#wool pack hooks

[digmark2]

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[peachesofteal]

Deckhand Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.

Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind. 

It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge. 

He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.

Hook. String. Pull. Block.

The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly. 

Did you see him? 

Look at the size of ‘im- 

Is that Ernest’s new deckhand? 

Fucking monster of a man, I tell you. 

He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date. 

The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.

King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared. 

The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed. 

And the Bering-  

The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea. 

He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous. 

The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye. 

Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of. 

At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same. 

Rabid and dangerous in packs. 

The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock. 

There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course- 

A pub. 

Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets. 

There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one. 

There are only ten, after all.

The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head. 

None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you. 

He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it. 

“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.” 

You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark. 

Except The Wharf’s. 

It’s the second time he’s seen you here. 

He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle- 

and baring your throat for the slaughter.

The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender. 

He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name. 

Screaming it. 

You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it. 

He knows what you see. What you should see. 

A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess. 

If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.

Rabid, dangerous in packs.  

Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor. 

You. 

You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside. 

The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk. 

Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down. 

He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses. 

For him. 

He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes. 

“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.

He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook. 

You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.

“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for. 

It almost pained him to rip them apart last night. 

“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.

“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth. 

Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish? 

“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“ 

“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile. 

Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.

“Got it.” 

His control is becoming a house of cards. 

You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.

He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.

You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step- 

directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from. 

Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks. 

“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them. 

“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint. 

“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.” 

He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks. 

"Can I bum one?"

His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.

"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.

"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.

"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"

"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.

He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.

Hook. String. Pull.

He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.

You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?

"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.

"Goodnight."

Four days left, and his gear is finished.

You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.

You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.

“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.

Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.

It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.

So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.

There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“

You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.

He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.

When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”

You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”

It all comes to a head, two days out.

There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.

Too many, for Simon’s tastes.

Too many, except for one.

You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.

You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.

Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”

He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.

Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.

“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.

“Out for a smoke?”

“No, just some fresh air.”

“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.

He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.

He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”

“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”

“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.

Hook. String. Pull.

“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.

Hooked.

You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.

He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.

String.

The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.

“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.

“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.

Pull.

“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”

“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.

He licks them with glee.

“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“

“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.

You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.

He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how impossible it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.

He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.

Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.

You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.

“My glasses.”

“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing 1890s Day Dress in Doll Scale

I went slightly overboard with this second historical doll project. Here's my first one. The style is from around 1897 and more of a middle class style. As with my first doll outfit, I tried to stick to historical methods as much as possible, but the scale forced me to do some deviations. I hand-sew everything though sewing machine was already widely used, because in this scale it's easier to control the stitch, there's not that much to sew anyway and also I just really like hand-sewing. Here's all the items I made. As said, I went a little overboard. One thing that's missing is the corset cover, but the layers of fabric were creating enough bulk on the waist as is so I decided to not make one.

This time I decided to try repainting the face. I don't have any doll customization materials, so I used acrylics. After couple of attempts I got decent results. Acrylics can't make as smooth and delicate finish as pastels, pencils and gouache, which can be used on vinyl with basing sprays, and I'm not experienced with painting small details on 3D objects, so it's a bit smudged at points, especially with the other eye. I aimed for 1890s very neutral make up and the type of expression that was popular in fashion plates and other illustrations.

Undergarments

Combinations and stockings

The combinations are split crotch as they were in the period. They are from thin cotton voile I have a lot of and is very appropriate. I didn't have really tiny enough lace for this, so it's kinda bulky, but I think it's okay enough. The stockings are cotton knit, which fits well. The garters are not actually necessary for this doll since her legs are rubbery.

Corset

I made the corset from a firm-ish linen and satin rayon pretending to be silk as the fashion fabric. The stitching of the boning channels is not super neat, this fabric is very unforgiving, I didn't have exactly matching thread and the scale made it very difficult. I of course didn't have tiny busk, so I used small hooks, sewed thread loops for them and used narrow metal wire for the edges. I think it looks surprisingly right on the outside. I used the same wire as the boning to reinforce the lacing on the back. I didn't actually use boning elsewhere but the tightly packed linen edges in the boning channels kinda work like lighter boning. I think it keeps the shape pretty ways even with just that. I stitched cotton tape inside to shape the corset further. I also didn't have tiny metal eyelets so I hand-sewed the lacing holes.

Bustle pad

The bustle pad is from linen and stuffed with tiny cabbage.

Petticoat

The petticoat is from the same cotton as the combinations.

Outer wear

Skirt

The fabric is cotton half-panama. It's pretty thin, but firm. I would have liked to use a woven wool, but I didn't have any that's thin enough to work in this scale. I think this cotton looks close enough in this scale to a wool with a tight weave, so I'm imagining it's that. My problem was that the cotton was white, but I wanted light brown. I wasn't going to buy any fabric for this, so I did the reasonable thing and dyed it with red onion peals (I've been doing natural dye experiments so this worked well for me).

Shirtwaist

The shirtwaist is from the same cotton as the undergarments. Yes, I dyed it too. I didn't have thin enough cotton in a color that would fit with the skirt and the purple bow, so I dyed it light blue with fabric color. Since I already went the trouble of dyeing I decided I might as well make a small flower print to it since that was popular in the era. I didn't want it to jump out too much but the lighting makes it even less visible. I made it with a white fabric pen. The collar and cuffs are reinforced with linen. I also sewed small stick-like beads to the cuffs on both sides, so one acts as a button (I sewed a buttonhole too) and the other makes it look like they are cufflinks. The bow is from the same fabric as the corset and the belt is sewn from the same cotton as the shirtwaist. The buckle is from a barbie belt.

Waistcoat

The waistcoat is from the same fabric as the skirt, thought the lapels and the back are from another satin rayon. I tailored the front panels and the lapels by stitching the linen interlining with tailor's stitches (I don't remember if that's the correct word in English) into shape. There is some wonkiness on one side of the hemline for some reason.

Boots

I made the slightly insane decision to make the shoes fully from leather, like they would have been in the period. I had an old broken leather wallet I had saved in case I needed some leather scarps. It has fairly thin leather, so it was workable here. It's light brown though, so I used black shoe polish to darken it. I wanted black or very dark brown shoes. I stacked the heels from glue and leather pieces and carved them into the right shape and sewed the shoe itself to leather shaped as the sole and glued it to the heeled and shaped sole. After I had shaped the shoes and the heels as much as I could I painted the heels black.

[emiliaoleary]

Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook.  There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way.  The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use.  I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines. 

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran.  If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it.  I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted).  I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.  

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be. 

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

​ It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

[simstorian-blog]

Granada Place

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Oasis Springs

Area: Skyward Palms

Lot Size:  30 x 20

(4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms)

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Used

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

City Living

Cottage Living

Discover University

For Rent

Get Famous

Get Together

Growing Together

High School Years

Horse Ranch

Seasons

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dream Home Decorator

Jungle Adventures

Spa Day

Kits

Desert Luxe

Build Mode

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 1

Chateau Pt. 2

Florence Pt. 1 (Armchair, Bouquet, Fresco Mural)

Harlix

Baysic Bathroom (Floor Tiles, Modern Wipe, Trash can)

Harrie

Brownstone Pt. 2 (Traditional Arch Medium, Traditional Door Medium)

Klean Pt. 3 (Painted Wall w Wooden Skirting, Painted Plaster Walls)

Lili’s Palace

Folklore (Skanzen Big Barn Door - 1)

Sooky88

English Country Wall Set – Wallpaper with Subway Tiles

Scandinavian Wall Set – Wallpapers with Tiles

Buy Mode

CharlyPancakes

Lavish

The Lighthouse Collection

Precious Promises (Lustre Small)

Telly

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 3

Chateau Pt. 4

Chateau Pt. 5 (All decorative items)

Chateau Pt. 7 (drawer, silk rug)

Colonial Pt. 2 (Potted Palm Tree)

Grove Pt. 1 (Potted Olive Tree)

Grove Pt. 4 (Potted Lemon Tree)

Harlix

Baysic (Double Beeding w Blanket, Packs Clothing)

Livin’ Rum (Coffee Table Tray, Phone and Keys)

Orjanic Pt. 2

Harrie

Coastal Pt. 5 (Foot Stool, Rug)

Coastal Pt. 6

Coastal Pt. 7 (Double Bedframe, Full Length Mirror, Lamp, Wool Rug)

Coastal Pt. 8 (Coffee Pouffe Table, Ottoman, Roman Blinds – 2 Tile)

Country (Ottoman)

Octave Pt. 4 (Light Switches)

Myshunosun

Lottie (Throw Blanket)

Macaron Kitchen (Bar Stool)

Gale Dining (Wine Bottle, Wine Glass)

Peacemaker

Elsie Bedroom (Upholstered Chair)

Gwendoline Sofa

Hampton Retreat (Seaside Prints)

Vara Office (Desktop PC)

Pierisim

Domaine Du Clos Pt. 2 (Armchair, Fireplace)

Domaine Du Clos Pt. 3 (Nightstand, Wall Lamp Left & Right)

MCM Pt. 3 (Narrow Rug Long)

Oak House Pt. 4 (Accent Table, Folded Towels, Moisture Cream, Shampoo, Shower Gel)

Oak House Double Bedding

Oak House Double Bedframe

Oak House Pt. 6.2 (Narrow Leather Shelf)

Vera Bathroom (Bathrobe, Mounted Hook, Mounted Towel Holder, Soap, Toilet Kit)

Woodland Ranch (Both Double Bedframes, Nightstands, Old Rug, Wardrobe Small)

Woodland Ranch Pt. 3 (Lamps, Paintings, Wooden End Table)

Pyszny

Oak & Concrete (Magazines)

Ravasheen

Clothes Minded

Motivational Speaker

Severinka

Industrial Light II – Ceiling Lamp A

Simplistic

RusticLife Rug

Sundays

Kediri Pt. 1 (Throw Pillow Solids)

Sumba Pt. 1 (Pillow Set I)

Yarra Pt. 3 (Bed Pillows)

TaurusDesign

Eliza Walk in Closet

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: DOWNLOAD

[operation-priority]

SCP AMTF Nu-7 Cosplay - Cold Weather Environment

Depicted here is the standard appearance of a conventionally armed Nu-7 operative who is working within a cold weather environment. While the standard fitment and other similarly equipped loadouts constitute hot weather uniforms, Nu-7 must also be equipped with sufficient and additional cold and wet weather gear in order to successfully operate within such an environment. There are several very effective US military cold weather systems that involve layering certain types of winter clothing in order to remain comfortable in a cold or freezing environment without overheating, sweating, and becoming hypothermic. The SCP Foundation supplies their Armed Mobile Task Force units with a similar cold weather layering system that works in tandem with their standard uniform. This enables conventional elements to carry this cold weather system on their kit at all times so when in transit to a cold working area the element is able to quickly adapt to the climate without a delay in responding to the threat.

