the laundry room soon.

Again, it was almost as if his husband read his mind when he commented:

“I should probably take a shower after taking this all to dry in the laundry room.”

“While I do agree with moving the wet clothing, I do not believe showering is the best option. If you do have some form of hypothermia, warming up too quickly could have adverse effects and I know you tend to use hot water to shower,” Logan argued while his husband pouted at him.

“Then how am I supposed to get warm again?”

Logan blushed slightly and avoided eye contact. Despite being married to both Janus and Remus for months now and having previously dated a couple years, he was still rather shy about openly showing affection. He cleared his throat.

“Sharing body heat is probably the best method.”

He didn’t need to look to know that Janus was grinning at him teasingly.

“Is that so?” he hummed. “Then are you willing to share your heat with me, my darling?”

“Of course I am. But we should get you into some dry and warm clothes first.” Logan didn’t hesitate in his offer, but his cheeks do turn a deeper shade of red.

“If I was Remus, I would suggest leaving clothes out of it entirely, but I would love to put on one of my sweaters, actually.”

Logan sighed at the mention of his other husband. He hoped he and Roman had managed to find a hotel room to stay in. They should call them once Janus was taken care off.

“I’ll put the clothes away, would you be a dear and fetch me my self-care day outfit?” Janus asked with a smile that Logan found he could never say no to. Not that he wanted to, he wanted to know his husband was not freezing to death sooner rather than later.

“You are the best,” Janus said when Logan nodded. He gathered the jacket, scarf, boots and other equipment he had taken off, pressed a kiss to Logan’s cheek and disappeared down the hall.

Logan himself went upstairs to their bedroom, but as he tried to enter, he found the room locked. Right. Of course it was. A precaution he had agreed to. And a necessary one at that since he could vaguely remember having a flashback intense enough that he would have locked himself inside if he had had the opportunity to do so. Janus had told him where he hid the key this morning in case Logan actually needed to enter their room for whatever reason since he wouldn’t remember during a flashback. And maybe it was the aftershocks of having one, but he couldn’t recall where the key was.

“Janus?” he called, after having walked back to the staircase, hoping his husband would hear him.

“Yes?” came the quiet but clear response.

“Where is the key for the bedroom again?”

“In the kitchen, under your Crofter’s jar!”

“Right,” Logan mumbled to himself before calling a thank you to his husband and going downstairs to retrieve the item.

He found Janus there already, only dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, leggings of some kind and his house shoes. He held the key out for Logan to take while using his free hand to set up water to boil, presumably for tea.

“You want some as well?” he asked as he handed over the small object.

“Yes please. And sorry for making you wait.”

“It’s alright. This layer is completely dry and warm enough for now.”

“I will still hurry.”

“Thank you, darling.” Janus pressed another kiss to his cheek and Logan hurried back to their bedroom, the promise of cuddles with his husband and a cup of tea very appealing to him as he was hit with a wave of exhaustion.

~~~

Ten minutes later, Logan and Janus sat beside each other on the couch, their legs tangled together under a blanket and each with a cup of their respective favorite teas in hand. Janus now wore his hair tied in a loose bun, his favorite yellow sweater and very comfy pants that Remus liked to steal from him occasionally.

Logan couldn’t be more comfortable but still he couldn’t quench his curiosity.

“Would you mind explaining to me now how you got here?”

Janus sighed and leaned forward to place his mug on the coffee table.

“It’s simple really. I walked.”

“You walked?”

“Yes.”

“From Remy’s to here?”

“Yes.”

“Through a snowstorm?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why would you do that?! Do you not understand how dangerous that is?! You could have died! How did you not die?”

Logan was shaking and Janus carefully extracted the cup of tea from his hands and placed it beside his own before pulling him in a hug.

“I was well aware of the risk, honey. But what else was I supposed to do?”

“Stay where it was safe! Wait until the storm had passed!”

“Knowing you were here alone? Knowing you were already on the brink of a panic attack as soon as you hung up? I couldn’t do that, Logan. I never want you to have to experience those flashbacks again. I hate seeing you hurt like that. It breaks my heart and if you would allow me to pay that woman back for what she did to you, I would in a heartbeat, as would Remus. I think he has at least twenty different plans on how to make her life hell written down somewhere. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being here, alone, for however many hours it would be until the storm clears. I had to get to you. No matter what.”

“You could have died, Janus,” Logan said, his voice breaking. Both of them were crying, clinging onto each other as if it was the only thing keeping them alive. It felt like it was to Logan at least.

“I know. Remy told me so at least a dozen times. But you’re more important.”

“I’m not more important than your life!”

“To me you are.”

Logan sobbed and hid his face in Janus’ chest. His husband let it happen, stroking his hair and nuzzling against it.

“The important thing is that I made it here. Don’t think about what could have been and just be happy that we’re here together. You can still yell at me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“I know. I’ll look forward to it.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now rest. We can prepare dinner together after a nap, okay?”

“Okay.”

Logan didn’t move and Janus made no attempt to separate them either and soon, both drifted off.

