#spinner of threads

[dailycharacteroption]

Class Feature Friday: Fate Patron/Spinner of Threads Patron (Pathfinder 2nd Edition Witch Patron and Remastered Version)

(art by Asfodelo on DeviantArt)

Today we have another First on the blog, this one being a case where a class feature got renamed and altered slightly with the Pathfinder 2E Remaster that has now come out. With that in mind I’ll probably do a special at some point featuring any changes that came to 2E features that have notable changes which I’ve already covered.

In any case, today we’re looking at another witch patron, namely those that govern fate, though they are also known as Spinners of Fate in the remaster.

Fate is a fickle thing, and one that is utterly unknowable for most mortals aside from a few glimpses here and there and educated guesses.

It’s only natural, then, that there would be those who seek knowledge of the future and that which is beyond the mortal ken, either for oneself or to help others either achieve their destiny or avoid it (or at least mitigate the worst of a dark fate).

And so, some witches seek out, or are contacted by patrons of fate. Such beings might be beings known for their power over prophecy, such as norns, or they might be minor divinities or the servants of higher divinities that govern fate and prophecy, such as Pharasma, Grandmother Spider, Shyka the Many, Madgh, and so on.

Such witches might be fortune-tellers using their power to ply their trade, or they might seek to be advisors of powerful leaders of allies, or venture off on their own in search of their own destiny!

As one might expect, these witches and their patrons favor the divination side of things, gathering information as well as those lovely luck buffs and even unluck debuffs on enemies, so they certainly have a lot of potential to fulfill their destinies.

Naturally, their focus on the secrets of fate and fortune means that these patrons offer magic of the occult discipline, which does offer a lot of divination magic and fortune effects.

The basic hex taught by these patrons allows the mage to subtly nudge fate, turning a failure on the edge of a knife into a success.

Their other spell in their baseline arsenal lets them see into the immediate future and strike true against foes.

The Revised version of the patron also grants an additional ability as the familiar itself gains an auspicious mark which either looks lucky or like an ill omen depending on the situation, bolstering allies when you cast helpful hexes, or making foes more vulnerable to your hostile hexes.

The following witch feats could prove useful to a fate witch: Cackle, Counterspell, Basic Lesson (Lesson of Calamity), Chaotic Spell, Spirit Familiar, Major Lesson (Renewal), Familiar’s Eyes, Siphon Power, and Patron’s Truth, though obviously, others might appeal to you.

Like all patron, this option is fairly basic, relying on you to fill out the rest to fit the theme or diverge from it. However, this theme is great for those that seek to debuff the heck out of foes with misfortune effects and buff themselves and allies with fortune.

I’ve mentioned this a lot before, but how your character views the concepts of fate and fortune go a long way towards describing their relationship with their patron and how they view the world. Do they believe everything is ordained and seeing the future only helps one achieve it, or do they believe things can be changed?

It’s easy to assume an ifrit kobold would be some sort of pyromancer, but Pikan instead uses his understanding of flame as a focus for divination magics, under the tutelage of a spirit he calls the Branching Candle. He doesn’t, however, speak of how he forged a pact with such a being.

Recent reports speak of a group of warriors that adorn their armor in bones and waylay travelers through the valley. Further investigation reveals that they revere death and severed threads of fate, and that their leader is some sort of witch that delights in ruining the destinies of others through death and destitution.

Balan has always been lucky, and has become something of a living good luck charm for the caravan he calls home. However, it seems that something has taken notice of him, as a strange owl has been following their wagons and staring at him at night, whispering an offer for great magic, but does the patron this familiar represents wish to cultivate his gifts, or exploit them?

[fannedandflawless]

Forged in Thread: A Follow-Up to The Uniform Was Armour

Headcanon, Rewritten: The Armour We Built Together

✍️ Follow-up to The Uniform Was Armour – thank you to everyone who reblogged, commented, or quietly shared insights and references. I’ve read them all—and I’m so grateful.

The original post? That was me, squinting at screenshots and counting buttons like a cryptic ritual. It was more of a headcanon stitched with instinct than anything grounded in research. A feeling, more than a fact.

But your responses? They helped rewrite that headcanon into something real. From Rickman’s costuming rituals to the historical anatomy of his silhouette, what was once quiet speculation has become a shared archive. Below is a compiled summary of what I’ve learned from you all.

—

🧵 Uniform Construction & Rickman’s Influence

Alan Rickman helped design the fastening of the coat to evoke a sense of constraint—real buttons, no zip.

He would button the uniform himself before filming, describing it as a ritual to become the character.

The sleeves extended over the hands on purpose, creating a feeling of isolation or shield.

🖋 Historical Fashion Notes

The silhouette borrows from early Victorian frock coats—narrow at the waist, long, with tightly spaced buttons.

The cravat and stiff collar are stylised to suggest discipline and emotional repression.

Many noted how the absence of visible layers (like a waistcoat) suggested austerity and restraint.

🎥 Costuming Secrets

There’s no full shirt beneath the coat. Only collar and cuff fragments sewn in, to maintain sleek lines.

The design is intentionally restrictive—not meant to move freely, but to contain.

—

So once again: thank you for making that quiet speculation bloom into something richly informed. The uniform truly was armour—but now I can see the forging process, too.

Special thanks to the brilliant minds who shared references, screenshots, and behind-the-scenes gems—your contributions were unforgettable.

I’m grateful beyond words. 🙏

Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, silently watching from the frame. Perhaps not smiling—but unmistakably proud. (Or at the very least, not displeased—which, from him, is something close to affection.)

—

I never expected a robe analysis to lead to this. Thank you all for helping me stitch instinct into insight.

[therosepetalrps]

[  bandage  ]  sender  helps  bandage  up  receiver’s  wounds

{Princess Belle French to Spinner Rumple}

Rumplestiltskin dreaded visiting the palace. It was the low point of every month - not that his days were an excess of highs by contrast. Most merchants had the luxury of hiring wagoners to make deliveries for them. But, for Rumple, a single misspent coin meant a night without supper for Baelfire.