The main cold weather garment that the operative always carries with them is the Crye Precision HalfJak. This is specifically the insulated version that has enhanced cold weather capabilities compared to other variants. As the name suggests the garment fits over roughly half of the body to allow for the operative to wear it over their standard clothing and still access their kit on the plate carrier. It is secured to the carrier itself using four hooks that catch onto four paracord loops on the cummerbund. The plate carrier itself retains a lot of core body heat and the HalfJak further retains body heat due to its insulation. Temperature is regulated by having the sides of the body open to airflow and the HalfJak itself can be unzipped at the front. It has a built-in hood stored in the raised collar and can be deployed easily should the situation require it. It stores compactly in a elastic bag located at the rear of the plate carrier.

Another additional external bit of cold weather kit is the camouflage overwhites. Here the operative is wearing USMC Experimental Overwhites trousers in snow MARPAT. Its matching pack cover is also seen over his assault pack. This is a camouflage garment that provides a snow camouflage pattern over his standard combat pants in a snowy environment. The overwhites material provides an additional cold and wet weather layer over the standard combat pants. It is paired with Twin Needle puttees over the boots to further protect the users legs and feet from a cold and wet weather environment. In an extreme wet weather environment the operative can choose to wear a poncho instead.

Should the environment require it, AMTF units are also equipped with internal cold weather clothing that can be worn underneath the standard uniform. These are the simple but effective waffle grid wool base layers. The operative is wearing a prototype base layer set from Beyond Clothing. The grid pattern of the wool allows for quick moisture wicking and airflow while still retaining a large amount of body heat. It can be paired with a grid pattern beanie, in this case a Helikon-Tex Grid Fleece Beanie Cap. This beanie has a pocket that allows the user to store their in-ear protection so they can quickly access it when switching from helmet to beanie.

In a combat scenario it is important to retain dexterity even when operating within a cold weather environment. Many cold weather mittens or gloves provide excellent insulation at the cost of reduced dexterity. One way to retain some dexterity while also fighting the cold is to layer gloves. The operative here wears Mechanix Original Gloves over his PIG FDT Alpha Gloves. This provides some insulation while also retaining dexterity. The operative can further enhance insulation by wearing the waffle grid base layer over the gloves using the incorporated thumb loop.

This customized cold weather system provides a sufficient level of cold weather protection in a lightweight and compressible package. Once all aspects of this cold weather suite is put together, it can provide the wearer with some comfort even in below freezing conditions.

Full Resolution Available Here.

[quotidian-oblivion]

✨Out of context lines shitpost Pt. 8✨

Part 7

Quo: This is it... our last day of childcare course. And... *sighs* I'm getting choked up. I met @mispeltnostalgia and got to know her well through this course and she's been the best irl fanfic buddy and older brother despite being a year younger than me ever.

Nog: These out of context things have made me so happy and its fun to look back and remember the funny shit that we have said and done this year. this deffo won't be the last though. Quo and I will forever be saying and doing stupid shit. Quo is the best little sister ever and while I'll miss our fridays together she cant get rid of me. I know too many of her fanfics and she's beta-ing my works.

Quo: You beta-ed a couple of mine too!

We'll still be posting the out of context lines, but there are going to be longer gaps since we're not gonna meet on Fridays anymore :( There's still our weekly study sessions that we dubbed TEAS on Wednesday!

~

Tim: *holding a ball of wool to Jason’s face as a pretend mic* What do you say about the Curse you just found out you have Jason: *clears throat* I hope it kills me. ~ Jason: What do you have to say about your Curse? Tim: …I’ve had it since I was fucking born. ~ Barbara: So I bought a pack of quick oats because I love oats. And then I bought another pack of overnight oats because it had yoghurt, and now I’m just realizing that I really am just a horse. Little Shit Young!Jason: THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING. ~ Damian: I’ve been able to find a knife, I’ve been able to find a fork, but I can’t find a spoon. Jon: You have all the stabby objects in your bag Damian: I also have a fuckton of crochet hooks and— a pocket watch?? *pulls out pocket watch* Where the fuck is my spoon. ~ Steph: So I was getting pumped up for this song but then I just hear this tiny Alvin and the chipmunks voice say “Party Rock” and it just dashed my hopes. Listen to this *Plays Party Rock Anthem”. Damian: … Steph: Like, imagine getting pumped up for one of your childhood songs then you just suddenly hear “party rock” in this high-pitched voice and I felt like killing myself. Damian: … Steph: And hear me out— Damian: I don’t think i want to hear you out anymore. Steph: *Continues to play Bad Romance covered by the Alvin and the Chipmunks” ~ Tim: *Watching a video of Bruce* Bart: Wait, your dad sounds American. Bart: And he speaks kind of like you too! Tim: Yeah, I wonder why my American dad who raised me sounds and has the same speech patterns as me. Hmm, good question. Bart: I just wasn’t expecting it. I forgot that American dads were a thing. ~ Steph: i am granting you the honor of waffle ~ Barbara: *looking for a place to put popcorn. Places the popcorn against Dick’s lap* Dick: hell yeah crotch popcorn! Omg crotchcorn! Barbara: Please don't. ~ Bruce: You have to be very careful out there. These racist attacks are getting worse. Dick: Don't worry, Pops. I'm with a white person, I'll be fine. Barbara: *chokes on her drink with laughter* ~ Tim: *mixes soda water, energy drink and trace amounts of tea together in a tumbler* For funsies. *chugs it* ~ Jason: *falls to the floor, crumbles and silently screams in a public library* Barbara: Stop it, you’re embarrassing yourself Jason: I’m a drama kid, I can do whatever I want ~ Steph: *singing* I am not a quitter Tim: *singing with her* Pocket full of glitter Steph: Yarn balls, I’m a knitter!  Steph and Tim: *singing together* I’m the whole package, baby! Tim: I haven’t met you Steph: But if you’re staaable Tim and Steph: Then here’s my number! And call me Mabel! ~ Alfred: *grabs Bruce by the shoulders and shakes* BE PRODUCTIVE! ~  Steph: IS THAT A PURPLE BALLOON??? Steph: *walks over, picks it up, and carries it like a baby* *whispers* I’m pregnant ~  Damian, high on pain meds: *giggling while he draws Tim falling off a roof* whee whee, hee hee, I’m so funny. Hee hee hee. He’s falling off a building.

[sabraeal]

The Strong Pack Thrives, Part 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kpslp, who was the second raffled winner for my 1000 Follower celebration!

The mattress yields beneath the weight of her knee, as welcoming as the groan that tears from Obi’s throat, coaxing her further forward—

Until Shirayuki bumps against his outstretch hand. His palm burns through both skirt and petticoats, fingers fitted around the wide curve of her hip, holding her still. Or more likely: keeping her at bay.

His eyelashes flutter over the sharp jut of his cheekbone, only a sliver of molten gold peering through a cage of black lace. “You can’t help like that, Miss.”

Shirayuki’s tongue sits sluggish in her mouth, clumsy as she murmurs, “What do you mean?”

Alphas may be famed for their acute senses, for their ability to detect the most minute change in mood and attitude, but there is something distinctly different about that knowledge when Obi’s head inclines toward her. When his nostrils flare and it is no longer some dry paragraph she read in a treatise a handful of years ago, but her scent being sampled, rolling around in his sinuses like lords taste wine. “I can’t smell you.”

Impossible. Not when the tops of her thighs are so slick they nearly squeak. “Weren’t you just complaining that you could?”

There’s a flash of teeth when his mouth tilts, matching the coquettish flutter of his eyelashes. “Well, Miss, that was before.”

“B-before?”

His hand flexes, fitting closer, thumb stretching across the crease of her thigh. There’s a vein there, a large one, and she wonders if he can feel the way her pulse thrums, careening from one beat to the next, a runaway stallion driving her heart. “Before you said you’d come to bed.”

There’s barely enough air in her lungs to stutter out an, “O-oh.”

“You’re wearing too much.” His thumb drags over the fabric of her skirt, squeezing thoughtfully at the end of its arc. “It’d be better if we were skin-to-skin.”

Her tongue tries to wet her lips, but his eyes fix on it, darkening as they follow every useless slide, and— and her mouth is too incredibly dry to manage it. “I-I…could take off my j-jacket.”

Obi doesn’t reply; he only settles back, letting his hand fall from her hip to the mattress. It should be less distracting without his clever fingers dancing just at the corner of her vision, being helpful, as he puts it— and underfoot, according to everyone else. But instead her attention catches on the way the lamplight pools on his chest, turning bare flesh to living, breathing bronze, and the buttons fumble right out from beneath her fingers.

There’s not a drop of innocence in him as his eyes lift, searing a languid trail from hip to throat before meeting her own. “Need help, Miss?”

He twists, rolling up to his elbow, and the sheets shift around him, falling from rib to hip on one side and cutting down across his abdomen on the other, baring the tip of a dark trail leading down—

“I-I can handle it,” she gasps, cheeks burning as she twists away. Shirayuki’s never had complaints about her natural inclination; being a beta has always suited her best— but when Obi allows that dark chuckle to rumble out from his chest, she wishes that she might have an alpha’s nose, if only to scent his desire as keenly as he does hers.

