#do i have enough green yarn for this? no idea

[solarpunkani]

sometimes spite is a powerful motivator and today its motivating me to crochet

long story short I saw a cool bag on pinterest while I was looking for crochet patterns but there was no fucking pattern but one of my friends found a pattern for a similar but not quite bag so I watched an hour long video, transcribed it into text, and am now gonna make a wholeass backpack just because Sunflower Vibe

Wish me luck I guess

Also this is the bag

[cupids-scream-queen]

-> Brahms Heelshire x f!reader

-> Prompt: breeding

Warnings: breeding, unprotected sex (wrap it for the holiday season), blindfold, rough-ish sex, slapping, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, daddy kink, idk it's smut guys.

Summary: Planning for Christmas at the Heelshire's required a lot of patience, decorations, and money. When you asked Brahms what he wanted for Christmas, the answer he gave wasn't one you were expecting.

Christmas was coming, and there was many things to do. You decided to decorate the manor, after all, you weren't sure how much holiday cheer Brahms was used to getting.

The Christmas decorations were beautiful, the house big enough for you to get one of those ridiculously huge trees you couldn't get back at home. Decorated with beautiful, twinkling bulbs and strands of incandescent lights, it was truly a sight to behold.

"Brahms? What would you like for Christmas?" You were sitting on the couch, knitting a new cardigan to replace his old one. He was resting on your lap, the yarn occasionally touching the porcelain mask.

"I don't know," He replied, his eyes staring up at you. "What could I have?"

"Oh, like clothing, candy, toys…" You trailed off, hoping he'd take the hint and pick something usual.

"A baby," He looked at you, his gaze unwavering as you looked at him, trying to process what he just said. A baby?

"Like, a human baby? Or a puppy…?"

"Human. Yours," He touched your stomach, confirming that that was where he wanted the baby to come from. You.

"Brahms, I can't just pop out a baby…there's certain--activities--you've got to do beforehand," He shrugged, unbothered.

"I know. We'll do them." It wasn't a question, and you weren't sure how to handle the situation. Why did this man want a child?

"Are you sure that's what you want?" You asked, and he nodded, very sure of himself.

"Let's get started," He sprung out of your lap, taking you knitting out of your hands as he roughly picked you up and threw you over his shoulder, something that was becoming increasingly common in your relationship.

"Brahms, shouldn't we--"

"You said I could have anything," He threw you onto your mattress, already climbing over you to grab the black silk blindfold you kept on your nightstand for times like these. "And this is what I want."

He slipped the blindfold over you, pressing a finger to your lips, silencing whatever sentence you were trying to say. He wasn't in the mood for games, or your protests, he simply wanted to have a baby. And, to him, you were the perfect person to provide that. Your pussy was already wet, and he smirked as he slipped a large hand down, touching it, providing you with friction you so desperately craved.

"Brahms--"

"Shh," He roughly handled your pussy, his fingers rubbing up against your clit as you struggled to take your pants off. He wasn't going to let you, not this easily.

He started to take your shirt off, delicately making sure not the remove the blindfold. He delicately removed your pants, your body naked save for your undergarments. Your bra was red, your soaked panties green--it was like you were taunting him with the idea of what he wanted.

He slipped his mask off, you could tell by the noise it made as he set it down on the table. His rough hands started to trail along your body, occasionally a wet kiss would show up somewhere.

"You're taunting," He kissed you on the lips, his facial hair tickling your nose as he deepened the kiss. His hands went to unclasping your bra, throwing it over his shoulder and immediately grasping your tits with his hands. Rubbing his fingers over the nipple, he got the sensitive bud to perk up, and he started to kiss his way down to your breast.

You moaned as he licked your nipple, his left hand going to grope your other breast and his right hand circling your clit. You moaned as he slipped one finger in, and then another, as he started to scissor your pussy as he continued to lick and suck on your tits. Leaving bite marks, sucking hickies into your skin, everything he could do to mark you as his, he did.

He gave your nipple one last suck before he licked from your breast down to your pussy, enjoying you squirming underneath him. His fingers were moving faster, making you gasp and moan his name, your fingers running through his hair.

"Ready?"

"Y-Yes," You gasped out, your body aching for more than just his touch. You needed him, all of him, and you were going to get it, and you knew he'd give it to you. He needed you just as much--he needed to be inside of you.

He laughed, darkly, pulling his fingers out of you. Gathering the slick from in between your folds, he slathered it on his cock, and licked the excess off his fingers. He then shoved his fingers in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself as he lined himself up with your cunt and pushed in, stretching you.

"Ah-Brahms," You moaned around his fingers, his cock warm and filling you up in the most wonderful way. He pet your face, his hands warm and rough and fulfilling.

He smiled to himself, his dick all the way in your soft, warm pussy. He started slowly, thrusting carefully, his dick sliding in and out tantalizingly, the head of his cock hitting your g-spot. The soft, spongy walls of your pussy clenching around his cock.

"Feel s-so good," You moaned, your cunt coated in precum, your slick all over the sheets. Brahms only grunted in response, strening himself to not break you. "N-Need m-more..."

That was what Brahms needed, and he suddenly dug his hands into your hips, leaving marks in the shape of his fingerprints. He thrusted into you roughly, his dick reaching even farther into your pussy. You arched your back, Brahms shifting his hands so that they cupped your back, forcing your legs to go on either side of his shoulders. He was balls deep, his groans every time he thrust in you were heavenly.

"You're mine," Brahms grunted, and you moaned his name, confirming that you were his. He pulled out of you almost completely, before slamming his dick farther into your pussy, resulting in you to scream out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. "Mine. Mine. Mine."

"Yes, Brahms, I'm y-yours," You whimpered, and Brahms slapped your tits harshly, before slamming into you again. He was rough, his thrusts no longer calculated, he was chasing his high and you knew it.

"I want you to have my babies, I need you to fucking be mine," Brahms was leaving marks all over your body--handprints, fingerprints, bruises, bite marks--all of it, marking you with a cacophony of colors, various shapes and sizes. You were his, you were to be marked as his, and you were to bare his children.

"I-I will," You gasped, and Brahms slapped your face again, marking you with a red handprint. You didn't care, his roughness was only making him come closer and closer to orgasm.

"I want to see you pregnant," Brahms groaned, pushing himself farther into you, your pussy clenching around his thick length. "I need you to have my baby."

"G-God, yes, Brahms," You called out, your hands gripping him, leaving tiny crescents of your fingernails. The pain only made him more aroused, his dick moving faster, his thrusts more sloppy as he felt himself getting closer. Your pussy clenched around him, as if to tease him.

"Call me Daddy," Brahms instructed, plowing himself farther into you, his cock creating a bulge that neither of you noticed.

"Y-Yes, Daddy," You moaned, your back arching again as you came, your pussy clenching around him, you fingers digging farther into his flesh, drawing blood. Your mouth made more obscene noises, your breathing heavier. Brahms let out one more groan, cumming in you with ferocity. He shot heavy, thick loads into you. It was warm, running out of your pussy as he filled you with his hot cum.

"You'll get pregnant, right?" Brahms moaned, shooting one last load into you.

"Yes, Daddy," You replied, your fingers letting go of his skin. Tiny dots of blood dotted his shoulders, his back a mess of scratches. Your body was equally damaged, his handprints all over you, his bite marks covering your torso. "I will."

"Good." He breathed out, collapsing on you. "I'd like that."

"I would, too," You mused, his dick still inside of you. He let out a few heavy breaths before you realized he fell asleep, his cum still inside of you.

You listened to his soft snores, and felt yourself drifting off. Perhaps, yes, you'd like to raise children with him. He was a gentle man when he wanted to be.

"Merry Christmas, Brahms."

[sweetsweetjellybean]

If Tomorrow Never Comes | Part 2 | Never Alone

Summary: Trapped in the Upside Down, Steve is prepared to die alone until he finds you hurt and in need of help. Doing your best to survive while the world catches fire, is there time for one more chapter in your story?

Inspired By: As the world burns by @myeuphoricmindset

TW: FemReader, Smut, Mentions of death, mild violence No Minors 18+ Series Masterlist WC:7607

Even though there is no sun, the light here does change. The black veil of night lifts, leaving the world awash in a pale blue half-light. The sun stays forever banished just below the horizon. Steve doesn't see it change this morning. Thick velvet drapes hung with brass rings cover every window of the cottage, keeping out the Upside-Down. His internal clock wakes him, and for the first time in a long time, it's without the heavy dread, without the emptiness. Instead, he wakes with the soft warmth of you gathered in his arms, with hope blossoming. His eyes trace the delicate slope of your peaceful features, committing them to memory. Goddam, you're pretty. He keeps still, letting the soft puffs of your breath fan over his neck, limbs still woven together as tightly as threads on a loom. Holding you like this, maybe it can be enough. These fleeting moments could be enough to get him through each day. Whatever else happens, he could have this. His lips brush your forehead as his eyes blink closed, and he lets himself drift.

Standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the chipped cast iron kitchen sink, you’ve been brushing your teeth for at least five minutes. Sounds of pleasure escape as the minty foam bubbles inside your mouth. Taking a small sip from the canteen, you swish and spit before running your tongue over your lips. Steve chuckles next to you, taking the canteen and doing the same. 

“You really like brushing your teeth,” he teases. 

“I will not apologize for good hygiene,” you counter, “Would you like to kiss someone with bad breath?”

“Definitely not.” He sets down his toothbrush and steps closer, tongue poking the inside of his lip as he crowds you against the counter. “It’s good to know that won’t be a problem for us going forward.”

Heat creeps up your neck until it settles into your cheeks. Something has changed with him overnight, like a decision has been made. 

“You’ve got a little…” Picking up a knitted dish towel from next to the sink, you dab the toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. His hand covers yours, and your heart beats wildly in your chest. He’s got you off-kilter. You’ve never craved attention until you had a taste of his. A few looks, and you're drunk with it. 

He turns your hand over and looks down at the towel with a frown. “Why is everything in this house knitted?”