The cart was a laborious thing that'd give you splinters if you looked at it wrong, its wooden bed piled with crates of wool skeins and spools of thread. And it was left to him to maneuver the cart through the village, down the long expanse of road, and up the hill to the palace. It was a task that would be no harder than pushing a baby's sleeping carriage for a man half his age or with twice the strength in his legs. But as it was, Rumple felt like he was trying to force the thing through a lake of treacle.

His arms were growing stiff, his back sore and hunched. The castle gates were in sight, but he could feel his lame leg begin to betray him, buckling like a snapped twig. He crumbled into the dirt, losing control of the cart - which tipped sideways, spitting the crates across the road. His leg, overextended and aching, felt too inelastic to even bend enough to right himself again. His palms and forearms were scuffed and bleeding from where they'd slid against the rocky ground in his attempt to catch himself.

[ac1nums-moved]

@shadowbrn, spinner mason required a starter from craig manning.

" i have both good and bad news. the good news is that i entered our band into a talent show. the bad news is we don't have a song that works. let's just says that we're screwed. "

[frogeyedape]

~4.5 hours of spinning in the dark in a moving vehicle. Excited to celebrate my nephew's birthday today!

[bravevolunteer-a]

alright i am here to harass michael now

[wanderosed]

To the previously mentioned sources I would add Abbey Franquemonty's

Respect the Spindle. Anyone looking for the how's & why's of hand spinning will find answers there. Interest in hand spinning has seen a steady growth in the past 15 yrs since this book's release.

We live in an era where there is a wide availability in tools, raw materials, and instructions. Before 2005 the spinner-wannabe was hard pressed to find the tools & fiber to even become a spinner much less explore the nuisance of rare fibers.

There is a lot of information out there about weaving, crocheting and knitting, but relatively little about spinning.

Which is a shame, since spinning is really where the "resource provided by the earth" tangibly becomes "object with a use."

Aspects of spinning, such as the amount of twist and the length of the fibers, are impactful upon the thread or yarn created, but lots of fiber crafters don't get to directly play with those variables...

It is so strange how textile production is so utterly dominated by very few fibers, when so many are possible. Industry keeps coming up with new ways to transform bamboo or something into fibers, which is all well and good, but we have yet to run out of easily usable natural fibers that have worked for thousands of years.

Dogbane—Apocyonum cannabinum—was called "Indian hemp" because it was used by Native Americans for ropes, cords and textiles. It's incredibly strong, soft, and easy to collect large amounts of it. But hardly anybody uses it.

[blairxbear]

Hit with a Villain’s Sex Quirk & They NEED You NOW!

UA Part 1 / UA Part 2 / Pro Heroes / Villains

They’re desperate, aching, and the only thing that can ease their suffering… is YOU

Featuring: Tomura Shigaraki, Dabi/Toya Todoroki, Shuichi Iguchi/Spinner, Kai Chisake/Overhaul, Jin Bubaigawara/Twice, Atsuhiro Sako/Mr. Compress, Young All For One

Tomura Shigaraki

The second the quirk hits, he freezes.

His fingers twitch, his breath comes out in short, ragged gasps.

Heat floods his system, making his body tense, his muscles aching for relief.

Growls in frustration, gripping the nearest surface so hard it nearly crumbles.

“What the fck is this?”*

His usual anger is replaced with raw, primal need.

When he sees you? His red eyes darken immediately.

Takes a shaky step toward you, hands clenching.

“Y/N… I need you. Right fcking now.”*

Doesn’t give you a chance to react.

His hands are on you, trembling but firm, his voice wrecked with desperation.

“Fix this. Please.”

Toya Todoroki (Dabi)

Groans low in his throat as the heat rushes through him.

His body tenses, flames flickering around his fingertips.

At first, he laughs, a breathy, shaky sound, but it quickly turns into a frustrated growl.

“Oh, fck me… that’s one hell of a quirk.”*

His usual teasing, cocky attitude? Completely shattered.

When he sees you, his entire body shudders.

“Doll… don’t just stand there. Come here.”

His voice is rough, lower than usual, thick with need.

Grabs your wrist, pulling you against him, his body burning hot.

“I need you, baby. Now.”

Desperate, hungry, completely wrecked.

Spinner

Shudders violently as the quirk slams into him.

His whole body burns.

Eyes darting around, trying to find something—anything—to ground himself.

But then? He sees you.

And suddenly, nothing else matters.

Lurches forward, gripping your shoulders, his breathing ragged.

“Y-Y/N… I need you. I—I can’t—”

He wraps his arm around your waist instinctively, pulling you closer.

He’s completely overwhelmed, his voice breaking as he whispers against your skin.

“Please… I need you.”

Kai Chisaki (Overhaul)

Immediately tenses, his jaw clenching as heat rushes through his veins.

Grips his gloves tightly, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to suppress the unbearable ache.

Hates feeling out of control, but right now? His body is betraying him.

Fingers twitch as he struggles against the sensation, his breathing turning ragged.

When you enter the room, his golden eyes snap to you.

“Come here.”

Doesn’t wait for you to react.

In a second, he has you caged against the nearest surface, his gloved hands framing your face.

“This is your fault. Fix it.”

His body is trembling with need, his restraint hanging by a thread.

Jin Bubaigawara (Twice)

The moment the quirk hits, he gasps, doubling over, hands gripping his knees.

His entire body shudders, his mind fogging over with overwhelming desire.

Two voices start screaming in his head.

“Sht, this is bad! We can’t control this!”*

“No, no, it’s fine! Y/N will help, right? Right?!”

His breath is ragged as he finally manages to stand, eyes darting around frantically.

Then, he spots you.

“Oh, thank fck.”*

Practically collapses into you, hands gripping your waist.

“Babe, I—I need you, like, right now.”

Completely desperate, shaking, his voice cracking as he begs.

Atsuhiro Sako (Mr. Compress)

Gasps softly as the quirk takes effect, his whole body shivering as a wave of need crashes over him.

Tries to maintain his usual smooth demeanor, but it’s crumbling fast.

His hands tremble slightly as he removes his mask, his breath uneven.

Looks at you with hooded eyes, his voice softer, rougher.