She looses the clasp at her throat, stripping the coat from her shoulders and setting it neatly aside. Fussing with its folds buys her a moment to think, to consider the silky gown she’d worn beneath it— it’s plain, a close-cut cream color meant to merely offset the deep red of the wool atop it, and without the amount of petticoats necessary to survive the North’s colder months, would do little to conceal scent or skin. And yet, yet—

Her hands fall to its closures as well— smaller ones than the coat, little hooks and eyes devised to lie flat beneath it— the first at the neck, and next the dip of her collarbone. The third— just above the dip between her breasts— gives her trouble, the metal slipping from her quivering fingers, and the loss of momentum nearly makes her lose her nerve as well. That is, until Obi’s breath catches, the scent of musk and spice so thick she sways on her feet.

The clasps trail to just below her belly, but Shirayuki only manages the next two before she wriggles out, dragging the whole thing right over her head. She’s less fastidious about its folds, managing to get the arms tucked over the skirts before she abandons it to fuss with her first layer of petticoats.

“Stays too,” Obi suggests, onces she’s removed two of the three, eyes fixed to where they’re laced. “You’d be more comfortable.”

Her lips press together. He’s hardly wrong— flexible as they are, they did little more in supine than poke in odd places— but still, she’s aware it’s one more layer of armor being bargained away, a barrier between her skin and his, pried loose by flimsy reason.

And yet, it doesn’t stop her from tugging at the laces. The linen cord resists as she tries to coax it from its knot, working it loose enough so that she might win free. The weight of his eyes on her makes her itchy, impatient— she’d never thought of her undergarments in terms of allure, but there’s none with her short stays. Just a simple starched tube with baleen run through it, meant to go over head head, and ah, if only she’d thought to wear her combinations, then at least there might be some enticing lace and froth, as silly as she’d always found it—

“Slower,” Obi tells her, half a growl.

It takes a moment for her knees to hold her, for the heat pooling between her legs to become bearable. But then she begins again, the slim strap of her stays slipping down her shoulder as she works the laces loose, enough that she can finally lift it over her head—

“The stockings too.”

She hesitates, peering at him through the webwork of her arms and stays. “Stockings?” Even with the carpet, the floor would be freezing, and her arms are already pimpling from the chill. “Why?”

There’s an attempt at innocence now; eyes batting wide and sweet— belied by the hunger in them, pupil nibbling away at iris until all that’s left is the barest corona of gold. “They’ll itch.”

If she’d worn her usual wool, Shirayuki might agree, but she hadn’t dare wear anything but her best to breakfast. There's no reason to tempt Rugilia's lord to dote on her, not when Eisetsu had been so eager to dress her in gold and crepe only days ago. “They’re silk.”

His eyebrows twitch, intrigued. “Then I guess you could leave them on.”

She nearly does— there’s been enough of her armor peeled from her already— but she catches the lazy lilt of his mouth and decides that in some cases, bare skin might be better protection than covered. Obi, for his part, simply hums— not disappointed, but interested.

When she stands, only a linen chemise to cover her, smoothing the fabric down her hips, mischief sparks in those hungry eyes. “You know, Miss, maybe—”

“This is enough,” she informs him, firmer than she feels— steady, unlike the step she takes toward the bed. “Don’t let your eyes be bigger than your stomach.”

“Haah, Miss.” The words rumble through the mattress, shivering up the knee she sets on it. “You don’t know the half of it.”

With no more warning than that, the blankets rise up to swallow her whole.

*

It’s disorienting at first. Like how it is to fall through the ice— shocking, enough to make a mind forget which way is up and which is down, every direction collapsing into either here or not here. Only instead of teeth-chattering cold to overwhelm her, it is scent, spice and musk and sex all tumbled together until she is left panting, pressed against the hard planes of his body, heat scorching her even through her chemise.

“Finally,” he groans, burying his nose at the crook of her neck and just— just huffing, as if he’s a man lost in the desert and her scent’s the oasis that will slake his thirst. It’s hard to think with him so close, with his hands holding her so tight she’s half convinced she’ll find whole prints when she climbs back out again. It’d hardly be the first time; despite the careful distance Obi usually keeps, she’d found a thumb and a few fingers that time she jumped off Brecker’s tower, and a whole hand when she’d knocked him into the snow their first time in Lilias. But this—

This is different. Thinking of those marks on her— ones to match the nip he’d given her in the carriage, his fingers so deep within her she could barely do more than breathe through the fire in her veins—

Well, a beta doesn’t rut, doesn’t go into heat, but whatever his scent does to her must be close to it.  Since when his canines prick the soft stretch of her skin, she only moans, tilting her head to give him more to—

“W-wait,” she gasps, sense shivering through her his teeth bear down. “E-excuse me! That’s n-not— that’s not why—”

She has to swallow the sound that tries to escape her as his jaw unlocks from her throat.

“Haah, sorry, Miss,” he purrs, not the least bit contrite as his tongue soothes the bite. “Just got…excited.”

With her palms trapped against his chest, she can feel it— the wild beat of his heart, galloping against her palms. But as he settles against her, nose buried up under her ear the way he had at the manor, she also feels it lull— not to calmness, but to something less like a race against time. Something less like danger.

Relief rushes through her; holding her this way, scenting her, may not be the cure, but it at least takes the edge off his desire, turning urgent to optional, need simply to want. Hardly comfortable, but she’ll take it over the sweating, feverish pain he’d been in only moments ago.

Her body does not so much relax as release, every muscle easing into his welcome heat. His grip is too tight for her arms to move from his chest, but her legs shift, one of her calves lifting over his, tugging it gently between her own. There’s no danger to being close now, not when his breath flutters so soothingly at her neck, when his hands have ceased their bruising strength, and when he shifts, loosening his panicked grip on her—

Oh.

There’s something hard trapped between their bellies. Something that twitches with her sharp breath, even though Obi hardly seems to notice. Something that she would be happy to ignore, if only—

If only it weren’t so close to where his fingers had pressed into her. Where they had left her, stretched and sated, and now— now she can’t control the heat that flashes through her, can’t clamp down on how it floods between her legs, and— and Obi groans.

His musky scent had already been strong beneath the blankets, but it’s overpowering now, her fingers curling into his chest if only to keep herself steady. A mistake; she could have ignored it before, could have laid there, pretending to be none the wiser, but the moment her nails scrape at his skin— he twitches. Right against her hip. Not once but twice, a shiver shuddering through him, and— and it’s hardly his fault, really, it’s just serendipity, the reality of how their bodies align, but—

But he shifts between the first and the second, no longer flat against her hip but angled, the shaft skirting the edge of where she throbs. It rubs against her, not where she needs, but so close, hardly more than a full breath keeping her from that delicious shiver she’d felt with his fingers.

It's nothing to move against it. An accident really. Just the barest tilt of her hips. Nothing suggestive, but enough to let it shift, resting fully along her belly. A widening of her legs that leaves the base nestled right above where she throbs, needing—

Ah, she hardly knows, but— something. Something she can almost taste the shadows of when her hips jostle into his, a thin finger of lightning scouring up her spine. Her breath saws into his shoulder, thoughts skittering out with it, leaving only one behind: more.

He’s right there, isn’t he? So close that she nearly aches with anticipation for the next accident, the next fumbling brush that would send those wisps of pleasure storming beneath her skin, bringing her closer to the release she no longer lingers over, but craves. It would be easy to stumble into another mistake, for hips to shift or legs to slip, to chase that lightning with no one at fault but sheer coincidence—

So there’s no way for him to tell that it’s not, that this tiny bump of their hips isn’t a clumsiness but calculation, and that the others that follow— not frequent enough to make a rhythm, to seem purposeful— keep the tingle itching beneath her skin, not quite scratching, and yet—

“Ow!” Her nails bite into bronze, trapped so tight she can’t wriggle lose enough to rub at her neck, but there’s no need, not when Obi’s mouth is already soothing when he nipped.

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, little more than brushes against bruised flesh, hands clutching her hips so tight she can barely breathe, let alone move. “It’s— your scent. I can— I can smell you…”

“O-oh.” It seems impossible when her nose is so full of musk and pine and spice she’s practically choking on him. And yet his hand drops, gripping just above the joint of her knee to hitch it over his hip, and she smells it— that faint sweetness of apple and a whiff of fresh herbs. Her. “But—”

That grip drags her further, not just spreading her over the hip but wrapping around it, angling her so close that his shaft no longer rests above where she needs him but against it, the thin linen of her chemise trapped between them. That alone is enough to flush the air from her lungs, to leave her so breathless she can only manage an, “Oh!” before—

Before he lowers his grip past her hips and grinds, pleasuring flooding her so suddenly, so deeply she tastes it. Her tongue flicks over her lips to savor the flavor. There’s nothing trapping her hands now, but she can do little but clutch at him, gasping and squirming as his relentless rutting sets every thought toppling out of her head. All her treatise and theories elide to moans, thready and desperate as they escape with her, struggling to tread the water of her desire.

Her chemise is damp where it presses against her, soaked, and it rucks up with each of his thrusts. Inch by inch it bares her to him, makes her aware that though his trousers cling tight to his legs, his cock has long escaped them. It’s different than in the carriage, when she’d held him against her and let that long slide push her up and over the crest of her pleasure; now he’s the one holding her, thrusting into her at his own pace, no barrier between them, and— and—

It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s— something, but there’s not enough of her mind left to make it up, only the static shivering under her skin and the heady scent of spice seeping through her. A good thing she doesn’t have to, since Obi makes it for her— with one arm slung over her back and the other under her bottom, he rolls, bringing him to his back and both her knees falling to frame his hips.

Shirayuki blinks, head lifting, hands falling, reaching out to brace against his chest. The tight cocoon of sheets is a tangle around them, a hopeless knot of silk and velvet and down— but one that parts as she sits back, tumbling like water down a fall until it pool at her hips, leaving him bare beneath her hands. Her breath catches; oh, she’s seen Obi on his back before, with chest both covered and not, but never like this— with hunger so naked in his eyes she longs to know what it would be like to be consumed.

“Obi.” Her nails curl, digging the same furrows her brows do. “Why…?”