~~~

They awoke a few hours later to the doorbell ringing constantly and someone pounding at the door.

“LOGIE?! ARE YOU OKAY? CAN YOU HEAR ME?? OPEN THE DOOR! I WON’T LET YOU BE ALONE ANYMORE!”

The calling continued as Janus and Logan looked at each other with wide eyes.

“Remus?!”

[plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows]

I've finally made progress in the Ilum fic from the Plo Koon timetravel fic! :D Here's a little sneak peek; I'm hoping it'll be completed and posted in a couple weeks.

+++

The Crucible drops out of hyperspace over Ilum, nearly a week after leaving Coruscant. They spend another day in low orbit, waiting for the weather on the surface of the frozen planet to abate. Above the glaciated temple, a storm is raging: surface monitoring stations are recording winds up to two hundred klicks an hour, temperatures seventy degrees below freezing.

“You’d freeze solid in like, two seconds,” says Micah, trying on a pair of gloves that come nearly all the way up his arms and snapping the elastic against his bare skin. “Ow.”

“Not me,” laughs Lubas, hunting through the pile of cold-weather gear in the Initiates’ cabin. She’s a bothan, one of the long-furred polar subspecies sometimes mistaken for wookiees. She pauses for effect, her yellow whiskers twitching. “Ten seconds, maybe.”

“A windchill like that would go straight through you,” Plo says, with the certainty of experience.

He pats the small pile of clothes in his lap—so far he’s got thermal underlayers, thick socks and gloves with room and reinforcing for his claws, and a little detachable hood that buttons closed at the neck. The first time he had visited Ilum, he had worn only the usual winter jacket with its puffy hood, and the cold had gotten into his sensory horns and made him thoroughly miserable after a while. This one ought to provide a little extra protection. Layering, that’s the key.

Micah snorts. “I hope we don’t have to wait too long. I can’t decide if I’m terrified or excited and either way I want to get this whole thing over with.”

“Same,” says Veeda on the other side of the pile, with feeling. She’s a rodian, not a species known for their cold-tolerance. “You know what the first thing I’m going to do with my saber is?”

“We know!” The fifth member of their group dumps a basket full of long knit scarves onto Veeda’s head, laughing. Lucca is human, like Micah, though his skin is much darker and his coiled hair puffs out from his head like a black cloud. He, Veeda, and Lubas are Clan Massiff, Heliost’s next-door neighbours. “You’re gonna beat up Qui-Gon Jinn, right?”

“Right!” The pile of scarves avalanches down onto the cabin floor.

Micah, Plo and Lubas share a knowing look. Veeda and Qui have nursed a rivalry in lightsaber classes ever since it turned out they were both natural talents at Ataru. Qui-Gon has had the slightest edge in their matches ever since he came back from his own Ilum trip with a green kyber crystal thrumming in his hand. This is normal and expected; fighting with one’s own saber tends to… make physical sense, in a way that’s rare with the younglings’ practice blades.

Everyone else in the Massiff and Heliost Clans has been looking forward to watching the fireworks once the field is finally equalized.

Veeda extricates herself from the scarves. “I’m gonna,” she insists. “Laserbrain thinks he’s so cool with his green saber cause he’s like half a year older. I’m gonna make him cry.”

“Good luck with that,” Plo says dryly.

[waiting-on-a-dream]

𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐜𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐰𝐬𝐭 (𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Author’s notes:

I went in with low expectations, so the pictures came out better than expected. Daisuke looks cool in his own special way, even though his hair isn't very accurate. SD picrew 

Daisuke ♡

Other names:

Seahorse (Floyd)

Monsieur Independent (Rook)

Jade (Slyvan)

Tower (Xenon)

Homeland: Sunset savannah

Dorm: Octavinelle

Family:

Unnamed father

Unnamed mother

Appearance

Eye colour: Light blue

Hair colour: Jet black

Race: Beastman (Black fox)

Uniform: Most of his uniform is in place, his tie being the only exception (he finds it too stuffy). The top two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, and he wears black gloves for whatever reason.

