#i got so many cool clothes and now i want to obtain every piece of clothing and do a fashion photo shoot with every combo i like

[pinklink130]

this is THE best and funniest fit i have ever put link in. rock climbing hipster survival reality show host. he still looks gay in the straightest clothes he owns

[gaitwae]

Hello!! Mob!thor au please. You’re a successful and rising businesswoman and it’s your first time going to those rich people galas, there you catch thor’s eye and you spend the whole evening with him. Thank yew, stay safe😽😽

A/N: You have no idea how much I've been wanting to write this!! This is a Thor x F!Reader (anon requested businesswoman uwu)

Warnings: Slight harassment from Thor, implied only. Also a slight kidnapping. Non-threatening

Summary: Above!

Tags: @make-me-imagine @thorfanficwriter @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @natandersonnla @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @frostedgiant @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @amwolowicz @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021 @lilyofthesword 

You had picked the perfect evening gown. It billowed behind you, and you received many compliments from it. It was your favorite color, and it matched your complexion. You had done up your hair. You carried your clutch tightly to your side. Although you were sure the rumors were only rumors, if there was any place they’d be disproved, it was at the Marvel Gala.

It was hosted every year by Tony Stark. He took business seriously. On top of the Asgardian mob rumors, you had heard he had some deals with the Odinson family. Whether or not the Odinson family ran a mob, they were still dangerous in court. Their lawsuit could mean the loss of your entire company. You shivered to yourself, glad that you had yet to make any sort of dealings with Valaskjalf Enterprises. 

You grabbed a flute of champagne off of a tray. You tried not to down the whole thing at once, but this was a nerve-wracking experience. You could make acquaintances that could — no, would — change your entire career. You smoothed your dress out in hopes of wiping your clammy hands away.

“Miss? Would you like to dance?” a deep voice asked behind you. You froze, slowly turning around.

Before you was a tall, broad, blond hunk of handsome with a thundering presence. He wore a crisp suit, and his face and hair were kept in an almost pretty manner. He was elegant, yet bold. He was massive, but perfect. You tried not to stare, but you found you couldn’t blink. The man smirked, extending his hand.

“Miss?” he laughed.

You shook yourself out of your daze, remembering why you were at the gala in the first place. “I apologize; who are you?” you asked, smiling awkwardly. “I don’t like to dance without knowing someone’s name.”

“My name is Thor,” he said. You set your flute down on an empty tray passing by, taking his hand. He tugged you to the dancefloor. “What is your name?”

“I’m Y/N L/N,” you say. “I’m the CEO of—”

“I know what company,” he cut you off, his eyes lighting up. “I was rather impressed when Father told us how far your little company had been progressing. Had I known the simple surname I’d been hearing was yours, why, I don’t even think we would be standing here.” He chuckled darkly. He began swaying with you as the music swelled. You shook at his tone. What could that mean? Who was Thor? “The other family business would have contacted you. You have a lot of potential at L/N Advancements.”

Oh.

Of course.

“You’re... Forgive me, I should have remembered. Thor Odinson,” you said nervously. You shook your head, unable to meet his eyes. Of course, the mobster would find you. Of course, the mobster would find you! Of course!

“Yes. I’ll assure you, no rumors you’ve heard are quite like the real deal.” He snaked his hand to the small of your back. “My brother often likes to... exaggerate our side company’s deals. I should really get you back to the business talk, but I want to keep you to myself a little longer.” Thor grinned a model’s grin. “Unless you’re scared of me, that is.”

“Oh, I’m not scared of you,” you said. You realized you still had your clutch in your grasp. That alone disproved your point. Thor took it from you, setting it on an empty table.

“You aren’t?”

“Maybe I was scared of getting mugged,” you admitted. “It’s silly.”

“I think the only thing you should be scared of is how you’re getting home tomorrow,” he flirted, pulling you closer. Much, much closer.

You put distance between yourself and the heir of Valaskjalf. “I don’t do that. I won’t. Sorry. I barely know you, and I’ve worked too hard to slip up or give in. I hope you can understand.”

Thor, who was taking the rejection as if it never happened, only smiled brighter. “You’re scared that I’ll take L/N Advancements away from you with just a night together?”

“I’m scared your father might decide I’m not worth trading with once he finds out I’ve done a little more than speak with his son,” you said in your firmest tone. Thor laced your fingers. You didn’t pull away from that.

“But he might decide you’re worth keeping around.” He stroked your cheek, moving to his own beat now. The music didn’t match your rhythm, but it was still as intoxicating. “I could get rid of all your enemies, you know. I could make you untouchable.”

“I’m not interested,” you said. You shook your head. “I need a drink.”

“You just downed a whole flute of champagne!” he tsked. 

“I still need one.” You lingered in Thor’s presence. He smelled of petrichor and fine cologne and a tiny bit of sulfur and something else that you couldn’t pick out. He hummed happily, as if he were drunk. He didn’t smell of alcohol, but his behavior could fool you in a second. 

“You’re quite the prey,” he murmured. “I’ll get you a drink. I’ll get you multiple.”

“I can get my own drink,” you insisted. “Please, Mr. Odinson, I’m happy to be by myself.”

“You should relax,” he, too, insisted. He gripped your upper arms, taking you in once again. “Really. Don’t let your fear stop you from having fun.”

“I’ll do what I like.” You tore away from Thor. “Thank you fror the dance, but I have to go talk to Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.”

“Have fun mingling!” He caught your hand and kissed it. You felt your belly set itself on fire. Did Thor want one night? Clearly. But what did he want from a night? Did he want information about your business? Or did he want to take advantage? Did he want to use you, and let you use him in the same manner? “I’ll see you some other time, darling.”

“Don’t clear your schedule,” you warned. 

Thor chuckled, “I’ll remember that.”

That didn’t stop him from following you around all night. He was by your side as if he was your partner. Whatever he had decided, it wasn’t going to change without a piece of paper signed by a judge...

Given that he was admittedly not only part of the city’s biggest mob, but a higher member, you couldn’t obtain that.

+-+-- 

Months later, and after many calls from Thor Odinson (who you did not offer your personal number), you finally started to cave. You let him have dinner with you. You took walks in the city during the daytime. You found he was a sensitive person, and almost three years of talking and dancing and Marvel Galas came and went before your first kiss.

Thor took a small sip of white wine, staring at you with electric blue eyes that you always got lost in. “Did I ever apologize for our first meeting?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so,” you answered. “I didn’t think you cared enough to remember it...”

“If I wasn’t in love with you,” Thor began, “I wouldn’t have stayed for as long as I intend to.”

“It’s been three years,” you whispered. “How long do you intend to stay?”

Thor wet his lips. “As long as you let me.” He reached over, cupped your face, and brought your mouth to his.

That was when the first kidnapping happened.

The room was dark. Your hair was being pulled back by meaty hands behind you. Your clothes were torn, and your eyes wouldn’t stop shedding tears. 

“Ms. L/N,” a deep voice mused. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m glad my brother has someone to entertain him that doesn’t include a mortal injury... Since that nurse hit him with her car, he hasn’t quite been the same.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked the voice, wheezing and stifling a sob. You sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m here...”

“You’re here so we can talk.” A small light switched on. You saw a raven-haired man sitting in a small chair, one leg crossed over the other like the Joker. “Do you intend on strengthening your company with my family’s conglomerate?”

“No,” you said. You were shaking. You tried to look back at the meaty hands that held your head, but whoever it was made sure you watched the man. “No, I want to make it with my own merit. I don’t want to be absorbed...”

“Do you plan on staying away from legal trouble by making my brother dearest your... intended?” he continued, pulling a gun from behind him. He cocked it, keeping his cool eyes on you. He aimed. “If I think you’re lying, I’ll shoot. And trust me... I know a liar when I see one.”

“No!” you said again. “No, I don’t!” 

His expression never changed. He rolled his neck, then studied you some more. “Name your favorite thing about Thor.”

“His laugh.” You gulped. “I love when he laughs... really laughs. When he doubles over, cries, and then giggles about it hours later.”

The man sat back, turning off the safety. “Name his favorite drink.”

“Locally brewed beer.”

“What’s my name?” His forefinger slipped in front of the trigger.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice came from outside the room. You sobbed again. The door swung open, and the man stood from his chair. Thor gripped his brother’s lapel, throwing him on the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?!” 

Loki growled, dropping the gun on its side. “It wasn’t loaded! Calm down! Jane only wanted to stay for the secrets, I was simply—”

“I don’t care!” he snapped. “You have no right to kidnap her!” He was nose-to-nose with Loki, shaking him as he spoke. 

“Thor!” you cried. He swerved his head, letting go of his brother to come and rescue you. He shoved the meaty hands off, throwing a solid punch.

“Come with me,” he said, lifting you into his arms. You wrapped your arms around him, shaking and trying not to cry too much. He held you tightly. He took Loki’s gun off the ground. “Don’t touch her. She’s nothing like Jane, and if you’d listen to me when I talk to you, Father wouldn’t have put you on lackey duty!”

“Take me out of here,” you whispered.

“I can’t,” Thor said. He kissed your head. “This is my life... I love you, but if you can’t handle this...”

You held him tightly. “We should talk about this later...”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Problem with Magic Markers

Soooo Critical Role campaign 2 just ended, I've got major brain rot over it and my wonderful gf gave me a wonderful idea for a fic so! This happened! A gift to @spiky-lesbian who came up with this adorable concept and is just generally an all round wonderful person who deserves the world. Also huge thanks to my ever patient, ever helpful beta reader @minky-for-short

If you liked it too, please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3!

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Mollymauk is so proud of Caleb in so many ways and, now they have their lovely lives with their wonderful children, he finds more reasons to be every day.