Did you stop? She had hardly known what she meant to ask, but that’s what spring to her lips, desperate, needy. But she can’t possibly ask— not when she offered her scent solely to soothe him, to calm the instincts that civil society no longer requires from its alphas. She can’t simply change her mind now because—

“Ha-aah!” Her hands scrabble down his belly, trying to find purchase as his hands hook behind her knees, dragging her up, forward, until the hard ridge of his cock nestles between her folds. They catch in the sparse hair tracing down his belly, and oh, it’s all she can do to hang on as his hips cant against hers, dragging the length of him right along her slit, reminding her of how much emptiness can ache. “Obi, I…”

No actual words come to her, not when his tip catches on the ridge of her pubic bone and he moans, so long and loud she can hear herself grown wetter. The sound of him sliding through her slick tangles between her gasps and his groans, a mortifying symphony that only makes her hotter, slicker, and when their eyes meet—

His drop, right to where his cock ruts against her cunt. Or where it would, if her chemise didn’t lay damp and heavy on his stomach, obscuring his view. His mouth twists, impatient, and ah, she nearly apologizes until one hand reaches out, fisting the linen in his grip. With a sharp tug, it lifts, and oh, haah, there he is, the flushed head of his cock peeking out from between her lips. His hips tilt, pulling back, and it disappears, dragging along that throbbing bud before peeping out again. It should be ridiculous, a child’s game of hide and seek, but instead—

Instead, it’s enough to make a new rush of slick to flood between her legs. Her scent blooms strong even to her deadened nose, and Obi arches back against his pillow, growling, fingers clenched tight around her thighs. “Not enough.”

Frustrated, that’s how he sounds. Unsatisfied. Disappointed. Shirayuki’s heart flutters to her throat. “What—?”

Obi’s always been fond of words— too fond, Kiki always told her, too polite to roll her eyes, how like an omega— even if his quick thinking often talked him into more trouble than out of it. But despite his reputation— for a silver tongue, Obi would insist, even as Zen snorted, for being mouthy— it’s action where he’s always excelled. And now is no different; with no more answer than a groan, the hands wrapped around her thighs urge her forward, knees no longer framing his hips, but goading her up to his waist, and—

And it’s too fast. Shirayuki manages to creep only a couple inches across the mattress before her ankles tangle in sheets and her knees catch on her chemise, spilling her flat across his chest. A mortifying position to start, made worse by the way her bottom sticks straight up like a bitch eager for a mount. If he wasn’t beneath her, she might think this was how he wanted her, bared and begging, but—

But it’s not. Not when his palms fit right over the backs of her thighs and tug, dragging her up over his chest, so quick she barely has time to reach out her hands and brace against the headboard. He doesn’t stop, not until she’s got her knees hooked over his shoulders, so close to him that his breath ruffles the deeper auburn curling over her mound. It’s an odd position, one that leaves her off-kilter and exposed even as her chemise drapes over his chin, covering everything from his nose down.

It’s the damp part, of course, soaked in her slick and thick with her scent, and she grimaces. There’s no polite way to pluck it up, no stock apologies for having literally rubbed his nose in her scent, but—

But his eyes meet hers, iris barely more than a thin hold thread wrapped around the abyss of his pupils, and he licks a long, languid stripe down her folds.

“Haa-aaah!” She clutches at the headboard as he goes back for seconds. It’s terrible how she can feel his smirk against her skin, how he splits her lips with the gentlest prod of his tongue, lapping deeper. The tip teases the shape of her slit, tracing up one side before sliding over the other, reminding her that she’s empty, reminding her that she could be filled, and, haah, she want to watch him, to see why his eyes flutter so coyly shut, and—

And then Obi sucks, and oh, this chemise has got to go.

At least, that’s what she’d like to do. But the pleasure sparking beneath her skin makes her fingers clumsy, tangling in the hem only to let it slip from her fingers, the soaked part slapping right over his nose.

“Sorry,” she gasps, taking the fabric he hands her, his snickers sending an unbearably enticing hum through her bones. “I just— oh—”

It gets up over her shoulders this time, but there’s buttons and sleeves and lace; a veritable maze of an undergarment, made no better by every thought in her head abandoning her as Obi sinks two fingers into her, right down to the last knuckle.

“Just a moment!” she pants, heaving herself off him. “I just have to—”

She clambers off the bed, enduring the terrible rumble of his laugh, purring out from so deep in his chest she’s half tempted to go back and catch them with her mouth. The floor is freezing beneath her bare feet, but it’s bracing too, giving her surer footing than his mouth had, and she lifts it over her head. It’s so much easier now to tip over, letting the weight of the skirt puddle the mass of linen beside her heels, finally leaving her bare.

It’s with a silly sort of pride that she turns back to him, like a child having figured out how to take off their own stockings. There’s certainly amusement in Obi’s eyes when she meets him, but there’s heat too, a promise, and when she looks down he— he’s—

He’s touching himself.

[gevauxie]

I had a Russian Doll toy when I was young.

Tom's diary was laid out on the bare prison desk before him. His ink was running low. He sucked at the nib of the quill, ignoring its bitter taste, using his tongue to wet the end. Once it was running freely again, he lowered it back down. He carried on scratching away.

...The doll was a gift. A hand-me-down, from some crazed Victorian benefactor who visited the orphanage once every other blue moon. She was an older woman; all fur coat and stiff upper lip, the kind that quite clearly had no time for children, and did her best to avoid them where she could. God knows why she donated to the crumbling monolith that was the Wool’s Institute for Impoverished Boys and Girls. Perhaps it made her look good to her high society friends. Perhaps it gave her something to boast about over dinner.

Regardless, she came to visit every now and then. We always knew she was coming because we were all forced to bathe the night before, and matron would come round with a nit-comb and an old tin box of talc. We’d have our hair scraped back and our shirt collars ironed out. Everything was packed and put away, and after breakfast we were made to stand in a long, straggly line by the front door.

The benefactor rang the doorbell. Nobody rang the doorbell. They either knocked on the knocker or they didn’t come at all.

She always hobbled in, clanking like the rusted screws on the side of a radiator. Her nose was hooked, her warts visible; my first encounter with what I thought was an old wicked witch. The classic bogeyman of children’s fairy stories – but a far cry from the real thing, I had come to realise.

She strode forwards, inspecting each of us in turn. We stood in alphabetical order, so as a member of the ‘R’s, I was toward the back of the queue. But she always paused when she got to me. Her black-toed heels came to a determined stop, and she peered down, meeting my eye.

She liked me. She always had. I couldn’t really put my finger on why; perhaps it was because she saw in me something that reminded her of herself. She saw the fire behind my gaze, no matter how forcefully I tried to smother it; she saw the flash of defiance, and the refusal to sit down and accept my lot. She looked at me and saw a fighter, a savage who would do anything – and everything – to achieve whatever it was that they wanted. I had a feral animal somewhere inside of me. At that age, I just needed to learn how to tame it.

The benefactor bent down, with what looked like great effort. She leant heavy on her cane and her knees popped. She produced the little doll from the inside of her fur coat pocket.

"Look at this," she said. "And tell me what you see."

I had looked at it. I had looked at its squat painted head, and at the delicate red and blue flowers that made up the pattern of its dress. I had taken it from her outstretched hand and had turned it over between both of my own. I remember the wooden curves of its surface being smooth.

"It’s fat," I said. "Fat and ugly."

The benefactor had sighed with impatience.

"Yes. But what else?"

I looked. I floundered. I shrugged at her.

"I don’t know."

She pointed a finger at the doll’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

"See, there? You think she’s looking at you. But really, she’s looking inward."

I had no idea what she meant. I tried turning the doll around, so that it caught the light. Nothing stood out to me.

"You might not realise it, but she has multiple faces," the benefactor said. "A woman can be tricky, like that. And sometimes men too."

Still, I saw nothing. I turned the doll back and forth.

"How does she hide them?" I asked. "Her faces?"

"By lying."

I had wrinkled my nose, disbelieving. I knew all about lying. I used it and I abused it, though I admit now that I hadn’t been very good. Not yet, at least. For example – I had no concept, back then, of lying to oneself, in order to protect the id from harm. I had no concept of wearing a ruse in order to go undercover, or of convincing oneself of an entirely different personality, for the sake of successful espionage.

"Lying?" I asked her, pretending I had never heard the word.

The benefactor smiled a rare smile. Her one good eye twinkled, knowing.

"Yes, boy. The doll works by wrapping itself within a lie – and then another, and another. All to hide a greater lie, underneath."

I turned the doll over between my fingers. "How?"

She reached out her long, bony hand to lift the doll back up from me. She twisted it and pulled off its egg-shaped head. Inside, another head appeared, slightly smaller than the last.

I remember that I had gasped. To me, the edges of her body had seemed so smooth. I’d had no idea there was an opening.

The benefactor didn’t stop there. She pulled off another head, and then another, going deeper and deeper until she reached the centre of the doll. She handed me the pieces, and I collected what I could between my little palms.

She never asked for them back, so one by one, I had slipped them into my trouser pockets. I could feel the other children’s eyes burning into my side, lime-green from jealousy.

"You can’t trust people, Tom." Before me, the benefactor heaved herself back upward, moving with more popping sounds and a dangerously straining wheeze. Her cane wobbled as she leant on it. "Now, let that be a lesson to you."

A few years later, I was offered my place at Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I forgot all about the old Victorian benefactor – and all about the toy she had bequeathed me, and the message she had tried to send. I thought I was better than her. I thought I was better than everyone, and I didn’t need anyone else’s sage advice, thankyou very much.

So, really, it’s my own damn fault that I’m in the situation I’m in.