School information

School year: Third

Class: 3E (Student no. 8)

Best subject: Alchemy

Club: Science Club

Fun Facts

Dominant hand: Right

Likes: Playing pool ball, flirting, getting his salary

Dislikes: People who try to trick him, having to rely on people, being nagged for his attire

Favorite Food: Shrimp dumpling

Least Favorite Food: Fried rice

Hobby: Gambling

Talents: Converting materials into gold

Unique Magic: Knowledge is power - He can gain information of a target by touching them and activating his UM. The longer he touches his target, the more information he gains. He can choose what information he would like to gain, but will face trouble when it comes to certain details that the target is guarded about.

Trivia

He was giving me beastman vibes and who am I to ignore? I think being a fox suits him really well. Sly and cunning.

He has many acquaintances, but only a few friends. He's considered more on the friendly side for an Octavinelle student for even admitting he has friends. Funny how that works.

Yes, Slyvan's nickname confused him at first (considering his vice dorm leader is literally named Jade). But the goat boy explained the nickname to him and he came to like the ring of it.

He isn't always in the mood for makeup, but manages to come to class everyday wearing perfect eyeshadow because his friend helps him with it.

He joined the science club to do more alchemy experiments.

He works as a waiter for the Mostro Lounge. He gets tips often.

Suzume ♡

Other names:

Humpback whale (Floyd)

Mademoiselle Jewel (Rook)

Chrysocolla (Slyvan)

Lover (Xenon)

Homeland: Coral sea

Dorm: Pomefiore

Family:

Unnamed father

Unnamed mother

Unnamed older sister

Appearance

Eye colour: Baby blue

Hair colour: Garnet red

Race: Humpback whale mermaid

Uniform: She dresses prim and proper as any Pomefiore student should, with everything ironed neatly and worn in place. Her skirt reaches slightly above her knees, paired with knee-length black socks and loafers. Her bangs fall into her eyes sometimes, so she pins it up with a purple flower hairclip. It compliments her purple eyeshadow and (occasional) pale pink lip gloss too.

School information

School year: Third

Class: 3B (Student no. 29)

Best subject: Magical potions

Club: Science Club

Fun Facts

Dominant hand: Right

Likes: Strawberry milk, anime and manga, making jewelry (with plastic charms)

Dislikes: Feeling outcast, mirrors, socialising

Favorite Food: Salmon roll

Least Favorite Food: Edamame

Hobby: Reading

Talents: Humming

Unique Magic: Ideal self - She can alter her target's perception and impression of her. Basically, her appearance in their mind and their feelings towards her. The effect is only temporary though, unless she keeps her UM running constantly (risking overblot).

Trivia

I couldn't decide on her race at first because I could imagine her being a fae, mermaid, and human. So I let a randomizer decide for me. Why did I decide to make her a humpback whale mermaid? I just thought it suited her. Big but gentle, with a soothing song.

She doesn't like mirrors because her reflection unnerves her.

She joined the science club because she heard that they do a little bit of everything there.

[bikeit]

Packing: Van-Supported + Hotel Tour

(part 3 of 5) I'm gradually going through past trip notebooks and jotting down all my packing lists down in one place. I'm writing out my packing list for an upcoming trip now so I figured I might as well copy and paste it onto the blog as well...

In 2022 I went on a multi-week vehicle-supported stay-in-hotels tour: a ~1200 mile ride through Vietnam and Cambodia with TdA Global Cycling. Typically for this type of trip there’s a support van that transports one large duffel bag to the next night’s hotel for you, freeing you to just carry daily essentials on the bike.

The extra capacity combined with our more remote travel including gravel/dirt roads led me to pack heavier. My packing list for this type, climate, and length of trip (retroactively revised based on what I wished I’d had, or brought but didn’t use):

Clothes:

In general, I packed enough clothes to do laundry every six days (this bike tour was organized so we’d ride at most five full days in a row between days off), plus overnight hotel-room-sink laundry for crucial fast-drying items, and wool Ts I can wear multiple days.

Bike clothes:

(3-4x) padded bike shorts [two pairs is enough if washing in the sink each night, but when it’s raining or there isn’t an easy place to hang it to dry it’s nice to be able to take a day off laundry]

(6x) socks

(2x) shorts with pockets (“mountain bike style”) to wear over padded shorts, also fine to walk around town in

(2x) light merino wool t-shirts to both bike and walk around in

(1x) synthetic souvenir jersey from some past trip (conversation starter!)