Your smile widens. “I’m not sure.” Pulling your hand away, you fold the towel and place it back on the worn butcher block countertop next to the stacks of kitchen linens and trivets, all knitted in bright-colored yarn. Copper pots and shelves stacked with dishes and crockery line the ivory-painted walls of the rustic kitchen. The well-used avocado green appliances look at least twenty years old, and cozies knitted to look like potted plants cover the kettle and toaster. 

“Do you know who lives here?” you ask, eyeing the table set for two with matching knit placemats and napkins, “I mean, on the other side.”

“No idea.” He leans against the counter, eyes roaming around the room. “Maybe there are some family photos around somewhere. Come on.” 

His hand is on the small of your back as you follow the hand-tied rug down the hall to the living room, where folded homemade afghans lie over the backs of the two armchairs and a comfortable-looking sofa arranged around the stone fireplace. The mantel is crowded with a collection of framed photos filled with happy faces.

“I like it here.” Taking a seat on the couch, you imagine curling up with a book and enjoying the warmth of a fire.

“Yeah?” He stands at the mantle, squinting at the pictures, “I do, too,” he says absently as he plucks one of the frames from its spot. "Do you want to stay for a while?"

“Is it safe?” You ask as he sits down beside you, clutching the frame, his side pressing into yours. So far, you haven’t slept in the same house twice. Steve preferred to keep on the move, feeling you were most vulnerable at night. 

“This place seems pretty solid, and it’s close to the water. I think it’s as safe as anywhere at this point.” 

“Then I’d like to stay.” 

It feels like you're building a bubble. A place for only the two of you where you could forget about the reaper that's getting closer to knocking at your door. Even if it’s all an illusion, you’re happy to pretend if he’s with you. 

“I do know who lives here.” He hands you the frame containing a photo of an older couple posed in front of the cottage, the man's arm wrapped around the woman's shoulder. Instead of looking at the camera, their faces are turned to each other. “This is Mrs. Willard,” he says, tapping the glass, “When I was kid, she used to yell at us if she saw us hanging around downtown. She scared the hell out of me. She's always dressed in black, so all the kids call her a witch. If she caught me, I thought she would eat me like in Red Riding Hood.”

“I think that was Hansel and Grettle.” Tucking your leg underneath your body, you turn into him, setting the frame on your lap. “Red Riding Hood got eaten by the wolf.”

His brows pull together. “I thought it was all the same story." 

Laughing, you shake your head in response.

"Anyway," he begins again, pretending to be irritated with your interruption, "My mom told me that her husband died, and she dresses like that because she’s in mourning."

"How long ago did he die?"

"Well, the first time she yelled at me, I was probably about five, looking at the candy in Melvald’s. She told me all my teeth were going to rot and fall out of my head. So he probably died sometime before I was born."

"And she still wears black?" you ask with wide eyes.

He nods. "She still yells at kids too."

Your lips stretch into a grin, and your shoulders rise as you release a sigh.

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

"What?" 

"I know that look," he says, shaking his head, "You think it's romantic."

"It is!" Your fingers wrap around his forearm.

"It's depressing," he says, laughing at you. 

"No. Imagine loving someone so much that even once they're gone, you think about them all the time. A love you can never get over," you explain, squeezing his arm. "That is romantic."

Shaking his head, he glances down at where you're touching him. "I like the way you look at things," he tells you, taking your hand and slipping his fingers into the spaces between yours. “If we're going to stay, we should go into town and get enough food to last us a few days."

"Alright," you say, admiring the way you fit together. Knowing you'll follow him anywhere as long as he keeps holding your hand. 

The walk takes longer than expected. Parts of the asphalt have cracked and given way into deep sinkholes that stretch across entire streets, causing you to backtrack and change routes more than once. 

"I think we better take everything we can carry," he says as he ties the red bandanna covering his mouth and nose. "We might not be able to come back." The smell of rotten food is wafting through the shattered glass doors of Bradley’s Big Buy. Unprepared on your first visit, Steve threw a brick through the glass, and the stench left you both gagging. 

"I'm ready." Your fingers smooth out the cloth covering your face before you follow him through the shattered door. He makes a quick pass across the store, checking down every aisle to make sure you're the only ones in here. After getting the all-clear, you walk to the opposite end of the store, moving up and down the aisles filling your backpack and duffle with anything you deem as a necessity. It's a cruel kind of race to see which will last the longest – your food or the Upside-Down.

Pushing a few cans around on the shelf, you search for the ones that haven't gotten puffy. The zipper on your duffle will never close, but you slip another can of SpaghettiOs in any way, knowing that Steve likes them. Your arms already ache with the thought of carrying all this back to the cottage. 

"I'm done," you call out, lugging your bags to the front of the store, where you leave them to search for Steve. Typically much quicker, he's usually by the door tapping his foot, impatient for you to finish. Today you find him between the moldy bread and crackers, boxes of open Twinkies strewn all over the floor, and loaded bags at his feet.

"What are you doing?" You ask, catching him frowning down at the open box in his hands, its contents a putrid green. 

"These things are supposed to last forever," he grumbles, tossing the box over his shoulder and reaching for another. 

"You don't even like Twinkies, Steve," you point out, amused by the intensity of his search. 

He throws another box on the floor and stops with his hands on his hips, looking at you. "Yeah, but you do." 

He's trying. The muscle in the center of your chest swells, pushing against your rib cage, feeling too big for such a small space as its rhythm changes like a record skipping to a new song. Your feet carry you towards him without your permission, a sudden shift catching you in the pull of his gravity. Your I'll Never list has just shortened by one–you have definitely lost your head for this boy. 

"It's the last box." He picks it up from the otherwise empty shelf, turning it over in his hands before his gaze shifts to you. "I've got a good feeling about this one." His fingers slide beneath the edge of the cardboard breaking the glue. Opening the box, he thumbs threw the cellophane

packets with a sour look.  Finally stopping when a devastating smile takes over his handsome face. 

He pulls out a single package, letting the box with the rest fall to the floor. Holding up the pristine cakes proudly, he quirks his eyebrows at you, looking just as smug as when you laid eyes on his other package yesterday in the cave. 

"Remind me never to bet against you, Harrington," you say, returning his smile. 

He answers with a wink, tucking them away into the breast pocket of his vest. "We'll save these for later."

Later is a decadent concept when it may never come, but delaying will make it taste even sweeter. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and his eyes linger there. He must know that, too. 

“We should go.” 

“Alright.” He retrieves his bags and accompanies you to the front of the store, where he waits for you to adjust the full backpack on your shoulders. The large glass windows begin to rattle in their frames, and a vibration runs under your feet. 

“Shit.” Steve drops his duffle and reaches out to grab your shoulder as sounds of jars smashing and cans falling off the shelves fill the store. The tremor intensifies, sending you careening forward, falling against him. The weight in your pack adds to the force knocking you both to the ground. When you land on top of him the air is driven from your lungs. Strong arms wrap around you, holding you to his chest. One of the big grocery shelves tips over, starting a domino effect. A crack appears on the ground, widening as it lengthens, running straight toward you. Steve rolls you both away as it shoots past, leaving him on top. Then, as quickly as it started, it ends, everything goes still and quiet.

“Are you okay?” He asks a bit too loud, considering your face is inches from his. Sucking in panicked breaths, you manage to nod. He rolls off you onto his back and scrubs his face with both hands. “That was intense. The quakes are getting worse,” he says, trying to regulate his own breathing as the adrenaline leaves him. 

“I think I’ve had enough shopping for one day,” you quip.

“Me too,” he chuckles beside you. “Let’s get out of here.”

The street outside Bradley's didn’t fare any better than inside the store. The fissure that started inside zig zags across the road leaving the building across the street torn in two, collapsing into a deep chasm. A look shared between you is easy to interrupt–you were lucky. 

The destruction means you can’t travel the same route you used to get there, taking you further into a section of town that was already crumbling. Smoke filling the air from the nearby fire mixes with the low-lying mist that is a permanent resident here, making it harder to see more than a few meters ahead. You're shifting your duffle from one arm to the other when Steve's arm shoots out across your body, halting you in your tracks. With his other hand, he brings his index finger to his lips, then points ahead of you. 

Three full-grown Demodogs are becoming visible through the fog, their attention drawn to something squirming between them. Their horrible petal mouths are open, jaws snapping and tearing at the whining creature they're feeding from. Steve hands you his duffle and reaches over his shoulder for the spiked bat sticking out of his pack. He points at an alleyway up ahead and motions for you to follow. Your eyes widen, and you shake your head no, tilting your head back in the direction you came. No, he mouths, pointing at the alley, Trust me. But your gaze moves back to the monsters, the wet squelching of their mouths louder in your ears. He steps in front of you, one hand cupping your jaw, tilting your chin towards him. Trust me, he mouths again. This time you nod, comforted by the deep hazel of his eyes. 

A small smile is your confirmation. The warmth of his hand leaves your face as he turns away from you and takes a few steps toward the alley, looking over his shoulder to make sure you're following. Ice water has replaced your blood, your heart pumps overtime sending it through your veins, making each step forward a struggle. There's a voice screaming for you to turn around and run, but you trust Steve, so you follow. 

Their growls and chitters drown out the sound of your footfalls as you approach the mouth of the alley. As you round the corner, you catch a glimpse of what they're eating. Fear rushes over you in a dark, suffocating wave, the slick gray spotted body of another dog torn open, washed in its own blood. Your hands start to shake, and nausea sets in. The fog seems to permeate your mind. Every line of thought frays at the ends, leaving the one terrible inescapable truth repeating.

This is the end. This is the end. This is the end.

The ashen color that replaced the glow on your skin is one that Steve is familiar with, along with the blank look and the awkward movements of your steps. You’re going into shock. He had seen it happen enough with the others to recognize the signs. He grips your arm above your elbow and steers you down the alley, needing to get you away in case your feet stop cooperating altogether. 

After crossing a few more streets, the smoke starts to thin. There is less damage to this section of town. The rasp that accompanies your breaths is making him nervous. He pries his duffle from your grip, slinging it over his shoulder so he can wrap his arm around your waist, drawing you closer.

“You're okay,” he soothes, “We’re both alright. I’ll get you out of here—just breathe through your nose. Pull down your bandana.”