______

Chapter 12, 'Matryoshka', from WIP Tomione fic 'Kiss Me Before You Go'. The rest of the fic is available to read on AO3:

[nxmeolvides]

“I’m going to lift you up, okay? Tell me if it hurts.” | from danny (':

Everyone has a point where they break. A point where things just get too hard to do alone. The world too heavy, their heart too lonely, their bones too bruised to keep themselves together. Ana, for so much of her life, has prided herself on her ability to continue past that point. To keep a stiff lip, to pack her insecurities down into a too-small box, to occasionally cry, short wild and angry, and then gather her stubbornness and move forwards. It was only a matter of time before she broke in a way that she couldn’t fix. As it turns out, that way is two, deep puncture wounds, dealt by a cruel knife just below her ribs. She doesn’t know how she hasn’t bled out. Maybe it’s that same stubbornness. It certainly keeps her mouth pressed together so tight, the skin surrounding it is bloodless. There’s a bloodstain on a wall near her, fresh and painted in the print of her hand, where she had stumbled against it and then crumpled to the floor. Her mind had argued that slipping to the floor would be easier, lessening the frustration of falling by reasoning that it was better for her to be there. Less stress on her, if she wasn’t standing. She could figure out what to do next, how to staunch the bloodflow, if her head wasn’t spinning. Danny doesn’t seem to agree with her tentative decision to stay on the ground. And what a godsend he is. Appearing before her like an angel, bulking form blocking out the light in a way that briefly had her heart stop before she heard his voice. And then, all Ana knew was sweeping relief. Her ears feel like they’re beginning to stuff with cotton wool, but she listens to him, each word he says, nods and shakes her head where necessary. Tells him what happened, even though her words are strained and clipped. She doesn’t think she can stand, not right now, and winces through her teeth when she tries. It’s too much, to both try to cradle her wound, and plant a palm against the floor to get up. It slips out from her immediately. It’s an easy decision, then, for him to lift her instead. Danny checks in with her, one strong arm hooking under the bend of her knees, the other coming around to press against her back. Ana knows it’s going to hurt. Knows that they need to go, too — that their hunters could find them at any given moment. And, already, part of her mind is berating her for becoming a burden. Danny can’t protect them both while holding her. Can’t achieve much, like this – not unless his sole goal has become carrying her, and part of her wants to cry that she isn’t worth it. That it’s her own fault she’s here. Her own fault if she bleeds out, after doing what she did. She’s useless now, isn’t she? How can she help anyone if she can’t fight back? Dark eyes meet hers, checking in again, Danny still the solid, sturdy figure he’s always been in her life. He grounds her now, more than ever. Ana nods, the motion of it tight and uncomfortable, hooks one arm around his shoulder. She sums up all the tight-lipped, stubborn courage she can find in her body, and wills herself not to cry out, to hold herself together as much as she can. It can’t stop her from whimpering when he lifts her up. Both her arms tense, her other hand clamped right under her ribs, and Ana’s expression cracks from the pain. Fingers tense, spasm, painted by her own blood, the material surrounding them a deep dark red. It hurts, she thinks, and twin tears bead at her eyes at the thought. She’s never felt so scared. So desperate, for the company of a group that she barely knows. Ana doesn’t want to do this alone, not any longer - regrets thinking she could take on any of that family that way. Regrets having that attitude for all of her life. That man had seen her and her bravado coming, and stuck her like a pig, and now she was going to be a hindrance to everyone. “It hurts,” she manages. Voice quiet, with tears barely held back as she attempts to hide against him. Body curling upwards, gaze retreating in shame to his shoulder. “It really hurts. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I should have never – I was so stupid–”

[nycteres]

Ira Deorum

WIP Prologue for longer fic | Fandom: BG3 | CW: Mildly implied child neglect.

Trying to actually write my dumb little BG3 Protag fanfic. 😭 Idk how far I'll get but i needed a place to store this that was easier than google docs lmao.

Bards and poets alike - the egocentric windbags that they are - have often said, ‘Home is the first grave’.

Aphrodite walks down a dirt and clay road - one she hoped she’d never have to set foot on again - and tries to put the saying out of her mind.

Red road dust licks at her heels. It’s clumped along the straps of her sandals, adding new grit with every step for the last several miles. The hem of her skirt is similarly soiled, clay and linen tangled together, swishing around her ankles sad and deflated.

Half-buried before she’s even reached the doorstep.

By the time the farmhouse comes into view, her tail drags across the ground. It carves little furrows, kicking up more dirt; covering the vibrant purple of her skin with a layer of rusty brown. It hooks on stones and pebbles and she lets it. A yoke she must drag forward. Feeling less like a Tiefling and more like a workhorse with every step.

No one greets her, not when the steps groan loudly at her weight. Not even when the door swings open on tired hinges, with a protesting creak.

Her mother stands in the kitchen, in the same spot she always has, as if she’d never left it in all those years. Sorting beans with quick hands and a tired air.

“Oh,” She startles when seeing her. Bringing a hand up to her chest and letting loose a dramatic sigh. “You gave me a fright there, we weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

“I walk fast,” Aphrodite says, doing what she must. Laying her pack down on a nearby chair and folding her mother into a hug.

She’s just a small as she was last time. Fitting neatly into the space at Aphrodite’s shoulder, hands creased and rough as they fiddle with her blouse, fastidiously tugging at garments that are still well in their place.

Her mother’s complexion is of a similar color, if faded by time and sun. Not an eye catching, violent purple, that Aphrodite takes pain to contrast against fine silks and glittering metals.

Her coloration is almost dun. A muddy violet, chapped and wind worn, one that looks dull even against Aphrodite’s third best traveling cloak. The one made of sensible, dark brown wool. The kind that wont offend her parents with its excess. It’s only concessions to her tastes being the scarlet flowers one of the acrobats in her caravan had embroidered around the hood.

Everything in the farmhouse is muted and weathered. The hug is too, even if Aphrodite lingers out of the vague sense that this is what she owes, as a daughter. Whether she wants to give it or not.

They break away after long enough has passed. Counting the beats in her head until she can unwind her mothers arms, step out of their reach with pity and gentleness and relief.

“In any case, we’re always glad to have you.” Her mother says, going back to her beans with a gentle pat to her shoulder. “I could always use the help. You know how they are.”

“Hard to forget.” She says, sunny; with a drawling trill to her undertone.

Aphrodite’s sarcasm is deftly ignored. The shelled beans falling into the container in little stuttered taps, like rain on a tin roof. Echoes that fill the awkward silence.

“It’s worse than any of the others I’ve had.” Her mother offers. “You’re welcome to try if you feel that confident. He’ll be in the bedroom. It’s a task getting him to come out some days.”

“Really?” She can’t help but needle a bit. “A seasoned veteran like you, done in by a single child?”

“I said it to that priest so he could write it down for me in our letter. And I’ll say to you again now. He’s an odd one. There’s something off about that boy.”

Aphrodite hums, a soothing two tone sound she uses on particularly uppity clients. Falling into the usual song and dance, an worn groove of Deflect, De-escalate and Disengage.

“Why don’t you show me where he is? I’ll see what I can do while you finish up.”

Her mother shoots her a particularly nasty and tired look. One that says that Aphrodite knows exactly where the bedrooms are located and should need no guide.

She doesn't back down, but rolls her eyes. Leaning against the solid oak dining table. One of the few pieces of furniture that doesn't look like it’s old enough to have seen the second sundering. The one that she sent them money for, when their last table broke.

“It’s five steps down the hall, it’s not going to kill you.” She cajoles with a nasty and tired look of her own. “He’s - what? - three, he’d probably be more worried if a stranger came in without him knowing who they are.”

She gets her way in the end. Even if the acquiescence comes with a disgusted sigh. Her guide stomping down the hallway with ill grace.

The door to the third bedroom is thrown open with little fanfare. When Aphrodite steps through, it’s like swimming against a current of Déjà vu. Old memories superimposed against the current floor plan.

It looks different now than when she was last here. Housing one child instead of several. None of the triplets’ effects randomly clutter the floor. There aren’t lutes and lyres and badly whittled flutes to serve as a tripping hazard to unwary visitors. But parts of it are still same in the end.

Faded curtains, a rickety pallet bed. An endless pile of mended blankets to ward off the chill.

“I’m afraid I offended him by trying to get him into a change of clothes this morning. He’s refused to come out since then.” Her mother - their mother - gives another deep exhale. A new kind of weariness in her tone, surprising after eight children. But maybe it shouldn’t be, if one considers what little time she had actually spent with them.

“You’re welcome to try your hand at it,” She offers with a shake of her head, heading back to the kitchen. Not remembering or not caring that she had asked for an introduction.

Aphrodite shuts the door quietly behind her. Cutting off escape routes. Intimately familiar with which hiding spots a small child might favor.

She doesn’t find him in the chest of drawers, or behind the shabby little dresser in the corner. But the creak of a floorboard alerts her to her quarry. Taking pains to move slowly, she steps closer to the bed, sinks to her knees and shuffles under it as best as she can.

He’s wedged against the wall, pillbugged into a stiff little shape. Horns dusted with all the cobwebs that accumulate near the edge of the baseboards, where no one ever sweeps.

“Hello there,” She greets him, taking pains to keep her voice soft and pleasant.

Her brother doesn’t respond. Watching, waiting. With black sclera and bright pupils, a blazing orange that hearkened back to the eternal fires of Nessus.

Not even the shadows can hide the ridiculous coloration of the rest of him. As pink as she is purple, contrasting sharply against the cream linens and homey ginghams that cover their home.

“Well,” She says dryly, not bothered yet by his lack of response. “At least you got some of my good looks.”

“Fate has preserved you from looking like father, in any case,” Aphrodite whispers conspiratorially, knowing children love nothing more than being included in a good gossip session. “Cherry red is very passé I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t respond. But she can see his nails digging gouges into the wood. Still, tense, quiet.

Aphrodite switches tracks. It's the mark of a good conman, knowing when tailor your approach to the current audience.

“My name’s Aphrodite. I’m one of your sisters. Why don’t you come with me, and we can get you something to eat.”

She holds out her hand, dusty with the filth that accumulates underneath a bed. Prepared to wait for as long as it takes.

Which is a while, in the end. A long, expectant silence. Broken only by the roosters crowing outside.

“I promise I won’t make you change clothes.” She whispers conspiratorially. Playing her trump card.

Basking in the success of the moment. When that little hand folds into hers, and lets itself be shuffled out from underneath the bed, cobwebs and all.