mesh t-shirt to bike in on the hottest days (there isn't much I find comfortable to bike in on 90-100F sunny + humid days, but the AeroTech Delta Cooling T-shirt was pretty good)

lightweight cycle cap

bandana (can soak in water to cool down on the hottest days)

sun sleeves

arm warmers, leg warmers, leg sun shields [never needed, omit in this climate]

fingerless gloves

[tbd future] full finger waterproof gloves– there was one cold and rainy day at elevation they would have been appreciated

general-purpose bike-and-walk shoes

backup pair of shoes (in case first get wet and don’t dry by the next day)-- this only came up twice after very rainy days, but I was glad to have them. I save an ancient worn-out pair of shoes just for this.

flip-flops / crocs

[tbd future] hiking shoes with better arch support, or insoles [would be bulky, but on one many-hour hike on a rest day I was wishing I had these]

[tbd future] bike helmet brim (e.g. Da Brim) [wished I had more of a helmet visor some days, and this was great on the past Utah MTB dirt tour – on the other hands, it also catches the wind if biking faster]

[tbd future] hi-vis biking vest, especially for days with some dark road tunnels

Other Clothes:

gym shorts to change into after ride

(2x) long pants (one lpermethrin treated since I was in a malaria zone)

(3x) light t-shirts

(2x) long sleeve button up shirt (one quick-dry hiking style, one ‘dressy’)

bathing suit

brimmed hat

light pack towel in case of roadside swimming holes [didn’t end up carrying daily or using, may omit]

Wet Weather Gear

hi-vis yellow rain coat

[tbd future] loose rain poncho for rain in hot + humid weather, instead

rain pants and shoe covers [ineffective and sweaty after hours of riding, getting wet in a warm climate is OK, omitting]

Documents + Paper:

photocopies of passport ID page, visas, vaccination cards, travel insurance in a ziploc bag (I carry copies on me, leave originals in hotel bag)

high-level maps for the regions I’m going through

pocket phrase guide or one-page printout of common phrases and menu items

local travel guide

books / kindle

notebooks and pens

Medical + Hygiene

toiletries kit

on-bike travel medkit (including moleskin pads, ibuprofen, immodium)

antimalarials

antibiotic prescription

a few rapid Covid tests

masks

dry soap sheets

toilet paper + wet wipes in a ziploc bag

(2x) sunscreen

(2x) chamois cream

DEET

Basic Bike Tools

As per my standard “on the bike” list:

travel pump

patch kit

spare tube

tire levers

multitool including chain break and master link

grease-cutting hand wipes

More Bicycle Spare Parts and Tools

Since we’d be out in rural areas without easy access to bike shops, I packed additional parts in my hotel bag, as on a supported tour there was an emergency vehicle in case of a major breakdown):

(2x) spare tires (I did end up using one of them, when one tire accumulated multiple larger punctures)

(5x) spare tubes (managed to use 3 plus some patches on a month-long tour with moderately rough roads)

bicycle lube (Boeshield T-9 or other), double-bagged in two ziplocs in case of leak (the bottle did leak once-- I'm glad I bagged it)

rag for chain

(2x) spare brake cables and housings

(2x) spare shift cables and housings

(2x pairs) brake pads

(1x) spare set of pedals (likely unnecessary, omit next time)

(4x) spare spokes (the right length for the front wheel and drive and non-drive sides of the rear wheel– I had to chat with the original bike manufacturer to double-check these)

8mm allen L-key (stiffer than multitool, for pedals / seat during bike unpacking)

spare chain and master link

extra moist towelettes

zip ties

duct tape

Food 

This kind of supported tour generally offers a midday lunch / snack popup by the side of the road, and periodic towns where we could buy snacks, but I packed about one snack for every two days just to have some familiar options (peanut butter and dried pineapple) as well as some hydration salts.

Electronics:

(2x) outlet adapters

(2x) USB chargers

cables

small USB battery pack (enough to charge everything for one night-- occasionally a hotel didn't have enough working plugs)

bike computer / GPS

backup distance-only bike computer [didn't use, the phone is already my backup for my GPS, omit]

bright daylight-visible taillight (I like the Cygolite Hotshot Pro series)

bike headling

headlamp [somewhat redundant with headlight and phone, may omit]

waterproof camera [nice for taking photos on rainy days while keeping phone tucked away in a plastic bag, but may omit next time]

[tbd future] ipad or tiny laptop, if part of a longer trip where I may want to do some work or writing

Bags:

duffel bag (I've been happy with my 100L Patagonia Black Hole)

hip pack (for extra water (Evoc Hip Pack Pro = 1.5L), snacks, toiletries on bike [may omit now that I have a small frame bag]

day pack for hikes (don't need both this and hip pack)

single pannier for carrying clothing on rainy or cold days (usually not needed) or if going on a DIY side trip -- omit on next trip to simplify and allow me to remove bike rear rack as well

stem bag (for sunglasses, sunscreen, extra water)

top tube bag (snacks)