Relief floods him when you reach up with one hand and yank it off your face. “Good girl. Keep breathing nice and steady. I’m right here with you,” he says, hurrying you along. The streets have become residential, and he directs you through a maze of neighborhoods and backyards, recognizing spots where he played as a child. No, not here. This isn’t home, he thinks, spotting the collection of cracked and broken garden gnomes on Mr. Larson’s front lawn. It’s a nightmare, a cheap knock-off, and as he looks toward the horizon, he realizes nothing could ever replace the real Indiana sky. 

The outlines of the angry storm clouds are still evident even as the dim light fades into the velvet of night, but the flashes of red have been replaced by a smooth, rolling emerald light mixing with pinks and violets—an aurora caused by the gasses being released as the atmosphere cracks. Dustin. That little shit. He was right. It’s happening just as he had warned Steve it would. He wishes he could tell him. 

He glances at you and sees your eyes fixed on the display above, your breathing faltering. Pulling you against him a little tighter, he quickens his pace. 

"No, Steve. Stop," you say, planting your feet, "Just stop."

Your voice startles him. It feels like he hasn't heard it for so long. He lets you pull away and watches as you drop your duffle to the ground.

"Didn’t you see? They were eating each other?" Standing in the near darkness, you rub the ache from your arm.

"I know," he says in a calm voice. 

"You know what that means.” The look on your face is one of resignment.

“Don't think about that right now, okay?” He steps closer, wanting to touch you, but runs a hand through his hair instead. “We need to get back to the cottage. We'll be safe there.” 

“Safe?” 

“I can protect you there.” He gestures in the direction of the woods. The little house is not far now. The disbelief in your voice is making him feel out of control. You’ve never doubted him, and he needs your faith now more than ever. “I'll close the shutters, and we'll move some furniture in front of the doors.” 

“Steve,” your tone is feather-light, both hands land on his chest, one smoothing to his shoulder, “There are some things I want you to know-”

“No,” he cuts you off, pushing at your hands with no real force. 

Circling his neck, you pull his head down until his forehead is pressed against yours. “You’ve been so brave and strong. I’m so grateful.”

"Stop. Don't talk like that." He straightens up and cups your jaw tilting you back to look into your eyes.

“You deserve to kn-”

“No, not yet. This isn’t the end. It can’t be.” He came to this place ready to die, but you made him take the risk and keep living. He’s not ready to give up and won’t let you either. “I need more time. I'm just figuring it out.”

“What is it?” you ask, gripping his wrist, “What are you figuring out?” The thick cover of clouds has thinned, no match for the colors dancing all around you. He can see their brightness gleaming in your eyes. 

“That you're all I need.” 

It's not a choice anymore when his lips press against yours. It's just something that is, like the rain or a season. It comes whether it's beckoned or not. He feels a little foolish that he was ever unsure when you kiss him back like you've been his from the start. Always so busy trying to be the hero he almost missed it when someone saved him in return. 

Fingers wandering along your jaw, he swallows your sighs and your air, your want until he feels your hands wrapping around his waist, pulling him close, then he gives it right back. The world around you passes in a blur while tongues and swollen lips move languid and deep. This is where he lives now, in this kiss. All along, you've been his reward, and now that he's claimed you, he won't ever let go. He would've stayed here forever until your soft whisper between a series of broken-up kisses. 

"Steve, take me home."

The cottage is quiet until you hear the first bang of the shutters being closed, followed by the slide of the bolt. After leaving the bags of food in the kitchen, you stand in the living room wiping your palms on the front of your jeans, counting each strike of the wood against the walls as Steve moves around the outside of the house, knowing that each one is bringing him closer to coming through the front door. Your fingers touch your kiss-stung lips, still feeling how his mouth pressed against yours, creating a loop of electricity, passing from him into you, making your heart glow like a bulb, lighting up every secret place inside you until you had nowhere left to hide the truth. You've completely fallen for him. 

He walks inside, his eyes seeking out yours. A lock of hair falls over his brow as his lips turn upward, and he reaches for you. A hand on your waist, the other gripping your chin tilting your face to catch your bottom lip between his. 

"Help me move this." He kisses you once more before motioning you to the other end of the heavy oak credenza. It scrapes and catches against the wood-planked floor, but you manage to wedge it up against the door. 

The tension feels thicker than the fog rolling over the dry lake bed when you're finally closed in together. His flashlight clicks on, casting a dim beam in the direction of the bedroom. Eyes on each other, you wait to see who will be the first to crack—it's you. Taking his hand with a gentle pull, you lead him down the hall. The uneven floor creaks as you shuffle into the bedroom, letting go of his hand, you stop at the foot of the bed and wait. It's his turn now. 

Your fingers fist the cuffs of your sweatshirt while he goes about his routine. Flashlight on top of the dresser. Bat leaning by the door. Knife and Barretta on the nightstand, and then his heavy backpack hits the floor, followed by his jacket and vest. He sneaks glances at you the entire time, checking for signs that you’ve changed your mind, but you’ve never been more sure.

“You left the flashlight on,” you remind him when he moves into your space. He has been like that since you met, always standing a little too close. This whole wide world all to yourselves, and he was never more than a few inches away.

“I want to see you,” he admits. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," comes out breathy as his thumb traces across your cheek. Remembering the way the water dripped down his chest in the cave has you hoping the batteries will last. 

His head dips to capture your lips in a slow wet slide while his hands cradle your jaw, angling your head to take the kiss deeper. Dreamy minutes tick by, his attention never leaving your mouth. His controlled pace makes you feel needy and wanton. When you feel the sharp edge of his teeth against your lip, you know you aren't alone. Hands slide down your nape, across your shoulders, skimming down your sides. Fingers coming to rest in the hem of your sweatshirt. 

"Can I take this off?"

You're so lightheaded it takes seconds to respond. Nodding your head and raising your arms toward the beamed ceiling. His hands grip the layers of material, riding you of them all at once instead of one at a time. The gold in his eyes turns molten as they pass over every curve and line he's uncovered. His knuckles turn white, fisting your shirt, and how he looks at you makes your knees a bit weak. Pulling your clothes from his hands, you let them fall to the floor.

"You're so goddamn pretty," he says, barely louder than a whisper.

"I know," you tease, earning you an easy smile and his hands on your waist, drawing you close.  His head drops to your neck, chuckling against your skin, making your whole body break out in shivers. 

"You're funny." His lips move on your skin before placing a wet kiss on a spot that has your toes curling inside your boots. "There were a couple of times I had to try really hard not to laugh.”

“I-I knew…you were holding out on me, Harrington,” you stammer as he moves to the spot below it. 

“I wanted you to keep trying,” he says, adding gentle suction.

Whatever you were going to say comes out in a whine, but it was probably something like, please don't stop. He continues down to your collarbone, hands stroking up your back, releasing the catch on your bra. Letting the strap fall down your shoulders, you pull it out from between you as his mouth reaches the swell of your breast. Warm hands cup you as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, the sensation shooting straight to your core.

“Steve,” you beg when he switches to the other side, not knowing if you want him to stop or give you more. Tugging him up by the collar, you crash your lips into his, but he slows you down with the backs of his fingers along your cheeks and a kiss so gentle it makes you want to cry. He walks you backward until your butt hits the mattress, and he leans forward, laying you down carefully until you're leaning on your elbows. With another soft press of his mouth, Steve straightens and sighs, looking down at you spread out for him. 

“I would never have stopped,” you say when he lifts your foot and presses it against his thigh to loosen your laces. He swallows hard, nodding in understanding before he goes back to removing your boots and socks. This feels so different. He's making it different, taking care of every part of you like he wants it all. 

Your fingers find their way into the gaps of the knitted afghan you're lying on while you watch him take off his boots and shirt. A dark patch of hair starts at the center of his chest and fans out. Even in this dark place, his skin looks golden. This is really happening. A flutter of nerves mixes with tingles of arousal.

His knee hits the edge of the bed, and you inch back toward the center as he crawls over you, settling into the cradle of your thighs. Skin finally meeting skin, you each release identical sighs.

"I should have kissed you when we were in the cave," he says, lips ghosting a path along your cheek. 

"It's okay." Your eyes are heavy-lidded as you run your hands over the dips in his spine, enjoying the feel of him. "You're kissing me now."

"I should have kissed you every day." He places a kiss on the corner of your mouth before pulling back and smoothing the hair at your temples. "I'm sorry I wasted so much time."

"Steve," you cradle his jaw, "You were worth the wait." Your whole life, you've been waiting for him, and the way he's kissing you now, you'd have waited even longer. Every kiss is a poem—pretty words printed on lips and tongues. Every touch is a story all its own. 

He toys with the button on your jeans. Your zipper being lowered sounds like a needle dragging across a record. Moving onto his knees, he drags the denim down your legs, kissing each hip and your soaked panty-covered center before removing those too.

Kneeling to join him, your mouth finds the sharp line of his stubbled jaw. He groans, head tipping back, giving you better access to place soft, gentle bites along the column of his throat while your hands open his belt and pants. When you look down, the broad head of his cock is already pushing through the band of his boxers. Grabbing both layers, you ease them off his hips. He helps by pushing them the rest of the way down his legs, sending them to the floor with a kick. 

Bared to each other in the yellow glow of the flashlight, you can feel the pages flipping by. Time is a luxury, but you won’t rush to the end. Laying down beside each other, you explore everything you've uncovered. In this moment, he’s yours. It feels decadent to touch him—a layer of softness over lean muscle. You’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. 

His hands slide over you, warming your skin, molding to each curve. Every inch of you is admired. When his fingers move between your legs, your vision gets hazy, stars bursting at the edges. He spreads slickness through your folds while his lips stay pressed against yours. The warm blanket of pleasure becomes hotter, heavier—you grip his forearm with a shaking hand. 

“Don’t be scared,” he says against your lips, “Tonight is for us.”

“I’m not scared,” you reply, pulling him closer, you can’t think of any place safer than in his arms.

“Why are you trembling?” He asks, brows pulling together.

“Because I’ve never wanted anything this much.”

Your legs fall open as he positions himself between them, lining up with your entrance. No doubts that you both are ready. He's slow and gentle with his first push inside you. Your body stretches and takes, then stretches and takes some more. He's about halfway when you can't help but clench around him, and he thrusts forward with a moan. Your back arches involuntarily, feeling fuller than you've ever been before. 