-----------

Mollymauk Tealeaf had learned many things since he’d become a parent, now five years ago. A short amount of time, he’d used to think, but plenty of time to obtain a lot of knowledge you never thought you were ever going to need in your life.

Like how sandwiches cut into triangles were disgusting but sandwiches cut into squares could be eaten by the hundreds. Like how to make a bath appealing to a toddler with the liberal addition of bubble bath and a willingness to get absolutely soaked playing Sharks with them. Like how a scraped knee and bumped forehead could be cured with his cuddles and kisses alone, like how a promise from him that everything was going to be okay was enough to make it so.

And how silence was very, very worrying.

So when Mollymauk walked past his son and daughter’s room and heard only silence, when he knew for a fact they were in there, he stopped dead. He put any thoughts of getting to go and spend some time with his sewing kit out of his mind. Because he’d been a parent long enough to know that something was up, two five year olds weren’t that silent unless some game was afoot, something they didn’t want their parents to know about. Which meant he should probably at least poke his nose in.

So he knocked lightly on their door, the one covered in whichever drawings they were most proud of that week and a hand painted sign Jester had made for them the day they were born, prettily proclaiming ‘Trinket and Una’s Room!’ amongst a flock of miniature unicorns.

“Sweetlings?” he called gently, “Mind if I come in?”

There was a sudden scrabbling from behind the door and he heard a muffled grunt from Una before Trinket answered hurriedly, “Um...yes! Okay daddy!”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Molly pushed the door back, disturbing the usual scattering of toys left on the floor like the aftermath of a felt based battle. Although it did seem like there was more mess than usual…

Trinket stood in the middle of the room between their two little beds, his backpack at his feet and an expression of perfect innocence on his face that was just a little too polished to be anything but an act. Molly had to admit he’d probably learned that from him.

“Well hello there, little man,” he leaned in the doorway, smiling crookedly, “What game are we playing today?”

Trinket shuffled his feet, “Um...packing?”

“That sounds like a fun game,” Molly’s gentle concern upgraded to full blown wariness, “And where’s your sister?”

Trinket turned a deeper shade of purple, looking down at his fidgety feet that were poking more holes in his innocence by the second, “Um...she...um…”

Which was the point Una helpfully chose to poke her little head out of the backpack, dark eyes blinking curiously and ears flapping, trilling, “Here daddy!”

Trinket flushed guiltily, frowning at her, “Una! I said you had to stay shh!”

Molly took a breath, wandering over to sit down on Trinket’s bed. As his eyes swept around the room, he noted a great deal more chaos in the room. Almost like someone had been going through the toy box and the drawers and bookshelves, hurriedly pulling things out, making quick decisions about what to abandon and what to stuff into a little blue, dinosaur patterned backpack. Molly supposed he should at least be grateful that Trinket saw his sister as worth taking.

“Why don’t you talk to me, babies?” he offered gently.

Trinket swallowed, eyes darting around nervously before the last of the fight went out of his narrow little shoulders and he mumbled, “Daddy...can I tell you a secret?”

Molly had to smile. This was almost a running joke between the three of them, his kids running up excitedly to tell him they had a secret for him before whispering into his ear about some apparently very cool bug they’d seen or that Uncle Caddy had snuck them an extra cookie or that he was the best daddy ever. He loved being brought into their world where everything was brighter and more exciting and there was fun to be found in the smallest things. And where everything was felt so much more keenly.

“Of course you can, sweetling,” he murmured gently, patting the bed beside him, “You can always tell me secrets. Whatever it is, I promise we can make it better together.”

As Una rolled out of the backpack, apparently unconcerned and rather enjoying herself, Trinket clambered up beside him and stood so he could whisper into his ear. Molly tucked his purple curls behind one ear, smiling encouragingly.

Voice already trembling, Trinket leaned in and murmured, “I messed up Papa’s coat.”

Molly absorbed that in silence, feeling his son’s anxious red eyes on him. He leaned back, keeping his face carefully neutral before taking a long, deep breath through his nose, marshalling his thoughts.

“Trinket, I’m not going to lie to you here. We might be in trouble.”

His opinion didn’t change when he actually saw the coat. The coat his husband had been wearing as long as he’d known him and refused to be regularly seen without, no matter how many attempts Molly had made to buy him a newer, less ragged, less musty smelling version. It was more a comfort blanket than just clothing, stained and scorched from numerous spells and spills, old leather worn shiny from overuse. He hadn’t said so in so many words but it didn’t take a genius to guess that Caleb had worn it since before he came to the city. Which meant it had probably come from his parents. And though it was old and faded and stained today, it must have been new when he got it, a costly garment for people like the Ermendruds. The sort of gift that would only be given if your only son was leaving home to join the Academy and wanted to show him how proud you were.

A lot of Caleb’s life was like that. Even as his husband, Molly found himself having to piece things together from passing comments and turns of phrase, things that dulled his love’s eyes and tightened his jaw. Molly had about a quilt and a half’s worth of assumptions and semi-finished anecdotes by this point, telling of a sad and fractured timeline.

But he knew enough to see what the coat meant to Caleb and the place it held in his husband’s black and white, yes or no, yours and mine way of thinking.

The coat that now had a minor gallery’s worth of doodles and drawings scribbled in magic marker across the sleeves and all the way down the back. And if he wasn’t comfortable with Molly washing the thing, he wasn’t going to be okay with this.

Trinket had been fretfully watching his daddy since he’d first pulled the coat out from where he’d guiltily stashed it under his bed. As Molly’s mutely horrified silence dragged on, he only became more and more anguished until he was barely in tears, wringing his tail between his pudgy fists.

“I only wanted to make it pretty,” he whimpered, “Papa will hate me. I won’t be his special boy any more.”

Molly looked up at him, reaching out and putting his hand on Trinket’s shoulder, “Oh sweetling, your papa loves you a lot, you know this isn’t going to change that.”

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the times he’d picked up a pen from Caleb’s desk without thinking much of it, doodling with it until he’d looked up to see his husband gaping at him in scandalised horror. Or the times he’d stolen sips from Caleb’s drink when they were at the cafe, the same way he’d do to any of his friends, but Caleb would frown if he caught him, unable to understand why Molly was taking his coffee?

It was just part of the way his brain functioned, the rules it spat out after absorbing years of poverty and trauma, along with some different wiring that had simply occurred naturally. Mollymauk had learned a long time ago how to fondly work with these Caleb-isms, making concessions where it was best to and encouraging his wizard to gentle the restrictions his brain built when he needed to. It was like tending some kind of creeping vine in a garden, the way he saw it. Sometimes things needed moving aside so it could flourish and sometimes it needed pruning so it didn’t strangle the flowers around it. Caleb had been as brave as Mollymauk could have wished in managing his idiosyncrasies and sometimes he just had to sit back and admire how different the Caleb he lived with today was from the anxious, mumbling wizard he’d first met.

But how much patience he’d be able to muster when it was one of his favourite things in the world, Molly couldn’t say. But he wasn’t looking forward to telling him about it.

“Should I go?” Trinket’s lower lip wobbled, glancing back at his half packed bag, which Una was back inside, the front half this time as she munched away on some snack he must have stashed in there.

“Absolutely not, your papa would never want that,” Molly squeezed his shoulder gently, “We’re going to put the coat in to soak so we can get all this ink out and then we’re going to find him and I’ll tell him what’s happened. But you need to be the one who says sorry, okay?”

Trinket nodded frantically, still clinging onto his tail for comfort, “I am sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know, buddy,” Molly drew him close and hugged him tight, hating to see him so upset, “But we’ll be laughing about this before long, you’ll see.”

Maybe if he said it confidently enough, he’d start to believe it too.

Caleb wasn’t hard to find for a number of reasons. For one, their apartment was very small and there were only a handful of rooms to look in. But more importantly, it was late afternoon on a day where Caleb didn’t have any reason to go down to the Academy and fulfill his duties as an adjunct professor and when his bookshop was closed, as it was once a week. Which meant there was only one place he would be, in his half of their spare room, either playing one of his video games or reading.

Molly wasn’t quite sure what they’d do when one of their kids decided they wanted their own room and were tired of sharing, meaning Caleb would have to store his books and he’d have to store his sewing somewhere else. Or if they had another kid. He’d been toying with that idea in the back of his mind lately.

Maybe best not to float that idea with Caleb right after this.

Mollymauk could feel Trinket in his arms, his offer to pick him up and carry him having been immediately, breathlessly accepted. He could sense him getting more tense, more anxious, growing heavier against him as Molly knocked lightly on the door.

“Ja, come in,” Caleb’s response was immediate, not even needing to ask who it was or having to pause over whether he wanted to see them.

When Molly went in, Caleb was in the old, ratty wingback chair they’d liberated from some sidewalk when they’d first moved in, Molly announcing teasingly that a future professor needed some grand leather throne from which to smoke a pipe and pontificate. Caleb had blushed and rolled his eyes, not even believing back then that one day he would get the job he’d always dreamed of having, thinking trauma and past hurts had stolen it from him.

So now Molly always got a small flush of pride when he saw his Caleb sitting in that chair.

His hair was getting a little longer these days, it’s auburn tangles pulled into a small knot at the crown of his head so it wouldn’t fall in his eyes. His beard was growing a little thicker too, more than the usual rusty shadow that dusted his jawline. Molly absolutely was not going to be complaining about any of that, he liked his husband looking a little more rough around the edges like when they’d first met.

As soon as he saw them, Molly with Trinket balanced on one hip, Caleb’s face lit up with a smile. His smiles had been rare once upon a time but now just the sight of his family was enough.

“Hello,” he set the book he’d been reading to one side, already expecting Trinket to want to sit on his lap like always, “How are my loves?”