Other Misc

backup pair of glasses

glasses wipes

sunglasses

[tbd future] clothesline for hotel room / balcony: paracord + binder clips + two carabiners

[tbd future] ultralight sleeping bag liner (for a niche problem: there were a few days when it was too hot to sleep under a comforter, but the hotel didn’t provide a top sheet, and bugs or aggressive breeze from the hotel fan on my skin were distracting when trying to sleep, maybe this would help)

Weight:

Not counting the bike and helmet or the clothes I wore onto the plane, the original version of this packlist came to about 48lbs (22 kg) in the duffel bag. Once I was riding with some of it on the bike (hip pack, bike bags, tools, snack bars, and so on), the duffel that was transferred between hotels weighed about 40lbs (18kg).

The revised version of this packlist for a future trip (removing the strikeout items and adding most of the "tbd future" items) also came to about 48 lbs as checked on the plane total including the bike bags, or about 43 lbs / 19.5 kg once some items were carried on the bike. Not quite at my goal of 18kg but close... I could pack lighter and with fewer separate sub-bags, but I like being organized and bringing a few new pieces of clothing/gear to try each trip.

[atlasdiatia]

Change Fates Design

Charles lay on the bed staring at the ceiling of a place that didn’t belong to him, but in the same senesce did belong to him. 

The last thing he remembered was starting up her PS5 to play Hogwarts Legacy when his screen flashed and his head hurt first before his eyes and then blanked out before waking up in the bed, he now lay in.

The wood of the ceiling was a medium tone of brown that flowed to the wood frame of the walls that weren’t covered with dark red and fleurets wallpaper to the floorboards that were covered with different rugs that ranged from reds to tans and greens.

Charles sat up and looked at himself and the bed, the bed itself was a large king-size bed with wine-red covers and creamy white pillows his skin was the same as it was from before light but not ghostly white his long brown hair seemed longer as it pooled around his shoulders.

Throwing back the blankets to slide out of the bed and let his bare feet touch the rug under the bed Charles felt like he was younger than 15 but when he tried to recall something he had done the day before but was only greeted with a sharp pain throughout his whole head almost bringing her to his knees.

Seemed like what or who brought him here wanted him to forget his old life and accept his new reality, sighing Charles started walking about the room there was a vanity made of dark wood with an oval mirror attached to it the wood was worn but still had a slight polish to it.

 Across the table of the vanity were brushes, combs, cologne, jars of cream, and a few small jewelry boxes with a cushioned stool placed underneath.

At the foot of the bed was a large trunk with worn leather straps and brass buckles kneeling down Charles opened the lid to find it full of clothes that looked his size, closing the lid he stood up looked around, and noticed a wardrobe going over to it and open it to find nightgowns, shirts, vest, sweaters and coats with shoes and boots that ranged from ankle-high to boots that came to his knee or mid-upper thighs; also at the lower part of the dresser were two draws that held sock and stockings as well under-wear of that era.

    There were two doors in the room one opened to a bathroom while the other must lead to the rest of the flat, deciding that it would best to get clean and dressed first Charles went into the bathroom and took a bath finding his fav smelling soaps in there he chooses sandalwood and amber(or what you like) after drying off and wrapped in a towel Charles walked back in the bedroom and picked out clean undergarments and sock before pulling on light brown pants that came to his mid-calf and fastened the buttons at the ends to keep the socks from sliding down then he pulled out a cream undershirt and white blouse putting them on before tucking them into the pants and pulling a belt through the loops.

     Charles picked a light brown vest and dark maroon sweater; finally pulled on a pair of dark brown ankle boots and pair of fingerless brown gloves. Tying his hair back in a low ponytail Charles let out a breath and pulled open the door that revealed a short hallway with a few other doors, the first one was an empty room with faded flowers and animals on the peeling wallpaper…once must have been a nursery at one point or another.

     Another door was to what he guessed was the guest bathroom the last door was an almost empty study. All that was in there was a desk, desk chair and empty bookshelves, and a large that took almost the entire floor. 

Closing the door he made her way to the end of the hall to the open room that was the sitting room/dining room/ open kitchen.

    On the dining table were three letters and two keys, picking up the first letter Charles opened it,

     ‘Hello Charles as you might have figured out you are now a permanent resident of this world, I can not tell you who I am, nor will we ever meet. I leave in a second letter the address and time as well as the date you should send the letter to Mrs. Fig to prevent her death and what you will need to help you in warning her while still getting the key.

