#the sweaters are salvageable. at least

[carfuckerlynch]

killing wool moths with my mind and also soap and water

[comatosebunny09]

apt 302 | sylus q.

— summary: at first, your new neighbor was as mysterious as he was handsome. after taking some time to get to know him—or forcing your way into his quiet life—you realize looks can be deceiving. — cw: gn reader, neighbors au, neighbors to friends to lovers, profanity, innuendoes, jealousy, misunderstandings, stalker ex, alcohol use, guns mentioned, self-indulgent, allusions to reincarnation, angst, pet names, sylus being an insufferable gentleman, slice of life — dividers by: @omi-resources — notes: this grew way longer than i expected, soooooo you’re gonna hate me for what comes next. anyways, thank you so much for reading! — now playing: my favorite person now - she was pretty ost — tagging: @alfredosaws, @chuppiechanchan @hao-ming-8 @antonneva @sunsets-and-crows @leighsartworks216 @grabby-smitten @nebulorra @minniestarmj @elysiums-light @saiaise @queenofstresss @beewilko @aetherscribit @libriomancer @world-of-hearts @awkwardnurse @huachengnism

Information Technology isn’t as cushy of a field as you initially thought.

Sure, you have a desk job doing the most mundane of things—working the help desk, troubleshooting devices, re-imaging computers. But your job isn’t without its drawbacks. 

Sometimes, the days are long and arduous. The constant customer interaction doesn’t help matters; you’re a bit of an introvert, requiring five business days to recover from just a few hours of socializing. 

So, forgive you for seeking a little respite in the form of your favorite set of pajamas and fuzzy slippers as you ease into your apartment. 

The weight of the world sloughs off your shoulders when the door leading inside clicks shut behind you. You sigh gratefully, the sound of your keys clattering against your entryway table, intermingling with that of your AC humming to life.

You hang your bag and sweater on the coat rack. Trade your uncomfortable shoes for house slippers, the soreness in your heels slowly retreating. The last vestiges of sunlight creep through the slits of your blinds to bathe your home in its ethereal glow before ducking behind the horizon. 

Your apartment is humble. Has a natural, minimalistic vibe with bits of decor displaying your personality sprinkled throughout. You already pay the price of a kidney and two lungs to stay here. No use investing in posh furniture when your job sometimes requires you to pick up and go at the drop of a hat.

Your stomach growls whilst you draw your curtains shut and turn on some ambient lighting via your phone. You’ll eat soon, you promise. For now, you’re on a mission. 

Quietly, you move through your home in search of your laundry area, thoroughly prepared to slip into your PJs following a shower to jumpstart your weekend. 

Too bad a pile of sopping wet clothes awaits you when you open your dryer door. 

“Goddammit,” said under your breath as you mash the power button. It won’t turn on. Figures. You kick the offending appliance. Stupid thing must be out again. 

You had set your clothes to dry before you left for work. You were looking forward to snuggling up with wine and your favorite show, donned in comfy clothes. Seems your dryer had other plans.

You should’ve replaced it months ago when it first started acting up. You had hoped to salvage it a little longer; appliances don’t come cheap these days. Besides, you’ve had a darling neighbor to fix it each time. To extend its lifespan. 

Speaking of which—

Chewing your lip, you pad over your cold, hardwood floor to snatch your phone from the coffee table. Fall onto your couch cushions with a devious smile twitching your lips. It’s getting late, so you don’t think to badger him into tinkering with your dryer tonight. However, perhaps he’ll let you utilize his. At least until you can use your day off tomorrow to shop for a replacement.

You hover your thumb over his contact, his name flanked by crow emojis. Contemplate calling him, but what if he’s busy? This is usually about the time he’s leaving. Instead, you settle for opening your messaging app, already conjuring an excuse.

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): lol (Sylus): good morning to you too. (You): 😒😒😒 dude it’s like 6  (Sylus): 🤷‍♂️ (Sylus): im just now getting up. long day at the office.  (Sylus): whats up? (You): are you busy tonight?? (Sylus): not really. 😏 what did you have in mind ? (You): pause. not like that (Sylus): 😢 (You): my dryer’s out again (Sylus): ah. want me to take a look? (You): nah you already do so much (You): is it cool if i use yours tho? 😬😬😬 (You): i’ll bring you booze (Sylus): lol (Sylus): its fine sweetie. doors unlocked. ill be in the shower. help yourself. (You): 🙏🙏🙏

You take your time gathering your saturated clothes into a basket. On your way out, you snag a bottle of Merlot from your fridge.

No matter how often you’ve been here, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how much more… put together Sylus’ place is compared to yours.

It suits him—the black and red furniture, the stylish accents littering his apartment. It smells delightful inside, a mixture of mahogany and amber enmeshed with remnants of food. Soulful jazz flows from a record player, fitting the sepia-toned glow of floor lamps and candles flickering on every other surface.

You toe the door shut behind you. Feel so small and out of place amid his decor. You’ve only recently started coming here, having spent much of your time together inside your apartment. Regardless, you navigate his space like it’s your second home, finding his washer and dryer set.

After starting your clothes in the dryer, you wander back to the living room, hands stuffed in the pockets of your cardigan. You take some time to admire the atmosphere. Fingers skim over the various vinyls organized on a built-in bookcase on the wall.

You snort with a half-smile. You know so little about your neighbor, yet you know just enough to be this comfortable with him.

He’s a music buff; that much is for sure. He’s clearly made of money if the luxurious furniture and his car are anything to go by. You don’t press him about what he does for a living. Figure he values his privacy above all else, unlike you.

You’re an open book. The primary yapper in your acquaintanceship, prattling on about your life and aspirations. And he just sits there, wordlessly nodding with a polite smile behind the rim of his glass. Where you would otherwise be wary of being in someone’s home like this, you feel safe around him in a way that almost terrifies you.

“Admiring the decor,” teases a voice from behind. 

You jolt, spinning around like you’ve been caught stealing. You’re met with a smirk beneath scarlet eyes, twinkling with mischief. Strands of white cling to Sylus’ forehead, damp from the warm spray of his shower. He towels his hair dry, maneuvering around the living set towards you.

“Hey, you,” you greet, trying to play it cool. Like your heart isn’t hammering and heat isn’t branching into your cheeks. You attempt to maintain eye contact. It’s increasingly difficult to do so with his physique peeking through his t-shirt and sweats like that.

“Hey, yourself.” There’s amusement in the deep gravel of his voice. A smile in his eyes as he studies you, draping his towel around his shoulders.

You swallow. Try to divert the subject, motioning to his record collection. “You got some new tunes, I see.”

A chuckle is dredged from the bowels of his chest. You feel it pull in your stomach. “Sure did. Got something you might like.” 

God help you as he reaches around you, the fine hairs littering your body standing on end, your mouth agape like a fish out of water.

Unconsciously, you step back, your spine softly thudding against the records display. Your heartbeat’s on a warpath, and you swallow against the dryness of your throat as the veiny, sinewy muscle in his forearm stains your periphery.

He gives you a bemused look before slowly peeling a record from the shelf behind you. Steps back to fish out the vinyl and settle it on the platter, replacing the record that was just playing. 

You release a breath you were unaware of holding. Good job playing it cool, dumbass.

“You alright?” Sylus quizzes with a raised brow. “You seem a little on edge tonight, sweetie.”

You sigh, schooling an unconvincing smile onto your face. Try to ignore how the term of endearment glides off his tongue so effortlessly. You wonder how many other people he addresses like that. 

“Work was…rough today. Kicked my ass. I’m tired.” 

A snarling sound invades the space between you, heard over the gentle croon of the new music. Your eyes fall to your stomach. You rub it placatingly. In all your haste to have some dry friggin’ clothes, you forgot to eat. 

“And hungry, too,” you sheepishly add.

You glance up, and Sylus’ gaze tracks from your stomach to your face. He smirks knowingly, motioning with a nod toward his kitchen. 

“Figured you didn’t eat yet. I made carbonara if you’d like some.”

You smile wryly at his back as he pads away, carrying the scent of cedarwood and bergamot with him. Where would you be without such a doting neighbor? 

You track him to the kitchen. Leaning against the threshold, you watch him procure a bottle of water from his fridge. It’s so very small, dwarfed by his massive hand.

“I suddenly got called for a Teams meeting five minutes ago.” 

Your heart drops, the smile nearly falling from your face. And here you thought you’d have his company over dinner.

Suddenly, he taps your nose, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed when he got closer, swaddled in the static of your bodies being so close. “Where did you run off to,” he rasps, searching your gaze for something. 

The proximity of your bodies grows stifling, his warm breath glazing over your skin, dizzying. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he steps back, leaving you shell-shocked and utterly confused. 

“In the meantime, make yourself at home. You know where everything is,” he says, brushing past you with an air of finality. 

You strain your ears for the noise of a distant door shutting before you make your move, rummaging through his cupboards and drawers for a plate and cutlery. After you’ve scooped a decent helping of food onto your plate, you settle onto one of his velvet couches, cross-legged and shoveling food into your maw. 

The fluttering of wings piques your interest. You’ve hardly any time to acknowledge him before a tuft of black, iridescent feathers shines from Sylus’ coffee table. The crow studies you curiously, ingesting you with his beady eyes before he preens himself.

“Me-fith-toe!” you greet around a mouthful of food. 

Said crow ducks away, dodging errant crumbs and spit flying from your mouth, cawing in protest. You give him a rueful look. 

Sylus has a soft spot for animals. You noted it the first time you entered his apartment, greeted by his boisterous companion. Funny; he doesn’t look like the type to have such an eccentric pet. 

But Sylus has found numerous ways of pleasantly surprising you, revealing parts of himself to you bit by agonizing bit.

“Chicken?” you say after finally swallowing, offering a forkful of pasta to the bird. Mephisto scrutinizes the food before resigning himself to pecking at it. You smile fondly, your eyes crinkling with mirth. “Mephisto, you cannibal.”

Lulled by the occasional flap of Mephisto’s wings and Sylus’ even tone murmuring things of business somewhere far off in his home, you fall into a familiar rhythm, quietly waiting for your clothes to dry.

You spend the remainder of your evening in your neighbor’s company, drinking Merlot and judging each other’s music tastes, long after your pajamas have dried and settled in the dryer.

“So, have you boned yet?”

You choke on your waffle. Pound on your chest with the heel of your palm to dislodge it. You turn narrowed eyes on the source of the question. She merely shrugs from across the table, sipping her mimosa as if she’s asked the most innocent thing. 

“Bitch.”

“What?” She appears nonplussed, setting her champagne flute down with a definitive clack. All serious when she returns your stare over crossed arms, and you know you’re in for it. 

“You talk about the guy so much I figured you would’ve already, ya know…” The humping gesture she makes under the table is a bit much. 

You blanch. “No, dumbass, I haven’t boned.” Your voice peters towards the end of your sentence. And you peer down at the napkin folded in your lap, heat prickling your face. 

You won’t deny Sylus is good-looking. More like he could be someone modeling Prada on a catwalk. Can’t pretend you haven’t entertained the thought of being a little closer to him, too. More than just the late nights spent talking or him fixing something you broke.

You shake your head. Of all the times you’ve been tucked away in either of your apartments, he’s never made a move on you. Sure, he’s said some pretty suss things. Flirted with you outside of your usual banter. 

And maybe he’s done things to confuse the ever-loving hell out of you—cooked you breakfast when you were drunk off your ass and hungover the next morning. Lended you one of his expensive record players. Shacked up at your place a few times under the guise of “coming to get Mephisto.” But—

Nah. He’s not like that. You’re just neighbors, right? Unofficial friends. Friends hang out all the time, right?

“He’s not like that,” you say brattishly, stuffing more food into your face. At least not with you. 

You don’t miss your coworker’s fox-like grin spreading in your periphery. She taps her cheek thoughtfully, watching you like a smug sibling about to snitch. 

“Sure, sure. If you say so. He’s still a man, though. He might not have tried you yet—”

“Hush,” you interject. The table shakes, cups rattling as you saw into your sausage with your fork and butter knife. You’re done with this conversation.

Try as you might, however, you can’t banish your thoughts revolving around him. Especially with your coworker watching you like that, silently egging you on.

He’s not that kind of guy. 

He’s still a man, though. 

You’ve repeated it like a mantra throughout your day, even as you mindlessly clacked away at your computer. 

Work was a blur. An exhausting blur. Day gave way to the soothing exhale of night, and you were finally nestled in the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, on your couch, entertaining yourself with a game of Uno. It wasn’t much fun playing alone, but you needed a distraction from the mess of your mind when your favorite show couldn’t help. 

It’s a quarter past 9 when a shuffling sound in the breezeway outside your apartment catches your attention. It’s accompanied by the echoed rasp of a recognizable voice, chuckling and murmuring indiscernible things. 

You peel yourself from your couch as if on autopilot, nose pressed against the cold metal of your door as you peer through the peephole.

It’s your nightly ritual—waiting like an overzealous puppy to greet or send off your neighbor. You don’t always get the luxury of saying goodnight in person. Sometimes, he’s gone for days—weeks—at a time. You don’t know the semantics of his job, but you make it your mission to help assuage whatever burdens he shoulders whenever you can.

He’s there to help you, after all. Whether with a glass of wine, a warm meal, or his company.

So, forgive you for wanting to be a decent neighbor. And you would be tonight if not for the scene that passes through the fisheye of your peephole.

It’s Sylus, clad in something flattering and expensive. There’s no mistaking his broad back and shoulders. The purl of his voice, the wispy dusting of alabaster hair on his collar. But the smaller frame with him, well—

Your heart plummets into your stomach.

She’s pretty from what you can glean from the limited view of your peephole. Donned in a dress that’s form-fitting, voice high and light. Giggling silly things, fastened to Sylus’ side, held there by a virile arm draped around her middle. She’s drunk if the sloppy lean of her body is anything to go by. Sylus angles himself near her ear to whisper something, ushering in a new set of giggles.

You watch with your breath corked in your esophagus until they slide into his apartment together, their enmeshed voices fading from the stilled walls of the hallway.

Huh. Well, so much for him not being that type of guy. 

You grapple with this new revelation, a furrow between your brows, hands falling listlessly at your sides. Numb as you drag yourself back to your couch, bouncing comically on the cushions.

You don’t even know why you’re upset. He's a grown man with a…life. You think. 

It’s the first time you’ve witnessed him bringing someone to his place other than you, but it’s only natural for a guy like him to have options. He’s far from hideous. Has the gift of gab, for God’s sake. He’s charming and the very definition of masculine. 

It just stings a little, knowing that it’s not…you that he’s touching like that. 

So, you are definitely not flinging Uno cards onto the coffee table. Muttering things to yourself, gripping the stack in your hands so tightly, the plastic squeaks. What’s even got your undies in a bunch? The man’s not yours. You’ve never screwed around. Never really showed signs of wanting to, so it makes sense he would seek pleasures of the flesh elsewhere. His world doesn’t solely revolve around you as much as you would like for it to.

You’re halfway through a third round of angry card-flinging before a soft rap at your door nearly sends you some 30 feet into the air.

Stomping to your entrance, you peek through the peephole, and your heart works overtime when you catch sight of a wash of black and scarlet.

Internally, you scold yourself for how gullible you are. You throw the door open like you weren’t just cursing him and his stupid existence moments ago. Try to act nonplussed, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe with a haughty look. 