“Ah… my love… I seem to be in quite the predicament.”

Steps closer, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips.

“I can’t control myself much longer.”

His body presses against yours, his lips hovering near your ear.

“Help me, darling. Now.”

Young All For One

The second the quirk hits, he inhales sharply, his entire body stiffening.

At first, he smirks, amused.

“How… interesting.”

But then the intensity of it settles in, and his smirk falters.

His usual calm, composed nature shatters.

Looks at you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath heavy.

“Y/N… come here. Now.”

His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

“I need you. I won’t ask twice.”

His entire body is burning, his control slipping fast.

Doesn’t beg—but his grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he demands.

“I own you. Fix this. Now.”

Ko-fi / Masterlist

blairxbear © 2024. do not copy, modify, or translate my work. you do not have permission to share my work outside of tumblr!

[regnumveritatis]

'A blanket for Healing'

During her pregnancy with the future god of healing, Perseleia disagreed with her father and brother's idea of being 'delicate' and continued her duties towards the demigods under her care. Her psychompomp duties were also upheld as Loyalty's net was cast at each storm and hurricane to recover spirits. Dionysus and Athena both gently recommended the goddess temporarily assign her chtonic duties to a protegee with Revelry himself offering to carry the souls, but this offer was kindly rejected as she avoided confinement at every turn.

Fittingly, the relatives who found a solution pleasing to Loyalty were Home and Family. Hestia bid Reason to sit at the hearth and write down the knowledge she had heard from so many sharing her fires, with Loyalty at her side to choose which stories would benefit Perse's demigods in posterity. To abate boredom whilst Arsinoe wrote down the selected tales, Common Sense gifted her sister a loom to create clothes for the upcoming child. Loyalty would spin her thread whilst humming to her aunt's voice and the scribbling of her twin. Apollo personally placed blessings of light and truth in the loom of his beloved so none would accuse her of vanity as she crafted woven masterpieces for their son. If the legends are true, he still wraps every child of his in the blue & gold embroidered blanket lovingly made by his never bride to symbolically have Perse adopt his progeny when they are first placed in his arms.

Here, the artist depicts the moment before Perseleia starts creating the house of Apollo's family heirloom. The goddess is dressed in Gold to leave no doubt as to whose child she carries. Behind her is a small statue of Apollo, it's gaze directly upon his love and their little sun. Her stomach is pronounced but not showing at full term, though Loyalty has already raised her waistline to prevent any damage befall the demigod growing below her heart. A string of pearls on her neck alludes to how Poseidon calmed the tides as much as possible during the later months of his daughter's pregnancy as well as telling the audience this was a season of relative ease for the mortals. She dons a plain gold wedding band in recognition of her love for Apollo, eyes closed as she daydreams briefly of a world where they are truly man and wife.

The painting's real name is 'The Spinner - created by Raffaello Sorbi in 1872.

[writingpandagoth]

hii i really love your writing and how you wrote severus as a father! i was wondering if you could write

severus x fem reader where they had just graduated hogwarts and then reader found out she was pregnant with it being fluffy and a little angsty?!?

Hope you like it!❤️

Something Real

The whistle of the Hogwarts Express echoed through the station like a heartbeat slowing. You stood with Severus at the far end of the platform, just outside the stream of excited farewells and last-minute goodbyes. Your hands were clasped tightly between you—his grip warm, steady, a quiet anchor in a world that suddenly felt too big.

Neither of you said much as the train began to pull away, the red engine vanishing into the distance like the last thread of childhood unraveling behind you.

It was over. School, curfews, house points. All of it.

You glanced up at him. “Well… we did it.”

Severus gave a short, quiet laugh—more breath than sound—but it was genuine. “Didn’t think I’d make it out alive.”

You smirked. “Especially with the way you provoked McGonagall every third day.”

His lips curved, subtle but unmistakable. “She liked me, deep down.”

“She nearly hexed you into a bookshelf last month.”

“Still liked me.”

You laughed, and it felt good. Freeing. Scary.

Because there was nothing in front of you now but possibility—and the uncertainty that came with it.

You had found the flat two weeks before graduation. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

Tucked above an apothecary in a back alley off Spinner’s End. The walls were a little uneven, with a crooked window in the kitchen that creaked when it rained and floorboards that moaned under your feet like old ghosts.

 But it was yours.

Mornings were quiet. He made the tea, you packed his satchel. You kissed him before he left—sometimes quick, sometimes lingering.

Severus had taken an apprenticeship with an independent potioneer in Knockturn Alley, helping with clients and stock—hard, quiet work, but work that kept his hands busy and his mind sharp. 

You worked mornings at a magical bookshop in Diagon Alley, afternoons in a charm repair shop. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough.

Evenings were spent half-asleep on the sofa, limbs tangled, dinner half-forgotten. There was a rhythm forming, fragile but real. Like you were learning how to be grown-ups together, day by day.

And at night—when the city quieted and the shops closed and the day’s weariness finally gave way—you curled up with Severus in your too-small bed, breathing in the scent of smoke and rosemary and home.

There was rhythm in it all. Comfort, even. Your toothbrushes side by side. The way his wand lived next to the stove now. How he always mumbled something soft in his sleep and how you always rolled toward the sound without thinking.

It wasn’t a fairy tale. 

You argued sometimes—over bills, over clutter, over who left the bloody butter out—but it never lasted long. Not when he curled up behind you at night and whispered apologies into your hair. Not when he brewed your pain draughts without asking or you pressed kisses to his ink-stained fingers while he worked late over a cauldron.

This life was small. Hard. Beautiful.

But you loved each other and that was worth more than anything.

—

It started small.

It made sense. You worked too much, slept too little, and lived on tea and toast. That’s also what you told yourself the first time you nearly fell asleep standing up in the shower, forehead pressed to the tile while hot water pooled around your feet.

“Think I’m turning into a raisin,” you mumbled, toweling your hair dry as you wandered into the kitchen.

Severus looked up from the pan where he was murdering eggs with far too much pepper. 

“You look like a raisin,” he muttered, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You flung your towel at him.