His name is Adrammael. A name that is as predictably long and awkward as all of his other sibling’s names. To speak nothing of her own.

Their parents don’t even have the grace to remember which one of them came up with it.

“It’s practically child abuse to make you write that out, when you start learning your letters.” She says to him one evening. When they both sit inside the run, warming themselves in the sun.

“You look more like a Dram to me.” Aphrodite decides with firm certainty.

If Dram has any opinions on the subject, he doesn’t care to share them. Preoccupied with burying his face into one of the chickens that he’s coerced into sitting in his lap. Making one of those odd guttural, humming noises he seems so fond of, muffled by a mouthful of feathers.

Aphrodite would rather swallow a particularly hot coal than admit to her mother being right about anything, but in the privacy of her mind, she is forced to admit. There really is something off about that boy.

Dram takes to her easily enough despite that.

She takes to him too, despite the myriad of difficulties that have stopped their parents from doing the same.

Chief among them being that he doesn’t speak yet. No matter what sort of threat or bribe he’s faced with.

Dram does not speak, even though he’s of the age to. But to everyone’s annoyance - even hers - he has no problem with screaming. He screams when he’s angry and when he’s upset and when they make him wear certain articles of clothing.

He’ll run away if the dinner contains certain vegetables he’s not too fond of. Crawl under the table to hide when they have visitors. Press his hands to his ears and start up a slew of truly concerning vocalizations if he’s forced into a situation that isn’t to his liking.

He’s a terrible handful of a child - despite having practically raised her seven other siblings, possessing more than enough experience with kids of his age - and there are times where Aphrodite fantasizes about going back to her old caravan. Letting her parents sort this one out by themselves. Learn the consequences of not using any kind of protection for once in their lives.

It’s a beautiful fantasy. If one that falls apart pretty quickly.

Crumbling to pieces a little more every time she wakes up and finds him in her room yet again. Waiting to follow her around the house from dawn to dusk. Trailing after her skirts with a solemn stare that seems out of place on his round, little face.

The thrill of it wears down sooner than she thought. Banished completely when she gets him to sound out a word or two after trying for weeks on end. Realizing that it’s not that he can’t, but that he doesn’t want to.

The way he doesn’t want to try yams and the way he doesn’t want to be around their father any more than she does. Scurrying under furniture when he enters the room. The tip of his tail poking out from his hiding places like an over sized rat.

It doesn’t help that her parent’s fall back into old routines easily enough.

Aphrodite’s here after all. No need to look after your own child once the free labor has arrived.

A resentment that grows and festers. Bubbling over when she sees him scoot a stool next to the cabinets one afternoon. Clambering up to the counter in the stumbling, uncoordinated way children of that size navigate the world.

Clumsy, but practiced enough to manage on his own.

A child who had learned to get into the pantry to feed itself, since her parents were still in bed and she hadn’t thought to offer him lunch yet.

Aphrodite watches him gnaw on slightly stale bread. Letting a solid century of grievances darken her thoughts and spur on her pettiness.

Home may be the first grave, but she's not very inclined to bury the hatchet alongside herself.

“Dram,” She says carefully, setting him down from the counter. Reaching for that foreign power that perches on the back of her mind and delights in her rash decisions.

“How would you like to go on a trip with me?”

Dram doesn’t say anything. Keeps working on his snack with single-minded determination.

But his hand winds itself into the fabrics of her skirt easily enough. Tail twining around hers, more at ease with Aphrodite than he is with anyone else. Despite how little time she’s spent with him in comparison to their parents. Barely six weeks, by the time she thinks to start scheming.

“I think you’ll have fun.” Aphrodite pats his head, knowing he won’t mind too much in the end.

“I certainly won’t. Considering how I’ll have to give up most of my social life.”

She sighs dramatically - heartfelt and whiny - in a way she feels that befits someone going through great sacrifice. Letting it all out before she’s forced to move on more actionable concerns.

“But first, we need to eliminate the chance of any surprises of this kind happening again.” Aphrodite relishes the thought. Urging him towards the run. Letting him play with the chickens while she drafts an amendment to a particularly tricky contract, and tries to puzzle out the worth of a foreign body part.

Fae did have an unsettling lust for such things. One which she planned to exploit in her favor.

[spearohero]

This is a story about a sheepgirl holy woman exploring how much of herself is safe to give for the greater good. See Chapter 4 here!

Dawnsister, Chapter 5: All We Have

Ampara sunk into the mire. She drowned; the cold, dreadful feeling of forgetting something of vital importance crept from its usual home in her gut and permeated her whole being. She was late to an engagement; she was unprepared for an examination for her aspirancy; a friend was in need, and she was not there. She wanted, more than anything, to leap to her hooves and run, to stop wasting time, but she could not. Her arms and legs refused to heed her will, and as her heart continued to rail against its bony cage, she too was imprisoned.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed. All at once, her nerves sprang to attention, overwhelming her utterly and yet bringing her no closer to waking; she would struggle, then slip away, and she had no way of knowing how much time had passed by the next time she seized and shivered. Snippets of conversations reached her ears at the times she was closest to lucidity. Hurried instructions, concerned whispers, and faraway chatter, all set against the crackling of a fire; she mustered the strength to whimper, to half-mumble a desperate reply to half-heard words, and then was dragged away from the surface again.

When life finally returned to her paws, she clutched the sheets on which she laid and thrust herself bolt upright. She gulped down air as the sounds of Edelyn’s shelter came into relief in her ears. The bedsheets–now full of ragged holes beneath her claws–and her wool were both damp with her sweat. She reached out, feeling which way she could stand from the cot, but lightning arced through her flank and up her spine as she twisted. She reached down to find bandages wrapped around her torso, and gauze packed over the wound dealt to her by the mercenary. There were smaller bandages peppered across her body, stuck down against shorn patches of skin–lesser wounds that she hadn’t noticed. Such was the danger of her work.

The Dawnsister did not let it stop her; she gritted her teeth and rose anyway, feeling her way around the slapdash infirmary with measured, slow steps. Her blindfold hung on a hook near her bed; she was uncomfortable at the thought of it being removed by someone else, but she supposed that whatever apothecary or chirurgeon had treated her was simply doing their due diligence. She suspected she already knew to whom she owed thanks. Tying on the blindfold once more, she tapped her way into the main floor of the room.

“Sun above, you don’t know when to quit, do you?” Ah, and there she was.

“I cannot quit,” the ewe replied plainly.

“Do you have the slightest idea what it took for me to get you back here?”

“An inkling. I asked you not to follow me.”

“You’d have died if I hadn’t!”

“And I am grateful for your help. Still, you should not be involved in this.”

“Pardon?” the mouse huffed.

“I cannot ask you to put yourself in danger; in fact, I must do the opposite. It is my place to risk myself. Not yours.”

“You forget that we’ve survived this whole disaster thus far! You’ve walked these streets twice; I’ve ventured out for food, for tools, for medicine, more times than I can count!”

“And there is nothing wrong with defending yourself when necessary. It is no longer necessary.”

“I can do more than defend myself. Most of us here can!”

“I can undertake this alone.”

“You couldn’t before!” the mouse spat.

“I was close,” the ewe growled. “And I must return to my task as soon as I can. The longer I remain here, the more time the devils have to return to the city. If it is not kept clear, it will not remain clear, and it will be so until those would-be dragons are separated from their hoards.”

“Then let us keep our own streets safe!”

“You know I cannot allow you to contend with demons.”

“I slew the one that made to sneak up on you.”

“I would have survived such an ambush.”

“But you would have been wounded!”

“That does not matter.”

“It would make the rest of your devil-hunting harder.”

“It would not stop me.”

“But I made it easier for you! Why should you choose to suffer the pain of a fiend’s bite when all it would take to avoid it is another pair of eyes at your back?”

“Because I am willing, and I am able, to bear injuries in the stead of one of my kin.”

“Well I’m willing to risk injury! I’m able! What gives you the right to make that decision for me? From any of us?”

“I can tolerate that pain! I can fulfill my duties even with grievous wounds, and they will not last for me as long as they would last for you! My magic will stitch this gash in my side in two day’s time–any one of you would be bedridden for more than a week, and surely could not fight for another month!”

“But you’re still suffering!”

“My suffering does not MATTER!” erupted the Dawnsister, quieting the whole of the storehouse. “Look at all of you! Look at yourself, Edelyn! You are surrounded by dear friends; some of them are here with their partners! You have people who depend on you! Who love you! To ask you to make such sacrifices would be to take you away from them–perhaps even forever.”

“But there will ALWAYS be sacrifices to be made,” she continued, a flood in place of her fire. “And if I am able to save another soul the pain of making such a sacrifice, I will, and I will do so as many times as I can bear. THAT was the oath I made when I became a Dawnsister: to give myself up. I have need of less than you, and I have more to spare. Some of my sisters could not give as much, and this was no fault of theirs; some of them chose not to, as was their right; but as for myself? I have forged myself into a tool, a weapon, to be wielded in the service of others. I have forsaken such bonds, that there might be more of me to give, that others might have to give less. And I will give all that I have.”

She could feel the eyes of the whole encampment upon her now, and her face burned under their gaze. Edelyn made a soft, strangled noise, as though she had changed her mind just as she began to speak. She couldn’t wait to hear what she would eventually say–she had work to do. She began to turn, to look for her mail and another weapon.

“Ampara–” Edelyn finally mustered. She flinched at the sound of her own name, doubly disquieted by the concern in the voice of its speaker. She was acclimated to neither.

“Please,” she choked. “I am a Dawnsister.”

“Yes, precisely,” the mouse began, taking a step closer. “Your sisters–they took that oath as well, didn’t they?”

“They did, but–”

“Which means they were willing to give of themselves for your sake.”

“...Yes. Still–!”

“Did they ever leave you alone on the battlefield?” Another step closer. The Dawnsister was frozen, unsure whether to face her or keep turning away. A long moment passed.

“No.”

“And did they force you to care entirely for yourself? Did you clean your shrine by yourself, cook and eat by yourself, hone and polish your own weapons?”