Of course, he would smell good. Look good, propped against the threshold like that, an amused cant to his lips, his physique devastating beneath the tight cling of his turtleneck.

“Hey,” he greets, the sound breathy and easy like warmed honey. 

“Hey, yourself.”

He studies you for a bit. Eyes flicker over your face, and you tamp down the sparkling rush of warmth that wades over your skin at the attention. Even when you’re mad at him, your attraction still finds an annoying way of creeping through the seams.

“This is going to sound incredibly strange, and feel free to tell me to piss off, but…do you mind if I crash on your couch for the night?”

You stand up straight. Blink owlishly, mouth opening and closing. “Huh?” is all you’re able to muster. 

He chuckles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this side of bashful. “Yeah. It’s a…bit of a long story, sweetie.”

“O-Okay,” you say, rigidly moving aside.

“Thanks.” The charm is back on, turned up to max capacity. He brushes past you into your apartment, falling onto your couch with a huff. Quirks a brow at the mishap on your table, the carnage having spilled onto the floor. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but were you playing Uno by yourself?”

You ignore him, plopping cross-legged on a floor cushion adjacent to him. Bypassing the tick in your brow, you look off to the side, fighting the embarrassment threatening to take hold of your visage. Shouldn’t he be across the hall, entertaining his company?

“Shut up and grab some cards,” you grumble to dispel the green-eyed thoughts stewing in your mind.

“Bossy.” But he doesn’t contest you, gathering the abused cards to shuffle them. 

The remainder of your evening slides by with comfortable quips. With booze and a break to catch up on Love Is Blind—somehow, he’d roped you into watching it. 

You had no idea he was such a sap. Nearly forgotten how miffed you were mere hours ago. 

He assuaged your worries with an explanation as the sun crept over the city. 

The girl in his apartment was an old colleague who’d gotten drunk and convinced herself that she was anything but. 

Being a good samaritan, Sylus brought her to his place to sober up since the apartment complex wasn’t too far from the main strip of bars. He didn’t want any issues when she inevitably woke up. Messing with drunk people wasn’t his thing. 

So that’s how he ended up here, inhabiting your couch like he’d always been a part of the decor. 

He didn’t owe you an explanation. You were just friends. Still, you couldn’t help the quiet smile that twitched your lips after he cleared the air.

At some point in the morning, you both fell asleep. He looked all serene, too big for your sofa, but comfortable. You watched his lashes flutter from your place on the floor, his lips parting with soundless exhales. Even in sleep, he maintained that guarded aura, his arms folded across his chest. 

You were bleary-eyed, gathering yourself from the hardwood to fetch a blanket to drape over him. He shifted, and he was so pretty with the sun bathing him in an angelic glow like that, his hair bright like a halo. 

You were about to retreat to your bedroom when an abrupt knock tore you from your reverie. You glanced at your guest, ensuring he went undisturbed. He needed the rest. He was a night owl, and something about the sun vexed him, so he typically spent his days sleeping when you weren’t impeding on his time.

You moved to the door, foregoing the peephole to open it. Big mistake.

On the other side stood Little Miss Pretty from the night prior, impatiently tapping her foot. Her hair was flattened on one side, and her dress was askew. By the looks of it, sleep hadn’t been kind to her.

“Hi, good morning,” she sighed, schooling her expression into fake politeness. She straightened herself as best she could, but the white patch of dried slob staining her chin did little to help her plight. You bit back a snicker. 

“I’m looking for a friend. He lives across from you. His name’s Skye.”

You quirked a brow at that. Skye? Oh, honey…

You wondered how many other people Sylus had fed a fake alias to. Or if Sylus was even his real name.

“Haven’t seen him,” you chirped over crossed arms. Pulled the door slightly closed behind you, barring the woman from getting a peek at him, nuzzled up so cozily on your couch.

She sighed with slumped shoulders. A childish pout warped her lips. Her voice shifted into something more bratty. “You sure? Tall guy, white hair, red eyes? You can’t miss ‘em.”

“Not ringing a bell, hun. Sorry.”

It was taking all of you to keep up this ruse. You were fighting so hard to tamp down your amusement. This woman reminded you of an antagonist in a Korean drama, the way she was kicking and huffing about. 

“Where the hell did he go,” she groused. You watched her draw her phone from the pocket of her fur coat, your throat growing dry. 

Your blood turned to ice when a familiar ringtone chimed in your apartment behind you. You stiffened comically; mouth hinged open with shock.

The woman’s expression morphed into one of suspicion. She tried to look inside your home, the upbeat ring of Sylus’ phone still flooding the uncomfortable silence.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to assert her way inside. “What the fu—”

“Hey, girlie. Back the hell off before I call the police,” you warned with a hand pushed to her sternum. She insisted on being unruly, so you snatched your taser from the entryway table, the telltale blue sparks and sharp whip of static causing the woman to jolt back with alarm.

“You’re both insane!” she shouted from the hallway, the stomp of her heels reverberating off the walls as she made her way to the stairwell. 

With a relieved sigh deflating your chest, you eased the door shut. Leaned against it, glancing at the man of the hour. He was still fast asleep, his leg dangling off the edge of your sofa. You smirked knowingly, shaking your head as you disappeared into your bedroom. 

You’d let him sleep for as long as he needed. And you’d give him shit when he awoke about his taste in acquaintances. 

(Sylus): hungry? (You): a little. was gonna make some ramen if you want (Sylus): 🤢 (Sylus): that stuffs terrible for your digestion sweetie.  (Sylus): how about i make you dinner instead ? (Sylus): at the supermarket. need anything? (You): 😲😲😲 (You): you keep spoiling me and i might think you like me (Sylus): 😏 (You): nvm. no don’t need anything. lemme know when you’re back (You): i can help with groceries (Sylus): now who likes who? (You): fkdkos (Sylus): ? (You): sorry fat fingers 

You have a nasty habit of not using your peephole as of late.

Your apartment came with one for a reason. Sure, your neighborhood’s been pretty tame since you’ve moved here. But that doesn’t mean the occasional weirdo doesn’t slip past security, roaming the halls and startling the other tenants. 

You’ve found yourself forgoing the use of it a lot lately, given the only person who typically knocks on your door is the guy across the hall. And he usually calls or texts before he bugs you, but that doesn’t stop him from being spontaneous. You suppose today is one of those such cases after he manipulated you with dinner. 

Maybe his hands are full, you muse, unlocking your door. Though you’re doubtful he can’t handle a few bags. You’ve seen him in action at the community gym, thick cords of muscle rippling beneath a tan stretch of skin. 

You draw the door open with a smile, expecting to see a customary thatch of white. What confronts you instead sends a tide of dread washing over your innards. 

��Oh, thank God you’re home,” breathes a voice you haven’t heard in months. A voice that still makes your body stiffen, and your blood run cold. 

When your senses return, you step back into your apartment, thoroughly intending to slam the door in your ex’s face. They’re quicker, however, wedging themselves in the gap before you can shut it. Grabbing for you, a crazed look warping their features.

“Baby, please! Talk to me! I miss you!”

You bat at their hand, trying vainly to crush them, to scare them off. It’s to no avail, and you wonder if they’re coked up, giving you a run for your money as they try to bully their way into your home.

There’s a softball bat propped on the wall, and your fingers brush the base of it in your attempt to grab it. Something to defend yourself since your taser’s out of reach, tucked somewhere in your bag. 

The sounds of your struggle intermingle, your voice strained and panting, please please please, and your ex’s caught between sobs of your name. 

Just a little further. Just—

Suddenly, there’s no more resistance in your door. You stumble against it, a wild look in your eyes. And then, there is the noise of a brief scuffle. Of a back being shoved against a wall, of rusting plastic bags, of “Who the fuck are you?!”

Amid your panicked frenzy, you glance up to see a back to you. Barring you from the view beyond your threshold, and your body’s awash with relief as you register your savior’s form.

“You would do well to piss off,” seethes Sylus, and there’s an edge to his voice you’ve never heard before. You feel it furling in your stomach, burning your lungs. And in this moment, you don’t know who to be more afraid of.

Your ex makes a sound of protest, but you imagine the cut of Sylus’ eyes deterring them.

There is the scuffling of shoes across the concrete flooring of the breezeway, and you listen with bated breath until the cacophony fades at the foot of the stairs, willing your heart to ease down.

Scarlet eyes shift to you, brows knit with concern. “Who was that?” Sylus asks, tone cautious as if he doesn’t want to startle you more than you’ve already been.

You right yourself, smoothing out the wrinkles of your clothes. Finally grab your bat, waving it intimidatingly as you step aside to let your neighbor in.

“My stupid ex. Just know you saved their life. ‘cause I was gonna—” You make swinging gestures, the metal bat swooping in the air. The corners of Sylus’ eyes crinkle. 

“Slow down before you hurt yourself.” He kneels to retrieve the bags he’d tossed down in his haste to intervene. You scurry over to help, gathering up spilled food.

Once you’re both inside, the bags placed haphazardly on the counter, you’re seated on your sofa, nursing the rush of adrenaline still spuming through you like the hot rush of a geyser. 

“You need to get a restraining order,” says Sylus. He emerges from your kitchen with a tense set to his jaws, two bottles of Angry Orchard clasped between his fingers. 

Plopping down beside you, an arm draped over the headrest, he shoves a bottle into your hand, side-eyeing you as he throws his head back for a swig. 

You babysit the cider, the crisp condensation of it serving to ground you. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m not asking, sweetie.”

You bristle under the weight of his tone, feeling much like a scolded child. You know this. Should’ve done it long ago the first time your ex took it upon themselves to do surprise pop-ups at your place—at your job.  

“And an alarm system.”

“I know, I know.”

“I can take you right now to look for one—”

“I got it, Sy! Fuck, I-I got it.” You release a weighted sigh, warring with yourself. 

Not only do you feel silly for being so lackadaisical with your life. But now, you feel even worse for the seemingly impenetrable silence that settles between you. You didn’t mean to yell, frustration and adrenaline having burbled to the surface. He was just worried. No need to take your emotions out on him. 

Sylus exhales slowly, an unreadable expression descending onto his face whilst staring at the wall.

“Sorry,” you murmur, unconsciously patting his quad. You don’t miss how he stiffens; don’t miss the tight coiling of tendons in his neck. You retract your hand, instead drumming your fingers along the bottom of your bottle.

“I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this has happened,” queries Sylus in an attempt to dispel the tense atmosphere.

You shake your head, shrinking into yourself. Stare at your lap, pulling at some frayed threads in your bottoms. 

“How did they even manage to get up here?”

You shrug. The security guards at the gates aren’t always the most attentive. Besides, sometimes, the pin pad leading into the lobby malfunctions, making it easier for anyone to just slip into your complex.

Unprompted, you begin to bare yourself, explaining the possibilities of why your ex showed up.

Sylus listens attentively. Doesn’t interrupt you, watching the subtle shifts of your expressions as you speak. 

You tell him that things weren’t bad in the beginning about two years ago. How your ex said and did all the right things, and they were wonderful. But they wanted something you weren’t ready for. You had some growing up to do, so you broke things off. Moved to another city, started a new job. 

You didn’t bank on them following you. 

The visits were random at first. Occasional run-ins at the park, the bar. Things soon blossomed into something more concerning when your ex found your new address after you relocated to another part of the city to ease the stress of the commute. 

This was their second time making an appearance at your door. You knew you should’ve done something to protect yourself sooner, but you didn’t think much of it then. Figured they would live and let be. Today proved otherwise. 

“You’re grossly naive, sweetie.” 

You snort before gulping down the remnants of your cider. “Way to make me feel better.”

He chuckles, and it’s comforting, your thighs pressing together amid your dinky couch. “It’s what I’m here for. But I could understand how you could drive someone to such extremes.”

You glare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” 

Before you know what’s about, he’s panning in, flooding your vision with the scarlet shine of his eyes. With the wispy dance of his lashes until his breath fans over your molten cheeks. Limber fingers sneak beneath your chin, slightly tilting your head back. 

Warmth wades over you. Your breath swells in your chest. Lips purse as a mysterious shade of burgundy leaks over his irises. His voice drops a few octaves, husky, the sound of it pinching in your stomach.

“It means that you’re someone worth fighting for.”

You scoff, shaking yourself away from his hold. Ignore the bashfulness creeping into your face in favor of being a cheeky little shit. 

“All right, Li Shang. Getting a little too serious over there.”

He huffs a laugh in response, popping up to grab another round of ciders from your fridge.

Ingredients sat untouched on the countertop as your evening eased by. You’d settled on a pizza, catching up on shows and talking, long after the moon had pinned itself to the center of the sky. 

Sylus promised to teach you how to use a gun. He had plenty and would carve out time in his schedule to take you to a range. He didn’t press much after, instead letting the weight of your evening melt from your shoulders. 

He was reluctant to leave you, even after sunbeams spilled through your blinds and you snoozed so quietly, cheek propped against his shoulder. 

His hand never left your thigh. Possessive in its touch as he mirrored your affections from before. 

It’s strange.

Today is your birthday. You’re enjoying yourself, filled with enough alcohol to tranquilize a small goat. 

Your co-workers had dragged you out. Surprised you with dinner, a cake. Took you to the strip of bars lining the streets adjacent to your apartment complex. You were all smiles until your cheeks ached, and you’d nearly thrown up from laughing so much. 

Still, you feel…empty. Like something is missing. Or someone. 

You look at your phone for the umpteenth time. Scroll through your messages, reliving the moment in your head. 

Sylus was the first to wish you a happy birthday. It made you swell with overwhelming happiness, knowing he’d woken up so early to be the first to say it. You don’t think you’ve ever cried harder when he sent a voice message of him singing “Happy Birthday.”

God, for everything he was good at, poor baby couldn’t hold a note to dig himself out of a hole. Still, you cherished the gesture, lying in bed for the first hour you’d been awake, replaying said message and rolling around your bed like an enamored teen.

Even now, you replay the voice note, holding the speaker to your ear. It’s hard to hear it amid the live band playing and the merriment around you at the bar. Try as you might to enjoy what remains of your night, you can’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to a certain smug figure clad in black. 

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): hows it going birthday babe? (You): 😭😭😭 (You): u shuld be her e (Sylus) im sorry sweetie. i had some work to catch up on.  (Sylus): you must be having a good time. 😏 (You): fuk wrk 🖕🖕🖕 (You): am not drink ur dronk (Sylus): lol. you sound plastered. (Sylus): do i need to come rescue you? (You): hum (Sylus): ? (You): hone (You): home (Sylus): 🫤 (Sylus): we need to have a serious talk about you enabling autocorrect. (You): r u (You): home (Sylus): about to be. why ?? (Sylus): sweetie?

Somehow, you find yourself staring at the glossy, black numbers embossed on the top center of his door. 302. It’s ingrained in your memory. You’d probably find your way to his apartment with your eyes closed, driven to it by the familiar smell and homeliness it exudes. 

You’re still a little tipsy. Took some time to sober up as best you could before ditching your friends and catching an Uber back to your complex. You had enough sense to gather everything you’d shown up with. Didn’t hitch a ride with any strangers regardless of how many of them tried to pull you into their arms as you stumbled out of the bar. 

You had a one-track mind. Only wanted to spend the rest of your birthday with him.

With a goofy smile plastered on your face, you knock on his door. You’re singing that infectious song you can’t get out of your head when it swings open.