It wasn’t until the second week that things began to feel… off. Not just tired. Wrong.

The nausea was unpredictable. Sometimes it hit first thing in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the day when a whiff of someone’s burnt toast turned your stomach inside out. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore—heavy, swollen in strange ways. You’d find yourself crying for no reason, snapping at Severus for leaving his socks in the hallway, then crying again because you’d snapped at him.

He took it in stride, mostly.

“Well,” he said one night, flopping onto the couch beside you, “you did cry yesterday because the teapot ‘looked sad.’”

“It did look sad!” you protested, half-buried in the blanket.

“I’m not saying it didn’t.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just… maybe you need more sleep. Or iron. Or… I don’t know. A calming draught.”

You considered it. He wasn’t wrong. Probably just stress. Work. Overload. Your body catching up to the chaos of post-Hogwarts life.

But then the cravings started.

You weren’t a picky eater by nature, but now nothing tasted right unless it was toast smothered in peanut butter and strawberry jam—and you hated strawberry jam.

Severus caught you elbow-deep in a jar one afternoon and blinked at you like you’d grown antlers.

“I thought you said that stuff was ‘sugar-soaked regret in a jar.’”

You licked the spoon. “I was clearly misguided.”

He watched you eat two more spoonfuls before muttering, “I’m telling your past self.”

And still, the thought didn’t come.

Even when you woke up queasy more mornings than not. 

Even when your clothes fit a little tighter around the waist.

Even when Severus wrapped his arms around you one night and you snapped at him because the pressure made your chest ache.

It wasn’t until one afternoon at the bookshop when a coworker asked you for your favorite pain potion against your period cramps. You started to answer before freezing—that it hit you.

Your Period.

Your stomach went cold. Ice-water-in-the-veins cold. The world shrank around you until the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat.

You went home in a fog, hands shaking.

You sat on the bathroom floor for fifteen full minutes before you could even open the damn box.

It had been tucked in the very back of the apothecary shelf, half-covered by dust and wrapped in plain parchment, like it was ashamed of what it was. 

You hadn't looked the clerk in the eye when you paid. Just dropped your coins, grabbed the bag, and left before you could change your mind.

The flat was empty—Severus had left early for his shift, pressing a kiss to your lips as you got home before hurrying out the door.

The silence in the flat was thick. Every creak in the floorboards, every ticking second of the clock made you feel like you were waiting for a curse to go off. You stared at the tiny glass vial in your hand. The instructions were simple—too simple for what this meant.

A drop of blood, a swirl of magic, and a moment of waiting. If it shimmered green, it was negative. Pink… positive.

You pricked your finger with shaking hands. One drop. It hit the potion and bloomed red, swirling like smoke under glass. You stared.

One breath. Two. Then—

The color shifted.

Pink.

You felt it before you understood it—your breath caught like you’d been hexed. Your whole chest squeezed inward, too tight to hold.

You were pregnant.

You just sat there on the floor, hands limp in your lap, staring at the soft, impossible color glowing inside the vial.

—

You told yourself you’d say something. That morning, that night, tomorrow. You’d say it after dinner. Before bed. Over tea. When the timing felt right.

But the timing never did.

So the words stayed locked behind your teeth like a spell half-cast, rattling around your ribcage louder every day. You moved through your life like everything was normal.

You still made his tea, kissed him goodbye in the mornings, still laughed when he grumbled about ridiculous clients or how his mentor kept correcting his cauldron angles with a stick like he was still a first-year.

But underneath it, the fear pressed harder. You were carrying a secret. And the longer you kept it, the heavier it became.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Severus wasn’t oblivious—not with you. He’d learned to read your silences like lines in a textbook. He didn’t push, didn’t demand. He watched. He stayed close. He curled up behind you at night when you couldn’t sleep. Rested his hand low on your stomach like he always did—his favorite place to hold you—and didn’t say a word when you shifted away, guilt blooming like a bruise.

He caught you staring off more than once, eyes glazed, hand unconsciously resting over your middle.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said one evening while you were making tea, the words gentle but careful.

You startled at the sound of his voice. “Just tired.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

You stirred the mug too hard. The spoon clanged against the ceramic like an accusation.

“I’m fine, Sev. Really.”

He didn’t believe you. You could see it in his eyes. But he didn’t press. Instead, he crossed the kitchen, wrapped his arms around you from behind, and tucked his chin into the crook of your neck.

You froze. Just for a second.

And then you let yourself melt into him. Let yourself pretend it was still simple. That you were still just two young people in a tiny flat, figuring things out together. But your hand rested over his on your stomach and you knew it wouldn’t stay simple for long.

That night, you stared at the ceiling while he slept beside you. The room was dark, except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside the window, casting soft shadows on the ceiling. You turned your head slowly to look at him.

He looked peaceful like this—softer. One arm stretched across the bed where he’d been reaching for you. His lips parted slightly in sleep, his brow smooth.

He trusted you. He loved you.

And the fear clawed up your throat again.

What if this changed him? What if he didn't want a child? What if this beautiful, fragile thing you'd built together cracked under the weight of what you were carrying?

You turned away, burying your face in the pillow, and willed yourself not to cry.

Not yet.

—

It was on a rainy afternoon when everything got to much.

it was soft, steady, and relentless—the kind of rain that soaked into everything. The kind that made the world feel quiet, like it was holding its breath.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers digging into the quilt. You hadn’t changed out of your work clothes. You hadn’t eaten. Your thoughts were buzzing too loud to let you move.

You were going to tell him.

You had to.

You couldn’t keep walking around pretending everything was okay—not when every heartbeat felt like a countdown. Not when you’d started crying in the alley behind the bookstore just because someone walked by holding a baby.

The front door clicked open, and your heart stuttered.

Footsteps. Wet boots.

You didn’t move.

Severus appeared in the doorway, his coat dripping to the floor before he takes it off to hang up, his hair curling slightly from the rain.

“Hey,” he said softly, a little surprised to find you sitting in the dark. “Lights out? You okay?”

You tried to answer, but the words caught.

His brow furrowed. “Love?”

He stepped closer, cautiously, like he could feel the tension in the air.