"Sorry." He nudges you with his nose.

"Don't apologize." You kiss wherever you can reach. "Do it again."

He chuckles, and his hips flex enough to have your breath catching, still getting used to his size.

"You feel so good." His eyes briefly close as your walls flutter around him, and he begins to move in slow, shallow strokes. "Like you're made for me, honey." 

You're starting to think maybe you were. Maybe you were made for each other. He drops to his forearms, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. His hand slides over your hip and down your thigh, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist so can bury himself deeper. He rocks into you with a steady pace, gazes locked, trading sighs, impossible to be any closer. The ache in your heart swells, spreading through you. A tear spills over your lash line, it's too much for you to contain. 

"I love you," you whisper as he wipes it with his thumb. "I thought you should know." 

His movements still. He stares down at you and swallows hard, trying to loosen the tightness in his throat. "Tell me again." 

"I love you." 

Taking your hand, he holds it against the center of his chest. His heart beats against your palm. He's been telling you this whole time. He smiles, and it feels brighter than the sun. Your hand stays pressed against the warm skin over his heart as his head dips, sealing his soft lips to yours.

His kiss is filled with words left unsaid and unrestrained desire. Your hips roll involuntarily, desperate for friction as you whimper into his mouth. He breaks away with a scrape of teeth and hungry eyes.

"I need you," he mumbles, lifting your hips to change the angle. His hand grips the back of your thigh, pushing it toward your chest, using it as leverage as he drives into you with smooth deep rolling thrusts. Jolts of white-hot pleasure bloom from your core and radiate to every cell when he finds that switch inside you. The one that has you crying out. The one that didn’t exist before him. You’re not surprised. He’s good at everything he does. 

“That’s it, honey. I want to hear all those pretty noises.” His fingers tighten, pressing into the plush of your thigh as his hips snap forward. The smacks of skin on skin become the baseline for your harmony of moans and pleas. Your heels dig into his backside as your hips rise to meet his thrusts. The chill in the room does nothing to calm the heat between you or the sheen of sweat covering your bodies.

"Steve...I–"

Threads of love and pleasure weave together until they're a single silken cord pulling taunt inside you. He releases your thigh, working his hand between you, his thumb circling your slick clit. 

"Please, baby. I want to feel you cum." 

The rasp in his voice. The desperate look on his face. You're his, and there's nothing you'd deny him. The cord snaps with you crying out his name, pulsing around him, fingers digging into the muscles that cap his shoulders. Euphoria crests in big surges that go on and on as he thrusts lose their tempo. He groans as warmth starts to fill you, painting your walls white with his release. 

He eases onto you, and you take his weight cradling him to your chest. 

"I love you. I love you. I love you," you whisper, maybe too low for him to hear, your hands smooth over his back while your legs wrap tightly around him. He kisses along your temple before taking your face in his hands. 

"I don't regret a single decision that led me to you."

For an instant, you live a lifetime that could have been in each other's eyes. Then his head lowers, and your eyes close. Tender kisses turn hot, and he’s hard inside you. Distant howls echo through the dead trees while strange winds rattle the shutter of the cottage, but both go unnoticed as you claim the night as yours. Each time he has you, the need for each other only grows. After your bodies have given each other everything there is to give, sleep steals you away a few hours before the light changes.

He's still holding you when the vibrations send the bedside lamp crashing to the floor. Wisps of smoke curl in the air when you wake up in the hazy room with a burning throat and begin coughing. Steve grabs your arm and pulls you from the bed. He braces one arm against the door frame and holds you against his chest with the other. The tremors increase. The sounds of falling things and breaking dishes mix with the rumbling of the earth. A crack forms at the bottom of the far wall and runs diagonally toward the ceiling.  A scream rips from your dry throat when the window explodes into a shower of glass, and smoke pours into the room. 

“We’ve gotta get out now,” Steve yells when the quake abruptly stops. “Get dressed and grab what you can.”

Grabbing your crumpled jeans from the floor, you slide them over your hips and shove your feet into your boots. Your sweatshirt sticks out from under the bed, and when you kneel to grab it, the black metal handle of the Baretta catches your eye. Steve has finished dressing and is grabbing his pack and bat when you finish pulling the sweatshirt over your head.

“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand for you to take. He leads you into the living room, where half the ceiling has collapsed, spoiling any chance of you moving the heavy credenza that blocks the front door. 

“The window,” you cry, backtracking into the bedroom with Steve right behind you. He lifts you through the broken frame but is left with no choice other than to grip the window frame to climb out. Jagged glass slicing his hand in the process.

“Your hand.” Your fingers circle his wrist, trying to assess the damage.

“It’s alright,” he says, pulling a bandana from his pocket and squeezing it into his fist,“We have to go.” His injured hand goes around your shoulder, turning you away from the cottage. Blood flows through the gaps of his fingers, dripping onto your sweatshirt as he keeps you tucked into his side. 

The dense, acrid smoke makes finding your way through the trees hard. Smoldering twigs and vines rain down all around you, igniting piles of dry leaves on the forest floor. Your mouth opens with a gasp when your eyes turn skyward to see the treetops blazing and the billows of rolling red and orange flames that have replaced the dark clouds, completely consuming the atmosphere. The smoke thins as you make it out of the woods and into the open center of the dry lake.

Hot tears pour from your eyes, leaving streaks of soot down your face, and you can't stop coughing, trying to clear your distressed lungs. The quarter-full canteen from Steve’s pack is pressed into your hands.

“Drink it,” he rasps, coughing and spitting the black from his lungs.

Twisting the top, you gulp it, careful to drink only half. He shakes his head when you hold it out to him, but you take his hand and wrap it around the bottle, not giving him a choice. With an annoyed look, he finishes the water.

“What do we do?” you ask, panicked, watching his head turn back and forth, trying to decide the best course of action. The smoke and fog make it hard to see more than fifty feet in any direction. He looks down at your alarmed face, the sorrow in his eyes giving you his answer. 

No. It can't be over. Pressing the heels of your hands to your forehead, you wrack your brain for any answer. 

"The cave," you grasp his arms, pleading.

"Is it deep enough?" He asks, the doubt written on his face. 

"I-I don't know." You shake your head with fresh tears filling your eyes. 

His face hardens in determination. "Let's go."

Hands locked together, you race through the tangle of vines covering the limestone bed toward the other side of the lake, where the cave is tucked into the side of a hill just beyond the edge of the woods. Glancing back over your shoulder, you can see a wall of flames has crashed like a wave engulfing the houses and the little cottage cutting you off from the way back to town. The smoke thickens as the wind picks up, shortening your field of vision and slowing you down. 

"Almost there," Steve reassures as you do your best to keep up with his long strides.

You doubt your ears when you first hear it, thinking it's just a tree snapping and the roar of the fire. It's the high pitch chittering that has terror creeping up your spine.  Its outline becomes visible through the smoke. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Petal mouth in full bloom. Your body freezes in place. Your grip on Steve’s hand tightens like a vice.

“Stay behind me,” he tells you, shaking his hand from your clasp as the monster comes into full view. It limps forward, smoke rising from charred skin covering half its body, its damaged clawed limb hanging loosely at its side—sticky strings of saliva drip from its rows of teeth.

Steve waves a hand behind him, motioning for you to stay back while he steps forward with caution. He plants his feet, twirling the bat before catching it with his other hand, holding it up high over his shoulder. His fingers open and close around the handle to adjust his grip. A low growl vibrates the flaps of its open mouth as the thing keeps moving forward. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Steve says in a low, calm voice, “You’re already hurt. Just let us walk on by.” 

You’re astonished when the monster stops, like maybe it understood him, and for a heartbeat, you think it may have listened. 

It charges forward with a deafening roar, claw swiping at Steve's head. Missing when Steve drops into a low batter’s crouch, swinging his bat and connecting with the burned half of its abdomen. It shrieks when the nails tear through its flesh. Black blood pouring from the wound.  Steve gives it no time to recover. Hitting it again and again, driving the thing back. It howls, disappearing into the smoke. 

Your pulse is drumming in your ears as everything goes quiet. Steve stands there, elbow up, ready to swing. Trees pop and crackle as the fire spreads through the woods. Your eyes strain, trying to see into the smoke, but there's nothing. Adrenaline starts to dissipate, and Steve's arm comes down slowly. He glances over his shoulder, giving you a smug smile, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

It pounces from the fog, screeching. Backhanding Steve, sending him flying. He hits the ground hard, rolling, trying to get to his feet, but the monster is already too close, on all fours, ready to strike. 

"No!" you scream, drawing its attention. Reaching back, your hand closes over the grip of the Barretta tucked into your jeans. The thing looks at you, and you fire. The bullet punches through the burnt skin of its shoulder.  With an ear-splitting scream, it gallops toward you. Your finger squeezes the trigger in rapid succession. Unloading the clip. Missing more than you hit. Its claw rips through your forearm, knocking the gun from your hand. Clutching your arm, you fall backward onto your butt, trying to inch away.

It knows it has you now. Dropping to all fours, it slowly crawls over you, drooling onto your clothes. It blows its wet breath into your face as it chitters. Your stomach rolls at the stench, and your eyes flutter close as it rears back to strike. 

Wetness splatters your face. The axe head is logged halfway into the back of the monster's thick neck. With a gurgle, the thing falls to its side. With your good arm and feet, you scurry backward away from it. Blood runs down the side of Steve's face from where the skin is split open on his forehead. Breathing hard, he stomps his boot onto the shoulder of the creature. There's a wet sucking sound as he pulls the axe from its neck. He grunts, bringing it down over and over until the monster's head is separated from its body. 

The axe clangs when it hits the ground. Steve wipes the blood from his eyes with the back of his hands. It’s too much, you want to be brave for him, but you can’t hold back the tears.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he says in a soft voice helping you to your feet, “Don’t cry.” He wraps his blood-soaked bandana around your arm and pulls you into his chest. “You’re alright.”