“Apateu-pateu, apateu-pateu,” you chant, shaking your hips from side to side.

He greets you with an omniscient smirk, eyes softening whilst leaning against the doorframe. “Well, hello, birthday babe.”

“Sup!” you return a little too enthusiastically, pitching forward until Sylus steadies you with his hands. You giggle like a drunken fool, peering at him. Hadn’t realized how good his hands felt, searing through the fabric of your top. 

Come to think of it, you hadn’t noticed many things about him before. His lips are a pretty shade of pink. Skin textured, nose sharp, cheeks high. Little flecks of amber dwell between the scarlet rinse of his eyes. His hair falls into his face, damp from the shower he probably had before answering the door.

“I take it you had a good night,” he says, gaze painting a steady triangle between your eyes and mouth.

“Almost,” you whisper back, surprised by the huskiness of your voice. You lose yourself in the idle stir of his eyes. In the fragility of his smile, and you feel so safe in his hands like this. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. To conquer the space of hot, dizzying breaths between you. But, you sort of…well…

Your inhibitions hit the floor. With your fingers wrapped tenderly around his wrists, you angle yourself closer to kiss him. You almost pull away when he stiffens. But he seemingly relaxes, and his lips cautiously move against yours as he unconsciously guides you closer.

You cling to the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He encircles your waist in his powerful arms, fastening you to the hard press of his body. He kisses you like he’s waited lifetimes to do it, one hand molding around the apple of your cheek. 

When your tongue sloppily prods the barrier of his teeth, he bristles. Draws away from you with a resounding smack, blinking wildly. You’re confused. Your heart sinks. You try again to draw him back in, but he gently pushes you away, shaking his head to dispel the bleariness. To chase away the spell that’s fallen over you. 

“Baby, wait. No. Not…not like this,” he rasps through kiss-swollen lips, holding you by your hips. You’re wounded. A hot flush of embarrassment washes over you, and your brows knit together like those of a confused puppy.

“Wha-what’s wrong? Did I—am I—”

“No, no, you’re…you're perfect,” he soothes with a chuckle, a thumb gliding over your bottom lip. “Beautiful, even. I just…I don’t think now is a good time to do this.”

“Oh.” You deflate, a scorching film of tears clouding your vision. “Oh, okay. Um, I’ll just—yeah, I’ll go. I’ll…see you around, I guess.”

You slide out of his arms, too mortified to look back as you fumble with your keys. After he murmurs a hoarse, “good night.” Did you misread him before? Misinterpret his actions, his words? 

You’re numb as you sink into your couch. Sobriety slowly creeps in. Stray tears blister your cheeks, but you don’t full-on sob. Can’t bring yourself to, instead laughing hysterically with your face buried in your hands, swallowed by the bleak loneliness of your apartment.

Happy Birthday, indeed.

[mirellapryce]

For your consideration, The Case of the Sweater Curse.

I already headcanon that part of Edwin learning how to knit had to do with Charles actually feeling cold. Of course he started with the basics like scarves, hats, and fingerless gloves. Charles loves them all and tends to wear them nonstop for at least two weeks after he gets them. As Edwin’s skills improve, he builds up the courage to attempt a sweater. There is a lot of cursing involved, and of course he couldn’t make an easy pattern for his first sweater.

Several months later he has a sweater! As always, Charles is impressed even if he doesn’t understand all the technical details Edwin’s explaining. He’s proper chuffed, and he wears it right away, saying that it feels like a warm hug. Edwin dismisses this out of hand. They’ve already established that Charles feeling cold at all, and then feeling warm when he wears the knit items Edwin makes him is more mind over matter.

Edwin goes to the yarn store a week later in his disguise, to buy more yarn for his next project. Charles seems to like his sweater so much, Edwin supposes he could be bothered to make another one, cursing, struggle and all. He even tells the teller that all this yarn is for his plans to make a sweater for his partner. The shop clerk laughs, and tells him to wish his relationship goodbye.

What? Why?

Well obviously the sweater curse. As soon as you make a sweater for a partner, that relationship is doomed to end shortly after.

Now because Edwin lives in a world of actual magic and curses, he doesn’t even consider for a moment this might be superstition. He just runs home. He has to fix this! He didn’t intend to curse Charles! And he certainly wouldn’t want to lose his best friend, just because he didn’t know about this Sweater Curse!

Of course Charles can’t make things easy. When Edwin tries to get Charles to take the sweater off, Charles doesn’t want to. It’s his comfy sweater now. He’s gotten used to Edwin’s perfectionism at this point, and has found the best way to fight it is to insist that whatever Edwin made is perfect, and that he loves it. Otherwise Edwin will keep fiddling with whatever tiny perceived flaw to death. Charles still doesn’t know what Edwin did with his favourite hat when he told Charles he “just had to fix one thing”.

Edwin can only assume that Charles latching onto the sweater is part of the curse, so he dives into research. Everything he finds is unhelpfully vague, but consistent. If you make a sweater for someone, that relationship will end. Edwin can’t lose Charles. He just can’t.

Luckily it’s taken out of both their hands a month or so later when Charles gets swiped by a river monster. The poor thing gets shredded AND soaked. There’s no salvaging the poor thing and Charles is SO upset about ruining the sweater Edwin worked so hard on. Edwin tells him it’s not a bother while secretly breathing a sigh of relief, and promises to make him something else from the remains.

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 6.7k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom vibes, billionaire harry, harry learning how to fall in love the human way, nervous harry castillo, pining, emotional vulnerability and all that sweet shi

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Five years after they met, Harry attended her concert.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

Harry Castillo was still not married.

He wasn’t against the idea, not exactly. But he wasn’t in a rush either, and that had been fine for a long time. He liked things that made sense. He liked return on investment. He liked decisions that came after long walks and longer silences. For most of his adult life, marriage had sounded like a kind of liability. Or at best, a negotiation. His mother, of course, saw it the same way. A transaction. She didn’t push—she was too elegant for that—but she was always saying things like, “Don’t wait so long you forget what it’s for.” Sometimes she would ask, “So?” and he’d be expected to say progress. Or, “No one wants to be alone when they’re sick.” As if the whole point of love was to secure a caretaker for your worst-case scenarios.

He could pay someone for that. Probably.

At first, he didn’t take her seriously. He thought he had time. And more than that, he thought he had options. He was successful, composed, a man who knew how to move through a room without stumbling. He dated, casually and then not-so-casually, and when things ended, he never wondered why for very long.

But it started to get to him. The way his brother looked at his now wife. The way the world suddenly had traditions you had to keep up with—holiday dinners, christenings, photos with matching sweaters. He started to wonder if maybe he had missed something. If maybe his mother was right in that subtle, unnerving way she always was.

As a businessman, the answer was simple: pick women who appreciate financial stability. Someone who will be impressed with a couple hundred bucks worth of dinner every night.

So when Lucy came into his life, he thought, this is it. He didn’t fall in love. But he did feel a kind of clarity. She ticked all his boxes, the same way he ticked all of hers. Smart. Grounded. Attractive in the way that ages well. She was pragmatic, emotionally efficient, and rarely sentimental—just like him. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t want honest answers to. She respected boundaries. She’s also easily impressed, which made it easier for Harry. They worked in the same world, spoke the same language: meetings, margins, expansion, sustainability. The relationship felt like a merger with excellent terms. It wasn’t thrilling, but it was reasonable. And he liked reasonable. A reasonable investment is always better than a thrilling one.

They didn’t talk about love often. He assumed that was the point. This wasn’t about drama or passion or whatever ruined people tried to salvage from their twenties. This was about building something stable. Something good. At least that’s what he told himself. Until, of course, it ended. Until the thing that made the most sense became the thing that unraveled. Harry Castillo thought Lucy might be the final, grown-up answer to the question his mother never stopped asking: “Who will take care of you?”

Truthfully, he just liked what she represented. An answer to the question. A working formula. A beautiful, rational equation with clean lines and no jagged edges. They went to dinners. They work well. She looked good on his arm and didn’t get nervous in front of his friends. They could sit in silence without discomfort. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He remembered telling her once, not long before the end: “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.” And he meant it. But what he’d been looking for at the time wasn’t true, gutting love. It wasn’t fire or ache or anything close to wonder. It was something that worked. A system that ran without friction. A calm, competent life partner. It wasn’t “I love you.” It was something like “You’ll do.” 

He was sad when they broke up, of course. But he didn’t fall apart. He didn’t get drunk and call her at 2 a.m. He didn’t beg on his knees or lose sleep or spiral. He just went back to work. Took the trip they were supposed to take together alone. Upgraded his sheets. Changed nothing else.

It didn’t even change his routine. Didn’t make his work life harder. He just… continued to live. Because even then, deep down, he’d known he could live without her. And that was the difference.

He tried her matchmaking company after they broke up. He was set up with Gemma. A nice woman in her thirties. She’s an art dealer. He went into the date the same way he went on a date with Lucy: with business in mind. His criteria: someone who he could trust (because isn’t that how you do business? With someone you could trust?) and someone he could respect. Gemma was someone he could respect. Gemma could do business like Lucy, but unfortunately, like Lucy, she also wanted love. He didn’t call after the first date. Didn’t even pick up the phone from the matchmaker.

He didn’t know if he’s capable of love. Not yet, at least. And certainly not with Gemma. Gemma was supposed to be a perfect investment. And you don’t have to be in love with something to invest in it. You just need to know it works. 

So after Gemma, he lied to his matchmaker that he found someone else. Organically. Rose, his matchmaker, was upset but she said it made sense. People like him weren’t gonna be in the market for very long. He laughed like it was true. They were nice enough to give him a 80% refund. It didn’t matter, really.

Eventually, he gave up on the idea of marriage. Peter, his brother, had the family name sorted—happy wife, golden retriever, maybe even babies soon. That was enough legacy for the Castillos. Harry told himself he’d be the cool uncle. The one who sent expensive Christmas gifts and taught the kids poker too early.

He could live with that.

Harry had always preferred structure—clear lines, calm offices, espresso over cappuccino, silence over chatter. And when the chaos of life inevitably found its way in—whether in the form of a failed relationship or an overly ambitious intern—he had learned to manage it with professionalism, coolness, and if that didn’t work, expensive liquor.

Emma came in during one of those transitions. He had needed a new assistant, and she had been available. She was in her early thirties. Maybe thirty-three? Had left her dream of becoming an artist to help her husband support her family. He remembered her saying something vague during the interview—fine arts? Theatre? Maybe music theory? He hadn’t listened that closely, to be honest. It hadn’t seemed important. The job wasn’t creative, after all. It was scheduling, logistics, emails, making sure the water bottles were always stacked in the little fridge under his desk.

But Emma did it well. Unobtrusively, efficiently. And, yes, she was the sort of secretary who remembered things like what kind of bagel he preferred after a heavy night out. Everything bagel, warm, no cream cheese on Mondays and Tuesdays. She had shown up one morning, already in office attire—black dress, far from what artsy people look like.

She held out the bagel without comment, then opened his calendar and said, “We need to move the two o’clock. You’ll want a nap before the calls.”

He had blinked at her, still hungover, and realized she’d become indispensable.

He paid her well. He didn’t think about her much beyond that. She was a good assistant. She didn’t make his life messier. She didn’t ask questions when he was late, or when he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. She knew how to read a room, how to bring him coffee when he was fuming but didn’t want to say so.

On slower days—days like this—he moved through his space like a man wandering the remains of an empire. Half-shaved, robe still hanging loosely, coffee cooling on the desk. Emma was already there, seated at her desk just beyond the open glass divider, typing away, her own mug beside her and classical music playing quietly from her laptop.

It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she puts on jazz. Sometimes piano. He didn’t mind. It filled the air gently. It softened the sharpness of the city skyline beyond the windows. And then—

He paused. Mid-step, mid-thought, the motion caught in his throat.

She was watching something. A video. And on the screen, there she was.

The cello, the way she moved with it like it was another limb. That impossible grace, unrepeatable in anyone else he’d ever met. And that face—green eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips, dimples barely there. Freckles on her neck. Honey blonde hair, pulled back now, neater than he remembered, but unmistakable.

His throat tightened.

Emma hadn’t noticed him. She was lost in whatever it was. He stepped closer, quietly, without even meaning to. Just one word rose in him, like breath held for too long finally escaping.

“Catherine.”

Emma looked at him, brow lifted in genuine curiosity.

“You know classical music?”

“No.” Harry barely glanced at her before his eyes flicked back to the screen. “I know her.”

“You do? People who aren’t into classical music wouldn’t know about composers.”

“She’s a composer? I thought she was a cellist.”

Emma smiled faintly, as if charmed by how clueless he sounded.

 “She plays sometimes, but she was always a composer,” said Emma.

He didn’t respond right away. He was listening. Listening the way he had that night in the cabin—when the music hummed under his skin and dared him to remember it. Now, years later, it was back in his chest like a pulled thread. One sound and the whole memory unraveled.

“Catherine Ainsworth,” he murmured, reading the video title aloud.

“She’s one of the youngest composers ever commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic,” Emma said, sliding back in her chair, watching him. “At 25, she had a piece debuted at the Barbican, and another in Vienna. Her music’s this weird thing—elegant, unpretentious. Sort of haunting, sort of joyful.”

Harry smiled quietly at that.

"I’m surprised you know her, really. She composed mostly love songs, not for everyone. Certainly not something I imagine you listening to. It’s always sweet and never too complicated, like she’s not trying to impress anybody with her skills. Where did you hear of her?" Emma asked.

“I didn’t.” He shook his head, still lost in thought. “I met her.”

Emma’s head tilted. “Oh. You know know her.”

The room went soft for a moment. There was a long pause—his pause, really. He leaned on the edge of her desk, looking at nothing.

“We met. About five years ago,” he said finally, his voice low. “She was very young.”

“She’s still young. Twenty-seven,” Emma said, her voice mild.

“Yeah.” He nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the window. “That’s young.”

“She’s going to come back to New York in December. A concert. You wanna go see her?”

“I don’t know,” he said quickly—too quickly. 

Then, without giving her a chance to prod further, he turned the conversation elsewhere. A safe detour into something about schedules or deadlines or the mess with the Anderson account.

Emma didn’t push. She rarely did. That was something he appreciated about her. She knew how to clock a boundary without making a show of it.

But the thought lingered.

Even when he made calls or sat through meetings with people who talked too long and said too little, Catherine’s name threaded through his mind like a whisper. Not loud, not insistent. Just there.

It came to him in odd flashes—the way her fingers had moved on the cello strings, the way her coat had smelled faintly of cedar and something floral, the way the storm softened when she’d spoken.You’ll need a coat. The memory played like a looped symphony movement, quiet in the background, but impossible to ignore.

And that was new, because Harry rarely lets anything disrupt his routine.

He tried not to let it show. Not in the emails he dictated, or the investor pitch he reviewed. Not even when he watched Emma walk out with her coat, humming something vaguely classical under her breath.

But distraction had a way of making a home. It seeped into the quiet moments. When the office emptied, and the city buzzed below. When he poured himself a drink he didn’t finish. When he stood by the window with nothing in his hands, nothing to do, and everything waiting.

He pushed it down. Like he always did. Folded the thought neatly, tucked it beneath work and habit and his carefully measured life. That was what he had built in the years since forever—a life that made sense on paper. Balanced, professional, manageable. No edges. No typhoons. Until the very end, at least.