You still didn’t speak.

He crouched in front of you, rested his hands on your knees. “Talk to me. Please.”

Your breath shook. Your lips parted.

And then it broke.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words slipped out broken, like something fractured inside you.

Silence crashed down around you, sharp and immediate.

You didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you whispered. “This wasn't—I didn't plan this. I thought I was just stressed. I ignored it. For weeks. I didn’t want to believe it.”

You finally forced your eyes up.

He was staring at you, stunned.

“I took the test, and I just... I couldn’t think.” Your voice cracked. “Because everything is good, Severus. It’s finally good. And I was terrified that if I told you, that would all just—be ruined.”

His expression hadn’t changed. He looked too still.

Too quiet.

“So I kept pretending,” you went on, voice climbing in pitch. “And I kept lying. To you, to myself. I didn’t want this—” Your breath hitched. “I didn’t want this to be real.”

There was a long pause.

Then he stepped back.

Just a fraction.

“…You don’t want it?” he said. His voice wasn’t angry. It was worse—small. Hollow.

“What?” Your stomach dropped. “No—I didn’t say that—”

“You said you didn’t want it to be real. That you were afraid it would ruin everything—”

“Because I didn’t know if you wanted it!” you cried. “Not because I don’t. I was terrified that if I told you, you’d look at me and see a mistake. That you’d think I tricked you or dragged you into something you never wanted.”

He blinked. Hard. Like trying not to let anything slip through.

“I thought…” He ran a hand over his mouth. “So you’re… not scared because you don’t want to have it? With me?”

“What?” Your heart dropped. “No! That’s not what I—Severus, no.”

He blinked hard, like trying to hide something too vulnerable to let you see.

“I’m scared because I do want this life with you,” you choked out, “But we’re just kids. I don’t know if we can do this. And I didn’t know if you wanted it. If you wanted me like this—messy and unplanned and full of hormones and a future that just exploded in our faces!”

He stared at you.

And then, slowly, he stepped forward, sinking back down to his knees. His hands found yours, shaking.

“You thought I’d think less of you?”

“I thought you’d leave,” you whispered. “That you’d look at me and see something broken. Something that ruined what we were building.”

“I could never think that,” he said, voice thick. “You’re the only thing in my life that ever made me want a future. I didn’t know if I wanted kids. I didn’t know I could have something like this. But if it’s with you—”

He pulled your hands to his chest.

“—then I want everything.”

That’s when you broke.

The sob ripped out of you like it had been caged too long.

He caught you, held you tight against his chest, and rocked you gently like it was instinct.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, over and over. “I’ve got you. We’ve got this.”

The rain had stopped.

You hadn’t noticed when. Somewhere between the sobs and his heartbeat and the way his arms had never once let go of you, the storm had passed.

Now the room was quiet. Dim lamplight spilled across the floor, and the window glistened with leftover droplets, like the sky had cried with you and was finally resting too.

You were still wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed to his chest. His shirt was damp where your tears had soaked through, and his hands were stroking slow, steady circles into your back like he didn’t know how to stop.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked softly against your hair.

You nodded, still clinging to him like he might vanish if you let go.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m trying to stop,” you whispered.

“Let me help, then.”

He shifted, maneuvering the two of you onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets. His arms stayed wrapped around you, your bodies pressed together from knee to chest, and your face tucked under his chin.

“I thought I lost you,” you said eventually, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t,” he murmured. “You won’t.”

“I wasn’t sure. For a moment… I thought you looked at me like I was crazy.”

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not because of the baby. But because you looked like you were hurting, and I didn’t know how to make it stop.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and tightened your grip around him.

“I didn’t want to be the thing that… ruined us.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, brushing your hair away from your eyes with gentle fingers.

“You’re not ruining anything. You’re giving me more than I ever thought I’d have. A home. A future. Now… even a family.”

Your breath caught.

He smiled—nervously, softly. “If you want that with me.”

You let out a laugh that sounded more like a gasp. “Of course I want that with you.”

His smile widened, eyes bright and damp. “Even if the kid ends up with my nose?”

You burst into actual laughter this time—wet and shaky and completely real.

“Oh Merlin help us.”

“Hey.” He tried to look offended, but he was grinning now too. “My nose is distinguished.”

“It’s definitely something.”

He kissed you. Sweet and slow. His thumb brushed your cheek, and his forehead pressed against yours like he couldn’t stand to be more than an inch away.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispered.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you said, honest and scared and smiling through it all.

“Neither do I,” he replied. “But we’ll figure it out. One messy, terrifying, beautiful step at a time. Like we always do.”

You curled closer, letting the warmth of his body, his love, his being there soak into your bones. He shifted slightly, nose brushing your hair.

“You’re really warm.” You whispered against him.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he mumbled. “I’m very cuddly when I’m not panicking.”

You laughed, and his arms tightened a little.

A beat passed.

Then, quieter: “You really are pregnant.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah.”

His hand slid up your back, then down again—settling gently, hesitantly over your stomach.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Then his thumb began to trace tiny, unconscious circles.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” you said softly.

“Unbelievably.”

“Still sure you don’t want to run for the hills?”

“I might,” he murmured. “But I will have to take you with me.”

You smiled.

Then, after a pause, he added: “I hope they’re going to have your eyes.”

Your breath hitched.

“My eyes?”

He nodded into your hair. “They have to. The world can’t possibly handle two of my glare.”

You laughed again, and it felt lighter this time—real. Joyful.

“And your hair,” you said, turning your head to meet his gaze. “That poor child.”

“Oi.”

You kissed his cheek.

He smiled.

You watched him look down at your stomach again, his hand still resting there like it was some sacred thing. His expression had softened—his eyes wide with wonder and something almost too tender to name.

“You really want this?” you asked, still needing to hear it.

“I want you,” he said. “And this little… accident? Chaos gremlin? Turned blessing? Whatever they are?”

He leaned forward and kissed your stomach, reverent.

“I want them too.”

[bbcphile]

Great addition, @kseniyagreen!

And also, @nutcasewithaknife, I LOVE your tags!!