Near Molly’s ear, Trinket whimpered mournfully and pressed his face against his daddy’s neck. It was more than an ache to listen to, Trinket idolised his papa, following him around whenever he could, listening devotedly as he explained his work even when it wandered far off the track that his little mind could understand. Molly had no doubt the attempt to brighten up his coat had been a genuine attempt to make him smile and he couldn’t imagine how much it was hurting his little boy, to think he’d upset the man he looked up to more than anyone.

Caleb’s smile dulled a little, seeing Trinket hesitate, immediately realising they weren’t here for playtime, “What’s wrong?”

Molly exhaled slowly, carefully keeping his voice calm and level, “It’s okay babe, Trinket just...did something he wants to apologise for.”

“Oh?” Caleb frowned a little, eyes still fixed on Trinket, arms still open.

Molly opened his mouth, ready to do the hard part but before he could, Trinket bolted upright and tearfully burst out, “I wanted to make your coat pretty because you always like my pictures and I thought you could take them everywhere not just in your pockets but I made a mess and I’m so sorry papa! I’m really sorry!”

For a moment both of his parents were a little stunned, not quite sure what to say as his rambles tapered off into spluttery sobs. Molly warily glanced at Caleb, looking for any change in his blank, closed off expression, any flicker of discomfort, even anger.

After a few beats, ones that felt longer than usual, Caleb only nodded, getting to his feet. Gently, he reached over and put a gentle hand on his son’s face, catching some of the tears dribbling down his cheek on his thumb.

“Little Kätzchen, it’s alright,” he murmured softly, “Please don’t cry.”

Trinket sniffled, blinking blearily, “You’re not angry? Don’t want me to go away?”

Caleb’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, “No! Oh, Trinkie, absolutely not. I’d never want that.”

“But…” Trinket’s eyes were wide, hopeful, wanting to take this relief being offered but hesitant to, “It’s your favourite thing in the whole wide world…”

Caleb chuckled quietly, his smile back with all it’s warmth as he leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“Kätzchen, you and your sister are my favourite thing in the whole wide world.”

Molly nearly yelped in panic as he felt the weight of Trinket suddenly leave his arms before realising his son had thrown himself at Caleb, locking his arms around him tightly. He didn’t doubt for a moment that his husband would catch him, only smiling fondly as he gathered Trinket close and buried his face in his hair.

“It’s all okay,” Caleb whispered against the rust red curls he’d given their son, “It’s okay, little one.”

Molly let them have their moment, letting Trinket cry the last of his tears out happily against his papa’s chest, hanging back and feeling his heart thudding warmly against his ribs. Eventually he was their beaming, bright little boy again, if a little damp, wriggling down from Caleb’s arms determinedly after one last little kiss against his papa’s cheek.

“I’m gonna make you a sorry card. The best sorry card ever,” he promised Caleb, already toddling towards the door, “It’s gonna have glitter.”

“Wow, that kid is definitely my son,” Molly observed wryly once his little lavender tail had disappeared around the corner.

“Then you can clean up the mess he’s definitely about to make,” Caleb chuckled, moving into his husband’s arms.

“Hey,” Molly kissed the crown of his head gently, “Well done. I know that must have been hard for you and...I’m really proud of you.”

He couldn’t see it but he could hear the coy smile in his voice, “Well...I meant what I said. Some coat is never going to be more important to me than my kids.”

Molly smiled knowingly, “I know baby….but you know, if you want to scream into that cushion for a little while, that’s okay too?”

There was a short pause before he felt Caleb’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Thank you, Katze…”

“Is it done yet?”

Molly had to fight a smile. He’d explained to Caleb that soaking his coat would take exactly thirty minutes, knowing his husband fixated on time easily, but still he asked every five minutes on the dot. He’d expected nothing less.

“Not just yet, babe,” he repeated, as he had all of those other times, looking up from the laundry they’d been folding so Caleb would have an excuse to hover anxiously in the laundry room, over the tub of hot soapy water and a little rubbing alcohol his coat was submerged in, “Soon though.”

Caleb gave a small grunt, poking a finger into the water curiously like it was some potion he was working over. After a moment, before Molly could turn back to folding the clothes, he frowned.

“This sleeve isn’t in the water…”

Molly’s smile turned crooked, coming over and putting a hand on Caleb’s before he could move the one sleeve into the tub, “I thought maybe you’d want to look at it...decide if you want to keep that one.”

Caleb blinked, not understanding until he turned it a little and saw the drawing his Trinket had chosen to adorn the sleeve with. It was done in bright red, standing clearly against the dark fabric, unmistakable a child’s drawing. There were four figures there, two taller and two smaller. The first had a set of horns drawn a little too large for it’s head, as well as a tail. The second had a long scarf and a scrawled head of shoulder length hair. The next was much smaller, with another set of horns and a tail but the same scribbled hair. And the last was tiny, with voluminous ears and spikes on the end of it’s fingers. All of them had immense smiles and held hands, a lopsided love heart hovering above them.

As the other scribbles and swirls turned into formless ink in the water, Caleb held this one like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling softly, “I think this one can stay.”

[minijenn]

Keys to the Kingdom Preview

In which Sora realizes you need money to exchange for goods and services and also realizes that he’s got none of that bc the Duck and Dog Dads never let him carry any of their cash around. Also the child is starving. Fun!

***

The third night is the first he goes to sleep hungry. 

Sora leaves that first world not long into the next day, largely for one very simple, yet very important reason. He can’t find a single source of water anywhere, something that soon starts to become a problem when, after only a few hours of wandering under the relentless sun, his rising thirst slowly starts to turn into the first signs of dehydration. He’s already feeling weak and lightheaded when he caves to summon a dark corridor; and, as he’s quickly starting to get used to, he feels even worse after he crosses through it. 

He still doesn’t know how to control where his dark portals lead to, not that the destination really matters as long as it's as far away from either the lights or the Organization as possible. Fortunately, the first thing he sees as soon as he collapses out of the corridor is a river, rushing clear and cool just a few feet away from him. He nearly falls into it, desperately swallowing several mouthfuls of water until he ends up inevitably choking on it. His stomach settles rather quickly this time around, but he’s left with a lingering headache from the short trip through the shadows. He does what he can to ignore it as he splashes some river water onto his face, washing off the thin layer of dust and dirt he hadn’t even realized accumulated on it back in the canyon. 

Upon taking a cursory glance at the rest of his surroundings, he finds the river is bordered by dense trees on either side of it, woods that are more comparable to a jungle than a forest. The air is hot here, but different than it had been in the last world, much more humid and bearable as a symphony of wild sounds sing out from the surrounding trees. But what catches Sora’s attention the most is something he can see from his spot on the riverbank, resting downstream just a short distance away: a village. 

It’s a relatively tiny town, composed of a collection of simple huts and houses that are by most accounts, largely primitive. Still, Sora heads straight for it as soon as he sees it, knowing that where there’s a town, there’s bound to be something else he’s in need of if his rumbling stomach is anything to go off of: food. 

Despite its small size, the village is quite populous, filled with midday hustle and bustle of its humbly-dressed residents going about their usual business. Most of them barely notice Sora as he unceremoniously walks into town, though a few do spare him odd or curious glances as they pass him by. To not arouse any unwanted suspicion or alarm, he keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, his claws out of sight and his head down as he strolls into what appears to be an open air market of sorts. Several stalls have set up shop, pedaling a variety of goods and foods, from fruit to meat to herbs and more. Out of all this, the appetizing scent of freshly baked bread is what draws Sora over to one certain stall, one selling all sorts of loafs, biscuits, and even a handful of cakes. He eyes the impressive display hungrily before picking out a few delectable-looking rolls, as well as a few small, fruit-topped tarts for good measure. He’s still going through the stall’s stock, however, when its owner finally speaks up from her spot on the other side of it. 

“Your eyes certainly seem to be overloading your stomach, boy,” the older woman remarks, her face and tone both quite grouchy and detached. “That doesn’t matter much to me though, as long as you can pay for that stash you’re piling up there. You can afford all that, can’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Sora nods, shifting his potential purchases to rest on one arm. He searches his pockets, checking his jacket first and then his pants, only to quickly reach a very startling discovery: he doesn’t have any money on him to speak of. 

 Before, he’d never really needed to carry money on him. Between the three of them, that had usually been Donald’s job, a job he’d taken away from Sora relatively on into their first adventure together, claiming that he wasn’t “responsible” enough to handle their funds. Sora had playfully brushed the comment off at the time, and over the years, had largely gotten used to either Donald or Goofy keeping track of any money they obtained and what supplies they spent it on in his stead. Only now that he’s on his own without a single cent to his name that he wishes the pair had trusted him just a bit more, at least enough to carry a little of their money around, just in case. 

“Um… so… this is pretty funny, I’m sure you’ll get a good laugh out of it,” he begins, throwing on the most charming, pleading smile he can manage. “But... I don’t really have any money…” he hesitantly tells the shop owner, looking between her and the bread in his arms. “You… don’t happen to give out free samples, do you?” The shopkeeper only responds to his small, hopeful smile with a cross, deadpan look, one that gives Sora an answer that’s every bit as clear as words would have been. “Right…” he sighs in defeat, putting every piece of food right back where he found it. “Didn’t think so…”

He sullenly stuffs his hands back into his pockets as he walks away, trying not to steal a glance at any of the other surrounding food stalls, lest his unsatisfied hunger only continue to rise. He nearly makes it out of the market altogether before spots something he’s hard pressed to pass up: a stall selling several different types of fruit. Among them is his favorite by far, a treat he’d always enjoyed snacking on back on the islands: mangoes. The stall doesn’t carry many of them, in fact its entire stock seems to be rather small and largely unimpressive, but one is really all Sora wants right now. After all, something, even if it's something as small as a simple mango, is bound to suffice after three days of eating basically nothing at all. 