He told himself he didn’t want it, not anymore. The whirlwind, the ache, the unpredictability of falling in love. Love—God. Even the word sounded like a marketing scheme these days.

But he wasn’t proud of that version of himself. He was older now. Wiser. Tired.

And maybe a little lonelier than he cared to admit.

It was one morning in December when he saw it. He looked at the screen, a red circle on his calendar. Underneath it, in a font he definitely did not use: 7 PM, Carnegie Hall.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

Emma, sitting on the edge of his office couch, froze like she’d been caught stealing. Then she exhaled. “Oh.” A pause. “I bought you a ticket. For Catherine Ainsworth.”

He stared at her. No words. Just stillness.

She shifted uncomfortably but kept her chin up. “You have to go. It’s my money.”

“I’ll pay you back,” said Harry quickly.

“Go. Consider it a Christmas gift from my husband and I.”

He couldn’t say anything to that. Not without unraveling something. Because Emma didn’t know the weight of that name in his chest. She didn’t know the smell of cedar and drizzle or the way her voice could quiet a room like snowfall. But still—she had known enough, probably from his reactions. Enough to draw the circle. To say go.

And the reason he did not want to go was because of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, something like anticipation. It felt familiar. Like hope.

The days leading up to the concert passed in a strange kind of haze. New York in December was both beautiful and brutal—icy wind on your face one second, holiday lights the next. Fifth Avenue glimmered like a snow globe, and every sidewalk corner had someone selling roasted chestnuts or playing saxophone under twinkling strings of fairy lights. It was a romantic city if you had someone’s hand to hold. He didn’t.

But he didn’t feel alone either. Not in the obvious way.

He thought about canceling the day before. Told himself he had a meeting, that he couldn’t sit through two hours of music without unraveling. But he didn’t cancel.

Instead, he let the day arrive.

He let himself walk into it slowly, like stepping into cold water.

Emma picked a great suit for the evening.She had thought of everything—down to the cufflinks he’d forgotten he owned. She laid it all out on his office couch that morning, like a quiet but firm declaration: You’re going. 

He hadn’t said thank you, not out loud. He just looked at her, nodded once, and said, “Remind me what time it starts.”

“I know you know, Harry. You’re not going to be late,” she replied, not looking up from her computer. “I already scheduled the car. It’s in your calendar.”

The car ride was quiet. Just the city humming past. His mind raced, slowed, raced again. He didn’t know why he suddenly told the driver to pull over near a florist on 57th.

He stood outside the small, warmly lit shop for a few seconds, hands deep in his coat pockets, before walking in and asking for a bouquet. “Something simple,” he said.

The florist gave him a look that said every man says that, and put together white ranunculus, some pale eucalyptus, and a few soft roses—not red, not pink, but a washed-out cream, like candlelight.

He didn’t know why he bought it.

He didn’t know if Catherine would want flowers.

He didn’t know if she’d forgotten him entirely—or worse, remembered him only faintly, like a passing storm she once sat through and never thought of again. She might have a man. A husband. A life. She might look at him and smile politely, say thank you, take the flowers and never think of it again.

But he bought them anyway.

He told himself he’d just say hello. Just a word after the concert, in that strange backstage hum of applause and exhaustion. Hand her the flowers, thank her for the music, maybe say I saw you in a storm once, and you’ve never really left my mind, though he probably wouldn’t say it out loud. He’d give her the bouquet, smile, and walk away.

And that would be that.

He’d go back to his life. The office. The schedules. The version of himself he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

He went inside Carnegie Hall as if in a haze. Sat down, as if drunk, not knowing where to look. His back was rigid. He looked around the room and saw how it was mostly couples, enjoying a romantic night out. He smiled at that.

The lights dimmed slowly, like the hush that fell over New York on snow-heavy nights. The crowd at Carnegie Hall settled into silence.

Then she stepped out.

Catherine Ainsworth.

It had been years, and yet Harry recognized her instantly. She had changed, yes. There was a quiet grace to her now, a self-assuredness in the way she walked toward the cello, cradling it like a part of her body. Her once wild, wet hair was swept up neatly, revealing the softness of her face, the light freckles that still danced faintly on her neck. The girl who had offered him a coat was now a woman who commanded an entire room with a glance and a breath. Still green-eyed. Still real. But older. Better.

The small smile on her lips hadn’t changed either. That half-smile, the one that never stretched too far, but tugged at something deep inside him. He remembered it. It was the smile she wore the night she bought soup with a song.

And then she played.

The first piece was a solo—a quiet, yearning composition that began with a single note held long enough to stretch across the years. Harry felt it in his chest. No grandeur. No showing off. Just beauty, unveiled gently and without ego. Effortless. Alive.

He hadn’t known he could still feel things like that. It came uninvited, the smile—slow and real—tugging at his mouth before he realized it. God, it had been a long time.

And he understood, finally, what Emma meant when she called her music romantic.

He watched her fingers dance over the strings—those same dainty fingers he remembered from a memory blurred by storm and scotch.

Harry, who knew music like most people knew algebra—just enough to pass by—was completely disarmed. He didn’t need to understand it. He felt it.

The concert unfolded in movements. After the solo, the orchestra filed in. Catherine returned later—not to perform, but to conduct. She stood at the front like she belonged there, eyes focused, hands lifting, guiding a dozen musicians like it was second nature.

The audience watched with a silence that buzzed. And Harry—he didn’t watch like an audience member. He watched like a man who had just remembered how to live.

She conducted one more piece. Then came another solo—a piano this time. She played with her eyes half closed, and it felt like the sound was pouring from her very lungs.

Harry didn’t blink.

He sat there in the dark, flowers beside him, and let the music do what it had always promised to do: make everything else fall away.

And for just a while, it did.

It started soft—quiet strings, then piano. And there, tucked into the melody like a memory, was a sound that reminded him of home. Not literal bells, but close enough. That kind of jingle they use in old movies—the kind you hear when someone falls in love on a snowy street. It made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready for.

He looked down at the program again. Love, in December.

It wasn’t a flashy piece. None of hers were, really. The entire concert had been like that—emotional, but never begging for it. Beautiful, but never loud about being beautiful. She didn’t show off. She didn’t need to. She just played, and that was enough.

People were crying. He caught a few wiping their faces. He watched Catherine through the curtain of applause and could tell she’d been crying too—just a little. But she smiled through it, bowed low. Everyone stood up and gave her a round of applause.

When the light came on, the crowd slowly stood.

He stood too, eventually. Walked out with the rest. But when they veered toward the exit, he didn’t.

He followed the hallway signs to the backstage area.

Of course there was security. A guy at the corridor—stocky, name tag said Hubert—held up a hand to stop him.Harry expected that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the slick business card. Not the casual one, the serious one, the fancy one. Harry Castillo. He introduced himself with his business voice too, and said something about some opportunities for some of the musicians. Hubert squinted at the name, clearly didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Harry said it like it should be recognized. Like it belonged in the room. And he had a lot of practice with that. The security guy hesitated a second, then stepped aside with a short nod.

He walked past without a word.

He passed a few dressing rooms—most with names taped to the doors, some cracked open to reveal assistants and musicians gathering coats or finishing bottles of water. Some cheering. Laughter.

And then—at the end—her name. Catherine Ainsworth. Typed neatly, taped to a white door.

He stared at it for a beat.

His palms felt hot.

He raised his hand. Knocked once, firm but quiet.

Inside, movement. A pause. Then her voice. Familiar, unmistakable.

“Coming.”

And there he stood. Suit pressed, bouquet in hand, heart stupidly loud in his chest.

She opened the door, and green eyes fell into his.

Her cheeks were still flushed from the stage, a touch of powder barely hiding it. Her hair was up now, pinned and loose in places, elegant without trying. She still had her performance dress on— black silk dress, modest, but it did something with the way she moved. Or maybe it was just her. Grown. Poised. Lovely.

“Harry?”

He smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

“Oh gosh. How long has it been? I didn’t know you were coming. Please—come in! I’m so sorry it’s messy, I didn’t expect—why didn’t you contact me first? I would’ve gotten you a better seat, somewhere I could see your face and guess what you think.”

She stepped back to let him in. He took a breath and followed, the bouquet light in his hand, but suddenly feeling foolish.

The room was cozy—soft lighting, clothes and makeup scattered in corners, a chair with a coat slung over it, another bouquet sitting forgotten on the counter. There was a faint scent of perfume and roses, warmed by stage sweat and hairspray. Her cello case was still open.

He sat on the edge of the couch while she fussed with tidying, though it didn’t do much. He didn’t mind.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said. “But I’m glad I did. You were… incredible.”

She looked over her shoulder with a quick smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“No, really. It was beautiful. When you played— it felt like something cracked open in me.”

Catherine blinked, then looked down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You always knew how to say things like that. Like a line from a book.”

He gave a soft laugh.

There was a pause. The kind that wasn’t awkward.

“You never called me,” Harry said, quieter this time. “Or left a message.”

Catherine looked at him, then leaned against the vanity, arms folded.

“Oh, funny story about that. I fell into a puddle. And the card was too wet and it ripped. You should really invest in some high-end business cards. You know, the ones made of metal.”

“Really?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah.” She grinned.

“That’s the best you came up with?”

She laughed. “It’s true! It was a big puddle too. I sprained my ankle and everything.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry.” He leaned forward a little. “Should’ve taken you back. Given you a ride.”

“No, no. It was fine. Managed to get a ride.” She shrugged, then smiled gently. “I still had a fun day, despite it all. The soup, Jim, you, the people I met… it more than made up for it.”

There was a stillness after that. Not tense. Just charged.

Harry’s fingers tapped against his knee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and alert at the same time. Maybe years ago, back home, when he still thought he had a future doing things that mattered. Now it was mostly boardrooms. Deadlines. Deals. People speaking at him, him barely listening.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “you wanna go for a burrito?”

He blinked. “What?”

“There’s a truck I like. Not far. But it’ll be gone in thirty minutes, so we have to hurry. Come with me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, sure. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” She stood up.

He tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Still strangers, really.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said as she grabbed her coat. “I remember everyone who’s made an impression on me.”

“And I did?” he asked, following her to the door. He noticed the other bouquets still sitting untouched on the counter. Only his was in her hands.

She shooed him out with a grin. “’Course you did. Hold on—” she handed him her scarf, like he was already someone she knows well. She bent, locking the door and Harry couldn’t help but admire her form, for just a moment. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ve always had a soft spot for old men in the rain. Like they’re in a French movie.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I forgot you said that.”

That was a lie. He remembered. Word for word. He thought it was funny because he didn’t look French at all.

They left through the back hallway, her coat slung casually over one arm, the flowers still in his hand.

“Tell everyone I’m going out for dinner,” Catherine called to someone down the hallway.

“Aw, you got a date already, Catie?” the man shouted back.

“Sure do! I’ll see you all at midnight—Jen’s place, yeah? We’re still on.”

There was laughter from down the corridor, and someone called after her—teasing, familiar.

He didn’t plan on asking. He really hadn’t. But the words edged out anyway, like steam from a cracked pipe. “So… it’s a date?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you want it to be.”

“Sure. It’s a date. But we’re going somewhere after.”

“Only if you drop me off at my friend’s place by midnight.”

“Done.”

It should’ve felt strange—rushed, unexpected, unprofessional, even—but it didn’t. It felt like something that had already begun years ago, paused somewhere between wet clothes and a café table, and picked up again the way only real things could. Without fuss. Without ceremony.

They didn’t talk much on the walk. There wasn’t a need. She led, he followed. He noticed how she kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves, her shoulders relaxed despite the weather.

He didn’t know what scared him more: how easy it was, or how deeply it settled into him. That feeling. That quiet, breathless, inevitable sense that this—whatever this was—wasn’t a spark. It was something else. A match already struck, a flame he’d walked away from once and was now standing in front of again. 

He’d dated, of course. Dated well. Dated enough. There had been pretty ones, brilliant ones, ones who challenged him, soothed him, made him laugh. But even at their best, it had always been a climb. Work. Polished versions of himself turning over carefully rehearsed lines. But Catherine—God. Catherine had never asked for any version of him. Even worse, he didn’t have the need to put on a version of himself.

And he remembered—how comfortable it had been the first time. That rain-soaked day. How much of him had stayed with her, tucked away in whatever memory she carried. How she remembered the soup, and Jim, and his card—ruined by a puddle, apparently. A story so absurdly hers, he almost laughed when she told it.

He glanced at her now, walking a few paces ahead.

They ate outside. Not at a table, not at a restaurant—just the side of a food truck wrapped in yellow lights, on a quiet street where the steam from open grates rose like lazy ghosts. She had ordered two burritos, extra hot sauce, and passed him one without asking what he wanted. He took it anyway. It was good. Greasy, hot, and falling apart in the right places.

They stood side by side on the curb like they had done this a thousand times, like they’d done this in another life, another city, another version of themselves. She talked while chewing.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” he said, as they leaned against the side of the truck, warm foil burritos in hand.

“Well I told you what would happen to me.”

“Your studio?”

“Yeah. I have a studio. It’s underground. You wouldn’t know if you weren’t in the arts.”

“Ah, exclusive club?” he asked, biting into the burrito. “How’d you get the money?”

“I have my ways.”

He believed her. Not because it made sense, but because of how she said it—like the details didn’t matter as long as the music still got made. And maybe they didn’t.

She didn’t stop talking when they got into his car. She didn’t even stop to think about how Harry had a driver ready a few feet away, almost like he was trailing them since they left the concert hall. He smiled at how easy it was. Answered all her questions about his life like they were old friends instead of two people who met only hours in total.

The driver took them somewhere not too far—somewhere fancy he liked to go—for just a drink.

He hadn’t expected to like the night this much. He hadn’t expected to feel younger, or older, or anything at all. But he did.

She told him she’d order a Shirley Temple, but when the waiter came, she asked for coffee instead. She said it was because she had to stay awake for the party tonight. He could tell she was tired, though.

He asked, gently, “You sure you want to go? You can rest. I’m sure your colleague would understand.”

“My friends, you mean. I’m sure they will, but I have a big ‘Fear of Missing Out’ disease. You wouldn’t get it. You probably want to miss out.”

He laughed at that, because she was right. It was funny how she knew him. After living the life he had (and a long one at that), parties became boring, friends became few, and the older you get the less you want to waste your time spending it with random people. Somehow, he thought, it wouldn’t be the same for her.

He canceled her coffee when she wasn’t looking and ordered her the Shirley Temple anyway. She sipped it with that little smirk of someone who knew exactly what happened, yet happily drank anyway.

She tapped her foot beneath the table like music was playing somewhere only she could hear. 

He didn’t say much for a while. He just watched. And felt. And tried not to let the warmth of the moment scare him the way good things sometimes do.

She had never felt fragile to him—never delicate or breakable. But she did feel real now in a way he hadn’t been ready for before. Real, and within reach. And that was what terrified him. Not the night, or the feeling. But how easy it was to want it again.

It was still only 10:30 when they left and the fancy drink place was long behind them. They ended up back in his car with popcorn in their laps, the kind sold in plastic tubs from a vendor outside a movie theatre. Something childish about it made her laugh. That had been his favorite part of the night so far.

They didn’t need a plan. The city hummed around them, but for once, he didn’t feel like they were in it. It felt like they were just… here. Two people sitting side by side, like they’d done it every Thursday for years.

The conversation drifted.