“They did not,” she managed, her voice wavering. She thought back to her last breakfast with her sisters; aspirants and superiors, shoulder to shoulder on the benches. She had eaten standing, in the kitchen by the pot, as she served portions to them–she had already sequestered herself in her contemplation, by then–but she realized now how she had cherished the lively sounds. “I did not.”

“Then you already know what it means to accept when others give of themselves. You might’ve tried to live a solitary life, Ampara,” she said, and still the Dawnsister winced in spite of the gentleness in her voice. Edelyn took another step forward, and the ewe closed herself off, curling her arms about herself. “But you never have. None of them could do everything, so they all did what they could, and didn’t expect it of only you. And though you wanted nothing more than to give to your sisters, they wanted to give to you as well. We want to give to you.” She put a paw, gently, on the ewe’s forearm.

“It matters not,” she whimpered, wet spots blooming on her blindfold, shoulders bunching up nearly to her horns. “I still did not give enough. If I had returned sooner, perhaps none of you would have had to endure everything that’s happened. Perhaps…” she choked. “Perhaps my sisters would not have all perished.”

“No one woman can change the world, Ampara,” she reassured her, her name eliciting another sob from the ewe. “Not even you. And you’ve done things no other mortal could do–do you know how long you were out there?”

“No,” she sniffed.

“TWO damned weeks! I didn’t see you sleep once! It’s a miracle the Dawnsisters aren’t subtle, or it would have been dreadful trying to track you down when I lost you overnight!” The ewe giggled, despite herself, and Edelyn grinned warmly. “But it goes to show, doesn’t it? Even someone who can call the very sun down to the earth can’t do this alone. We have to rely on each other, don’t we? After all, we’re all we have.”

“Wise words,” came the warbling reply as Ampara whirled and embraced Edelyn. The blubbering ewe dwarfed her, and though she tried to reciprocate, the mouse could hardly get her arms around her. “Very, very wise words. I am sorry.”

“We’ll make it up, sister. Together.”

Having finally relented, Ampara agreed to rest properly, at least until her largest wound healed. It weighed easier on her mind knowing that she would recover faster than most, but it made little difference; resting by no means meant that she couldn’t help in other ways.

She was still the most experienced, at least in demon-hunting, by decades; she set about educating anyone willing to pick up a weapon in the defense of their neighbors. She stressed that most of them would be better suited to learning self-defense and staying as far away from devils as possible, there were exceptions among their community. Edelyn, clearly, was intrepid enough to at least play the role of scout, and some among them, like the watchman, were veterans who had no home to return to upon the conclusion of their tours. Under her tutelage, she could see them keeping at least the streets around the storehouse free of demons–and perhaps, with greater numbers, they could maintain the safety of even more homes.

In addition to her knowledge, she shared her strength with the other sick and injured who came to visit the shelter; at least, to the extent that Edelyn would allow her before she began to fuss about how Ampara would keep up her own magical healing act. She also began recounting the history of the Dawnsisters and discussing the intricacies of wielding the light to anyone who would listen. Soon enough, she had many new inquirers–with fewer monsters in the streets, the people could meet and speak more freely, and news spread quickly about the source of all the demonic disappearances and extraordinary lights that had swept through the city.

This alone would have been enough to undermine the influence of the burg’s barons: the arrival of a Dawnsister was tantamount to a warrant on each of their heads, and their lieutenants could tell that they grew more fearful by the day. Not only that, but news of a collective working to reconstruct the town–to feed, shelter, clothe, and heal those in need, all for its own sake–rekindled hope in the hearts of those within their walls that they could survive without the need for such coercive measures. As their numbers began to wane, though she was eager to knock them from their thrones, she did not feel the need to formally plan an offensive. After all, the ascendant Dawnmother would soon have a brand-new generation of Dawnsisters to lead, and with so many working arm in arm, they could not be stopped.

[crosseyedcricketart]

Target Open Story Review - Toiletry Bag & Compression Bag Set

This is a repost of my original blog post on my website, https://crosseyedcricket.art, from this post here! i would appreciate if you would subscribe to my blog or follow me here!

Open Story Small Hanging Toiletry Bag – Blue 

This toiletry bag comes with a handle and a hanging hook, with two zipper compartments, two mesh compartments, and the main body of the bag. For $13 ($12.99 technically), this is the size I would expect. I love the blue color. 

I used this bag on a recent, 7-day 6-night trip, where I was able to pack most of my toiletries I needed in this bag. For reference, I brought nail care, my shampoo & conditioner bar, body wash bar, tea tree oil, face wash, face cream, facial sunscreen, toothbrush, toothpaste, underwear liners, perfume roller, lip balm, chafing stick, travel poopouri, and a body lotion pump. I carried my deodorant with me in my backpack, just in case, so that did not go in this bag. A lot. All of that comfortably fit in this bag and nothing in the bag was damaged or broken when I arrived at my destination or when I arrived home. Again, a note I travelled by car, not plane, so this has not been through luggage abuse.

I love the size of this bag— it is just right for me. It’s bigger than a cosmetic bag, but smaller than the toiletry bags the men in my family use. I’m sure I would be able to fit more into this bag than what I brought if I really planned out where it would go. This is currently my go to. 5/5 stars. 

Have these photos to show all what I fit in there, it fully packed, and its size in relation to my hardshell luggage and weekender bag. 

Open Story 5pc Compression Bag Set

This compression bag set comes with 1 small, 2 medium, and 2 large bags. These bags are not for vacuum sealing; instead, the way you use them is like this: you fill, zip them with their zipper enclosure, and roll the bags to push out the air. Once they’re closed, they’re airtight and waterproof. They’re $20 ($19.99 technically). 

I recently purchased these for a roadtrip where I wanted to take a couple of sweaters; I’ve put my clothes into zip bags before and pushed out the air, but that really only works if that apparel item fits into a gallon size bag. So, I figured, these would be worth a try and the investment. 

I used these for a wool duster from H&M and a men’s large cotton knitted sweater; I used the two medium size bags for these. They fit the items very well and I was able to organize them in my hardshell luggage well. Overall, very pleased with this. 

For my return trip, I filled one of the large ones with my dirty clothes, consisting of undergarments, socks, and shirts. This fit all of them and didn’t seep into any clean clothes I was taking home. Again, very pleased. 

I really enjoy these. I can see me using them in a lot of different ways, for storage and travel, and I love that they really do condense down a puffy sweater that wants to take up half of my suitcase with no vacuum. 5/5 stars.

I hope these reviews were helpful for you and were in depth enough to fully get together all my opinions! I certainly would recommend both of these products, but don’t feel inclined to buy something because of these types of posts. Only get something if you need it or will use it. 

Happy travels! – Annie, The Crosseyed Cricket

I run my blog with my personal issues in mind, and that includes eye strain, eye issues, and being autistic, so i try to run my blog in a way that is accommodating for me and those like me. I cover travel, my art, and a few beauty reviews.

[silvanils]

a ward against the wind’s chill

a prompt fill for @nirnwrote​​

Relationships: Farkas x Aril, Aril & Vilkas, Vilkas & Farkas Rating: G Content Warnings: none! this is pure fluff!

This takes place fairly early in their relationship - not long after Farkas has started spending more nights at Aril’s place than his quarters at Jorrvaskr, and a while before Aril joins the Circle.

If you’d prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the story here!

Farkas awakened just after dawn to  the warm, sweet scent of Aril’s favorite spiced tea drifting up from the kitchen. He couldn’t hold back a grin as he got up and tugged on one of Aril’s soft, fluffy robes — his heart felt warm and soft today, too.

Full.

As he made his way down the stairs, the morning light was starting to drift in through the cottage’s windows. One ray of light fell across the back of Aril’s bowed head, illuminating his snow-bright hair… and Farkas went still without even meaning to, appreciating the beauty of the moment.

Aril was sitting in a strange position, one leg curled up to hold the cloth he was working on — a grey-wool scarf, it looked like, still in-progress. He had a strand of yarn looped around his right-hand while his left was busy working with a hooked needle, growing the cloth a little more with each swift-stitch.

His lips quirked into a little smile as he glanced up from his work, his sky-blue gaze just as soft and warm as the morning sun. “Good morning,” Aril said. “I made enough tea for two.”

Farkas grinned as he made his way over to the stove. An empty cup was already sitting by the kettle, waiting for him, and as he filled it with tea he felt the joy and affection in his heart spill-over.

Gods, I love this man.

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked aloud, beaming as he turned to face Aril again. “I didn’t know you could knit! Is there anything you can’t do?”

Aril laughed, shaking his head. “This is crochet, dear. Ironically, knitting is something I could never wrap my head around. Two needles was too many for me.” He tugged more yarn up, sighing contently. “I find this work is more forgiving of the occasional mistake, too. I’m far from perfect.”

“I beg to differ,” Farkas scoffed quietly, taking a seat across from him. Aril was blushing, now, and that was absolutely adorable. “I mean, look at that! That’s amazing. I wish I could make my own scarves!”

Aril’s ears perked up just a little as he smirked, in the impish way Farkas was beginning to realize meant he was being coy about something. He arched one of his eyebrows and leaned in. “Alright, spill it.”

“This scarf isn’t for me,” Aril admitted. “It’s a gift. For someone’s birthday. Of course, I had made one already, but… I didn’t want the other twin to feel left out, so…”

Farkas blinked, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place. “Wait — ”

Before he could say more, however, Aril had paused his work to pull a neatly-folded scarf out from behind his back. It was made of grey wool, too, but embellished with little stripes of the lovely periwinkle-blue he’d begun to associate with Aril.

“Happy birthday, love,” Aril said. “I hope it keeps you a little warmer in these cold months.”

.

Around noon, Aril and Farkas finally left home and meandered through the Whiterun market as they made their way to Jorrvaskr — and Aril smiled each time his eyes fell on Farkas, taking in the sight of him wearing his new gift.

A ward against the wind’s chill.

It was an old belief his grandmother passed on to him: that there is a special kind of magic in the act of crafting something with your own hands for someone you love. Each step of the creation becomes a prayer.

Stay safe. Stay warm. I love you.