It’d be easy enough to just take one too. The stall’s owner has their back turned, preoccupied with going through the rest of what they have to put out. All he’d have to do is swiftly pass by, pick one up, and shove it into his pocket without anyone seeing. He’s not very keen on the idea of stealing, especially after how much trouble the unsavory act had gotten him into back in Agrabah. But there, he’d stolen a priceless, magical treasure; here, the only thing he intends on making off with is a single, largely inconsequential piece of fruit. And given just how hungry he’s starting to get, how bad could taking just one really be?

He nearly moves in to do exactly that, though stops short only a few feet away from the stall as a small child, no older than 6, suddenly runs out from behind it. “Papa! Papa!” the boy calls, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the edge of the stall. “Can I have one of the mangos? Please?”

The shopkeeper turns, a kindly-looking man, though his eyes are tired as he looks down at his young child. “Oh, I’m sorry, son,” he frowns, shaking his head. “But those are the last few we have. You know the harvest wasn’t good this year, and if we don’t sell those, we won’t have enough to get the materials your Mama needs to make you new clothes.” The shopkeeper smiles a bit as he steps out to hoist his son up into his arms, affectionately ruffling his hair. “You’re growing so fast that it’s getting hard for us to keep up with you.”

The child laughs as his father carries him back behind the stall, his former request for food all but forgotten by now. Neither of them notice that their warm exchange had been watched from afar, and as soon as it's over, Sora instantly feels guilty for even considering the thought of stealing from them. Of taking something from a family that clearly needs it to survive, simply for his own selfish, singular needs. He hangs his head in shame as he briskly walks past the stall, not even sparing it a second thought as he starkly leaves the village behind entirely. 

He finds a place to sleep not too far outside of town, in a well-shaded nook at the near edge of the jungle. It rains that night, and he largely doesn’t sleep, even though he manages to stay relatively dry thanks to the thick canopy of trees overhead. Because the entire night, the most he can really do is lie there, his arms wrapped around his empty, aching stomach, silently pleading for some kind of relief from the starvation he doesn’t know how to stop. Eventually, he somehow falls asleep, dreaming of all of the delicious dishes his mother used to masterfully make for him back home, from freshly steamed salmon, to sweet pineapple cake, to savory vegetable soup. Only to wake up the next morning, still longing for food, longing for his mother, longing for home. 

All while knowing painfully well that he won’t get to see any of those things any time soon. 

[jasonndeans]

young gods - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 1,990

warnings: brief scene involving harassment and brief use of the f slur at the end.

chapter: 1/?

summary:  You weren't looking for anything when you met Dio, but you also couldn't take your eyes off of him. You were drawn to him, shrouded in black mystery and his softer side he kept well hidden under that duster. A part of you knew when you first saw him, he was destined to fly too close to the sun. At first, it wasn't really anything he said or anything he did. It was the feeling that came along with him. You'd never felt this way before, and the crazy thing is, you didn't know if you should. You knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but...how can the Devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you? Maybe he knew that when he met you, too.

Dio didn’t have much to bring with him on the day he took you up on your offer to live with you in your small New York City apartment; small, albeit big enough for two. He carried almost all of his earthly possessions with him in his pockets — the keys to his father’s ancient, barely running Honda, a pack of cigarettes, loose cash and change, and his trusty switch. The rest would have to be crammed into his car and hauled over, mostly consisting of clothes and shoes, thrifted or stolen. 

“I was wonderin’ when you’d rescue me from the Smack Shack,” he’d quipped, lips curling.

“The Smack Shack” is what he’d dubbed the worn-down, abandoned place he and his buddies — all of them pursuers of a list of drugs, some of them sellers like Dio — often crashed in when a softer, more secure sofa couldn’t be reserved for the night. Thus, The Smack Shack. You’d visited a handful of times despite the fact that it gave you the creeps. Dio had your trust, as did…some of his friends. The neighborhood just wasn’t the safest in Manhattan, needless to say, and there was no guessing what shady characters were looming about in these hollowed out homes. You’re just glad he’s out of there. And with you.

“Ohh, I rescued you, huh?” You’d teased back, your voice lilting in a sing-song tone. “I must be your knight in shining armor.”

He hummed in the back of his throat with a mock grimace, leaning forward to kiss you. “Don’t make me sick, birdie.” His lips were chapped and tasted of smoke, and as much as you detested the habit, it was something so purely Dio. A smirk played on his lips upon pulling back with decorated fingers idly tapping out a rhythm onto a tabletop of a squat little sandwich shop you worked at. “I seem to remember things differently.” Expectant, he cocked his head, casting a shadow of his star-shaped earring onto his neck -- one of many, many things that endeared you to the boy in black.

As if on cue, you turned sheepish with a duck of your head and a bashful smile cast downwards. He was referring to the day you two first met. Officially, that is. Along with the thrill of waitressing and constructing sandwiches, you worked behind a cash register at a record shop -- Empire Records. Music’s always been a constant comfort for you, in your ears when you needed a voice to scream your sorrows, your rampages or your little victories. You’d amassed quite the collection of records as you grew and your music taste with you for a player you’d fixed up and obtained from a seller when on the hunt for more important things like furniture and necessities to fill your then new apartment. You didn’t consider yourself to be one of those douchey vinyl connoisseurs, but you liked the place well enough. It was only a matter of time before you noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who’d frequent the place without buying anything. He’d stick to the Industrial Rock or Post-Punk ailes and he definitely looked the type, decked head to toe in grungey black attire, adorned with silver jewelry and chains. Every so often the two of you would lock eyes, make slightly painful small talk about whatever was playing through the speakers. You even inquired once if he’d learned your shift schedule with how often he’d appear when you were working, and, leaning suavely on his elbows before you, he’d replied:

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. That all depends...would you think I was a creep if I said yes?”

Perhaps a normal individual would confirm this, but you had to admit the guy was cute. Okay, he was hot with his dark eyes lined in black, brow piercing and air of confidence. So you smiled and shook your head. Dio smiled back.

You recall during one of your early morning shifts, Dio asked for your coffee order, motioning to the cup in your hands. You gave it to him and he advised against grabbing your morning coffee the next time it was scheduled on your calendar. With curiosity, you obliged and on that day and each day after, in he strolled with your cup in one hand, his in the other. So you carried on like that for a while, chatting over coffee, much to the dismay of your manager.

“Your boyfriend’s a distraction,” she’d remarked one day. “And a loiterer. I don’t care how dreamy he is, he can’t keep hanging around here if he’s not gonna buy anything.”

Admittedly, that caused your heart to sink a little. Yeah, you understood her frustration from a business perspective, but despite not even knowing this guy’s name, his gloomy presence brightened your otherwise dull work days.

When you transferred your manager’s message, Dio issued a breath of...disappointment?

“I don’t believe in money,” came his confession, almost hardly classifying as one what with how casually it was delivered. He chuckled at your raised brow. “Everyone’s a slave to these meaningless pieces of paper and metal, even you. ” A nail painted black pointed at you. “If I want something, nine times outta ten, I’ll find my own way to get it. Seems a little fucked up to work for the essentials for survival, don’t you think?”

For a moment, you sat with this new information. Yeah, it was a little fucked up to fork over hard-earned cash for things like basic needs, but how else was someone expected to live? Mulling it over, you sipped your coffee, once again brought by him. You shot Mr. No-Name-Kid a knowing look. “Am I drinking stolen coffee?” Your smirk couldn’t hide from him.

Dio only laughed.

One night as you closed up shop, you were disheartened at the absence of a certain trench coat clad “customer” in the store that day. You couldn’t place where this was coming from. After all, the two of you were only..what? Acquaintances at most? Names hadn’t even been exchanged, and yet you found yourself scanning the streets outside for any sight of him at the door; reminded of his face when bands like The Cure filled the shop.

Your sigh deflated you as you dug for your keys in your bag -- both to lock up and for your car. It was whatever. This guy had a life too and was under no obligation to visit you as you worked.  You turned the key to Empire Records, locking it shut and gave the doors a pull to be sure, Yup. All good. Nodding to yourself, you turned to locate your car in the lot next door. The night was brisk, pushing past the fabric of your cardigan as you walked an empty sidewalk. Under the glow of buzzing streetlights and neon business signs, you tugged it closer to you. The work day was dwindling, at least on this street, cars every so often rolling past. You’re about halfway to the car park when your ears catch a second pair of footsteps behind you. Your lips and spirits lift with the hope that they might belong to the heavy boots of Dio after all and you turn to greet him.

“Nice night, huh?”

This guy’s not Dio. His hoodie covers shaggy chestnut hair, hands in his front pocket as he trudges along. This dude reeks of weed and booze. You ignore him and continue on your path.

“Not a talker. Got it. Listen, honey, you don’t gotta clam up around me, I’m a swell guy. I’ll walk ya’ to your car, that’s where you’re goin’, right?”

Jaw clenched, you ball your cool hands into fists at your sides, keeping your car key poking out from between your fingers should this douche not get the hint. “I don’t need an escort, thanks.” Your reply is sharp, eyes remaining en route. Other than that, you try your damndest to ease calm through your body. Tempting as it is to dash to the safety of your vehicle, you’re not about to put any fear on display for him. You’re okay. Breathe. The lot’s less than a block away now.

Then a hand snakes its way around your waist.

“C’mon, baby, ‘m just tryn’a be a gentleman. Isn’t that what broads want?” His breath is rancid in your nose.