#it's quite fascinating how Li Lianhua needs a story or an image to strive towards to live his life and set his goals#first it was that of the righteous hero who was the best. who ensired justice#next it was the image of this peaceful and calm mundane life of singleminded focus#and he does a great job of convincing not judt himself but everyone else too that he achieves it. both times!!!#and yet it always ends up falling apart. the truth is that life is messy and always catches up to him#he cannot distill himself and his life into one specific image because he is messier than he cares to admit#agh this is scratching a very specific itch in my mind thank you op!!!#FRESH MLC META ON MY DASH IN 2025 <3<3<3#mysterious lotus casebook#li lianhua

(Side note: I also love how much the stories he clung to about other people for much of the show also crashed and burned: SGD as the perfect brother who loved him and who died because of LLH's arrogance, and DFS as the person who betrayed him and his sect and who he should have known better than to trust. It fits so well with the show's overall theme that the histories that we know are all flawed and rarely actually line up with reality (eg. the storytellers version of the donghai battle, the emperor isn't of royal blood, SGD isn't the Nanyin heir, etc), and it also shows that for all that LLH is an excellent detective (and storyteller), he also struggles to look past the comfort stories--and easy dichotomies of heroes and villains--provide, especially when they involve him.)

Anyone else having feelings about Li Xiangyi's naming himself "Lianhua" (lotus flower) after reading the inscription about lotus flowers blooming everywhere on monk Wuliao's wall? (Episode 3, timestamp 13:30).

The subtitles translate the panel on the right (一念心清淨) as "The heart attains peace with a single thought" and the one on the left (蓮花處處開) as "lotus flowers bloom all around." And after reading it out loud and praising it, he leaves, saying that Li Xiangyi is dead, and only Li Lianhua is left; his first time using this new name.

So, if we think of his new name as declaring his new life manifesto--living simply, calmly, enjoying the beauty of the world, and choosing one single thought to focus on (aka. finding and burying Shan Gudao's body) instead of the fame, leadership, justice, and accolades he used to pursue--it is beautifully, heartbreakingly ironic. Because finding and burying Shan Gudao's body doesn't bring him peace or calm; it eventually makes him aware of a conspiracy that teaches him that everything he thought he knew was a lie.

It's also so fascinatingly creepy and perfect that he thinks he found Shan Gudao in the manor where "lotus flowers bloom all around" and was able to bury him as a result. Except, the lotuses are blooming from corpses and were the site of four murders, and there's nothing calm or peaceful about it, and he eventually learns it's not Shan Gudao's body after all. It's like some sort of grotesque parody of the peaceful promise to himself inherent in his name.

If Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng do in fact find him at the end of that incredibly open-ended extra episode, then I wouldn't be surprised at all if he decides that he desperately needs a new fake name, not just because the Lianhua alias is blown, but because he needs a new philosophy after the previous one was wrecked as badly as the boat he and Di Feisheng battled on ten years earlier.

[zoomzooml]

Redesign concepts of Webmaster and Feathers

After a year

WEBMASTER

My biggest problem with the Webmaster design is how cluttered it seems; there's just a lot going on here. So I tried to calm it down a bit; I took away one pair of legs to make him less cluttered but keep (more or less) original body lenght. And I know that in his episode Jun says “if something has eight legs, she doesn't like it,” refering to spiders, but I think eight limbs works too.

I also played around a bit with his colors and markings. As well as body structure and proportions, noting this dragon's show-off skill - spinning webs.

When he puffs up his “cheeks” just before he spits, you can hear a sticky, mushy sound - you know that something is going on inside. The muscles are moving and pushing something with a sticky, gluey consistency. I would like it to be somewhat repulsive.

When he spits silk in attack it does not come out as big ball of burning web. It's more like net in "V" shape, in form of many separate threads of silk shooted at the same time. Similar to actual spiders, but on the bigger scale. His webs also don't burn; I feel like it's an overkill.

I changed the arrangement of his forelegs slightly. I know it's not quite in line with the style of HTTYD (see Speed Spingers' front limbs) but in his case I think arranging his hands in a similar way to therizinosaurus gives him a more menacing look.

Deadly Spinners are dragons that give a very unpleasant first impression. They are not the most beautiful dragons around (at least not by the standard) and their behavior can be repulsive to some. The type of dragon that people are willing to pin an unfriendly, sometimes unfair patch on more easily than on other dragons - as many people do with spiders or snakes and other similiar animals.

Deadly Spinners don't live in large groups - either small groups or solo. But when they are in a group they have very close bonds and spend a lot of time socializing among themselves.

FEATHERS

She is a challenge to me, not gonna lie. She definitely is the most changed among my redesigns so far. She just seems very basic to me.

The most bothering thing to me about her are those "feathers". Because, Alex in s1ep3 calls these "feathers", as well as Olivia in s5ep2, wiki calls these "feathers-like scales", but they can move and are thick what implies they are more like Furies'/Night Light's head numbs? I absolutely can pass the crowns as feathers, but Queen's horns and holes in her meaty tail were here the last straw to not to

And yes, I made a shitty video because I'm really confused and wanted that confusion express lmao. I hope Tumblr won't take it down.

So idk, I wanted to clarify what the frick those things are and go from there. I had two main ideas - either give her actual feathers or quills similiar to those of Bewilderbeast. When drawning I wasn't sure about either idea but finally decided for the latter one. Feels more HTTYD-like I think? And very flammable feathers don't seem like the best survival choice when almost every other animal around can spit fire.

I reimagine Featherhides as way more nervous and skittish dragons. Changewings were mysterious but usually seemed calm and strategical. Featherhides' nature is more in type of "flee" than "fight" (tho they can get so smoke when needed, they are not defensless or smth). They are very easy to spook and sometimes will flee in panic from something very trival just to return seconds later when they realise there was no danger at all, or are curious of whatever scared them. They often make rapid little movements, much like birds - especially if something catches their eye and they are not sure what it is.

Featherhides also live in large flocks without a complex hierarchy. If they can - they run, if any of them can't - at least some of them also stay behind.

Once Feathers bonds with Alex she would be very protective of her little human.