Your hands wrap around his waist, dipping under his shirt so you can feel his smooth skin under your fingers while he rubs reassuring circles up and down your back as your teardrops darken the leather of his jacket.

"Aren't you glad you taught me to shoot?" you ask, sniffing into his shoulder, smiling when you feel his chest vibrating with laughter. 

"I guess it came in handy after all," he says with his lips kissing along your temple.

"You saved me, Steve." 

"I didn't–"

"You did."

"I didn't, but I wish I had."

"Look at me." He cradles your jaw to tip your head back, and the small motion leaves you dizzy. As you stand in each other's embrace, the haze and smoke have thickened. 

“You’re beautiful.” His thumb rubs along your cheek, and you laugh, knowing you're covered with soot and gore. “You are, and you deserve to know.”

“Thank you,” you say, knowing why he’s telling you. While you fought off the monster, the blaze swept through the woods, leaving walls of fire surrounding the lake. The vines covering the bed have started to catch. Soon the flames on the ground will flare higher, joining the fiery sky. The planet will heat and explode. The two of you will become bright lights in the cosmos. Constellations. Star dust. Souls forever wandering the galaxies. 

"I love you," he tells you with tears in his eyes, "I do. I love you."

"I love you too." Your throat burns with the effort to speak.

"Close your eyes."

Your eyes close as his head dips and his soft lips press against yours. His hand slides to the back of your neck and you cling to him. Trading breaths, tongues dancing. 

This kiss is a thousand words. 

This kiss is goodbye. 

The heat is at your back and through your closed eyes the light gets brighter. His grip on you tightens before the kiss breaks and you hear him calling out your name. When you look for him, it's too bright to see, like you're staring into the sun. His hands slip as he's pulled away from you, sliding over your shoulders and arms until you're connected by just your fingertips. 

"No. El." His voice comes from far away. Echoing down a tunnel. "Not without her."

"Steve," you scream as his fingers slip away. "Steve!" But you're alone with the howl of the wind and the taste of smoke in your mouth. Your hands come up to shield your face as the light gets brighter, and then there's nothing. 

Part 3 Here

AN: So what do you think is in store for these two? Are they going to make it? Thanks to everyone who took the time to comment & reblog Part 1. Writing this fic has been challenging, so the comments meant a lot. But even if you're shy and don't like to comment but still took the time to read I'm still very grateful. My asks are always open, (Anon or Not) Do me a soild and reblog if you liked it. 💋 -Jelly

Another big thanks to @myeuphoricmindset for letting me adapt her concept.

[medu-nefer]

y'all seemed to quite like the little crocheted ruthari (TY 💘) so i thought maybe some of you would be interested in a few close-ups 👀

(i added some crocheter rambling so feel free to just click on the photo and swipe to skip all that)

i also throught perhaps @careful-silent-still and @hypherr would like to see them too? 👉👈

so. first up, runaan. he has wire inside so he has some degree of movement, but he's also quite stuffed and the movement is unfortunately limited

i've been crocheting for a year, so the idea of coming up with my own patterns for his clothes was terrifying. therefore, i ended up doing just his boots, pants and the vest (it's hot in the silvergrove this time of the year, he doesn't need the shirt or the coat 😅), plus of course the horn cuffs. all accesories are removable of course. the original idea for the pendant was for it to be just one strand with a loop at the end but it didn't look good at all so i switched to something way simpler and more effective)

i suck at embroidery and i hate it but what can you do 🫠

so i made runaan first and he was going to be a little birthday gift to myself, but ofc it'd be criminal to make only him and the plan has always been to make him a little ethari too. i finished him on the 5th so i guess it all ended up being a gift for him 🤣

once i saw his turnarounds, though, it took me quite some time to hype myself up to actually start making him, because it's so many different clothes with no existing patterns and they're all so detailed (runaan's were too but i had gained some confidence while making him and wanted to work on ethari properly) 😩 still, i somehow did it.

i did change the flap of fabric hanging from his belt as i had no way of making a smooth ombre transition from purple to dark turquoise like he actually has it - so instead of 2 jarring colours, it's 4 jarring colours 😂 and i also didn't do the embroidery on that part and it made me very happy - especially since there was plenty of embroidery i couldn't skip

and just like with runaan, all of his articles of clothing are removable (the flap is sewn onto the belt, and the green patches are sewn onto the boots but other than that, everything is separate)

there is, however, one issue 😅 i think it stems from a couple of choices i made: 1. i used a different, slightly thicker type of yarn for ethari's body than i did for runaan; 2. i used a 3,0 mm hook instead of 2,5 mm; and 3. i messed up the patterns for ethari's limbs (i did them in rounds instead of rows; it was late and i was tired and by the time i realised that, i was on the 3rd one & couldn't be bothered to scrap them all - which i probably should have done XD oh well).

the first 2 choices were deliberate as ethari is canonically a little bit taller than runaan, but umm...

let's just assume elves grow until they're 40 or so, and so after 2 years in the coin, runaan stayed behind 😅

oh, and i also wanted them to be able to hold hands so they have magnets in their hands but in the end, they weren't strong enough to still work through two layers of yarn ☹️ i guess i could still use a little clasp but we'll see about that

so yeah. here they are 😊

P.S. please enjoy runaan at his baby yoda phase:

[gamebunny-advance]

1010 Malt Shop - Green Plushie

It's done. It's finally done. 1 week of blood, sweat, and tears (mostly blood), and he's done.

But I don't have a good enough camera nor photography skills to really capture his true charm ;w;

(Boring self reflection + more pics under the cut)

Anyway, this is the project I've been working on lately. No particular thing really prompted this. Like most things I do, it was started on a whim and finished with will power. I don't really have much experience with plush making or sewing, so despite his obvious faults, I still think he turned out pretty nicely for an amateur.

As per usual, I didn't have enough foresight to document the process, but I can nonetheless talk about the experience and point out some details of it.

Firstly, he's a pretty large lad. Here he is compared to the official DJSS plush and one of the test prints I did of "Melon Float."

Counting his straw, he's about 16 inches tall. I wasn't counting on him being so big, so I don't really know what I'm gonna do with him now...

I say this took a week, but I probably could have quartered that time if I had a working sewing machine, but since I didn't, the majority of the time was spent just sewing the thing together. (Btw, pattern over here.) The only fabric details that weren't hand-sewn are the circle/stripe details on his pants and shoes, and the bow/buttons on his shirt, which were all glued on.

The base pattern didn't come with any clothes, so I just adapted the body patterns into clothes. Structurally, he's basically wearing a second skin~ I did think about making the gloves for the sake of accuracy, but at that point, the only skin he'd be showing is his face, and I wanted to keep some soft parts out since his clothes are so stiff. They're so stiff, they can stand on their own and be stacked on top of each other without falling over.

(The plush has a harder time standing than his clothes do...)

Speaking of the clothes, let me say right now that it bothers me more than anyone else that the paint details don't color-match his pants. I was so high on the euphoria of starting this project that when I was out getting supplies, I saw some glow-in-the-dark paint and thought it'd be a great idea since he's a robot and all. The color on the bottle looked close enough at the time, and the original plan was that only the face would be painted with the other details being felt, but on top of me forgetting that effects paint takes a long time to build up layers, the green also dried differently than I thought it would, so it threw everything off, but I didn't have the patience to suck it up and repaint everything with a better color match. I did try to add a light gradient with my pastels like in the original art work, but it turned out so light that it's barely perceivable and totally not worth the clamminess I get when I touch chalk.

I think the most time-consuming part was his hair. While sewing the body together took 2 days, the clothes 2 days, and painting 1 day, the hair took about 3 as I had to figure out essentially how to do it myself on the fly. The first day was mostly trial and error. I did find a couple of online tutorials about how to get this loopy yarn hair, but the ones that I found both required tools that I didn't have. Eventually, I figured out a way to make it work, but I feel like it was less than efficient:

Basically, his hair is made with chunks of yarn that are tied together, and each chunk is individually sewn into place. I didn't count, but I think there are 13-14 hair chunks total to give him a full head. I do like how I made his bangs uneven to mimick how I draw his hair, but I couldn't quite pull off having his distinct hair-part and I couldn't figure out how to give the illusion of half his hair being straight without it looking weird. (I did try cutting the loops to let the strands be straight, but I didn't like the look of it, so I kept them all loopy).

This is a weird thing to say out of context, but I'm especially proud of the back of his head. Originally I was just going to paint on his undercut (which I'm glad I didn't because this paint REALLY hardens the cotton), so I got the bright idea to sew on individual strands of yarn for it. I think the effect is great, but I would not wish it upon my worst enemy, because to get the effect, I had to sew on each. strand. individually. The day I made the face poll, and said that was going to be a break day? I wound up doing this instead, and it took just as long to sew in those 20+ strands of yarn as it did the rest of his hair.

To segway into that poll, as you can see, I went with option 2 with some slight edits. Just the white/green eyes looked a little plain to me, so I added my usual dark pupil and added a green-star glitter to the center. I'm the one that has to live with this thing for the foreseeable future, so I made some executive decisions. Unfortunately, there were a few errors while painting, which you can clearly see in the above pictures OTL. I did try to seal off my painting areas with tape, but it still bled and stained in a few places. I don't really know if it's possible to clean the stains without ruing the rest of the face, but if you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

There are a few extra details that I guess are worth pointing out: he's actually wired. I put in some armature wire so he'd be able to move his limbs despite the stiff felt but... I didn't secure them that well, and the wire for his arms got displaced, so I currently can't bend them ;3;. I'd have to open him up again to replace it, and I REALLY don't want to undress him again to get to his back. The worst thing about this plush is that his clothes are so stiff that he's actually very hard to dress.

The wire in his legs is mostly still in place, so he can at least (kinda) sit.