You jerk away, shooting daggers. “Offer declined, now leave me alone.” Now you pick up the pace with your destination in sight. You don’t make it far before you’re jerked back by fingers at your forearm that tug forcefully. The bastard opens his mouth to spew more drovel, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. Screwing up your face, you reel your arm back and jab him with your key in the ribs.

Pain sputters through his lips. No skin was broken (unfortunately), but he’s stumbled back a few paces and grabs where you’d struck him. “You bitch!” He spits, his glare glassy. “Fuck’s your problem?!”

You’re halted by a chilling mixture of fear and shock at your own actions, snapping out of it when the drunk stranger lunges forward. No time is wasted in absolutely fucking booking it now. He may be hammered, but you’re taking no chances. You pay no attention to the string of swears and slurs from behind you and finally reach your car. The vibrations in your hands make unlocking the door difficult, and glancing up you can see your pursuer drunkenly heading toward you.

“Fuck!” You cry. “Stupid fucking--!”

“If I were you I’d stop right there, you piece of shit.”

The familiar voice that hadn’t been there prior snaps your head up, scanning the darkness to catch Dio crossing the street looking more menacing than you’ve ever seen him. You could get in your car and peel out of there right now, but you’re frozen in place watching the scene unfold.

Your attacker finds his way to his feet again, looking dumbfounded at the character who’s walked onto the scene. “Who -- who the fuck’re you?!”

You catch a smirk on Dio’s lips under flickering streetlights. “That all depends on what your next move is, jagoff.” He looks pissed as all hell, though there’s a layer of calm to his words that stirs your stomach. Dio now stands in front of the other with his hands in leather pockets, like he’s provoking him. He’s always exuded this...intimidating aura, clad in all black and chains but you’ve never seen this side of him in action. Maybe now is a bad time to come to this realization, but you have to admit: it’s sexy.

“Oh that’s, ‘s cute,” Mumbles the brunette guy, snickering. “‘S this your boyfriend comin’ to the rescue? Looks like a fuckin’ faggot if I’ve ever seen--”

Dio’s boot to this guy’s crotch cuts him off in the middle of his “insult” and he crumples to the concrete with a groan; if that isn’t enough, Dio lands a second kick to his temple.

You can only stand there lamely with your jaw agape and watch him swagger over after he just knocked a dude in the nuts.

“Sorry I was late,” he says smoothly. “I was in a meeting. You alright?”

Stupidly, you blink at him in the low light. “I--um...I’m…” Real nice. You shake your head to jumpstart your brain. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. Really.” So he’d come to see you after all.

Dio nods, appearing grateful to hear you’re unharmed.

You two begin to speak at the same time and chuckle in unison. He falls silent, ushering you to continue. You look your rescuer in the face, unable to swallow a smile. You’d missed those eyes, seeming so warm in the cool of the night. “So, do I get to know the name of my savior?” You prod.

He laughs once, low in his throat. “Dio.”

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

in the afterlife part two

Summary: can you do a part 2 to the “in the after life” where the reader wakes up after the neibolt’s destroyed and realizes that either she’s back where she died and gets a second chance at life, or that she wakes up outside the house and spend the rest of her life with the losers club?

God himself must be having a field day laughing at you and all the life decision you made to get to this point. The air surrounding you is so dark and impenetrable it’s almost tangible, eluding you to think you might be in heaven or hell. Then your leg kicks out and rams a broken piece of glass in the flesh, twinging an electrifying pain stab conjugated in the back of your mind, and you think assimilate, oh, it’s been a while since I felt that. You’re obviously not an expert in heaven or hell matters, but you do have enough presence of a mind to understand that pain is not something that supposed to be felt in the afterlife. Not dead in that case.

A dust particle flows in your throat, irritating it so hard you undergo a massive coughing spree to get rid of it. In turn, you bring your hand up to cover up your mouth and knock free a rooftop plate, the tiniest sliver of light worming through the opening.  You stare at the back of your hand integrating the way it looks clearer somehow, more then it did while inside Neibolt, and then mind reelingly come to the conclusion that you just pushed something away. You touched something, and discerned the material of said thing under you hands, and not ghosted through.

Your throat bobs, putting a lid on your enthusiasm because you don’t want to get let down when the inevitable punchline tales. With a firm shove, something else topples over and the sunlight from outside illuminates your face. It’s warm and the sun burns a streak on your face, but the outside air is so fresh and crisp you can’t even focus on that, to busy holding back tears. Sitting up proves to be an effort, but you manage, albeit with a small huff, and then you’re seated on the runes of the old house that held you captive for twenty seven years.

The details surrounding this are a little hazy, worn down by the incredible and emotionally draining changes taking place, but you can see the boy, Bill, and his friends of misfits clear as day, better friend than you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

A car zoofs by, and the drives, on older male, leans in their seat to stare at you for as long as they can, judging you, but never slowing down or stopping to offer up any kind of help. The man disposed of a can of soda out his window, ricocheting against the pathway and luring your attention there.

It looks appealing, but a snide of apprehensiveness holds you back. You’ve tried to leave the house multiple times, but each time had ended with a hand grissing your leg and prise you back inside like you weight nothing, Pennywise savoring the wails of despair.

But you’d never been able to flick anything before either, and with Pennywise dead, who knew the possibilities that laid ahead of you?

Hesitantly, the tips of your toes cross the curb, your breath lodging in your throat as anxiousness compels you to step back equally as hurried. No hand grasps you back into the house, not that there is one to go back to, and no pain shocks prickle every nerve in your body, so you try again, propping your whole foot across this time. A halted breath releases at the painless sensations swooping your body, and gathering all courage, your swing your body to the other side.

You let out a punched out laugh, giddy that you’re no longer bound, hysterically laughing because if you don’t you’ll start crying. ‘I’m free.’

When the adrenaline and the utter amazements wears off, you’re left standing in front of a collapsed, the house no longer of any value to you but a place you’ll avoid for the rest of your days. You have no idea what to do next, it’s been twenty-seven years, you can’t out of bleu show up at your parents doorstep, if they even still live there, how would you explain where you’ve been for so long? And the lack of passing time?

No matter the answer to that question, you decide to set track to your old home regardless, the sight of the silhouette will be enough.

You’re walking with a noticeable limp, tracking the leg the glass stabbed you with behind like a cripple, and your clothes are covered in rubbish and are outdated, yet no one in Derry regards you twice, just turn up their nose when you pass them on the streets.

‘Fuck this town, and fuck these miserable people.’

The cursing of the town works you up so bad you’re lost in engulfing yourself in the new things renovating Derry, an arcade coating the old skaters rink you abolished every day, and mister Keens pharmacy updated with a new layer of white paint. Your own home, close to the pharmacy, is one of the many buildings renewed, so completely unrecognizable you doubt for a second if this truly is the house you grew up in.

‘Hey? A-a-aren’t you the girl f-f-from Its layer?’ Bill’s sauntering on the street, trailing his bike with him but not riding it, staring at you from afar. He’s cleaned up, washed away the grime from the sewer water and the red around his eyes has faded away, but it’s definitely the leader of the losers club. Bill speaks softly, as to not attract any more attention than necessary, which is stupid, since no one in Derry cares for anything but themselves.

‘I- yeah I am, my names Y/N, by the way,’ you walk on over to him, nodding your head and coming ot a stop a few feet from him.

‘H-h-how did you get here?’

‘I don’t know, I guess when’, a person passes and you fall silent, starting back up when she’s gone. ‘When Pennywise died I got set free.’

‘You’re h-h-hurt’, Bill observes, glancing at the injure you obtained. Strangely, you’re not bothered by it at all, you like the sting of it, proving that you can actually feel things again now.  

‘If you w-w-want, you can come with me to our c-c-clubhouse? My friends are on their way and they’ll h-h-help us.’

Your house being demolished carves room for a nagging feeling, a feeling that tells you don’t belong anywhere anymore, and you have many places to be now anyway, so you agree. Hopping on the carrier of Bills bike, you swoop your legs up and enjoy the inkling of movement ripped away from all those years for a stupid mistake you made.

---------

The clubhouse is bigger than you imagined, and is filled with life. The others haven’t arrived yet, but based on the poster and gadgets scattered all over the place, it’s obvious they have a lot of personality to share.

You meddle with everything, savoring the textures of different objects and in turn accidently knocking some things over. You smile sheepishly at Bill as an apology, but he doesn’t respond and simply watches you as you go on. At one point, a splinter sticks in your thumb, and like a toddler you show it to him.

The latch unlocks and the other losers all stream in to take their place in the cottage, halting as they spot you.

‘Holy shit,’ Richie, Bill told you all their names before they arrived, says fidgeting with his glasses.  

‘I f-f-found her on t-t-the streets w-w-wondering around, she n-n-needs our h-h-help.’ What their leader proclaims is what happens, and they all scramble to help you as fast as possible.

Eddie disinfects your wounds, Ben, Mike and Stan go digging for books on the subject matter, Bill and Richie distracts you from the ache, and Beverly retrieves clothes that allow you to blend in perfectly.

They’re all very sweet and considerate, attending to you and being friendly while they’re at it, kinder than your best friends at the time had been towards you.

‘You got a second chance in life, it’s a miracle’, Mike concludes after the last book on his stack in cleared.

‘That’s really cool actually. What do you plan on doing with your new found freedom?’

And endless sea of possibilities with waves drowning you and fluctuating you up awaits in the unknow stage of life, but it’s intimidating to start that life with no one behind your back to support you.

‘I don’t know yet. I had a plan before I died but I’m not sure I’m going to pursue that now. In all honesty I have no idea what to do.’

‘Here’s a glorious idea from the smartest kid in the room, your height is the same as ours, you could totally fucking pass as a twelve year old.’

Eddie snorts, the fizz bubbling out his nose, all the while shrieking.