    You will find in the second note the date and time to stop Anne from getting cursed, and how to keep Lodgok from dying and getting the book. People will see you as a Seer, and that is what we want because after the year is over you really will gain the powers of a Seer, this is the easiest way to explain how you will know the events that will happen before they happen.

The third letter is of how much money you have in both muggle and wizarding money, that is what the second key that lays above the third letter is for; your vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. You will find the muggle money enough to get you through till you get your letter from Hogwarts or before the Fig’s come to you, now you must burn this and the second after you have written and sent the letters off.

             Goodbye and have a wonderful life, Charles.’

     Sitting there Charles looked the letter over again before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, looking at the second letter he reaches for it giving it a quick look over before getting up and finding paper, envelopes, quill, and ink and started writing two letters one to Mrs. Fig and the second letter to Mr. Fig before sealing them with melted wax and pressed it with a flat circle since he didn’t have a family or a family crest.

Charles looked at the third letter to find where the money for the mail owls was and almost died from what he read was in his wizard bank “Godric heart! I think I’m richer than the oldest pure-blood family in the wizarding world!” Shacking his head Charles found the muggle money and wizarding money before grabbing a coat and a shoulder bag.

      After locking up the door, he takes out the note he made for the directions on where to find the hidden wizard mail post, after mailing the letters Charles went to go buy some books and food before heading home again. 

After getting home he puts stuff away before opening his new cookbook and started cooking, all the while he can't get rid of the chill that runs up and down his spine from the feeling of someone or something watching him from somewhere.

 *Time skip*

      The next few days followed slowly Charles tried to stay out of people observing eyes when he was out in public, but in his house reading every book to kill time from plants, star gazing books, animal care, history, and even muggle fairytales till one day he heard the hooting and tapping of a mail owl at the kitchen window.

 Wiping his hands dry from doing the morning dishes with the sleeves of his black long-sleeved shirt rolled up with black leather suspenders attached to his mocha brown pants that were tucked into his knee his black boots took the letters from the owl giving it some toast before it flew off happy of the treat, taking the letters to the study he started occupying recently.

      Opening the curtains to let more light in Charles sat down and picked up the first letter breaking the wax seal with a letter opener and pulled out the letter and started reading, it was from Mrs. Fig thanking him embarrassingly for saving her life with her ‘vision’ and followed his instructions he had asked her to do to ensure future event he ‘saw’ would fallow to fruition.

     She wished to see him soon along with her husband since they just got the news of his late awakening and her husband was looking forward to meeting the young ‘seer’ who saved his wife's life. 

Putting down the letter Charles leaned his head back against the chair looking at his hand as he sees traces of magic slowly encircling it…yes just two to three days ago his magic awakened finally: clenching his hand in a fist as his eyes squint in determination now for the tricky part…. saving Anne and keeping Sebastian from going down the dark path.

     Looking to his left as he started seeing things start to float cause of his slowly rising emotions. Charles takes a breath letting it out and sighing as things settle back into place, he takes out a paper and writes that she needs not thank him, he was only doing what was right before sealing it away to mail later before opening the second letter which was from Mr. Fig thanking him as well and agreeing to what he asked Mr. Fig to help him with more than anything now and would meet him soon to not only take him where he needed to go not bothering to ask how he knew of Feildcroft.

    Probably thinking I ‘saw in a vision’ but also start to help you learn what you need to know before the term of school begins. After putting Professor Fig’s letter down Charles knew the third letter was more likely his Hogwarts’s letter of Acceptance opening it seeing as he was right quickly folded it up without really reading it before putting all three letters away to head out he needed to get a disguise for the trip to Feildcroft walking past a mirror in the hall made Charles stop and pause looking at the small crescent-shaped scar that ran from under his soft somewhat round face that shines when the light catches the healed skin.

    Not many people really notice it so hiding the upper half of his face should work good enough right? After coming back with a long black fabric and sewing supplies to make a cloak he placed the supplies on the table when he noticed that the fire in the stove was already lit, and the tea kettle was on the stove boiling away grabbed a cane from the umbrella rack made his way slowly down the hall peeking in the bathroom then the bedrooms before making it back round to the study just as the kettle whistle the door opens Charles waits and just as he is about to swing Professor Fig steps out making him sigh.

    The sigh makes Fig jump pulling his wand and pointing it at Charles who was now standing there holding the cane standing it on the floor with both hands folded on top of it chuckling his bangs hanging down as his head was bowed while laughing.

     “You know sometimes my ‘visions’ don’t give the times my guest decides to arrive earlier than when I see them the first time did something change to rush you here, I was expecting to see you in a day.” Charles lied as he stood upright raising his hand to brush, his hair back into place reviling to the old man an extremely handsome young man.