When Featherhides mimic sounds they do not do weird things with their faces like in the show. It looks much more like like some birds do that. But that's just a sidenote.

[ac1nums-moved]

@bloodykneestm, spinner mason sent to paige michalchuk: " the fastest way to shut me up is to kiss me. "

paige raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised by spinner's remark. she took a second to collect her thoughts, then replied with a hint of sarcasm tinged with exasperation: " really, spinner? your idea of communication is to kiss? it's so cliché i almost laugh. but, let's be serious for a moment. if you think that just kissing me will clear any problems or misunderstandings between us, then you are sorely mistaken. kisses cannot erase the words that have been said, nor can they repair the hurts that have been inflicted. communication is much more than romantic gestures. it's really listening to what the other person has to say, taking into account their feelings and needs, and being willing to compromise to resolve problems. so, if you really want to start somewhere, start by treating me with respect and consideration, rather than looking for easy shortcuts. and maybe then we can have a mature and constructive conversation. "

[weaving-wyrd]

Prayer for the Start of the Week

To the Norns and the Divine, as the Web is Woven

As the sun rises and the wheel turns, I greet the dawn of a new week. Before me lies the unwoven thread, The path not yet tread, the story not yet told.

At the well beneath the great tree, I honor the Norns Urðr, who remembers, Verðandi, who is, Skuld, who waits with what must be.

Wise weavers of fate, Spinners of threads both bright and shadowed, May I walk with awareness of your work. May I meet what comes with strength and grace.

I call to Odin, wanderer and wise one, To Freyja, mistress of magic and might, To Frigg, keeper of deep knowing, And to all the holy powers who guide and guard.

Bless my steps as the days unfold. May I speak with truth, act with honor, Love fiercely, and walk rightly.

May I find joy in the work of my hands, Clarity in the stirrings of my heart, And peace in the patterns of the web.

This week, may my deeds ripple outward As offerings upon the loom of fate.

Hail the Norns. Hail the gods. Hail the spirits and ancestors. Hail the weaving of wyrd.

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

On female rage and mechanical augmentation:

I imagined a cruel emperor who collected girls who caught his eye, girls from his country and every other, to put into his harem of consorts and keep as he pleased, as toys, as ornaments made of cinnabar and sandalwood, silk and peach-flesh. Perhaps one day he picks the wrong girl.

She is beautiful, this woman, like all the others, and young, also like the others; but unlike many of the others, who were weavers and spinners, fishwives and performers, this one helps her aging mother in the art of making carefully crafted machines, little marvels of copper wire and forged arms, from dolls to steam engines to pistolets and more.

The emperor in his preening believes he has saved her from a sorry life of toiling away at the workbench with chipped nails and dirty palms, a commoner’s lot in which no woman could ever be happy. On her first night at the palace she cries and cries, and he says, Don’t snivel; it doesn’t become you; you have everything you want here, do you not? What could possibly be missing? And he yanks her pretty silken hair and laughs when she cries harder.

What he doesn’t know is that she cries not out of fear or sorrow, but rage, white-hot, plain and simple.

Clever girl, she doesn’t tell him so. She schools herself into the picture of the concubine he wants - obedient and demure, sweet and soft, the way she had teased metal in the forge into well-tempered alloy and shaped it into gears and springs and blades and beams. She says to him, Husband dear, I would ask for jewelry, the better to shine for you; I would ask for precious gold thread, for diamond earrings and bronze filigree; I would ask for a heated copper bath in which to soften my skin; I would ask for charcoal with which to darken my eyes for you, cinnabar with which to paint my lips. The emperor laughed at her folly but gave her all these gifts obligingly.

Then she begins her work.

The other women she has befriended, and they teach her well. From Haewon she learns to act, to powder her face and keep up the facade to their husband the emperor; from Jiaqi she learns to roast sulfur out of the cinnabar powder and combine it with the charcoal, and from Ori-hime she learns to spin out the gold thread and weave it into a control matrix that, when laid over her spine like a collar, makes metal move with only a thought, the same way her own arms and legs do. And with her own expertise she turns the copper into hammered panels, the bronze into reinforcing cradles, the diamond into grit for blades that can cut through anything.

By day she thanks them all by shielding them from their husband. When he asks for delicate Haewon, she volunteers; she saves Ori-hime’s clever, careful hands from him by giving him her own instead; Jiaqi she claims to have fallen sick, and offers herself up humbly when he, in his disappointment at the news, needs something to strike.

Her husband calls for her one day; he’s in a terrible mood, and when he’s finished with her the next morning the other ladies carry her sore body back and lay her on the bed and soothe her with tea and wetted cloths. They fuss over the mangled remains of her right hand. But she dashes it all away. Bring me my things, she tells them. Tonight is the night.

So they get Weilin with her expertise in taking apart a body and putting it back together with only a needle and wine and some thread; then they clothe her in a dress most wondrous: shining copper and gold filigree, with jade leaves and carnelian flowers inlaid, and for her lovely face a half-mask of precious gems and steel boning to cover the ugly marks he’s left. Cinnabar for her cheeks and charcoal for her eyes. How could any man resist this vision in a thousand shining colors?

Not the emperor. When she goes to him again in the evening he all but drools.

So enraptured is he that he doesn’t notice when the other consorts shut the door behind her and lock it from the outside, or when the panels of her dress click into place, or when, in the dim light of dusk, the tiny miraculous engine in her back roars to life and sends sparks through the fine mesh of the gold collar, sets her eyes aglow.

But when the sulfur and charcoal in the little compartment hidden in the undone lobes of her right palm is set afire with the click of a steel hammer, when she brings her face close and the mandibles of her jade mask open wide - oh, then he knows.

It is a bloodbath. She emerges covered in charred gobbets of his flesh, and the whole pavilion smells of gunpowder and burning meat. But she herself is pristine, untouched.

Her ladies throw themselves over her and find that her body does not yield. The copper has fused itself into her body, the collar has inlaid itself into her spine; in the heat of the fire she seems to have been reborn in metal wholly, from head to toe. She regards them blankly over the diamond-edged mandibles they have made for her, and they look back, and for all that she is known to them, they cannot help but be a little afraid.