‘Hey, come to think of it, maybe you and Eds should pretend to be siblings, you’re both small for your ages.’

Eddie’s laughter dies out in hurdles, and when he’s done he raises and eyebrow to dare Richie to say anything else. ‘That’s not fucking funny.’

‘You were laughing before though’, Richie proudly answers, his smile positively beaming.

‘I can’t be a twelve year old. I flat out refuse to go through high school again, no thank you’, you shiver, the memories of highs school horrific.’

‘J-j-just stay h-h-here until you f-f-figure it o-o-out then.’

‘Finally, a true genius talking.’ Richie flips Stan off at his words, sticking out his tongue for good measure.

‘Really? You would let me do that?’

‘Well, us losers got to stick together.’

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 25/35

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Belle gets contemplative about her future with Weaver.

Notes: For my August Writer's Month prompt #6: Is that my shirt? This is a bit of filler that only vaguely progresses the plot, but it's necessary to setup Belle's frame of mind for what's to come. Also an excuse to write more flirty idiots because how could I not with that prompt?

[AO3]  

The next day, Belle was still riding high on the revelation that Charlie Dunn, the second victim, was also adopted from Nevada.

She woke up early, and was already working and on her second cup of coffee when Weaver finally rolled out of bed around seven. Whatever had been causing her headaches and weird stomach issues, seemed to have left as suddenly as it came, which reinforced her belief that it was a mild bug from something she ate.

It was essential that they obtain the rest of the birth records on the victims as well as the Tremaines’ foster children. She spent most of the morning filling out request forms for the Clark County Clerk’s Office, one for each victim, one for Eloise, and one for her husband. They probably hated her by now, but if things panned out the way she thought they would, she would buy the whole office lunch on her. Her afternoon consisted of making inquiries locally for whatever birth records were available on the other victims. That had yielded little so far, aside from confirming that three more had been born out of state.

Weaver pushed the office door open, and Belle looked up from her laptop.

“We found Eloise Tremaine’s apartment,” he announced, walking over to the desk as he took off his leather jacket.

Belle’s eyebrows lifted. “Where? How?”

He set down a piece of scrap paper with an address on it in Detective Rogers’ handwriting. “Here, and it really helps once you know the victim’s actual name, and the name of the company that actually pays for the apartment.”

She frowned. “What company?”

Weaver dropped down into one of the chairs opposite her. “Robert Tremaine’s. Perrault Developments, Inc.” Belle’s frown deepened, and he continued, “which he inherited from his uncle, James Perrault.”

“Why do I know that name?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

“I’m told it’s the name of the French guy who wrote Cinderella.”

Her face went through several expressions before she shook her head. “I’m surprised that you know that.”

He laughed. “I don’t. Rogers’s Googled the name and half the results were for Charles Perrault.”

Her lips curled. “So you two fell down a Wikipedia rabbit hole on your way to finding our victim’s residence?”

“Something like that.” He stretched a bit and rolled his shoulders, no doubt stiff from a whole day of driving around the city. “Anyway, the apartment was in the name of the company, and it never came up in any of our inquiries for missing renters, because the rent was still being paid.”

Belle leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. “By a dead woman?”

“By an offshore account.”

“Of course.” She sighed. “Well, that explains why we couldn’t find any credit history on Eloise if she’s been living off the company money, and paying everything in cash or with the company account.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “We’ve got enough now to get all the information we want on Tremaine’s business. Maybe there’s some other connections to our victims from that.”

She picked up the paper with the address and did a quick search to see what part of the city it was in while he was talking. “Do we have access to the apartment yet?”

“Rogers is working on it. The landlord has already been notified, but he’s being a stickler for having the warrant before he lets us in.”

“Good for him, I guess.” Belle sighed again, and then pushed back from the desk. “I filled all the requests with Clark County, and found almost nothing locally for birth records. Damon, Chelsea, and Melissa, were all born out of state, but I don’t know where yet.”

“That’s something, though,” he said, trying to be encouraging. He knew how much she hated the tedium of paperwork and formal requests. “By next week we should have all of the records back, if not sooner. And tomorrow we get to see how Eloise Gardener lived.”

“I want to go with you.” She met his eyes with a stern look to let him know she was serious and would not be left back at the office while he and Rogers rooted through Eloise’s apartment. “I want to be there.”

He nodded in understanding. “Should have the warrant before lunch.” Then he smiled. “I think that’s enough for now. Ready to call it a day?”

She smiled back, already bending down to pull out her purse. “Yes please.”

He stood and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. “I was thinking I’d make alfredo tonight.”

Pausing with her purse strap hanging awkwardly from her hand and one arm in her coat, Belle looked at him wide eyed, starting to smile. “That’s my favorite.”

Weaver licked his lips. “I know.”

Belle sighed and closed her eyes as her head fell forward, letting the hot water run down over her neck and shoulders.

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say she loved this shower. The bathroom had been a huge selling point when they first looked at the apartment, though that seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been too easy to settle back into a routine with Weaver, and while there had certainly been solace in the familiar, especially in the aftermath of being attacked in her own home, there was still apprehension. The conversation over the state of their relationship had never really taken place, and both of them seemed loath to rock the boat while so much was happening with the case, but she had been exploring her thoughts on the matter more and more.

Her session with Dr. Hopper had touched on it as well, and Archie had openly asked her if she wanted to reconcile officially with Ian. That was the penultimate question of course, and leave it to Archie to skip any formalities or attempts to ease into the topic. He knew her too well. Still, the idea made her smile.

A few months ago it would have earned a glare or a door slam, and a firm contradiction, so this was, by any standard, a great deal of progress.

Belle finished her shower and exited the bathroom in nothing but a towel. As she padded across the floor to the bedroom, Weaver glanced up from his laptop with a raised eyebrow and let out a low whistle. She threw him a look before she stepped into the bedroom and heard him chuckling as she closed the door.

Her skin felt tingly and warm, and she knew it was from more than just the water. The last couple of weeks she’d found herself almost distracted by her attraction to Weaver, and the pleasing banter and light teasing they had established between them only made it worse. She had to admit that he was different now than he’d been when they were first together, though she was uncertain what it meant. It made her want to stay, to get back together officially, in a way that left no doubt for either of them. But it also made her want to do all manner of naughty things.

Smiling to herself, she pulled on a pair of soft cotton pajama shorts and started digging in one of her bags for a shirt. Most of her work things were back in the closet, but with only one dresser, her casual clothes were relegated to a suitcase and two duffel bags. Frowning as she pulled out everything except what she was looking for, she reached into the inside pocket of the bag and pulled out something unexpected.

A small black box tumbled to the floor, and she hesitated for a long moment before picking it up.

Belle sat on the edge of the bed and swallowed hard, running her thumb back and forth over the soft velvet. She knew what was inside, but she hadn’t looked at it in a long time. With the way she’d been feeling towards Weaver lately, she wasn’t sure she should, fearful that it might bring up the wrong memories. Closing her eyes for a second, she flipped the box open.

The diamond sparkled even in the low light from the lamp on the nightstand.

She plucked it free, turning it this way and that, and making small shapes on the floor when it caught the light just right. Holding the band, she slid the tip of her finger in and out of the ring, feeling the smooth, cool metal. Before, in the weeks and months immediately after their divorce, she would take it out every now and then, and look at it. It usually resulted in her having a good cry and stress eating an entire sleeve of Oreos. She’d only brought it with her from her apartment because it was with her other jewelry, and though she’d known it was packed into one of the bags, it had been put out of her mind.

On impulse, she pushed it over her knuckle and settled it on the appropriate finger. Her hand flexed as she admired it, pleased that it still fit perfectly and didn’t look to be in any need of cleaning. She expected it to feel strange, since she rarely ever wore rings before she was married, and hadn’t on that finger since their separation. Bracelets and rings had always bothered her when she had to type or write, and throughout university and law school she was forever taking them off and putting them in her bag, finding them days later. But this ring had never been a hindrance, and she barely even noticed it as she worked. It wasn’t heavy or gaudy, and it didn't have so many facets and points as to snag her clothes.

Shaking her head, she quickly pulled it off and set it back in the box, and put the box back in the inside pocket where it had been before going back to looking for her nightshirt. Strangely, she kept looking down at her hand as she rummaged through the laundry basket. After being on her finger for only a minute or so, it made no sense that her hand would be missing the ring’s presence.

With a huff, she gave up trying to find the shirt that matched her shorts, and turned around to look for something else to wear, when her eyes landed on something of Weaver’s that had been mixed in with her laundry. She picked up his very faded and well worn Celtic Football Club shirt, and immediately pulled it over her head. The fabric was soft from years of wear and washing. It might have been her imagination, but even though it was clean there was the faintest hint of his scent on it and she pulled it up to her nose and inhaled.

Smiling, she opened the door and stood there, leaning against the doorframe until she was noticed.

“Is that my shirt?” Weaver asked, setting the laptop down on the coffee table.

Belle shrugged one shoulder and sauntered towards him, letting her desire add an extra sway to her hips. “Is it? It was in the laundry basket with my things.”

“Hmm, was it…” he said, leaning back on the sofa as a grin curved his lips. “Maybe that’s because you’re always stealing it.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you accusing me of a crime, Detective?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, watching her step around the coffee table to stand in front of him.

“Do you want it back?” she asked, putting one knee on the sofa beside his hip.

“No,” Weaver replied, licking his lips. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

She brought her other knee down and straddled him, holding her body away from his. He held her waist, already bunching the shirt as she leaned over him. “Too bad.”

"Why's that?"

She felt his hands slide down to her backside and then up, lifting the shirt as his palms moved up her back. His hips shifted forward, and she allowed him to pull her down just a little as a low ache settled in her core.