She asked how long he’d been in private equity now, if he still flew to Zurich every January, if his friend had finally retired like he’d once promised. He said over a decade, yes, and no. He said he focused on acquisitions mostly—real estate, hospitality, infrastructure—though he didn’t touch the spreadsheets anymore. Just the closings. Just the capital.

She asked if he liked it. Just that.

Not "how’s work." Not "how’s business." But do you like it?

He’d been asked that before, of course. At dinners, in passing. But it was always rhetorical. No one ever really wanted an answer. Catherine, though—she just waited. Like he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

So he told her. That he didn’t hate it. That he was good at it. That it paid well. That it was easier than what his brother did, and harder than what people thought. That he was good at it and that’s what matters. He also told her how it distracted him from his boring life. How he liked the stability, and somehow it made him feel in control. 

She nodded through all of it. Not like she understood, exactly. But like she thought it made sense that he felt that way. And for some reason, that was enough.

She had already given the driver an address—her friend’s place, he assumed. Some apartment where the music people gathered like moths to the last lamplight of the night. But the car didn’t move.

Somewhere along the way the conversation had started to quiet. A long pause here. A soft sigh there. And somewhere between the story about her audition in Berlin and the one about the pianist who once fainted on stage, she stopped responding.

He turned, and found her asleep. Just like that.

Head tipped against his shoulder, her face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all night. Hair slipping slightly from its clip. Her breathing even.

Harry didn’t move. Not right away. He just stared ahead, the lights of the city blinking through the glass like distant stars, and let the silence stretch.

It wasn’t that she’d fallen asleep—that part was almost funny. But that he’d talked her there. That she felt safe enough to let her guard down.

When they pulled up in front of her friend's building, just a minute or two before midnight, Harry didn’t have the heart to wake her.

He tried, halfheartedly. Nudged her shoulder, murmured her name. But she barely stirred—only shifted deeper into sleep, like her body had made the decision for her. She’d stayed up for everything else, carried the whole night on sheer momentum, and now it had run out.

So he let her rest. Gently slid his shoulder out from under her head, left her curled up in the corner of the backseat, jacket draped over her legs. For once, the city outside the car didn’t feel hostile. The streetlamp made everything look a little softer. Her building stood tall but not unkind.

He got out and looked around, unsure at first what to do. Then, like fate was a little too on-the-nose tonight, a man walked past with a guitar case strapped to his back. Early thirties maybe, thin, a little dazed-looking—like someone who’d just played a show or left one. Harry asked if he knew the musicians he’s looking for, the apartment number, said he was trying to find a friend’s place.

The guy didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, everyone’s upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Harry followed him in but stopped at the entrance to the stairwell. Another man, still in a suit, exactly like the concert outfit the orchestra wore a few hours ago, greeted him.

“She’s asleep in the car,” he said, quietly. “I don’t think I can wake her up. It looked like she needed rest.”

The guy nodded, unfazed. “Ah. No worries. She is safe, though, yeah?”

“Safe.” Harry handed over a card—his actual one, with his personal number. “Here. Just in case.”

The man squinted at the card, nodded again. “Cool. Mr… Castillo.”

“Oh, and uh—if you could not mention too much how fun it was tonight,” Harry added, hesitating. “She said she had a big, uh—”

“FOMO?” the guy offered.

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“Fear of missing out?”

“Yeah. That.”

The man chuckled. “All right. So you do know her.”

“I do.”

“Okay then. Take care, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry said goodbye, offered one last thank you, and stepped back out into the night.

The car was still idling quietly under the streetlight, warm and sealed away from the hum of the city. Catherine hadn’t moved. She was still curled up in the backseat, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and slow. 

He opened the door gently and slid inside beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet. He settled her head on his lap, trying his best to make her comfortable. The driver gave him a look in the rearview mirror—something between curiosity and amusement—but said nothing. Harry thanked him, and made a mental note to ask Emma to give him a raise.

There was something sacred about that moment. Maybe because no one else was watching. Maybe because it didn’t feel like something he’d earned. Her hair spilled across his legs like ink, and her breath was warm against his thigh. He kept a hand hovering near her face, just in case she stirred. She didn’t. Somewhere along the way, his hand patted her hair.

The last time he brought a woman back to his apartment, it was only for sex. And it had been… vastly different. Intentional, sexual, carefully orchestrated. He’d made sure the lights were dimmed just right, that there was a drink ready, that jazz was playing faintly in the background. There had been laughter and flirtation, the smooth exchange of practiced lines and mutual expectations. But this—this was not that. This was Catherine.

When the driver pulled into his building, Harry didn’t think too hard. He didn’t want to. He just slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

He carried her inside—not like a friend doing someone a favor, but more like a partner would. Not in the public way, the performance of it. But in a quiet way. Arms around her back and legs, careful not to jostle her. Not a single word said. He kicked the door closed behind him with his heel and moved straight to his bedroom. There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation.

She weighed less than he expected.

He laid her down, eased her onto the bed like she was something fragile. Removed her shoes, then tucked the blanket over her legs. She shifted again, brow twitching at the change in environment, but never opened her eyes. 

Harry stayed there for a long time after. Kneeling beside the bed, just watching her. As if she might disappear if he looked away. As if none of this was real, and she might flicker out like the ghost of some half-forgotten evening. He didn’t touch her. Just watched. Only for a moment.

He got up, pulled off his tie and jacket, and went to sleep on the couch. He didn’t bother with a blanket, but he slept better than he had in months.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Will be updated every week, but might upload twice a week if I feel like it/confident enough to do it.

[woso-story]

Meeting By Chance - Part One

Leah Williamson x Reader - Part Two Three

London’s familiar rain pelted down in a steady rhythm, the kind of drizzle that seemed to define the city’s atmosphere. Leah pulled her hood tighter around her face, her training bag slung over one shoulder. The day at Arsenal’s training grounds had been relentless. Every pass, every drill, every tactic had been scrutinized under the pressure of upcoming Champions League group-stage matches and critical league fixtures.

Her muscles ached, and her mind churned with strategy and self-critique. All she wanted now was the small comfort of her favorite coffee shop—a warm drink to cut through the cold and the ever-present stress.

Pushing open the door, she barely noticed the soft jingle of the bell or the inviting hum of conversation inside. Her thoughts were elsewhere, her gaze cast downward as she muttered, “Bloody rain, as if today couldn’t get any worse.”

She didn’t see you.

You were just stepping out, your coffee in hand and a desperate hope that the caffeine would salvage your miserable day. Between your boss’s unreasonable demands and the train delays that had made you late, you were already on edge. And now? Now, there was coffee splattered across your favorite sweater.

The collision felt almost cinematic in its chaos. Your gasp echoed as the hot liquid seeped into your clothes, spreading rapidly. You stared down, utterly frozen, as the reality sank in—your sweater, your jeans, even your shoes, all ruined.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The blonde woman in front of you was already babbling, her hands darting to grab napkins from the counter. Her hood had fallen back in the commotion, revealing striking blue eyes and flushed cheeks. “I wasn’t looking. I—this is completely my fault.”

You looked up, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You were about to let loose, to say something about how people needed to pay attention, when you stopped.

She was breathtaking.

Even as she clumsily offered you tissues, her features were a mix of elegance and sincerity. Her eyes held yours, wide with concern, and for a moment, you forgot about the coffee dripping from your clothes.

“Here,” she said, pressing the napkins into your hands. “I—I can’t believe I just did that. Let me help. Please.”

You took the tissues, though you knew they wouldn’t save your sweater. “It’s... fine,” you said, though your voice carried a hint of irritation.

“It’s not fine,” she insisted, her gaze darting from the stains to your face. “Your sweater’s ruined. I’ll pay for the cleaning. And for your coffee. Please, let me.”

You sighed, exasperated but strangely disarmed by her earnestness. “It's okay. Really.”

But she was already at the counter, ordering your replacement drink. You watched as she handed over her card, her lips pursed with determination. When she turned back to you, the remorse in her eyes was palpable.

As the two of you waited for your drinks, she extended her hand. “I’m Leah, by the way. Leah Williamson.”

The name sounded familiar, but you were too distracted to place it. You shook her hand, introducing yourself. Her grip was firm but gentle, and the warmth lingered even after she let go.

When your drinks were ready, she handed you yours with a sheepish smile. “I still feel terrible. Are you sure I can’t do anything else to make it up to you?”

You hesitated, not wanting to prolong the interaction but also unable to ignore the pull you felt toward her. “It’s really okay,” you said, but she cut you off.

“At least let me take you out to dinner,” she said quickly. “As an apology. Please.”

Dinner? The idea felt strange, but there was something in her voice, a vulnerability that made it hard to say no. You thought about your day—how terrible it had been—and realized that maybe this odd encounter was the highlight you hadn’t expected.

“All right,” you said finally. “Dinner sounds nice.”

Leah’s face brightened instantly, and she pulled out her phone. “Can I get your number? I’ll text you the details. How about Friday?”

“Friday works,” you said, exchanging numbers with her.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back over your shoulder. She was still standing there, her phone in hand, a small smile playing on her lips as she stared at the new contact she’d just saved.

You stepped back out into the rain, but this time, it didn’t feel so dreary. Despite your ruined outfit, you felt lighter, almost giddy. A laugh bubbled up, and you couldn’t help but shake your head at the absurdity of it all.

Meanwhile, Leah lingered in the coffee shop, her drink untouched. She couldn’t believe what had just happened—or how relieved she felt that you’d said yes. Friday couldn’t come soon enough, and for the first time all day, the stress of football seemed like a distant memory.

As she stepped back out into the rain, her thoughts weren’t on the Champions League or league standings anymore. They were on you, the stranger she’d run into—literally—and the chance she’d been given to make it up to you.

Perhaps it wasn’t just an apology dinner. Perhaps it was the start of something neither of you had expected.

[gublersquill]

Your shinin' autumn ocean crashin'

BAU Reader/ Spencer Reid

Fluff Fluff Flufff

A/N: This one’s a short one—uni is fully kicking my ass right now. I 100% want to write a part 2 for it though. Happy Easter to those who celebrate, and enjoy!

Word Count: 530

You were rushing—that’s how it all started. Your Mary Janes clicked against the floor, clutching the files tightly to your chest. You were supposed to be in Aaron Hotchner’s office five minutes ago, but the winding halls of Quantico had other plans, trapping you in a maze of printer paper and coffee stains.

As you round the corner, your eyes remain fixed on the map you received last week on your first day. So focused on it, you didn't even notice the lanky man barreling straight toward you Not then. Funny how that worked out.

The sharp slap of files hitting the ground jolts you from your stupor, followed by the unwelcome warmth of lukewarm coffee soaking into your chest.

“Oh my—I'm so sorry,” the man gasps, his warm brown eyes scrunching with concern.

You glance down at the scattered papers, already dreading the impossible task of salvaging them into something remotely presentable. Words of reassurance catch in your throat, tangled with the sting of frustration and the threat of tears.

He bends clumsily on his lanky limbs, hastily gathering the crumpled sheets.

“Oh,” you gasp, snapping out of your daze. “Oh, thank you.”

He fumbles with the papers, attempting to smooth them out but only succeeding in smudging the ink further across the page.

“Wait— is this the Johnson case?” he asks, squinting at the paper, trying to decipher the blotchy letters on the page.

You pause, watching him for a second. “Wait… how did you know that?”

He looks up at you, his eyes tracing the contours of your face almost methodically.

“I lead it,” he replies, attempting to flatten the paper again.

“Well, could you lead me to Aaron Hotchner’s office so I can explain why his files—and his assistant—are covered in coffee?”

He pulls his sweater off offering it out in a placating gesture, his gaze avoiding your now see through dress shirt. 

“I wouldn't want to ruin it” you gasp, then pause “sorry what was your name”

“Well actually wool can absorb up to 30% of its weight in water before it starts to feel wet” he pauses then almost gently he explains “honestly its the least i could do since you know” he gestures wildly at your sodden shirt.

He looks back at you only just realising he had repeated his habit of nervous rambling. 

“Im Dr Spencer Reid” he huffs defeated almost certain he had ruined another social interaction 

You let out a breath of laughter pulling the sweater over your head 

“Well Dr Reid you have to work on your timing” you smile looking down at the maroon knitted sweater now enveloping you in his warmth. 

Hours later, you were settled at your desk in the bullpen. You might have been Hotch’s assistant, but you were fully trained in profiling, more than capable of contributing to the team’s work.

“I can feel you staring,” you sigh, glancing back at Spencer a few desks down.

“Well—uh—I just wanted to… I don’t know,” he stumbles, taking a breath. “Can I get you a coffee to apologize for, you know, earlier?”

“Are you asking me on a date Dr Reid 

He steals himself.

“Maybe I am”

[greeniegirl23]

Isn't It Lovely..? (Chapter 1#)

(Trigger Warning ⚠️ : Parental Abuse/ Alcoholism/ Cursing/ Injuries/ Shitty Dad. Minors DNI, go mow the lawn! >:( )

The sky was dark and gloomy when you woke up this morning and even now as you lay down on your back in a muddy puddle with your work books strewn about in said puddle, you couldn't help but think that this dark and gloomy sky was beautiful.

You couldn't hear the voice of the bully that purposely tripped you so that you'd fall in the giant mess that you were in. A part of you was sure she was cursing at you, probably calling you ‘lazy’ and what not as the clouds above you began to cry and grace your skin with cool raindrops. The things you've already heard before, things you had grown the mental strength to overcome on the outside.

Her anger stemmed from the fact that she was an idiot at her own game, not that you had an issue with that. She paid you to do her homework. Five bucks a page. And with college classes sending you home with at least 4 pages of homework every other day, it was safe to say that you had struck a goldmine. The Professor on the other hand had quite the issue with that. Calling her out during class and pointing out how she clearly copied your work for an essay that was due. He mentioned that this was a perfect example of plagiarism and that unless anyone else wanted to be embarrassed or dropped from the class, they would not follow in her foolish footsteps.

Of course, her tiny brain blamed you. Resulting in thick mud caking your clothes destroying your school work.

The sound of her stomping off gave you the signal you could get up without fear of her pushing you back down again. You shook off as much mud as you could from your clothes and salvaged as much if you work as possible, when your eyes spotted something bright red in your perfierals.

Reaching for the object, you pulled it out of the puddle and concluded that whatever it was, it was squishy like a teddy bear.

Wiping some of the dirt away with your hand, you discovered a pair of familiar red eyes looking back at you. A spike of excitement grew in your chest and you began to furiously clean off the plushie like object to reveal more and more features of the character you loved the most.

You held the plushie out in front of you with a sigh of happiness, it was a Hazbin Hotel Alastor plush. Oh, you've been dying to have one ever since you found the series in middle school!

Quickly you realized how beat up the poor thing was. Not only was it dirty from being in the mucky mud puddle, but there were a few rips and tears in the stitching. Buttons were missing, paint was chipped on the little microphone, and the monocle was cracked. For a moment, your nostrils flared in anger. How could someone allow such a high grade plushie to end up in this state? Not to mention the waste of money! Last you checked Hazbin Hotel merch wasn't cheap..

“You poor thing..” You muttered under your breath as you wiped off some excess mud from the tail coat on the doll.

“Don't worry, I’ll fix you right up and you'll be good as new.”

Double checking to see if you possibly left anything behind in the dirty death trap, you held the plushie close as you began the walk back home. Ignoring some of the looks you got from passersby on the street who saw you covered in sludge. Checking the driveway of your house, you took note of the missing blue car that belonged to your Dad.