I think the last thing worth talking about is the ice cream accessory. It was really simple to make (it's just air dry clay over foil + extra pieces), but it's cute, so I wanted to point it out~

It's a hair clip, so it can be taken on and off. Theoretically, it could be worn by a person, but it's a little heavy to be wearing it all day~ The camera/lighting really blew out the colors, but I think it turned out to be a nice creamy french vanilla color like I really wanted~

Other details like the glitter on his eyes/cheeks can't really be captured on my shitty ipod camera, but rest assured that he is pleasantly sparkling~

I think my biggest takeaway from this project has been materials: I thought that using felt would be a great alternative to having to buy an entire yard of fabric for a one time project, but besides the paint, it was the hardest material to work with. If I have to pick and choose, next time I think the body will be felt, and the clothes will be cotton, or maybe I'll actually invest in some fleece, so it can be soft all the way~ Since the clothes are removable, I could theoretically make him his default sailor suit and just replace the straw with his proper hair loop to convert this into a "canon" design plush, but we'll see what the future holds. I did get the felt colors to make my *other* babygirl, but given this experience, I may hold off on making him until a much later date.

[rockingrobin69]

Achievement

“It’s not great,” he hears himself say, hiding behind his fingers. Takes half a deep breath, chokes on the rest of it. “I didn’t have enough time. It’s just…”

“Harry.” He doesn’t look up. “Harry.” Then, gently, “Darling.”

He’s always been helpless when it comes to this. Soft. Raising his glance an inch, then another, until his hands drop almost by themselves. Draco is standing there, in the jumper he’d borrowed, in those boots, in that smile. The one that makes Harry’s chest go all big, all warm. Hand outstretched, an offering.

Harry takes it without even thinking. Hears this sound wrenching out of him, something pitiful and small, something awful. Draco reacts instinctively, immediately, wrapping around him.

“Do you even know,” he says. Voice a little nasally, a little too high. “Do you have any idea how much…”

Harry buries his face in Draco’s neck, sheltered by his hair, soft and faintly lemony. He always brings his own shampoo, which Harry finds infuriatingly endearing. Loves that he gets to smell it after he leaves. Loves that he gets to make the connections: lemon zest and lemonade and sour candy taste like this, like hands running through his hair. Like…

He sniffles, tries to gather himself. Everything feels brand open, brand new, scary and marvellous. He imagined this moment a hundred times, always so different: in his head Harry would be strong, and confident, and the present he worked so hard on would be beautiful, and complete. It’s Christmas Eve, and this is all he’s got. Snot, and tears, and this.

“Darling,” gentle fingers coax his chin up. A hesitant smile grows on Draco’s lips, something peculiar and sweet.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. Wipes his face on the back of his hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—shit, it’s all wet now.”

He didn’t even wrap it yet. Was startled out of breath when Draco waltzed in, mincing the words to Jingle Bells something awful, in the jumper he’s borrowed, Harry’s favourite, and the boots that make him look ten feet tall, and—and he forgot to hide it behind his back, forgot to blink. Eyes stinging, chest tight. And Draco’s seen, and now it’s—ruined.  

He bought the yarn especially for this. Molly helped him pick. She’s the one who suggested, when she saw how shaky his hands always got. The one who taught him, slowly, how to untangle a mess he’s made, how to start again. And then Draco, and this, lemony shampoo and long nights on the rug and cold air in a chest that feels almost too full, and—the lump in his throat returns, makes him choke.

“I have a hair blower,” Draco says seriously, then squints when a desperate chuckle rips out of Harry’s chest. “What? Is that not—shut up, doesn’t matter. I’ll blow it dry in seconds. That’s not what’s… you know that’s not important, right?”

Harry shrugs. It’s a little important, he thinks. Doesn’t know how to say it, how to explain. It’s Christmas Eve; they’re supposed to leave in ten minutes, drinks at Ron’s. Draco picks the wet crochet out of Harry’s hand, holds it so carefully. “I’ll have it dried. Do you want to grab some wrapping paper?”

“But,” Harry frowns, “but you’ve already seen it.”

“So?” he rolls his eyes, kisses the tip of Harry’s nose. “Go on, get the paper. Is that what you’re wearing to—never mind, sorry, sorry. But won’t you get cold? Let me grab a hoodie. Because if you think you’re ever getting this jumper back…”

He gasps when Harry takes him by the elbows, guides him close. In his hands the little dragon in yellows and golds, Harry’s miniature creation that took him an unreasonable amount of time. That he had to learn, slowly, how not to give up on.

“I don’t want it back,” he says. His voice is gruff. “There’s a… there’s another part to this present. But you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

“Will I.” His eyes glimmer. Or maybe it’s the lights from the tree, orange, red, green, blue. Yellow, like lemons. Like love.

His gift might not be entirely ready, but it does feel sort of complete.

A little end-of-the-year present for my accomplished, wonderful, dear @callmegri. The gifts you grant us with your words and your art always give me this sort of feeling: full, bright and warm. I admire you, and love you with my entire heart. 

[kinetic-elaboration]

December 9: Murphy & Miller, Worst Secret Santa Gift

For the prompt "“I’m going to buy/make the worst secret Santa gift humanly possible," requested by @fontainebleau22. Thank you!

Murphy & Miller, ~660 words, modern AU

I reblogged some winter/holiday prompts here, and I'm accepting requests if anyone is interested.

*

"I am going to make the worst secret Santa gift humanly possible," Murphy announces, as he surveys the coffee table, and the mess of crafting supplies he has arrayed upon it.

Miller looks up. He's sitting sideways in the armchair, his legs over the arm. For over an hour now has been so engrossed in his book that he's barely paid any attention to the sounds of Murphy moving, gathering, arranging, dropping, and piling up his hoard of Christmas stuff. When he catches sight of the coffee table now, his eyebrows rise up.

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a declaration of intent," Murphy answers. He's got that glint in his eyes that says he's scheming and proud of it.

Miller just shrugs. "That table looks like an elf threw up on it," he says, and turns back to his book.

"That's the idea." He picks up some scraps of yarn in one hand, and a small canister of round red and green beads in the other. "I want to create something that looks like it came from Christmas Town by way of hell."

"What did your secret Santa giftee ever do to you?" He flips a page. Then glances up one more time. "It's not me, is it?"

"Nathan. Have you forgotten what the word secret means?" He's starting to fold a piece of white paper now, as if to make a snowflake, creasing it hard enough to give himself paper cuts. "This isn't about the giftee, this is about Clarke."

"And her insistence that everyone make their Christmas gift this year?"

"Yeah. She has artistic talent. She is probably going to give her giftee some amazing piece of art that looks like it could hang in a museum and what am I supposed to do? Hmmm? What am I supposed to make?"

"Elf vomit from hell?"

"Exactly." Underneath all the glitter, beads, yarn, paper, felt, tape, and glue is a rectangular cardboard box, not much bigger than a shoe box. Miller can see, out of the corner of his eye, Murphy extract it from beneath the wreckage of every elementary school craft project ever, and eye it warily. His half-finished snowflake has fallen to the floor.

"So your gift's for Clarke?"

"I didn't say that."

"Right."

He returns to his book. From the couch, he can smell the scent of Elmer's glue and hear the rattling of beads, the soft sound of Murphy cursing, and the sharp cutting sound of scissors slicing through paper.

"So what's going in the box?"

"Nothing. The box is the gift."

Miller looks up, tilts his chin down and stares at Murphy as if over the top of invisible glasses. Murphy stops, one garish felt snowman in his hand and the bottle of glue in the other.

"What? It's a beautiful keepsake."

"Don't be a troll."

Not to Clarke.

Murphy just snorts, and for a while afterword, works in a suspiciously uninterrupted silence.

But when Clarke opens the box on Christmas Eve, at the annual friend group holiday exchange—the box that looks like the monstrous reject from an kindergarten art class, so doused in glitter that it's shedding sparkles all over Clarke's hands and festive knitted sweater—she smiles a genuine, sweet smile, and says, "Thank you, Murphy," in a voice softer than Miller's ever heard her use before.

And the next time he sees her, she's wearing the cracked watch case from her father’s wristwatch on a chain around her neck.

"How'd you even get your hands on it, anyway?" he asks Murphy later. "I haven't even seen it since it broke and she stopped wearing it."

Murphy just stares at him, stone-faced, the smallest tic at the corner of his mouth the only indication of a smile. But Miller knows it would be a self-satisfied grin if he would let it. "You're not the only thief around here, Nate," he says.

[marv3l-drag0ns]

Technoblade cosplay planning (top secret) (my eyes only) (unless you wanna talk to me about it :eyes:)

Ok so im the biggest pignoblade supporter but thats gonna be technically hard and ill need to make a mask. Previous plans involve modifying a dinomask ala skulldog fursuit to make a boar skull and then have longer pink mane around it. merit!

However i already have tusks and i kinda wanna do a long hair wig for him so i might cave and do human techno. choices.

I want to give him a thigh chainmail (drawing to follow) because i think that sounds awesome. I also need to see if I can find calf high brown or black boots that actually fit my calf so. ill probably have to order them full price. sad. but i can make the chainmail! glad :D (new skill tree to pursue)

I'm probably also going to delve into making a cow-lion-boar combination tail (i have drawings with what i want, itll probably be thin felt a little stuffing around a wire core with a tuft of fur (maybe brushed yarn?) at the end to make it fluffy)

AND THEN THE BEST PART THE ONE IVE BEEN COLELCTING PARTS FOR!!!!!!!! I have this awesome red coat that i actually. cannot find who made it. but its so awesome and i want to use it for the techno cosplay, with either a rabbit fur ruff (white fur) or with the sheepskin scraps i got at the rummage sale a month ago. HOWEVER. new idea emerged recently.

I saw. a GORGEOUS. half cloak with a very full and fluffy pure white fur ruff (however i think it was fox fur which ive heard is a) more expensive and b) often fur farmed?) at the ren faire it was such a gorgeous deep wine color and the fur was so flufy AND!!!! it had cloak clasps that were golden chain and had blue crystals in the pin part and i immediately thought ''oh eyes of ender for sure!'' !!!!!!!!! and i also recently saw a tiktok from a shop advertising a longer red cloak that had a super cool pattern and way of securing it but thats also really expensive so i might have to learn how to make a combination of all three by myself (i love diy and im also not rich enough to get this).

Also the eye of ender amulet i painted would be really good, and i want to search for a dangly green jewel earing as well as some other ones either to put in the techno ears id have to make (this is seriously going to be the cosplay i learn to make fursuit gear lmao) or decide which ones to put in my ears (so also potentially clip on earrings since i only have the lobes).

was there anything else.... OH PROP MAKING i cant decide on what prop i want to make so we'll see what happens.

but yeah!!!!! im super excited and theres so many cool skills for me to learn and also a really fun cosplay ive been wanting to do for 2-3 years iirc. so we'll see!