Her lips brushed his, teasing him with the wet heat of her breath. “I was going to tell you to come and take it.”

[hybridfanfiction]

Owner Training - 2

Word Count: 2,585

“Yah, get up. We have things to do today.” 

You groan as the gravelly voice slowly pulls you from your deep sleep and try to cover your face with the blanket. You couldn’t even remember waking up once during the night and wanted to get back to it. Having such a good nights sleep was a rare phenomenon. You couldn’t recall why it happened but you hoped it would again. You bury your face deeper into your pillow and allow yourself to drift back to sleep. 

“You’re still not up? Fine.” 

The comforter that had felt as comfy as a cloud a few moments ago was ripped from your body, the sudden rush of cool air bringing you to full awareness. You whine and crack open your eyelids, coming face to face with the smirking hybrid looming above you. 

“Good afternoon. It’s almost one. I made you food so come eat it.” Yoongi orders with an amused grin, waltzing back out of the room with his tail flicking cheekily behind him. 

You wipe the sleep from your eyes and sit up with a moan, cracking your neck a bit as everything comes back to you. 

You were now a hybrid owner. Or something like that. 

You honestly had no idea how this was done, which is partially why you’d never gotten a hybrid for yourself. You’ve seen your brother and his hybrid interact, true, but you didn’t know much about the day to day stuff. You weren’t sure how much you were supposed to treat them like their animal counterparts versus the human side. 

And that was especially a problem for you right now, because sleeping with Yoongi cuddled in next to you had definitely not given you the same feeling as if you’d been cuddling an actual cat. Instead, you’d been very aware that there was an amazing smelling man wrapped around you, nevermind the quiet purring or the tail that had wound itself around your legs. 

You sigh and pick up a hair tie from your nightstand and put your hair up as you walk towards the kitchen. On the table were two omelets, along with a glass of milk for Yoongi and your usual lemon and ginger tea. The food actually smelled pretty good, although there was a touch of a fishy scent that worried you. 

The two of you sat down and you began sipping your tea as Yoongi tore into his omelet, finally revealing the source of the fish odor as he did so. 

“You put tuna in the omelets?” 

“Just in mine. Yours has cheddar and spinach. This one is good though...here.” Yoongi grunts as he shoves a bite of his tuna monstrosity towards your mouth. 

Not wanting to upset him, you open up and allow him to feed it to you. He watches intently as you chew, smirk growing as he observes your trepidation turn into surprise. 

“Not bad, right?” 

“It’s not awful, no.”

Yoongi snorts in amusement then gestures towards your own food. 

“Eat up and get ready. You have things you need to get me today.” 

You pause with your fork halfway to your mouth to stare at him curiously. 

“I do?” 

“Duh. I’m living here now, so I’m going to need my own things. Don’t worry, I have a little money. There are just certain things that hybrids can’t buy on their own.” 

“Oh, well alright then, I guess. It’s my day off, so I don’t have any other plans.” 

Yoongi raised a single eyebrow as if to indicate he was already aware before digging back into his food. You shrug and follow suit, pleased that it seemed like Yoongi was a decent cook. It was hard to mess up an omelet, honestly, but it was still really well done. The eggs were fluffy and the filling was a good ratio of cheese to spinach, and you were almost certain he’d even added a dash of red pepper flakes. 

“This is really good, Yoongi. Thank you.” 

He merely nodded at the compliment, but you swore that you caught a flash of pink on his cheeks. 

The rest of the meal was finished in silence, followed by the two of you getting ready to go...somewhere. You figured he’d tell you once you got in the car so you’d at least know where you were driving to. As you gathered your things to leave, you couldn’t help but notice the threadbare outfit he was wearing as he met you by the door. It was one you’d noticed numerous times before, as you recognized the black and red t-shirt that you remembered had a hole near the armpit. You hoped clothes was one of the things he’d let you get today. 

Yoongi follows behind as you head towards your car then slides into the passenger seat and buckles up without any prompting. He grabs your phone when you set it down and puts directions onto it. 

“That’s where we need to go. It’s like a Costco for hybrid goods.” 

You nod and pull out, letting Yoongi put on the music app before setting it back to the GPS for you. 

“If it’s like a Costco does that mean we need a membership?” 

“Yup. Only humans can apply for it, although I’ll get a card too.” 

“So what all do we need? Like, clothes, food, I dunno...litterbox?” 

Yoongi quietly growled as he stared at you incredulously. Even his ears and tail looked offended, flickering at you with agitation. 

“Try and make me use a litterbox. I dare you.” 

“I said I didn’t know!” 

He scoffed and settled into his seat in silence, and it remained that way for the rest of the thirty-minute drive to get to the store. He didn’t appear too angry, more like annoyed, which was understandable. 

As you pulled into the parking lot, you were surprised by the sheer massiveness of the place. The greeter at the door was a friendly Lab hybrid that directed you to the membership counter, where you obtained a couple of cards after paying a membership fee and taking a couple of pictures. You supposed it would be worth it if Yoongi was really staying and you’d be needing to keep him supplied with...whatever you were here for. 

You pushed the cart along, studying the products with wonder. You had no idea hybrids had so many different things. The cart soon became filled with soaps and shampoos, toothpaste, brushes, the fluffiest towels you’d ever felt, fifteen bath bombs, and at least five blankets because apparently Yoongi didn’t skimp on his comfort items. The clothes that the two of you picked through were some of the softest fabrics you’d ever felt, and the pants all had holes of different sizes for tails to fit through. You’d even gotten a couple sweaters for yourself because you’d loved the plush feel of them so much. 

The food area was really impressive and had lots of hybrid friendly meals ready to go, as well as a fish section that had Yoongi enthralled. The roasted chicken samples seemed to make him just as happy. You came out of the food section with more food than you’d ever bought at once before. You should probably explain to Yoongi at some point that you can make a pretty swell can of soup and that’s the extent of your cooking ability. 

After nearly an hour and a half of wandering the store, Yoongi had you stop in front of a wall of collars. You were surprised, as you hadn’t pegged him for the type to want a collar, and it must have shown on your face because he snorted at your expression. 

“It’s the law. All hybrids have to wear a collar outdoors. I only got away with it when we were coming in here because we’re obviously new. Stupid law, but whatever.” 

Yoongi inspected a few collars before settling on a black one with a thin band. The material looked soft enough and when he tried it on, it looked amazing. In the completely non-pet way that you couldn’t give voice to. 

He threw it into the cart and went right back to looking at the collars again, to your confusion. How many collars does one hybrid need? 

After throwing an entirely too mischievous glance at you over his shoulder, he grabs one that looks more like a black lace choker than an animal collar. Your brain starts to malfunction trying to picture Yoongi in lace and that’s when he strikes, wrapping the collar around your neck with a smug grin. 

“What? I don’t need a collar,” you squeak, reaching up to touch the lace with your fingers. 

He shrugs, staring at the collar with both a blush and an annoying smirk. 

“If I have to wear one, only fair if you do too.” 

“That’s bullshit. I’m not walking around in a collar.” 

“So wear it around the house. Seems fair enough. I have to wear one outside, you have to wear it inside.” 

It did sound fair, but you knew it was also him just being a little shit. Whatever, you probably looked hot. Silly hybrid can’t make a fool of you. 

“Just say you’re kinky and call it a day,” you laugh as you take it off and throw it into the cart. He grumbles and turns to the tag machine. 

After a few moments, he throws a couple of small gold tags towards you to inspect. One is simple; Yoongi’s name, your phone number, and address. The other...

“Who the hell is Ginger?” 

Yoongi’s eyes light up like he thinks he’s finally won whatever silly game he’s been playing. 

“Oh, that’s your kitten name. You have a collar, might as well have some stupid cat name to go with it.” 

“Yoongi isn’t a cat name. Why doesn’t yours say Mr. Fluffington or something?” 

“If you ever call me that I will shred every piece of clothing you own.” 

You chuckle at Yoongi’s disgusted sneer, his button nose crinkling adorably. 

“Well, at least tell me why Ginger.” 

Yoongi shrugged and grabbed the cart, pushing it towards the checkout. 

“You always smell like that lemon and ginger tea you drink.” 

Huh. He’d sounded almost fond of you just then. 

You were humming to yourself as you waited in line when Yoongi suddenly shoves a huge wad of cash right in your face. 

“What’s this?” 

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “I believe humans call it money.” 

“I’m aware, smartass. I mean why are you shoving money in my face?” 

“I have a decent amount of money from busking. I just couldn’t spend it on much because of the stupid laws. Just stuff from the convenience store or whatever. If you want to throw up a fuss and pay for everything because you’re the “owner,” then you can do that another time. This is a lot of shit, so just take it.” 

You sigh and accept the money, which is easily almost three hundred dollars. The fact that he had this much money and couldn’t even spend it on his own was ridiculous and broke your heart. Yoongi was obviously independently natured, and having to deal with that on a daily basis no doubt hurt his pride. At least now he could say all of his new things were purchased with his own money. 

You sent Yoongi off to go buy the two of you a couple of drinks from the cafe for the road. You pulled the item you’d been hiding from the bottom of the cart and handed it to the cashier, asking her to ring it separately. You’d just barely managed to get it bagged and rehidden before Yoongi came back. 

After checkout, the two of you rush home to get the perishables safely put away. As you stock the fridge, you wave Yoongi away, telling him to set up the rest of his things. The couch now sports two new fluffy blankets and a little pillow you hadn’t noticed before. His clothes now have a spot in your closet and his towels and bath products are next to yours in the bathroom. You hadn’t realized how empty the place had seemed before, but the evidence of another person living here was comforting. 