  ‘My word…’ Fig mused as he looked over his new charge/future student from his thick soft looking locks that had a slight wave to it that reach his shoulders and looked like it fell a little down behind his shoulders, his eyes were a dark blue with a little brown/hazel around the middle framed by thick lashes.

 His face is slightly round but with a slight sharpness to give a mysterious look to him his lips were cupid bowed shaped and were a dark dusty rose pink which stood out on his slightly creamy tan skin, Charles tilted his head innocently to the side slightly an equally innocent smile as he waited for Fig to say something his blue eyes dancing with silent laughter.

    Fig cleared his throat slightly blushing at being stuck dumb by the young man's good looks. “Uh. Yes, sorry about that, and for coming in uninvited.” Charles waved it aside “You’re not uninvited Professor. Remember I knew you were coming you just came a day early.” 

Nodding to Fig to follow Charles put the cane away before pulling out tea leaves, and two teacups. Pouring each a cup along with cream, sugar, and tea cakes before setting the cups down taking a seat across from the Professor taking a sip before looking back at him smiling “So shall we properly do this then?”

[brokegirlsbling-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Levi Strauss Signature Jeans 14L 14 L Long Tall Mid Rise Bootcut Black Stretch.

[nickynicknick]

TW ed, ana, restriction

hello there! I’m nicky. this is my first time posting, but I thought I’d write a quick kinda-sorta-not-really thinspo story for y’all in search of some tasty fall/winter vibes. it’s kind of just based on my life at the moment (18, female, she/her, brown university student, ana). no clue how it’s gonna be but thanks for even making it this far in!~

—-

she wakes up at a quarter past five in the morning, not to the sound of an alarm but the dense silence of a winter’s first snowfall. Her small dorm bed, covered in a thin black comforter and soft sheets, is dusted grey with the cool morning light. for just a second, she cannot see the shape of her legs under the covers, and believes she is still asleep. she rises slowly, so as not to disturb the lingering stillness in her chest from her refreshing slumber. outside: delicate diamond flakes from a quilted woolen sky; a cardinal lofting on a stone pillar.

it is thanksgiving break. despite studying being her favorite pastime (the John Hay library, with its intricate marble walls and eerie copper busts, bring her history reading to life), she found the four days off to be a welcome period of relaxation. having seen off the last of her friends on their journeys home, she was left to roam the sprawling campus alone, to spend hours in solitude on the fourth floor of the Rockefeller library, to climb an icy fire escape and watch the smoke from her cigarette melt into the moon.

Her feet anticipate the sudden chill of the dorm room floor as she stands to dress herself. the first few months had been a blur, and she had feared for a moment that she would lose the angular form of her bared skeleton. but as she adjusted slowly to the full days of research, class, and reading, she found a routine which made her feel like herself again.

morning: two cups of hot black coffee (three, if she had stayed up reading the night before) and a bagel (she preferred poppy seeds, but blueberry on days she knew she would need more energy)

evening: one cup of earl grey tea brewed strong, one fistful-sized portion of beans, vegetables, and chicken or turkey, and a side of greens

her breakfast perfectly satisfied her while running from class to class. her dinner ensured that she would have the focus to study, which was the one thing she found entirely relaxing. the small but whole portions made her feel light, yet energetic. the very slight desperation and hunger she felt before her evening meal made her study frantically, to make the time pass quicker. with all the reading, combined with the passion she felt for her classes, the satisfaction of enriching her mind, rendered her body but a vessel that carried her from building to building, place to place. the hollowed, the lighter, the more gracile her vessel was, the more focus she could devote to her studies. physical weight, to her, burdened her mind more than her muscles.

she came up with a plan for the day, one that made her feel grounded. plans made her days more productive, her diet more efficient.

1) dress

2) chores

3) breakfast on Thayer Street

4) read at the Anthropology library

5) research

6) evening meal, with ingredients from the local grocers

7) study at the Hay library

8) return to dorm, shower

9) sleep

First, to dress herself. as she stood, she placed her frail hands on her lower back and stretched, hearing the satisfying pops which indicate a good night’s rest. her hands searched around the base of her spine for any excess fat, but found only taut skin, warm to the touch. her hands moves to her upper arms, and felt only the hard swell of atrophied biceps over bone. she stood there exposed in the cool air, running her bony fingers over the peaks of her shoulders, her star-shaped sternum, the back of her elegant neck, her long beautiful stomach. her legs quivered slightly, thin and pale. she rocked back and forth on her toes, and found herself appreciating how her thighs did not touch once.