[gaviicreates]

WIP Wednesday - 2023 May 31

I'm back, but no promises about better than ever. I can't live up to that pressure. :D But what I can do is give a quick update on my current WIP status.

WIP Count: 4 1, crochet 2 knit, 1 Tunisian crochet

I have one more crochet project on hiatus, as it's a bit in limbo awaiting my decision for if I plan to continue it, so for now my count remains just 4.

I have been eager to play with some summer yarns - those light cottons and silky smooth bamboos, as it's approaching the hottest months of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere. Except I keep getting these lovely merino wools that have me whipping out the winter ideas.

I've been working with this absolutely GORGEOUS yarn from Arcane Fibre Works out of Canada, in a limited colorway called "Calm Waters." It's these soft yellows and green-blues that I scooped up once I found out the listing was in its last couple skeins.

Since its 80/20 Merino and Nylon in a lightweight fingering, I figure I can get away with it as a summer knit. And yes, you read that right! I am a crocheter choosing the new craft for working up this beautiful yarn. I experimented a little, but there's just truly something special about how these hand-dyeds take to knitting.

I am working on a shawl called the Mara Shawl by Madeline Tosh, available on Ravelry here. This is a FREE pattern, and it's lovely for showing off a lovely colorway. For the first part it's all garter, and I am new enough to knit, that this has been a joy watching the striping take effect.

For the WIP, this is just a phone pic of the progress, so the quality is low, but- it's starting to be a pretty decently sized triangle at the moment.

Since I have two hanks, I do hope she ends up a nice big size so I can fully wrap the shawl around my shoulders when complete. I am tempted to order one more hank just to be safe... and maybe have another credit card mishap.....

[mothusband]

i'm convinced im not gonna find a dress like i want for my concert in august, sooo, i think im gonna attempt to crochet one 😶 im gonna go for something like this except green with earth tones:

then i guess i'll try freehanding the body?? i think i know how to do that. theres a dress pattern id LOVE to use, its just what im looking for, but i found it through a pattern review and the review was... not good, and i dont think im advanced enough to give it my try.

as for yarn, cotton would be expensive but i think wearing acrylic in august would make me feel like death lol so im gonna have to find something else even if i have to splurge.

is this a good idea? probably not, but im gonna give it a shot anyways. wish me luck.

[myshredda]

No but what if they DID come for her. what if the cult tried to track down Pink and bring her back (I mean if she managed to track down Yellow all by herself then who's to say none of the others could?)

Because at first this idea was terrifying to me but the more I thought about it the more certain I became that if Shrignold ever did show his face at the house and say something like "alright well if this ungrateful yellow child doesn't want his Special One then we'll be taking her back, we can easily find someone else for her to marry"

then the reaction would be a four-point cry of "Ah so YOU'RE THE BITCH THAT TRAUMATISED OUR DAUGHTER/SISTER"

Several minutes later Pink is woken by a strange noise from downstairs, gets up and goes down to see Yellow and Green trying to act casual and block her view of something behind them, being all "don't worry, everything's totally normal, you can go back to sleep now"

and behind them are Duck and Red, very conspicuously trying to drag a large blood-stained bag full of butterfly bits into the backyard

Alright, we're back to the askbox!

I haven't been able to fully formulate any ideas about the cult coming back for Pink because she's such a fresh presence in my mind/on my blog that I don't have a lot of concrete ideas blocked out yet.

This would be the best-case scenario for her I think, if Shrignold ever came back for her. Her sleeping through the whole thing would be the kindest way for it to play out, and it may be self-indulgent, but I want the rest of her life to be filled with ease and kindness, so I find myself fully agreeing with you.

It would also be a GREAT opportunity to see what Red can really do with those fucking chompers when he's angry for real and protecting his family. I think Shrignold would be on the business end of the pent-up rage and grief and revenge that Red's been stewing on for the entirety he's been trapped in the DHMIS narrative. I think the boys would want to help, and Duck would very seriously tell them "Upstairs. Now." In a way they'd never heard him before, past anger, not shrieking and shouting, so scarily calm and unlike him they just immediately obey and haul ass up to Pink's room. And when they all hear the door close Duck's like "Alright, you can go now." and Shrignold would laugh and be like "I'm not going anywhere, actually" to which Duck just pats Red's hip as the tallest one shakes and heaves and growls and trembles with barely-concealed rage rippling under his skin and says "I was talking to him, actually."

Pink sleeps through the screams, and Green and Yellow bury their heads under her pillows and blankets so its muffled enough not to be too traumatizing, and anyway Yellow is really used to dismemberment happening around him (lily and todney anyone?) so they just talk quietly while it happens, eventually waking Pink, and they all tromp downstairs together with Green and Yellow attempting to act casually, and are great by the sight of Duck shoving black bin bags out the front door and Red's got his head under the sink faucet washing.....something out of his yarn and Pinks like "wtf did I miss?"

Red and Duck both immediately say "Income Taxes" at the same time and she loses interest immediately and starts making a bowl of cereal. Green watches Red pick bits of wing from between his teeth, a powdery shimmering blue sheen staining his mitts. Yellow just moves the cereal box so Pink's line of sight is obscured. They watch a morning show about rugby highlights from last nights game, and Pink wonders if they could play rugby in the yard later, and asks Duck when he comes back inside if they can. He says yes.

[punkpoemprose]

Homemade Holiday- A Kristanna Oneshot

Universe: Canonverse, Post F2

Rating: G (General/ All Ages)

Length: 1711 Words

Summary: Anna and Kristoff prepare tree decorations together.

A/N: Kristanna Advent Day 11, going to try to catch up tomorrow, pray for me. This fic is just cozy and sleepy. Highly recommend making your own ornaments this year with someone you love, even if that’s a four legged friend, it’s a great holiday tradition and a wonderful way to break through the winter gloom. If you search “scandanavian straw ornaments” and victorian card ornaments you can get an idea of what Kristoff and Anna are making. I have several straw stars on my tree and adore them.

All Arendelle was decorated to the nines with wreaths, trees, stockings, bows, and garland. Anna had coordinated with the local merchants’ guilds to make everything just so, and then Elsa had kindly visited from the forest to add a nice dusting of snow over the sidewalks and on the rooftops. She’d not created drifts or enough snow and ice to make travel difficult, she’d just managed to make things look a bit festive when mother nature had decided to be uncooperative.

Inside the castle, however, was a bit different than in the streets. It was heavily decorated too, the fancy royal heirlooms were in the same places her parents had always had them set, but in the royal wing, the private places no yuletide guest would reach, there was a very different air to the decorations.

“Ouch!”

Anna gave Kristoff a sheepish look, trying to express her appreciation for his work and encourage him to continue even though this was at least the third ouch she’d heard in the last hour.

“No one ever told me that stringing popcorn was such a dangerous tradition,” he said as he shook out his hand, willing the pain away from where he’d accidentally stabbed himself.

“Would you believe children do it?” Anna asked.

She’d offered to be the one who strung it, but Kristoff had vetoed that. He’d been kind enough not to mention how poor Anna was with a needle and thread, and instead had only teased her about how he was certain that she’d just eat all the popcorn as soon as he stopped watching her closely enough.

Instead of working on the garland, she’d set to the task of making ornaments. Before her, sitting on the library floor, were a variety of supplies and tools. She had scissors and paste, last year’s greeting cards and post cards (of which there were a great many), a small stack of papers in various colors and sizes, scraps of material and ribbons from her old gowns and the seamstress’s stash, buttons and glass beads, yarn and a variety of natural materials which Kristoff had gathered for her.

She’d been the one to insist on a homemade Christmas, and she’d been thrilled when Kristoff, who could not deny her any reasonable request, happily agreed. She had the sense, at first, that he had more experience with a homemade holiday than she did, and while she still suspected as such, he was as green as she was in many aspects of putting on a holiday without staff. She supposed that it was good that they were learning together, especially now when it was just the two of them and Elsa to worry about.

Kristoff grumbled something about mortal wounds and bad parenting but was clearly doing so just to see her laugh given the mischievous look on his face. When she couldn’t help but laugh, his smile was instant.

She finished cutting out a very pleased looking mouse wearing a Santa hat and showed the little paper creature to Kristoff.

“Do you think I should hang him as is, or should I paste a little beard on him?”

Kristoff looked up from his work and took stock of the little grey mouse.

“I like him the way he is, but if you wanted to add a beard I don’t think that would make him any less of an excellent ornament.”

Anna appreciated his answer, even if it was just leaving it up to her. He did have his job to do and she had hers after all, but that he took time to look, and had done so several times in the last couple of hours, brought Anna immense joy.

“I think I’ll let him be as he is then. There’s a few more mouse cards in here, and a couple with skiing foxes, and one with a bear juggling oranges. I think they’d all go well with the trees I’ve already made.”

Kristoff had set back to stringing the popcorn, his work slow and methodical now with his wounding in recent memory. His expression was thoughtful when she looked at him, his eyes narrowed slightly and his brow quirked.

“A woodland theme then?”

He sounded pleased with this turn of events. He busied himself with stringing a few pieces of popcorn more before slyly popping one into his mouth. She didn’t even have time to complain before he was learning over towards her and popping two pieces into her mouth, knowing with such certainty that she’d open her jaw to receive it that he didn’t even watch to see if he’d properly delivered it onto her tongue.

Anna loved it when they were on the same page. They disagreed very rarely about matters that concerned them both, and when they did have different opinions on a matter, they were usually able to find common ground and a compromise before long.

She crunched the lightly salted pieces and immediately craved more. He was, of course, right to have been the one stringing the popcorn.

“Are you still going to teach me how to make the straw stars?” she asked, feeling only a little bit anxious about the question. He’d offered to teach her when they’d met in the stable that afternoon, after their ride together through the village to check on the holiday preparations.