While Yoongi was in the bedroom organizing his clothes, you took the chance to pull out the bag you’d been hiding among the groceries, unwrapping it and setting it next to Yoongi’s pillow and blanket on the couch. You quickly run back to the kitchen and go back to putting things away. 

A few moments later and you were finishing up in the kitchen as Yoongi wanders back in the living room with a few books and magazines about hybrids that he’d insisted on you reading “so I don’t have to explain every damn thing.” He stopped short as the front of the couch came into view. 

“What the hell is this?” 

“Hmm? What’s up?” you hum as you slowly strut into the room. You try for nonchalance, but you know that the smile you can’t hold back gives you away. 

Yoongi is sitting on the couch clutching the black cat plushie you hadn’t been able to resist buying. Beyond the fact that the toy had a little button nose that resembled a certain cat you knew, it was also meant for calming. It had a little opening in the back to keep pouches of dried chamomile. Something told you that Yoongi hadn’t had many calming situations in his life, and though this was barely much of anything, you hoped it would help ease his way into being happy here with you. 

“You like him?” you ask, settling in next to him as Yoongi stares at you in wide-eyed wonder. 

“I...yeah. It’s a little lame, but uh...thanks,” Yoongi stutters, taking an audible sniff of the plushie before he sets it in his lap. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“And...” Yoongi continues, his cheeks going pink as he fiddles around with the toy. “Thank you for not kicking me out on my ass. You should have.” 

“You are more than welcome here, Yoongi. I may not be the best or smartest person to take care of a hybrid, but at least I’m not willing to let one sleep out in the cold if I can help it.” 

Yoongi scoffs, and the haunted look in his eyes makes you want to cry. “That already makes you better than most humans.” 

You reach over and grasp one of his hands, half expecting him to smack you away. You’re pleasantly surprised when he lets you and squeezes it back. 

“Right,” he clears his throat and stands up. “Do your homework. I’ll throw something together for dinner. Salmon okay?” 

“Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Yoongi,” You grin and grab one of the hybrid books to read while he cooks.  

Yoongi takes a step then hesitates, throwing you a quick look before grabbing the cat plush and taking it with him to the kitchen. You hide your smile behind the book. You two are going to be okay. 

[marymccartneyphotos]

"Food" and Family: The Photographer on Her Mum, Vegetarian Myths and Why She Will Never Be Martha Stewart

June 1, 2012-- Wallstreet Journal

Mary McCartney takes one look at me and begins dictating her favorite breakfast smoothie recipe: one banana, a tablespoon of milled flax seeds, one cup of rice milk, a small tablespoon of superfood powder and a scoop of whey protein. "That way, you will be set up for the day," she says, regarding me in a maternal, slightly concerned fashion. "I mean, when did you last eat?" I have known McCartney for 15 years. She shot her first fashion pictures for me when I was editor at Frank magazine in 1998, to accompany the diary her sister Stella wrote about putting together her first collection for the fashion brand Chloé. Over the years, as her fame as a photographer has grown, we have worked together on various projects. Now, as working mums on the same school run, we continue to bump into each other, occasionally stopping to chat and compare teenage-boy war stories. McCartney last year gave birth to her fourth child — her second son with film director Simon Aboud; she has two others with former husband Alistair Donald. This month, the 42-year-old launched her cookbook "Food," inspired by the memory, cooking methods and recipes of her beloved mother, the late Linda McCartney. Mary has been a consultant on her mother's brand Linda McCartney Foods for over a decade.

My mum was a rock 'n' roll cook. 

She cooked more on instinct than by measuring. She appreciated food. She would never, for example, have eaten a Mars bar when she could eat really good chocolate. 

For mum, the kitchen was the social hub. 

She always liked people coming in and hanging out with her while she cooked. I'm the same. I like to cook for a reason—mainly for the kids, or if I have friends coming over.

My parents would challenge each other to cook great veggie meals. 

My dad was always saying: Right, well, if I'm no longer eating meat, then what can we eat that is as delicious? He is a northern guy, and everything at that time revolved around the meat on the plate. It still does, I think, as opposed, for example, to Italy, where meat is just an ingredient, not the main constituent of a meal.

There's a preconception that veggie food is complicated and time-consuming. 

I wanted to dispel that. I like to spend about 30 minutes or less on a recipe, and I use ingredients that are easily obtainable.

My mum never wore an apron when she cooked, and neither do I. 

When I look back on her style, I think of it as easy and cool. The kitchen was no different to anywhere else in terms of how she dressed. I think if you are relaxed, it comes through in your cooking. I will admit, though, that having a mum who wore weird stuff and argyle socks was kind of embarrassing when I was at school. 

My boys cook with me. 

I learned so much from my mum about where food comes from and how to prepare it; I figure they will do the same. Plus, they are much more likely to eat it if they have had a hand in preparing it.

I always said no to writing a book because it's not my arena. 

I'm a people person, which is why I'm a photographer—I like to tell a story with pictures not words. Writing is too much like homework. But then, because I support Meat Free Mondays and I wanted to illustrate to people that veggie food can be interesting and easy, I agreed. When the book first arrived, I looked at it and thought: Now, this is why I did it. 

Actually, I finally said yes to the book because my husband pitched the idea to me. 

He has an advertising background, so he's very persuasive. He pitched the idea of us having this recent baby, too.

Food carries with it so many memories of my family. 

My sister does the same thing with clothes that I do with food. When I look at Stella's collections, I see a bit of my mum's boho and vintage influence and some of my American grandfather's seersucker, lawyer-suits vibe. When I go to watch Stella's runway shows, I feel very nostalgic.

I read a recent review of my book and it said, "nice pictures, but I bet she didn't come up with the recipes." 

I was like, What!?, because I came up with all the recipes, which were really what I grew up with but healthier—my mum used a lot of cream. I try to enhance what I already know and love, and make it indulgent but good for you.

I tried to treat the food I was photographing like I would the portrait of a person. 

There was no food varnishing on my shoots—I didn't even have a prop stylist. It was manic. I was making the food, then putting it onto or into vintage-y plates and bowls, then sticking it somewhere like a windowsill and framing the shot. As a family, we have bad memories of chargrilled vegetables and couscous, which was traditionally all that was on offer in restaurants in the '70s if you were vegetarian. Consequently, neither appears in my book or on my table—ever!

Everything that surrounds food is really complicated. 

There's so much shame attached to what we eat and guilt about what we weigh. I think celebrating good, healthy food is part of the answer. Wouldn't it be interesting if every person in the country could have a therapy session about how they feel about food?

I have a very clear memory of the first time food changed my mood. 

I was having a bad day and my aunt took me out, and I had a grilled cheese sandwich, chips and a milkshake. I remember realizing afterward that the meal had actually made me feel better.

My step-grandmother on my mum's side taught me to bake. 

She was French and a little scary—always saying things like: Children do not run in the apartment. But when I got older, we became friends through cooking. She taught me the value of measuring things and of having an oven thermometer. Those two things are fundamental to my cooking today.

My dad loves home baking, and I think there's a link between my interest in food and making people happy. 

I love it if everyone eats everything on their plate.

You can tell a good restaurant by the excellence of their vegetarian dishes or menu. 

I like Raymond Blanc's Manoir aux Quat'Saisons, E&O in Notting Hill, Le Caprice and Scott's — places with a nice ambience. 

I'm a huge fan of straightforward, chuck-it-all-in cooks like Nigel Slater and Jamie Oliver, who celebrate food, and I detest anything complicated. 

What's the deal with all that foamy, fiddly stuff?

I remember my childhood as very normal. 

We went to a comprehensive, where we kept our heads down because we didn't want to be seen as different. We ate at a certain time, did our homework and, every so often, we'd go on an amazing trip somewhere that would remind us that our circumstances weren't quite like everyone else's. 

I think part of the reason my dad looks so good is that he eats properly. 

He would never skip a meal. Often, if he's on his own, he will eat something from my mum's range and make himself vegetables or a salad.

I'm not going to become a Martha Stewart. 

There are no books planned on how my kitchen or home looks. I can't even remember the name of the cooker I use, except to say that it's a double oven and it's good. I have been approached a number of times about doing a cooking show for TV. My husband is pitching me on that now, so we'll see what happens.

I'm obsessed by Amelia Rope—a chocolate range available at Liberty. 

It's really expensive, so I eat a tiny bit at a time. I love the Pale Lime with Sea Salt. [Also] Cire Trudon candles—again very expensive, so I don't buy too many, but I love all of the fragrances.

I like to be comfortable and practical, but stylish.... 

I want to be able to walk wherever I go. I wear my sister Stella's clothes a lot, but never the whole look. I mix everything up, which is what my mum did, so I'd wear Stella's trousers with a vintage blouse, a nice knit cardi and flip flops. I wear Stella's L.I.L.Y. [standing for Linda I Love You], Penhaligon's Bluebell and Agent Provocateur's Maitresse Gold, which my husband bought me.

I'm very inspired by my mum. 

She liked vintage—pretty tea dresses and nice knits. I can't see a piece of neon clothing without thinking of her.

Stocking a Kitchen, Mary McCartney-Style

•Heavy-bottomed frying pans: small, medium and large

•Nonstick frying pans: large (around 28 centimeters) and small or medium (around 20 centimeters)

•Magimix food processor—but I prefer hand-chopping

•Chopping boards in various sizes—I'm a Virgo, so I need to control the size of everything that's chopped. Two large, wooden boards for veg and one dedicated to fruit, so you don't get garlic or onion flavor on fruit. 

•Kitchen Aid mixer for baking

•Roasting and cake tins 

•Sharp knives: a selection of approximately six in a wooden block; my favorite is the 13-centimeter, serrated vegetable chopping knife.

•Wooden spoons 

•Spatulas 

•Veg and zest peelers 

•Weighing scales 

•Oven thermometer