if she didn’t dress quickly, she would be cold for hours. opening her wardrobe, she laid out the day’s outfit; thick wool socks, ‘skinny’ faded black jeans (which now hung silly off of her withering waist, and bunched at the thighs when she sat), two old cream lace tank tops, a soft pale-green henley she stole from an old boyfriend. a cardigan, and another larger cardigan to be sure. she added a silver necklace (to make it all look intentional), some emerald-green woolen gloves, and a pair of dreadfully-worn black high-top converse.

dressing herself was a ritual now. standing in front of the mirror that leaned against her wall, she even listened to the sound of her jeans against her legs as she pulled them up, the ease with which they slipped over her thighs. pulling on the layers of her shirts, she loved how each layer made her look smaller and smaller. how she could pull the sleeves of her henley over her balled-up white knuckles, and how the placid green of the shirt matched the thin veins in her hands. the demure beauty in her hallowed cheekbones, big brown expressive eyes, long cocoa hair, pale skin, full rose lips, had only been revealed after her drastic 20lb weight loss of the last month. October as a whole had been harrowingly beautiful.

the potential the day held was what kept her going. with the crushing weight of her physical form all but gone, she could devote her focus to what she loved. food had become background noise, and what little she did eat she savored with every bite. hunger, like the stinging cold of a Rhode Island autumn, had been cloaked in a lingering peace, leaving only its dulled outline under the snow that accumulated softly, ever-faster.

[wikluk]

Okay, first of all I LOVE your fanfic and I was wondering if in your Mirabel Dead AU. I mean what if before the events of the movie Mirabel was making little gifts for all of them like she did for Antonio and they didn't know. But as they were cleaning the ruins of the Casita theh find the most unfinished projects. What do you think will happen? How will they react seeing their gift? She was making one for each one of them.

Thank you for writing an amazing fanfic!

Thanks, Anon!

It's... Ya know, it's actually a good question and angst potential lol. But let's cross out two gifts since she already made a gift for Antonio (his plushie) and for Julieta (it's mentioned in the unspoken invisible pain that Julieta found the apron Mirabel intended to give her for her birthday (back then I had no idea Antonio and the triplets' birthday are 5 months apart, so let's say Mirabel just likes to have everything prepared much earlier lol)). So it leaves 8 people because without Bruno, of course who can receive gifts. Let's go:

Abuela – Alma’s guilt’s gonna be strong when she finds a sketch of a mourning shawl but embroidered with small golden butterflies. She’d frame the picture and keep it on her bedtable and after her death... This picture would go to Julieta. Also, it would remind her of the mistakes she made throughout her life. Quite a punishment, hah. 

Agustín – Pair of socks! Just like those he wears in the movie - mismatched and being a symbol of all of his girls, this time including Julieta and Isabela as well (instead of her flower). He’d tear up, completely. He already loved the previous pair, the other would be just his greatest treasure. Two favourite pairs, rarely worn, only on good occasions because he’s afraid he’s gonna damage them.

Isabela – I actually think Mirabel would make something... Casual for her. Like a headband too, to keep her long hair away when Isabela attends to the flowers in their garden and in the town. (I refuse to accept she didn't have a garden pre-movie. She definitely did, maybe together with Julieta.) It would make Isabela regret so many things, considering she feels like she failed Mirabel... And despite it all, their ups and downs, Mirabel still made her a gift. Totally heartbreaking.

Luisa – I always imagined it would be either a plushie, just like for Antonio. Or bracelets. I think her plushie would be unfinished... Like... Maybe Mirabel started doing it but it was left to decorate and so on - it has one eye and unfinished hair and pattern but it’s the most priceless thing Luisa owns. She’d totally cry into it when her emotions overwehlm her. 

Pepa – I thought Mirabel would gift her a headband handmade by her. And it would just make her weep like a baby. She’d definitely need some Felix to keep her going after that.

Félix – Hc that Mirabel knows how to design, paint and draw. She wanted to customise a new umbrella for Felix, adding some clouds all over it. She even started painting it but never finished. It’s gonna be his favourite umbrella and one that would always make Pepa calm down. 

Dolores – Earmuffs or a headband, just like Pepa’s. Dolores would be touched and it would quickly become her favourite thing. 

Camilo – Huh... Imagine she wanted to make him his own kitchen gloves after he burnt his hands a few times in a row while trying to steal food when Julieta went out lol. But Camilo also likes to cook and help Julieta so... Mirabel thought it would be a nice gift. She made a project, and draw even some funny little reference pic of Camilo with those gloves on, with some text too. Probably something silly, or some inside joke. Camilo would frame this project too. He’d never take it off his walls, keeping it like a small Mirabel Memorial.

damn i went deep