Good. It meant that you had about five hours left to yourself before he came stumbling into the house..

Getting inside your warm home as quickly as possible, you immediately changed your clothes and placed them in the washer. Replacing your muddy green hoodie and jeans with a red sweater and some black leggings. Placing the plushie on a chair, just for the time being while you changed clothes, you were stuck with the strong urge to turn it around while you undressed. Which was a bit odd, considering all the other stuffed animals that you had fixed up and kept in your room, you undressed in front of them all the time but, something about this Alastor plush made you want to turn it away from you. There was no particular reason that you could place your finger on, but you listened to the feeling anyway.

As you shuffled around the house to get your chores together, you ran a warm bath to place the plush in. It was due for a good soaking and a bit of elbow grease would be needed to restore it back to its glory. You placed about two cups of clothes detergent in the tub, with the plush following afterwards. You had removed the microphone and the monical for now, but you did placed a heavy bucket full on top of the toy, just to keep it submerged under water for a while.

As your new project was getting ready, you took the time to go around your house doing your chores. Packing your father's lunch for the next day, taking out his clothes for tomorrow, pressing them with the iron, and making sure they were free of any debris or stains. You also cooked some spaghetti dinner for him and yourself, placed your clothes in the dryer and folded them, ready to be put in their proper place when it was time.

As you worked, you thought to yourself about your next coming assignments and you hoped that your dad would just go to his room and sleep off the alcohol you knew he consumed before he came home. While you vacuumed the living room floor, you bumped the table and accidentally knocked over one of the few pictures you had of her.

You picked up the photograph, checking the frame for cracks, which you thanked God there were none. It was the one where she was holding you as a baby on her graduation day. She had just passed medical school and would go on to be Dr. (L/N) for the next thirteen years before she was taken victim by cancer. The day she passed was the day everything in your life changed, your Dad changed, you changed, and the world was never the same.

Yet you stayed optimistic and promised yourself that you would follow in her footsteps. A tear welled up in your eye

as you remembered the day she brought you your first teddy bear and how you began your restoration hobby of stuffed animals whenever you would actually damage it.

Placing the picture back down on the table the way you found it, your finished up vacuuming and ran back upstairs to check on your new project. Upon entering the bathroom, you could see the dark brown water just from the doorway. The additional weight from the bucket did its job and now it was time to scrub.

Clearing out the dirty water down the drain, you ran the tap again with warm water and another cup of detergent, followed by some baking soda. For extra cleaning power.

Grabbing a nearby brush you keep for things like this, you set to work on scrubbing the doll like you've never scrubbed before. Careful of the rips and tears that it already had, you effectively worked through all the mud and sludge that the thing had retained. By the time you were done, the water was a lighter shade of brown and the plush was looking quite spiffy.

You weren't quite sure if it was dryer safe or not, but you did want to have him finished before your Dad returned. Ultimately you decided to place him in the dryer for fifteen minutes on the lowest settings and if he was still damp, you'd finish up the process with your hairdryer.

While Alastor was in the dryer, you went into your room to gather your materials at your vanity. It had everything from buttons to threads to fabrics, a final gift from your deceased mother.

Shaking off the bittersweet thought, you began it pick out what you needed. Black and red thread for the rips in Alastor's stitching, two bright red buttons for his tail coat, a shiny blood red rhinestone for the center of his bow tie, red paint, a hairbrush for animal like fur, and even a piece of hard stained plastic for the little monical that cracked.

The beep from the dryer alerted you and you happily went to retrieve your new little friend. Giving him a speedy squeeze test, you came to find that he had dried fairly well, but was still a little damp in some areas. Returning to your room, you turned on a nearby radio. It looked like it was from the 20’s but it still played modern day music. You changed to the station that played old songs from Alastor's time and before. Placing the happy looking doll neatly on your vanity you began to work.

‘Dooon’t save your kisses, just pass ‘em around.

You'll find my reason, is logically sound

Who's gonna knooow, you passed ‘em around

A hundred years from today’

Humming along to one of your favorite songs as you worked, you couldn't help but take the time to meditate. Some people think that it's impossible to meditate and do something else at the same time, but you seem to have mastered it with no issues thus far.

It helped you to relax and deal with all the conflicting emotions in your life. Your mothers death, your Dad’s addiction and occasional abuse, the fact that you were twenty-one and still living with your father, so so many upsetting things about your father…

For every stitch you made, there was a thought. Feelings that you acknowledged, accepted, and then dismissed into the void. Despite your Dad's abuse and the only reason for sending you to college was for your stipend money, you would take a fair chunk out of it before you would give him the rest. So far, you had almost enough to successfully purchase an apartment stashed away. You had done your research thoroughly and found a decent place about two hours away from where you lived now. It had a community college there too, one where you could transfer your credits and even get an internship for your career.

Hours passed by peacefully as you stitched. Tearing off when needed, doing your best to be careful. Unfortunately you were still in a crunch for time and you were almost finished. The tailcoat, buttons, and bow tie had been completed. You even took the liberty of brushing and adjusting his hair, all that was left was the monocle and his microphone.

Quickly you painted the tiny microphone, which you thought was absolutely adorable. As you worked, you realized that you had never seen this version of a Hazbin plush before, this added to your confusion on why someone would throw something like this away. You decided to do a quick Google research as you fixed up the monocle and placed it right on his face where it belonged. The microphone would have to wait to be added. The paint was still wet and would take at least another thirty minutes.

Checking your watch, you realized that it was way later than you thought and that your father's drunkard of a father would come in any minute!

Placing the doll next to your prized radio, you ran downstairs to grab some food and water. Retreating to your room at top speed as you saw the headlights from his car through the kitchen window. You pulled out your homework and laid it out on your desk to give the illusion that you had been studying since you got home.

As much as you loved repairing stuffed toys, your father hated your hobby and forbade you from doing such a thing while you were in college and still under his roof. This rule brought you sorrow, but you were at least happy that he let you keep the old ones you had as a child.

Sound of the door opening and closing made you jump slightly, turning to your page chapter for school, you took deep breaths to calm down as heavy footsteps made it to your room.

The door swung open as your Dad stumbled in, drunk off of God knows what. “You couldn't even be bothered to say Hi to your Pop's after a long day of work?” He slurred.

You sighed and feigned an apologetic nature. “I'm sorry Dad, I got caught up in my work.”

“Whatever..” He hiccuped. “You better keep those grades good. That check you get from that stupid place helps out a lot..N’ you better not think about droppin out.”

“Yes sir.”

He looked at you hard, before snorting and making his way back downstairs. Probably for more booze. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Once again you survived, and decided to actually spend some time studying until you heard the angry slamming of a pot in the kitchen.

Fear licked at your heart as your Dad came thundering back up the stairs. You barely had time to scream as he yanked you up by your hair, dragging you back into the kitchen as he lifted the lid of the pot and shoved your face very close to the food you made earlier. You were terrified and confused. What had you done wrong this time?!

“How many times have I told you..?” He yelled. “Don't put onions in my fucking food!!”

Tears weld in your eyes as you struggled in his grip. “I'm sorry! I forgot!”

He snorted. “Then maybe we should do something to jog that memory of yours next time..” You heard the sound of the stove top being turned on and you began to trash in fear. He grabbed your arm harshly, rolling up your sleeve to hold it over the gas flame.

“No! No! Stop it! Daddy please, you're drunk!!” You begged, feebly trying to yank your arm away as the fire began to burn your skin.

---------------------------------

Quiet sobs filled your bedroom as you slowly patched up your wound. A second-degree burn sat fresh on the forearm of your skin, already blistered and still stinging even after you applied the proper ointment on it.

You made sure to keep your sobs as silent as possible. Waking him up from his sleep would only turn into something much worse..

Hate wasn't even a strong enough word to encapsulate how you felt about this man. You lothed him. Despised him. But no matter how much you couldn't stand him you couldn't bring yourself to kill him. Thoughts about it had popped up in your head before, but you never fully acted on these thoughts. Except for maybe putting eye drops on his coffee that made him sick for a month.

Wiping your tears, you tried not to focus on the dark thoughts that graced your mind. The things you could do if only you were strong enough. Picking up your strewn about material, you noticed that the microphone for your Alastor plushie had dried. A small smile graced your face, at least you had that to be happy about.

Grabbing it off the area where you let it dry, you sat down at your desk. Careful with your forearm as you placed the microphone back in Tiny Alastor's little hand.

Your project was complete. A sense of happiness and pride overcame your features as you could see the object at its prime. It was adorable, definitely your new favorite among all your other stuffed projects.

Move over Mr.Buttercup, there's a new bed frame plushie to take your place and his name is Alastor!

Ultimately, you decided to climb into bed. There was no way you could study now, not in such a sad mood. Grabbing your new toy, you gave it a good squeeze and started to cry once again.

“Sometimes..” You whispered. “I wish you were real.. So that I wouldn't be alone. So that I could smile for real and live everyday without worrying about when that man might kill me before I can get away..”

A hiccup left your throat. Pulling the soft plush closer to your chest, you hugged it so tight that if it had bones they'd probably be broken by now.

“You're my only friend Alastor..” You sniffled, finally falling asleep to dream a better dream. But before you fell unconscious, you swore you felt something cradling your face. It was cold, yet comforting and along with it was the sweet sound of a song you couldn't say you've ever heard before.

‘When you see clouds upon the hills

You soon will see crowds of daffodils

So keep on looking for a bluebird, and listening for his song

Whenever April showers come along..’

-------------------------------------------------------------

(The art belongs to @makirollart. I'm not sure what platform they are on but I did want to still give credit.

This story will be short and is based heavily on this picture and 'Lovely' by Billie Eilish. Stay Turned for the next chapter and don't be afraid to comment your opinions :D)

[polkadotpenguin16]

Twisted Stitches

Fills the Ugly sweaters square for @storiesofsvu's Holiday Bingo 2024

Pairing: Sonny Carisi x reader

Tags: just fluff, and the heartbreak associated with having a fiber arts hobby

Word count: 2K

Beta'd by: @misscharlielulu + @escapingrealtiylovinginsanity

A/N: this is dedicated to anyone who put their heart and soul into a project only for it to not work out, I see you <3

Also posted on AO3

Your absolute favorite way to pass the time was knitting. People sometimes made fun of your “granny” hobby, but you didn’t care. You loved the softness of the yarn as it glided through your fingers. The soothing, repetitive nature of passing stitches from one needle to the other. It calmed your mind and comforted your soul. People were always impressed by your knits, but none more than Sonny. He’d be mesmerized watching your hands work your needles, trying to figure out how your yarn didn’t wind up in a tangled mess. You were modest about the things you made, but Sonny thought you were the most talented person in the world.

You’d knitted some small things for him in the past. A hat and scarf which he wore until the yarn disintegrated. But you wanted to make him something special for the holidays this year. Inspiration struck as you sat in bed, watching Bridget Jones’s Diary. It was the Christmas party scene, and when you saw Mark’s ugly reindeer jumper, you knew you had to knit Sonny a sweater.

Have you ever knitted a sweater before? No…but you hoped your skills and determination were enough to make it happen.

You scoured the internet for the perfect pattern before settling on a simple pullover—no crazy cables, no complicated stitch patterns. You wanted to give yourself the best chance of success. You wanted this to be extra special, so you ordered some beautiful hand-dyed yarn from an indie shop. It was pricey, but for Sonny, it was worth it. You pictured how proud you’d feel seeing him in a sweater you’d created. That made you even more eager to get started. You loved the thrill of a new project. The electric burst of creativity and dopamine it gave you.

When your yarn finally arrived in the mail, you could hardly contain your excitement. You delicately opened the package, expecting to be wowed by its contents. But you were met with deep disappointment. This was NOT the yarn you’d ordered.  You’d chosen a deep, rich navy blue—your favorite color on Sonny because it made his blue eyes pop. This was more of a pale baby blue. How was it so off from the pictures? Worse still, each ball you ordered was a slightly different shade.

Panic set in as you scrambled to find a way to salvage this situation. You invested too much money in this yarn, you couldn’t buy more. Exchanging it wasn’t an option because the holidays were too close, and you wouldn’t have time to finish it. Your heart raced as you thought through your options, your fingers excessively tapping in concentration. Then it hit you—you could dye it!

Have you ever dyed anything before? No…but how hard could it be?

Feeling rejuvenated by your clever solution, you decided it was time to start knitting. To get in the zone, you gathered all the necessities for a productive knitting session: a fuzzy blanket, a mug of mint tea, and a Netflix crime documentary. With your space suitably cozy, you excitedly casted on your first stitches. You were impressed by the quality of the yarn. The wool was surprisingly soft and effortlessly glided across your needles. It was a welcome treat for your fingers. It may have been the wrong color, but at least you’d gotten your money’s worth.

It took a few hours to knit the collar. You tried it on yourself only to find it was much too tight. No worries—you switched up your needles and started again. By the end of the night, you had the second collar finished. 

A couple of days later, you’d knitted to the shoulders. Your enthusiasm soured when you realized you were missing more than a few stitches. You gritted your teeth as you frantically counted and recounted, trying to somehow manifest the missing stitches onto your needles. Your eyes darted between your pattern and your project, trying to figure out where you went wrong. Doubt started to creep in as you wondered if you were capable of making a sweater. But you were determined to make this work. You held your breath as you oh, so carefully unraveled your work to see where you went off track. Your eyes scrunched up as you meticulously pulled back each stitch. Finding your mistake, you let out a relieved sigh. Maybe you could do this. You returned the stitches to your needles and confidently continued.

After 3 long weeks, you finally made it to the hem. You laid the sweater out to admire your work when you noticed it looked bigger than expected. Sweat beaded up on your temples. You reluctantly considered starting over. But you wanted to trust your gut. You were sure you’d followed the pattern correctly, so you casually ignored the issue and moved on.

Your combination of perseverance and denial gave you the willpower to finish the sleeves. Were they both the same length? No…but you needed this done, so they were close enough. They’d probably even out in the wash anyway. 

Right?

It was time to dye! You were sure this was the thing that would save your sweater. You briefly read the instructions before fearlessly tossing it into the boiling blue liquid. The steam billowing off the pot made you feel like a witch conjuring some magical brew. Hopefully it conjured up a beautiful sweater.

You let it simmer for an hour before pulling it out. Your fingers practically buzzed with excitement as you rinsed your creation, or maybe it was just the water boiling your skin. You were absolutely positive that you’d have the most amazing sweater once the color set. You laid it out to dry before going to bed. You found it hard to sleep because you were so excited to see the final product, trusting that the dye worked its magic.

The next morning, you held your breath and crossed your fingers as you went to your living room. You hoped you’d see the magnificent sweater you’d been picturing in your head. But your heart sank when you saw the final result. It was not at all what you’d imagined.

In fact, it was a nightmare.

It was not the velvety navy the packaging promised. It was a loud, gaudy blue raspberry shade. The brightness accentuated all the mistakes you’d made along the way. The collar that was originally too tight was now way too loose. There were tiny holes in the places you tried to add back those missing stitches. And the sleeves did not even out like you ignorantly believed.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. Your whole body painfully stiffened in frustration. You were so angry with yourself. How did you mess this up so horrendously? You clearly failed every step of the way. You blindly tossed the ugly thing across the room, not caring where it landed. You just needed it out of your sight. You ran to your bedroom to have a good cry. You hugged your knees and let all your anger out. Your anger faded into disappointment as you slumped into your pillows. How could you think you were good enough to make a sweater? It probably would’ve been best to go to sleep, but your mind raced, stressing over what you could possibly get Sonny for Christmas now.