At the mention of the straw ornaments, his expression went a little soft and he set down the popcorn garland, leaving his spot on the library settee to join her on the floor. He took a little wooden spool of red thread with him when he went, as well as an embroidery needle.

He sat at her back, propping her up slightly on his chest and allowing her to get comfortable with relative ease. He’d collected the straw for her after lunch, and before the sky darkened for the evening, he’d ridden to the edge of the forest with Sven to retrieve pine bows, twigs, bird’s feathers and more small pieces of nature for her to add to her ornaments. She’d pasted some on here and there, and she’d quite enjoyed the scent of Earth that they’d put off in the small space.

“Grab some straw Anna,” he said, leaning forward slightly with her as she grabbed it from the pile in front of her at the moment of his request.

She felt his hands cover hers as soon as she leaned back, his fingers quick to pull little pieces of the sweet smelling straw from her bundle as he needed.

“Sorry, this is probably going to get all over your skirts.”

Anna couldn’t help but laugh at his concern.

“As if the maids will be surprised.”

At that, he chuckled himself, the sound low and warm, flowing through her and relaxing her like warm tea on a scratchy throat.

“Well then if that won’t be an issue…”

He set his straw pieces on her skirt, arranging them across each other and bidding her to do the same, just as he had.

He guided her hands, his palm slipping over her knuckles and gently pushing or pulling her into the space where the straw needed to lay. She liked the contact, and the butterflies in her stomach made it evident to her that she would never tire of the feeling of his focus being solely on her, particularly when he was guiding her. She was in charge of making the decisions for an entire nation, so in her limited free time, she loved the way that Kristoff was open to leading her, to helping her make decisions or, when she desired it most, making them for her.

“Okay, now you move these pieces like this,” he said, his voice in her ear as he leaned in close to show her how to cross the straw pieces together.

“Then you grab the string and tie off the sections until it looks like a star… we’ll do a simple one first and then I’ll show you more. Ma is better at it than me, but I can show you the basics and she can teach you all the patterns the next time we go to the valley of the living rock.”

Anna smiled at that. She should have known that he would have learned such a beautiful craft from his adoptive mother Bulda. She was, despite her stone fingers, very adept at all sorts of crafts and creations. Anna fully expected that she’d see her work shortly when she and Kristoff finally had their true troll wedding in the valley during the summer. She could hardly wait.

He guided her through the steps, helping her tie knots in the strings and trim them down. Together they made eight stars before tiring of the work.

“This will all be worth it tomorrow when we get our tree,” Anna said with a yawn. It had gotten quite late and they’d both managed quite a few prep tasks for the holiday.

“Well,” he said softly, “It will all be worth it when we get to look at the tree all finished and know that we did it all. I don’t know how content you’ll feel after getting the tree, the amount of effort it takes to saw one down is a bit tiring.

Her grin was sleepy, like everything else about her. She was more than ready for bed, particularly when he took her last finished star from her hands, placed it with the rest, stood and scooped her from the floor and into his arms.

“That’s nice,” she said sleepily, letting him tuck her into his chest, carrying her against himself with his arms under her rear end.

“Let’s get you to bed Princess.”

“Queen,” she replied, almost wishing she’d worn her crown to their crafting session so she could point at it as part of her joke.

He smiled and shook his head, “You could declare yourself empress of the world Anna, you’d still be my Princess Feisty pants.”

She teasingly batted at his chest with her hand, as if she were even slightly offended by what he’d said instead of feeling warm all over, which she did.

Some things, like Christmas tree decorations and terms of endearment were just better when they were homemade.

[aitchnkay]

Jiang Gunian Made A Change Part 17

Summer Hanson thought of herself as a stereotypical American college student: wavy, shoulder length dirty blond hair, green eyes, slightly taller than average. She studied hard during the week and played hard on the weekends. She had learned how to not grimace when drinking beer at parties even though she hadn't yet learned how to like the drink. Where she differed, perhaps, from that stereotype was that she had been introduced to Thai BLs by her freshman year roommate, and she had immediately become hooked.

It was natural to progress through the overtly sexual Thai shows to the more restrained Korean and Japanese BLs to the Chinese 'best male friends, soul-mates even, but definitely do not kiss and are never going to be intimate.... ever.' shows.

And then she discovered that some of the shows were originally books, and she became even more addicted to the genre. She read fan translations, machine translations, official translations. And discovered that there was a whole lot of 'we're not just BFFs' going on in the books that didn't make it into the Chinese drama or donghua adaptations.

As a stereotypical college student, she and a group of friends would escape to someplace warm for spring break. In her junior year, she was with them, waiting for a huge train to pass when the cars in front of her started rocking.

Then the car she was in started rocking.

The cars in front tipped, and fell into a hole that hadn't been there a moment ago. Her own car followed.

She vaguely remembered screaming. Pain. Something wet that smelled metallic. Lights strobing, hurting her eyes. Eye. Something was wrong. Why couldn't she see out of the other eye? People talking fast, calmly, rushed, blurred. And then, clearly, "She's coding."

Blackness. Blankness. Absence of... everything. Soothing. Relaxing. Comforting darkness.

When she awoke, it was to a strange room, strange clothing, a strange body. A new name: Xia KeXin, which made her giggle hysterically seeing as how close it sounded to the Word of Honor/Faraway Wanderers' Wen KeXing.

Thankfully, she had the previous soul's memories to rely on, as Summer had no idea how to live in this new world, new life, she suddenly found herself in. Cooking? Going to the bathroom? Dressing herself? Making a living? Knowing how much something should cost? Without her host's memories, she would be completely lost instead of mostly. Unlike Cucumber Bro, she didn't have a System to help her out, either. Which could be a good thing? No weird quests to go on? No points added or subtracted for doing something well or poorly?

It didn't take too long to discover that she was living in the town outside Lotus Pier in the days before the Sunshot Campaign. Her job as a fortune teller, didn't earn a significant income, but it was steady and sufficient to live on.

Not quite comfortably to live on, though. Her 'bed' was a mat and a couple of quilts that she folded away every morning. There was no padding. Her 'pillow' was nothing that resembled a twenty-first century pillow.

Once she was sort of used to this new life, she talked to the local blacksmith and asked him to make her a set of crochet hooks. She found someone who sold yarn and bought enough to hopefully make herself a heavier blanket to keep her aching bones (who knew being only in her late forties would be this painful?) warmer at night.

And then Jiang YanLi came in for a consultation. Given the opportunity to change Wei Ying's fate? To stop the jianghe from treating this wonderful man as a pariah? What kind of fujoshi would she be to stand by and let Lan WangJi mourn his love for thirteen years? What kind of person would she be to sit back and allow Jiang YanLi and Wen Qing die for nothing?

Jiang Yanli knelt at the table before Xia KeXin and arranged her skirts into a pleasing configuration. The older woman rolled her eyes, but said nothing until the younger stopped figiting. "I assume you're here to discuss your love life and marriage."

[pilferingapples]

your questions for the meme! 1. what's your favourite wearable green object you own? 2. what wearable green object do you most wish you owned? 3. did you have a different Life Passion before you fell into les mis/french romanticism? 4. what is your very most favourite fact about gautier? 5. what are your opinions about christmas?

ooh these are fun, thank you:D

1- aaah I have so many good Green Clothes and some of them are even made by dear friends so I CANNOT choose a favorite BUT I do have a Most Frequent and it's this shawl :

It was made by a weaver who works the renfair circuit with a wooden loom! I get to go see her every year and anyone can watch her working! I know where she got the yarn and everything and I do in fact love knowing how almost every step of the process went! But also it's just a fantastic shawl, keeps me warm in the light-cool of spring and autumn and keeps the sun off my shoulders in summer. Heck, I wore it today (Texas. it was 72 F) and it was just the right Extra Warm over my sundress. And it goes with every dress I own! The joys of a chromatically unified wardrobe :D So: this!

2. what wearable green object do you most wish you owned? ...MAGIC CLOAK THAT LOOKS LIKE LUNA MOTH WINGS AND ENABLES ME TO FLY More mundanely, I'd love to get a custom corset by someone local enough I can actually go to them for a fitting? I've had customs before but I've always had to do my own measurements etc and do it by mail and I am just NOT an expert, even with muslins. There's just no one close by who does what I want, a peril of living in the middle of nowhere. :/

3. did you have a different Life Passion before you fell into les mis/french romanticism? HAH I had many!! Part of why the current situation is so enduring is because it fused many of them into one. But oh one that's stayed with me but I don't talk about much here is comics? Just. The art and structure of them! The potential! I kinda stopped talking about them in general spaces because STILL when I say " comics" people go " oh superheroes" and NO NOT SUPERHEROES THAT'S A GENRE, that's like hearing " books" and responding with " oh yeah, Harlequins" YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT LIKE TWO PUBLISHERS AGAINST A WHOLE MEDIUM , THEY MAY BE THE MOST POPULAR BUT THEY DO NOT GET TO DEFINE THE WHOLE FORM AAAAH anyway read Scott McCloud and also talk to me about the comics you love 4. what is your very most favourite fact about gautier? gkdghl I tried to write about the actual thing I've been turning over in my head lately but it got Too Long So for now: he started doing his arts columns with the idea that there should be someone critiquing art and writing who actually liked it

and then!! He was so positive about art shows and plays that some artists got together and tried to figure out how to make him stop because even though everyone agreed his critiques were accurate and honest, they were afraid they wouldn't be taken seriously without meaner reviews???

(they were unable to make him stop being nice?!? it was the lowest stakes conspiracy ever and it FAILED skflashgsakgh)

5. what are your opinions about christmas?

there are DECORATIONS there are COOKIES there are PRESENTS

there are THINGS TO DO that are actually accessible for me because lots of general-public events are being planned for people with limited stamina and wheeled mobility aids

there are GHOST STORIES

there is A STOP MOTION ANIMATION SPECIAL ABOUT SANTA BEING RAISED BY SOCIALIST FAIRIES

I don't approve of it taking over the entire back half of the year and i fully respect that it is aggravatingly dominant to anyone who's not into it but . I am in fact EXTREMELY into it. There's just so much completely weird lore and so many excitingly bizarre traditions, it's Haunted and Blessed in equal amounts, how could I, personally, ever not enjoy it?