She says, You can go now. It is done.

In the light of the burning palace, the women look at each other; they shake their heads. No, says Jiaqi, we are yours, as surely as we were ever his, and more than that. Where else would we go, now that we’ve overthrown an empire for you, now that you have overthrown an empire for us?

So the girl in metal looks at them and then, after a long, long moment, she says, Then you will be my queens, and we’ll rule together. But why aren’t you afraid of me? Why don’t you run? I am not what I was anymore. I am a blade forged in fire.

Haewon trembles - but then she lifts her chin. She says fiercely, You were always that. We just gave you the means to become it on the outside, too.

Sen-hime agrees, and then so does Weilin. And Jiaqi smiles and steps forward and takes the consort’s hand, gunpowder barrel and all.

She looks tenderly into the bloodstained face and she says, We made you what you wanted to be, and with that you saved us. How could we ever be afraid of that?

And: You are ours, and always will be. And we will always be yours, if you’ll have us.

So she does.

They call her the Mantis Consort, She Who Rules Alone; but that isn’t quite true. She has four loyal wives, after all, and each one of them as much has the throne as she herself does. They say that each man who tries her hand in marriage - or to bring down her walls with arrows and fire - goes the same way: head ground between jade mandibles, body strewn in pieces. And her reign lasts for as long as she lives. For who can vanquish a woman armed with fury and steel alike, and the love of four clever women besides?

[justabunchofshit]

dabihawks + LOV

—

hawks that’s never had genuine comfort before:

compress trying to guide hawks to sit, gently, mutters to toga to grab the first aid supplies- hawks jerking away from the hold, a frantic “what are you doing?” bursting from him when compress starts trying to ease his hero jacket off- it’s already ripped in multiple places. blood had soaked into the fabric, & it was hiding deep slashes in hawks’ flesh.

“cleaning your wounds; please sit.” yellow eyes are wide the entire time the villain works on him. after the exchange, when hawks had left, compress is sat pondering the way hawks had tensed & looked utterly shocked at the treatment he received.

~

later in the month spinner stumbled out of his room in the middle of the night to find hawks slumped next to the front door, a small med kit pulled from somewhere, stitching his arm.

“dude, what the 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘.” he took quick steps over to the hero, hovering, trying to figure out where to help.

the arm of his jacket was missing & hawks’ arm was slashed deeply right below the cut off line of the sleeve. it was like… like someone had tried to cut off his arm.

“sorry man; i couldn’t-” he grunted as he thread the needle back into his skin. more blood bubbled out.

“couldn’t fly home like this, base was closer. i’ll be out of the way soon.”

and spinner-

lost his shit.

“𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦- are you crazy?!” squatting in front of the hero, he stops his motions. somehow gets them both to the bathroom down the hall, gives the 𝑑𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 pain meds, cleans the wound properly, & stitches him up with skilled & caring hands.

asks hawks as he’s shoving him down on their couch to sleep “you’ve always taken care of your own wounds like that?”

hawks’ answer haunts him for days after.

the man had looked baffled the entire time spinner was tending to him, eyes wide, unsure, & acting like he didn’t know how to interact with the reptile, & spinner was confused. but hawks’ answer cleared things up for him very quickly.

“who else is supposed to do them?”

~

hawks arriving at the league’s base covered in bruises, hair wilted, overall in rough shape. toga frowning when she notices him wincing.

“aw, hawksie, you’ve had it so rough lately.” wrapping her arms around his waist, giving the man a hug. hugs always made her feel better, so maybe it could work for hawks!

but the hero doesn’t react like she expects; he jerks in her hold, arms hovering in the air above her shoulders. she looks up to see unsure, confused eyes looking down at her.

“unm- toga-?”

“hugs make everything better!” she talks over him, ducking her head to plant it on his chest. doesn’t want to 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 see that look on hawks’ face ever again. scared, confused, so unlike him.

it takes a very long while, but the hero eventually rests his arms on her shoulders. not really hugging her, but she’ll take what she can get.

had hawks never gotten hugs before?

when she tells shigaraki what happened, the man’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

~

shigaraki is hell bent on dusting their spy when he gets reports from toga, spinner, & compress about how he behaved when they tried to help him. because how dare he act too high & mighty & 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 for them to touch him, help him when they didn’t have to. how he acts like they’re scum on his shoes.

realizes very quickly that he’s got it all wrong when he sees the bird struggling to walk & dabi hounding into the man about letting him help. he can tell dabi is getting mad by the way his seams are smoking.

quirks an eyebrow when hawks says “i get you’re trying to be nice, dabi, but i have it handled.”

“you 𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑜𝑡.” dabi hisses when hawks’ knee collapses & the taller man catches him, lowering them to the floor. it’s then that shigaraki realizes that hawks’ wings are almost gone, he’s got dirt & smudges of blood around his face, & he looks like crap.

“it’s- it’s 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒, okay? i’m fine.” the hero insists, trying to get back up, but dabi isn’t having it. shigaraki finally walks fully into the room when hawks’ starts to get mad.

“listen & stay down, hero.” he says, leaning against the wall as both pairs of eyes snap to him.

“no, no i- it’s okay-” the bird stumbles over his words, but ultimately slumps where he is, curling into himself. the two league members can barely hear him when he says, “i’m not… i’m not a burden. i’m okay, i don’t need-”

& it’s right then & there that shigaraki realizes that he had judged the hero way too soon. he didn’t find them lesser. in fact, it was the complete opposite.

he left the room when dabi started muttering quietly to the shriveled man.

~

“birdie, pretty bird.” dabi trying to get hawks to look at him. “let me help, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒.” has been reduced to begging because he can’t stand to see hawks in pain like this, trying to handle it on his own just like he handles his hero business.

“you’re not a burden for needing help. i 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 to help; we all do. just let us.” he’s gripping either side of the hero’s face, looking into wide, uncertain eyes.

“no one has ever helped before.” hawks blinks at dabi, eyes going hazy. “don’t wanna… be a bother.”

“never, little bird, you could never.”