A few days later, you were sitting on the couch with Sonny watching TV, unwinding from a long day. He had one arm draped around your shoulders and the other dangling over the side of the couch. He made a face when his hand brushed something soft on the floor.

“You missing some laundry, doll?” He pulled up the mystery item from beside the couch.

Something blue caught your eye, and your jaw dropped as the awful memories suddenly flooded back. Your chest tightened and your cheeks reddened in embarrassment. “That’s nothing! Give it to me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” You tried desperately to reach for the monstrosity before Sonny could get a good look at it, but he used his height against you and held it out of your reach. “Cool your jets, what’ve we got here?” Now way too intrigued by your over-the-top reaction, he inspected the garment closer.

“I…” You wracked your brain on what to tell him. You could lie, say it was a friend’s. You probably could’ve convinced him had you not just spazzed out. You sighed and hung your head low in defeat. It was time to come clean. “I was trying to knit you a sweater as a Christmas present. But then I knitted it wrong. It wasn’t the right color, so I dyed it and made it worse. It’s just…I’m sorry, Sonny.” You teared up as your emotions were still raw from the experience. Weeks of work, all a waste. Nothing to show for it but a neon blue eyesore.

“You made me a sweater?” Sonny's eyes softened, and the sweetest smile grew on his face. He’d watched you knit projects before and knew how much effort you put into them. He couldn’t believe you thought he was worthy of being knitted a sweater. His heart swelled with gratitude. He lovingly looked it over, appreciating every single stitch.

The grateful look in his eyes only made you feel worse. He probably did appreciate the mess you created, but you knew he deserved so much better than that. “You don’t have to keep it, Sonny��”

“Oh, I’m gonna try it on right now.” He leaped off the couch, took off his hoodie, and pulled the sweater on.

It was glaringly obvious now that the sleeves were significantly different lengths as he rolled one of them up. Not to mention it was two sizes too big. Yet still, with a giddy grin, he gently ran his fingers across the sweater. He noticed it was a lot softer than other things you’d made. He wondered if you’d used some kind of fancy yarn, making him feel even more special. “This is amazing, doll. You did a great job.”

You dropped your head in your hands and groaned. Of course, he’d love it. “Babe, it’s the wrong size!”

“What do you mean? It’s perfect! Plenty of room to eat ma’s Christmas dinner.” He rubbed his belly for emphasis.

Your stomach dropped in horror at the thought of him wearing it in public. “Nooo! You can’t wear that to your parents’ house!” you begged. He’d obviously tell everyone that you made it for him. What would his family think? You couldn’t show your face there again.

“What? Why not?” His reaction was so genuine. Were you even looking at the same sweater?

“You look like the Cookie Monster!” you exclaimed in frustration.

Sonny chuckled as he walked back over to sit next to you. “Sweetheart, you’re way too hard on yourself. I know you worked hard on this. I love this sweater, and I’ll cherish it forever.” He pressed a warm kiss to your pouting lower lip, then your forehead. “And by the way, I think Cookie Monster is a pretty cool guy.”

The tiniest hint of a smile escaped your lips. “Well, I’m glad you like it.” You were still disappointed in yourself, but at least you knew you were always appreciated. It really was the thought that counts. “But you know this means I can never trust your judgment on the things I make ever again?”

“What do you mean? I have exceptional taste.” He stood back up and struck a pose for you. “Practically a fashion icon, really.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they might’ve actually bounced off the back of your skull. A fashion icon, indeed. He did a little twirl, and you couldn’t help but laugh. At yourself or him, you couldn’t tell. He was definitely a dork, but he was your dork, and he loved you, and that made it all worth it.

[carmensbrain]

Hi um I saw you write for reaper.. do u have any headcanons on how he shows affection (with a partner)? 🫶

Ofc I can!! This is actually something I like thinking about so it’s gonna be a wombo combo! (≧ᗜ≦)🎀

Contains- Reaper AND Gabriel brain dump.

Rating- E for all of the brains!

Warnings- none

Authors note- so my phone got run over by fire truck and grammarly sucks on this laptop, sincerest apologies for any spelling errors!

Fic starts below the cut!

Gabriel Reyes

♱ Gabriel is an intimedating man to say the least, striking fear into the faces of new recruits, but not with you.

♱Though Gabriel hides his marrital status from the general public and the majority of overwatch, trust he mentions you every time he talks with Jack, Cole, Genji, or even Angela without fail.

♱ He tries his best to stay in the loop with your social life, often getting a little too invested in some petty drama between girls at your workplace.

♱Even when he can't make it, Gabe makes sure you know how much he loves you and not in a boring way, not through a call and most definately not through texts. He sends flowers to your shared home, specially picked out arrangements of your favorite flowers that you mentioned on your first date years ago, hand written letters the size of a light book packed neatly with your name printed beautifully on the front.

♱ He purpously leaves a few sweaters hes worn alot behind while hes away to make sure youll always have something of his even when hes out risking his life.

♱ The second that he enters the door of your shared home hes stuck to you like glue, arms wrapped around your waist as you do dishes and fill him in on whats gone on while hes away, limbs tangled with yours while he falls asleep for the first time in weeks.

♱ He makes sure to find the most beutiful dresses for you so you can attend Overwatch galas alongside him, he knows every curve and dip of your body and soul anyway so what he brings home is perfect always both for you and the occasion.

♱ Among the rubble of the swiss base they recovered tens of letters addressed to you that he never got to send, pages upon pages detailing just how much he missed you and how relived he was to have some vacation days coming up. The pages are fragile and covered in ashes but you kept every last salvageable sheet to reread on those late nights.

Reaper

𓆩𓆪 After joining talon he spent the majority of his time working, taking lives in order to try and forget his last one.

𓆩𓆪 It's not like he didnt want to have you back in his arms but he knew there were far too many concequences, but most of all he didnt want Talon to find you.

𓆩𓆪 Every once and a while you do recive letters, short yet so genuine, you thought they were backlogged letters the search team had forgotten to send but one night you caught him.

𓆩𓆪 Reaper had been standing outide of your home for just a little longer than he usually did, heart aching as he sees all of the changes that happened while he was hiding and you cracked open the door just in time.

𓆩𓆪 After a lot of convincing he stays the night, hesitent to be too close as you heat up some dinner for him.

𓆩𓆪 While he eats his first home cooked meal in what was probably a decade he reaches his scared hand out for yours, touch just barely ghosting on your skin.

𓆩𓆪 He treats you like youre a porcilain doll, his hands cold against your warm skin as he admires you for the ninth time that hour. hes truly afraid to hurt you, he knows how his strength can easily drain the life from a person and hes terrified to lose you again, he wont admit that though.

𓆩𓆪 He comes to visit in the late hours of the night, sneaking into your home to tuck you into the plush sheets of your bed, often times he'll rouse you awake for some much needed affection.

𓆩𓆪 Sombra is quick to pick up on these late night journeys and has gotten quite a few favors from him to keep his secret.

[wordsnstuff]

Hello! I just had the realization my original plot just isn't going to work but I'm almost done with my first draft and I'm too married to a lot of my scenes I've already written to feel like i can fully start over. Do you have any advice? Just thinking about starting over is making me want to put the pen down for a while...

Starting over near the finish line

By first draft, I'm assuming you mean that this is the first attempt at putting the your story to paper. What I'm about to say is not to devalue the incredible amount of work that you must have invested up to this point. It is an accomplishment on its own to sit down and put words on that page, let alone reach a point anywhere near a finish line.

The first time you do something (anything) is rarely the time you do it well, let alone perfectly.

If I sat a beginner down with some printouts of blogposts about knitting and a spool of yarn, I doubt they'd make me a sweater without having to undo at least 50% of the moves they make. That wouldn't be because they're stupid or genetically predisposed to suck at knitting. Regardless of how seasoned you are as a writer, each work you approach is like starting a brand new hobby from scratch. You have to mentally allow for space to make errors and to let go of good ideas. This doesn't mean you throw the good and essential core of your story out.

Take significant time to review what you have, identify the bits and characteristics that you find most emotionally and mentally compelling. Write them down, examine the commonalities and congruencies between them, and work out exactly you like about your story as it stands. There is always good amongst the bad. You seem to already have identified certain parts that you cannot bring yourself to let go, so once you figure why that is, you'll be able to trim away what doesn't serve you and move forward.

You aren't starting over. This is not the beginning, and you will never be back at the beginning again. This is process, and process is imperative to making anything. If you continue to visualize writing as an act that starts at point A and ends at point B you will never be done. Nor will you do justice to your ideas. If you don't allow them to waddle around and fall on their face like the newborn babies that they are, they won't develop as they're meant to.

This is not failure. This is writing. It's a necessary part of what you're doing. It's normal. It's good for you. It's good for your story. In fact, it speaks well to your character development and world building and even your plot development that you can recognize there is so much worth salvaging in this first attempt to bring to the next. You're already emotionally connected to so much of what you've made, and plot is only part of that. If you're able and willing to acknowledge what doesn't work, you will be able to trust yourself when you determine what does. A story is a sum of its parts, and this is just one part that you're going to put down, regroup, and reconfigure.

There are several resources that I've created over the many years to assist in plot development and all the problems encountered within, and those are available on my masterlist for your perusal.

I wish you the best of luck and look forward to your triumphant follow up once you finish that second draft.

x Kate

[katyawriteswhump]

Pidge-nado! (steddiemas, steddie holiday drabble, whumpcember)

For @steddiemas ‘cosy days’ prompts, eggnog, baking, sweater, pine, @steddieholidaydrabbles day 19 prompt, “dessert” and, @whumpcember day 19 prompt, panic attack.

WC: 965. Rating: T CW: none.  Tags: fluff, established steddie, angst and hurt/comfort, panic attacks. Summary: Steve would do anything for Eddie, face down any danger. But even he has his limits…

🐦🐦🐦🐦

Spring Break, 1986

Steve had just been dragged into the Upside Down through the water-gate and had barely gotten free from Vecna’s ghoulish horror-flick vines.

When the demo-bats came flapping out of that blood-red sky, he panicked slightly, who wouldn’t? He still grabbed that goddamn oar, chose fight not flight. While batting the shrieking beasties away—and before they started stabbing and throttling him to near-death—a crazy whisper in his head actually grounded him:

At least they’re not fucking pigeons.

…

December, 1987

“Look on the…” cough. “...sunny side.” Eddie paused, in order to finish choking on the smoke and stench of burning cookies and wrap his arms around Steve. He plonked his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “They’re so rock-hard, I reckon you’ve invented a whole new substance. Call Henderson—he’ll wanna name it.”

“Haha.”

Steve was pissed. He loved this trailer to death because he shared it with Eddie. But everything was salvaged, broken or breaking—like most of post-Vecna-earthquake Hawkins—and the oven thermostat was royally screwed.

He scowled, turning in the circle of Eddie’s arms. “I promised the kids cookies! I’m so mad with myself. I should’ve kept a better…” cough… “watch”... cough, cough.

The cookie-fumes having reached crisis point, Eddie opened a window, letting in a blast of icy air.

“Chill, honey,” said Eddie, once they’d finished coughing. “Y’know who’s gonna dig your culinary efforts?”

Eddie trudged outside and ground a cookie into the snow beneath his boot-heel. A pigeon flapped down from the pine-tree overshadowing the trailer.

“Hey, Slash,” said Eddie.

Steve’s nerves went apeshit, which was completely dumb.

He’d faced down Vecna.

This was a fucking pigeon.

Eddie knew Steve ‘wasn’t a fan.’ He’d never admit more. Especially given the adoring grin Eddie gave Slash.

Deal with it, Harrington.

Soon, Slash’s entire mob of pigeon gangsters pecked at Eddie’s feet. Steve retreated into the trailer, which was now freezing and stinky. When Eddie returned, they located the thickest sweaters that Claudia Henderson’s knitting needles had conjured for them and climbed into bed.

This was cosy heaven. Usually. Steve’s skin crawled.

“Hope you’ve washed those hands,” he mumbled. He pictured Slash pecking from the palms that Eddie shoved up Steve’s sweater to rub would-be-sensual circles on his chest.

“’Course, Babe.”

Steve tried to relax, knowing where Eddie would descend to next with those ice-queen hands. They’d feel waaay better than they’d any right to when they got there.

Still no good. Steve broke their smoochy kiss.

“You okay?” asked Eddie.

“Yes… no… sort of?”

The patter of scratchy claws on the trailer roof. The creepy coo-cooooo… The fucking pigeons were waaaay louder than usual. Or maybe Steve was edgier than usual, after his baking fail. It seemed mean to ask Eddie to scare off his ‘friends,’ so…

“Gimme a mo.’” He wriggled out of bed and marched from the bedroom toward the door.

You can do this, Harrington. Just… clap your hands or something.

He threw open the trailer door. Then threw up his arms as a dozen sky-rats swarmed in his face. Their brushing wings might as well have been slashing razors, because he was back where this all began, hunkered in a frozen ball, unable to drag the ice-air into his lungs.

Shiiiit! You’re not gonna die, Harrington, you’re gonna be fine!

Nope. His body wasn’t listening to his rational mind. All it knew was… IT’S FUCKING PIGEONS! YOU’RE GONNA BE TOAST!!

Later, after Eddie shooed the last of the winged-beasts from the trailer, he sat beside Steve on the bed, curling an arm around him. He shoved a mug of his legendary eggnog-vodka into Steve’s trembling hands.

“Bat flashbacks?” asked Eddie, rubbing Steve’s back.

Steve groaned; he was cold, shivering and horribly sticky and sweaty now. “Not really. I mean, you totally dealt just now, and the demo-bats practically killed you!” He smothered his face in Eddie’s hair, breathing deep, then, “I was at summer camp. We were feeding the stupid birds, then they all came at me. Like, totally picking on me, in a pigeon-tornado... pidge-nado? Whatever. I freaked out. Worse, I cried. Became the biggest joke in camp, then one of the councillors told my dad, and he never let it go. Like, it made me less of a man already. At eleven-years-old.”

“Um, Steve—firstly, it’s a natural reaction to being unexpectedly attacked, kid or otherwise. Secondly, recent track record suggests that you’re not topping anybody’s list of ‘cowardly custards.’ Thirdly… I’m sorry. I will henceforth discourage Slash and his band of unruly sky-demons.”

“Thanks. Feel bad, tho’.” Steve downed his eggnog, which burned his throat like faintly milky paint-stripper. “Slash makes you happy, and…” I’d put up with anything for you, Eddie Munson, and I know you’d do anything for me. True, but too sappy to say. Instead, he snickered. “I want to try and get used to them. Hey, and at least somebody likes my baking.”

A few days later, Steve had totally nailed the pastry on a key-lime pie. Dessert for dinner with Wayne tonight was halfway to perfect. He was whisking away at the cream filler, when a beak tapped on the window.

He rolled his shoulders back, stared down Slash’s devil-red eyes. Face your fears, Harrington. Face them for Eddie.

He opened the window a crack, cringing as Slash pecked the pastry-crumb from his finger. “You’re okay, I guess,” he mumbled.

The gray cloud swept from the pine, in a hurricane of beating wings.

He slammed the window, sending pigeons scattering to the four winds, and flipped the bird. Baby-steps, Harrington. He was only shaking a bit.

He returned to cosy dreams about exactly what parts of Eddie he was gonna lick spare key-lime topping off later. And whether—if he picked up extra shifts at Family Video—they might be able to afford a cat.

🐦🐦🐦🐦

zero pressure tag: @wheneverfeasible 💚 My stranger things fic on AO3

For the record, I am def. more of a bird-lover than a hater, including pigeons, despite a spotty record and a childhood experience possibly drawn on here… ahem. And I know now it is considered definitely not healthy for birdies to feed them burnt cookies or any bready stuff, though I guess a lot of us did it in the past 😱

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Daryl was out on a hunt,

He had been tracking a deer for most of the day as a trail of large canine prints caught his attention. They seemed to also follow the deer's tracks so he begged the animal hadn't gotten to his prey yet.

Following the sets of tracks he eventually finds the source chowing down on his deer.

'Fuck' he thought as he lined up his crossbow and held the animal inhis sight, shooting and hitting it in the leg.

It let out a howl as it looked around in panic, fear clear it its eyes as Daryl stalked closer.

Upon closer inspection this animal wasn't something he had seen before. Certainly canine, but in no way or shape a feral wolf. Its fur resembled that of a golden retriever and german shepard mix but the way its body was shaped was just off. As well as the cloth around its leg. It looked like one of those retro puffy hair ties.

He raised his crossbow again and the animal ducked away but never tried to run. As he didn't shoot its arm lowered away from its head to look at the attacker.

Why did this thing's reactions feel so ..human? And why was he being stupid and letting go of his crossbow?

He kneeled at its legs and reached for the arrow, making the animal pull back and whine out in pain.

"Lemme get tha' out, yeah? Imma let ya go." He tried again, with more success this time as he grabbed the arrow with one hand and held the flesh around the wound with the other and yanked it out, muttering sorries the whole time.

The wound seemed to disappear beneath his fingers before the animal moved its leg and hopping up and running off into the overgrown woods.

Daryl took another look at the deer, took his knife and salvaged whatever he could to take back home.

On his next run he managed to track a family of boars that, albeit a bit bloody, ended up dead right after their tracks turned around a group of large rocks. He scanned the area bit found nothing but the freshly killed animals for him to take home.

Yet another run after that one was cut short when a deer with its neck snapped was sssmingly left for him near his home.

This time he decided against his sceduled run and would sit it out at the edge of the woods, wondering if the one leaving the food for him would make an appearance. And yes it did, but as soon as it spotted him it dropped the smaller game from its mouth and ran off too fast to catch. But at least he had some meat again.

So one day before his next run was supposed to be he headed into the woods again. Straying far off the path and almost getting attacked by the animal he saved. It caught him off guard and managed to knock him on his ass before hiding away again. But he wasn't gonna give up and went on, camping out during the night and continuing the next day only to stumble on a hollowed out part in a large rock wall.

There were remnants of mostly eaten wildlife and fish too, but also what looked like ashes from a campfire at the edge of the hollow.

Taking his two knives in hand he slowly moved forward to take a look, only to be grabbed by something and shoved forward to stumble over his own feet. He turned to see what shoved him and found a woman standing over him. Dressed in a wrapped skirt, torn old sweater and a deer pelt draped over her shoulders.

The woman growled at him as he held up his a knife. A huff left her lips as she turned around and walked off to grab a fish off the fire and toss it at him. He managed to catch it only to let go not a second later. "Ah, hot. Damn." He shook his hand and licked at his scorched fingers which had the woman let out a laugh that barely sounded human.

"Yer the one tha's been huntin' mah food." It wasn't even a question as her eyes were the same ones he had looked into when he helped the wounded animal that first day.

"Ya talk?" He watched as she opened her mouth but only produce a garbled noise, not being able to find her voice.

"So ya live here." A nod confirmed his question. "And yer a ..skinwalker?" He had no idea what he was asking but he had heard that word somewhere one day. But he was wrong as she shook her head.

She crouched down and swiped at the floor to make a patch of clear sand, putting her finger out and writing. 'Wolf'

"Yer a shapeshifter?" A thinking expression with a sideways nod, giving him an okay for that guess as she doodled what looked like a cresent moon next to the word.

"Werewolf?" Another nod, but this one was more excited which made him chuckle.

"Ya haven't been human in a while, huh? Or a'least talked." Fhe conversation stayed very one-sided as Daryl asked simple yes or no questions and they shared some fishes for lunch.

It didn't matter to him that she didn't speak. He enjoyed her company in this strange forest cave.

~~☆☆☆~~

A/N: Plot twist! It's a she-wolf this time!! Sometimes drabble idea hit you in the middle of writing another fic, so you're all getting something extra!

Part two HERE

[beck-a-leck]

Yarn benders and wool workers I need your help.

In a moment of complete thoughtlessness I forgot I had a sweater tucked in with my laundry and sent it through a wash (cold water thank god) and dry cycle (not cold in the least) and it shrunk 😑

It should be salvagable, it didn't go from adult size to child size and there's still some stretch in the fibers.

I'm gonna try the soak and gentle stretching/resizing method but I wanna know what your recommendations would be to get the best result. Cursory googling suggests hair conditioner or fabric softener to relax the fibers. There also seems to be a couple specific products for wool only, but also seem like a price mark up where other cheaper methods are as effective.

Any personal experience or tried and true methods you've used in the past?

I worked so hard on this sweater and love it and I don't want it to be completely unwearable 😭

[nonoonnononothtisoneis]

Have random snippet of a roleplay I did with another with no context at all because I find it funny

"Oh, Wallace must be here with Blue." Steven tells to Lance before the two look at the sudden quiet scene.

Silver who is very wet on the chair hugging his knees. Full clothes.

Red full clothes on the pool with his cap on, looking blankly at the them.

Ethan, ALSO FULL CLOTHES, on the pool floating.

And to the 2nd pool, Wallace who looked like a deer in headlights and Blue who was in his shirt and cargo pants (at least no jacket) in the pool as Wallace's Milotic nudge him. Blue also looked like a deer in headlights.

Red mentally gulps and hopes he looked nonchalant.

Lance’s gaze sweeps over the scene like a Hyper Beam, his expression unreadable. Steven, meanwhile, looks like he’s fighting a losing battle against laughter, his shoulders shaking subtly.

After a beat, Lance sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear I am gonna full hair of greys after this tournament."

Steven, ever the diplomat, clears his throat. ‘Ah, well—Wallace did mention he wanted to show Blue some of his pokemon's moves.’ He gestures vaguely at the Milotic now coiled protectively around Blue, as if that explains everything.*

Wallace, the ever so sweetalker. "Mhm, I offered Blue to come here and when we came we saw Red and Silver and Ethan here. Blue just happened to get swept into the water by my Milotic." Wallace says with a smile.*

Red, still floating in the pool, signs to Ethan with deadpan delivery:

‘...We’re screwed.’

Ethan, ever the optimist, whispers back: ‘Nah, nah, we’re fine—’'

Lance's glare goes to Ethan. "Ethan Heartgold."

Silver kinda took that as a sign to just stand up and not sit on the chair with wet clothes.

Ethan pretty much submerged until his hat is only visible.

Lance's gaze goes to Red and to Blue. Luckily didn't seem suspicious since the two pools are far from each other. They thought they're safe until-

"Silver, Red Pallet, Ethan Heartgold, Blue Oak... I can't believe I am also saying Wallace and Steven." Lance says as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Oopsies.

Silver and Red and Ethan are self explanatory. Red and Blue are self explanatory. Wallace... Dammit covered up for Blue. AND STEVEN COVERED UP FOR THEM LAST MINUTE.

Blue simply slumps against Milotic as a sign of defeat. Wallace, ever so sweet talker just tilted his head like 'huh? i dunno' to try and salvage him and Blue.

Lance’s voice is dangerously calm. ‘All of you. Out. Now.’

Stevens tries to salvage it- "I am sure they can explain it, Lance."

Lance ignores Steven.

Silver, ever the pragmatist, is already halfway to the exit, dripping wet but at least not in the line of fire. Lance's glare stops him from leaving.

Ethan surfaces like a startled Magikarp, grinning sheepishly. ‘'Uh. We can explain—’'

Lance’s glare shuts him up. Wallace, still playing innocent, pats Milotic’s head. ‘'Such a shame our training session was interrupted, hm, Blue?’'

Blue, slumped against Milotic, just groans. Red, meanwhile, hauls himself out of the pool, shaking his head like a soaked Pikachu. He signs to Lance, deadpan:

‘...We’ll dry off and be right back.’ -

Red glances around at the group’s haphazard outfits, his own consisting of a mismatched hoodie and sweatpants he’d thrown on in a hurry.

Ethan, sporting a neon yellow shirt with plaid pajama pants, groans. ‘I look like a damn Spoink that got hit by Confusion.’

Blue, drowning in an oversized sweater (probably stolen from Red’s closet at some point) and gym shorts, glares at him. ‘You deserve to look like that.’

Silver, the only one who managed to look somewhat presentable—if you ignored the fact his shirt was inside-out—crosses his arms. ‘Can we go already? The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can pretend this never happened.’

Wallace, ever the picture of elegance, fans himself dramatically. ‘Oh, but the fashion—!’

[youreverydaygoblin]

Consumption

Chapter 2: Scared Man With a Wallet

Beatrice’s Perspective

Summary: A weird pale dude struggles to order a sandwich.

Trigger Warnings: This is a dark romance there will be violence, cannibalism, obsessive behaviors, and general toxicity. I will add specific warnings to a chapter if necessary. I do not condone these actions in real life. Please take care of yourself <3

.・。.・゜✭ ᶜᵒⁿˢᵘᵐᵉ ᵐᵉ ✫・゜・。.

Whoever slaughtered this pig had it out for me, Jesus Christ. It was still bloody as the day it was born and came with a bullet lodged in its school. Who even does that anymore? This isn’t the 1800s, if you can afford to keep meat pigs, then you can definitely afford to have them euthanized nicely. I didn’t get it hung up in time so the blood already coagulated in its veins creating thick purple blotches along the meat. For all the effort I was putting into it— going through with a cleaver to try and salvage any good parts— it probably wouldn’t even make me that much.

After I had gotten some useable cuts, I wrapped and began moving them to the front of the shop. I was suddenly made aware of a customer waiting at the counter. He looked way too fancy for [town name]. He had a black sweater with a dark blue collared shirt poking out of it, and his slacks were perfectly tailored to his body. Dark brown hair laid a bit messily on his head, like he had tried styling it earlier but gave up half way through. His face was the definition of brooding: thick eyebrows creased, dark eyes piercing, chapped lips held in a permanent frown. He was definitely malnourished with the way his features sunk into himself.

I asked him for his order and he began stammering like a deer in the headlights. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and his hand kept fidgeting with something in his pocket.

“Can I get a sandwich please?”

Come on dude there’s like 10 different sandwiches. God, this guy was already getting on my nerves.

“Alright, what kind of sandwich?”

“Umm,” what sounded like a croak, “a BLT would be nice.”

“Okay, can I get a name for the order?”

His eyes practically bulged out of his forehead like I just kicked his puppy. His had was rubbing at the back of his neck furiously.

“Viktor”

“Cool, that’ll be $8.50”

He moved to give me his card and I quickly redirected him to the card reader facing him. Again, he had a sad dog look on his face while he swiped his card through. I let him do his thing while I began making his sandwich. He stared intently at me the entire time, but his face had softened into a dreamy grin. Weirdo, guess this guy really likes sandwiches. He took his meal and sat down at one of the tables. I cleaned up the counter and checked his receipt. How did he end up paying double than what he was expected? The machine must have been on the fritz again. I pulled $9 out of the register and walked over to give it to him.

“Hey, the machine was being weird and overcharged you. Here’s your change back.”

His face brightened up a little.

“Oh no, that was tip. You are— have, um, good food. Like really good food. This is the most divine sandwich I have ever tasted.”

Huh

“Oh okay,” and I walked back to my counter to stash away the $9. You know what, he may be weird but at least he’s a rich weirdo. I went back to displaying the meat.

Wait, he payed for his meal before he tasted it and I know for certain that he hasn’t been around here before. I looked back to where he had sat and he was already gone. I shrugged it off and kept working.

At the end of my shift, I went around and cleaned up the tables. It was a pretty quiet day. There was something underneath one of the tables. I picked it up and discovered that it was a wallet. I pulled out the I.D. card.

That bastard left his wallet behind.

.・。.・゜✭ ᶜᵒⁿˢᵘᵐᵉ ᵐᵉ ✫・゜・。.

A/N: Again, thank you for reading. I have two more chapters in store before I have to write more.

632 words

Posted Dec. 3. 2024

[n4rut0runn3r]

Step-by-step Sweater

I finished knitting my first sweater! This has been a long adventure, and I wanted to share some highlights.

This sweater was originally crocheted and finished on November 14, 2021. 5 hours later, a historic flood had come and destroyed my childhood home with 6-10 feet of water inside my house and our shop. The water moved with tremendous speed and I had lost all of my possessions. The sweater was thrown into a wet garbage bag with the rest of the clothes we thought could be salvaged, as the flood was from the river overflowing through dairy farms and from an asbestos tainted mountain run off. It was washed by some volunteers who I am very grateful for. Unfortunately it never fit right afterwards.

I was going to throw it away, but on November 28, 2022 I decided I should at least salvage the yarn.

This yarn has been so many places. I worked on the crocheted version in Washington DC, and New York. It even accompanied me on the NY subway in all its grimy sticky glory. This yarn has gone on every road trip the past 2 years. This yarn came with me on a cruise and I made so many nice rich old lady friends. I even got a nice handful of cough drops for showing a lady how to do the increase I was working on.

I decided to learn how to knit because I read on a forum that knit garments use less yarn and are less heavy, and that was my original complaint with the first one, was that it was too heavy.

I frogged and restarted so may times, questioned my ability to count, but I kept going. Here are some things I learned:

-Knitting is very fun, I would just want to come home and sit in my chair and spend all day working on it

-Frogging knit is alot harder than frogging crochet

-The absolute hardest part of the whole thing was weaving in the ends. Why is it so much harder with knit!?!

-The nicer knitting needles are worth the investment. I knit alot faster with cooperative needles and cables. The bamboo ones also don't squeak like the metal ones

-I learned how to hold yarn tension in my right hand! I'm so used to holding it in my left hand, that it took a solid 6 months of practice to get it! I still can't do it when I purl though.

This is how much yarn was left over. All the yarn I had to use came only from unraveling the crocheted sweater panels, all of my yarn had been lost otherwise, so I didn't have any extra skeins on hand at all. This is how much more yarn was used to crochet vs knit. That's why the first one was so heavy!

This is me washing and blocking the sweater, I laid down some towels to help keep my table from being soggy for days. I washed and rinsed with wool light delicate. All of the yarn had already been machine washed, but I just wanted to be gentle since this project took so long.

I'm glad to be done! I'm already starting a second one, and I'm being sure to document the whole process. I'm attempting some more techniques in my second sweater. The sweater was completed on December 22, 2023. Here are some final pictures of the sweater!

The pattern I used was amazing. I also followed along with the YouTube guide. I highly suggest this pattern/video if anyone wants to try knitting for the first time. Video link posted below.