In his hands, those prayers do tend to become enchantments. Both the scarf Farkas now wore and the newly-finished one Aril had tucked in his pack had mild wards against chill and magic worked into them. After all, no matter what the nords might claim… Aril’s sure they are not completely immune to winter’s cold.

His own heart was warmed, now, seeing Farkas wear his gift with such pride.

“That’s a pretty scarf,” Carlotta said, smiling as Farkas perused her stand. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” Farkas said, grinning as he gestured toward Aril. “He made it!”

Aril knew he was blushing, now — the awe and praise in that simple statement was too much for him to handle, and the way Carlotta’s expression softened as she looked at them, now, together…

“How sweet,” she said, chuckling as she passed each of them a fresh apple. “Here. These are on the house, today.”

The whole city was bustling with activity and the scents of baking — the last big harvest was well underway, now, and Aril was astonished by how efficiently the people of Whiterun were preparing for winter.

When Farkas gave him a curious look, Aril reached out to thread their arms together and smiled up at him. “I was just recalling harvest-time in Anvil. It was never this busy, but… winters there are milder, and the sea provides bounty year-round.”

Farkas placed one of his hands over Aril’s, and it felt like a promise. “Don’t worry,” Farkas said, his voice soft. “I’ll make sure you…”

Before he could finish, though, his brother’s voice rang out from the steps leading to the mead hall. “Farkas! There you are! I was wondering when you’d show up!” As Farkas turned to face Vilkas, he didn’t release Aril’s hand — and Aril, already blushing, flushed more as the way he was tugged along by the motion made him stumble a little.

Vilkas raised his eyebrows. “I see you brought Aril, too.”

“Hello, Vilkas,” Aril said, clearing his throat. As close as he’d grown to Farkas these past few weeks, Vilkas remained distant and aloof. Aril wasn’t sure how to change that. “It’s, ah, good to see you?”

“He has something for you,” Farkas cut in, gently nudging Aril to step forward. “A gift.”

Vilkas raised his eyebrows even more. “Oh? Really? Now this I must see.”

Aril reluctantly let go of Farkas so he could take the little scarf-bundle out of his pack. He’d tied a bright blue ribbon around it, but the soft grey-wool of the scarf was still clearly visible. Bundled up inside it were a few extra surprises — a book he knew Vilkas had been wanting to add to his collection, and a sachet filled with a herbal tea blend of his own making.

“Happy birthday, Vilkas,” Aril said, holding it out. “I hope you like it.”When Vilkas took it, he held it as though it were some priceless artifact. After he tugged the cloth open to see what was inside, his expression grew softer than Aril had ever seen it — and the resemblance between him and Farkas was undeniably clear.

“Thank you,” Vilkas sighed. “This is… very thoughtful.”

And as he draped the scarf around his neck, Aril felt as sense of calm wash over him, as though he’d finally left behind a rocky, turbulent sea.

Stay warm. Stay safe. I love you, too.

[myimaginedcorner]

HAPPY NEW YEAR: V/MC

WARNING: Potential spoilers for one of V' Good Endings.

It smells of candles. Their sweetened, smoky scent greets me on the last step of our cold threshold, breaking through polished wood of our front door. A circle, made of spruce, is hung from the big latch, delicate bows running their red ribbons over frozen metal. Forest with fire weaves the wild into the welcoming. It’s an odour that makes me feel at home.

With a small smile, I open the last barrier that splits reality from our small world, no key required for the lock to recognise my touch. Heat jumps upon me, embracing tightly my cold skin, gripping upon my reddened ears with its prickling fingers. Closing the door to not let it escape, I take off all my upper clothes, peeling the onion of fur and wool that kept me safe from winter’s temper. I still can’t understand the appeal of spending these times of the year in such a place. However, they insisted that we needed snow.

Hanging my belongings on a pair of hooks, I quickly check my looks in a small mirror. Then, I finally take time to gaze around.

The fireplace is lit, warm flames happily dancing on a pair of logs. Above them, socks of an abnormal size hang dangerously close to twinkling red, their colours sticking out to the brightest attire. A carpet lays in front, deer running over stacks of snow, odd carriages following loaded with bags of presents. On the right side, a tree stands, stolen from the forest into a big pot. Its branches hold with their sharp ends balls made of gold and silver, elegant patterns drawn upon smooth paint that talked of stories I’ve been recently taught. Other figures are also present: angels, whose wings twinkled in the faint light of the twilight room; snowmen, a figure made of snow that I had pleasure to enjoy creating; and even more deer, of all the forms and shapes, some dressed in clothes and some standing on their hind legs. Beneath, a couple of wrapped boxes hide between the lower branches.

“You like it?”

Their voice doesn’t catch me by surprise, their whisper coming from my back. I’m used to them approaching without being noticed, a shadow that is always there to listen to my words. I smile, watching them give me a cup of wine, glass patterned with snowflakes frozen in an eternal fall.

“It’s absolutely stunning.”

My answer brings a smile upon their lips, warm and contempt. It’s a different smile, one that is never shown beneath their usual mask. A smile that only I enjoy.

“Is this one of those celebrations you’ve told me about?”

Taking me by the hand, they guide me to the carpet’s comfort, making me sit with them, legs crossed, eyes jumping between two different tones of gold.

“One of them,” they tell, raising their glass. I follow, clinking our drinking vessels, my lips tasting grapes far past their date. They know to pick it well – the flavour always left me wanting more.

“You’ll make me jealous of that cup,” their quiet laughter brings me out of my connoisseur moment, a roll of eyes being my answer. They never know how to keep quiet or keep still – a trait that makes them shine above everyone else.

“What can I say, wine tastes amazing,” with a shrug, I drink a little more, our little game of tug-of-war being our favourite pastime.

“I can also taste amazing.”

“You want me to eat you?”

“Sounds like a good gift.”

“My sole presence is already a perpetual gift, Darieri. Never forget that.”

We laugh together, our shoulders touching. Suddenly, they steal my glass and reach for the wrapped packs, my hands now occupied by something heavy and non-alcoholic.

“Speaking of,” as their smile grows, I see a spark of sly expectation run across their eyes, a natural behaviour for this shameless Traveller. I shake my head, starting to break the envelope. They always like to be one step ahead…

Something sparkles between my fingers, something cold and metallic. With my eyes open wide, I raise to my sightline a necklace made of delicate silver, a pendant hanging from its bottom in form of two sticked curves. Their shape resembles waves that wrap around its edges, a dot placed centre to each of their unfinished discs. It’s a hieroglyph, the Neutral Lands’ main symbol. A sign I haven’t seen in a long time.

“I thought you’d like to commemorate yourself,” tilting their head, V watches my expression carefully, a mote of doubt present within their pupils. “Today is a good day to remember where you come from… and what it means.”

I purse my lips, passing my fingers over the accessory. Neutral Lands… home of the Visionary, home of the only Freedom that exists. A place reigned by no rules but chaos. It’s an appropriate gift, and one that tells much more than one can merely see.

The place where everything truly started…

I turn towards Darieri, without a single word approaching their beautiful face. Leaving them with no time to act, I take them by the chin and place a kiss upon their softened lips, my eyes closed in attempt to stop emotions. They answer, obviously – how could they not. I feel their grip upon my shoulders, one hand caressing my hot cheek. Their touch burns skin: I feel like melting. My heart’s pace stops, resuming a frenetic beat after a moment of brief disbelief. A Universe beneath their feet, yet I’m the brightest star they’ve found on their horizon. Intoxicating, that’s how I can describe the feeling of being loved by such a creature – a poison stronger than any drink.

As we part, their warm breath reaches my cold nose, goosebumps running across my skin with a brief giggle from the tickling. Their hand still rests upon one of my cheeks. Their eyes, as deep as void, watch mine in trance. Now, I’m not hypnotised by them – it’s them who fall for my enchanted charm.

“Merry Christmas…?” I whisper, my smile mirroring their own.

“That was a little earlier… or it’ll be a little later,” they mumble back.

“Happy New Year…?”

“That’s still to come, my love.”

“Then, what’s the occasion?”

“Everything at once.”

Tomorrow, a new day will come. It’ll bring us new adventures, and new ways to go. Perhaps we’ll part, our paths not always crossing in our wishes. Perhaps, we’ll argue, our views differing in our own opinions. However, we’ll always come back. To this warm fireplace. To this small house. To snow, that lays across the mountains. To a big tree, whose roots we hid in potted soil. To a new year, that’s almost here.

To us, who wait for it, together.  

[contreparry]

happy friday! this week, perhaps "Seeing a dead person you knew in a stranger’s face" from the invisible cities prompts, for a character of your choice?

Absolutely! Here's some pre-Inquisition Trevelyan for @dadrunkwriting

"Absolutely not," Evelyn said as she rolled up the blankets and stuffed them into her pack. Olivia stomped her foot and sniffed loudly, a remnant of the mild chill she had taken when they traveled across Ferelden to Haven. Yet even though she was still sick and they were camped out on the edge of the Mage encampment outside of the Temple of Andraste and were surrounded by Templars and Chantry loyalists, Olivia's adventurous spirit couldn't be dimmed. It fell to Evelyn to be the disciplinarian, because her fellow Ostwick mages all made themselves scarce the moment they sensed an argument brewing on the horizon.

Assholes, the lot of them.

"But Evelynnnnn-" Olivia breathed in deeply, ready to launch into an impassioned speech that only a sixteen year old could prepare and recite. Evelyn placed a packet of medicinal plants on top of the blankets, then hid them under several pairs of clean wool socks. The dried plants weren't rare, but they were needed- and they were scarce. And you could never be too careful around strangers. Especially with the Templars about. Ex-Templars? In any case, travel was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Olivia was in no condition to travel anywhere, except back to her bedroll to sleep.

"No, Olivia," Evelyn interrupted. "You're not going to Haven today."

"But the Mages from the Spire are going! I won't be by myself!" Olivia insisted. Her pale red hair, almost golden in the winter sun, fell out of her tight crown braid and stuck to her forehead and neck in long tendrils. Her pale blue eyes narrowed as she glowered down at Evelyn. Evelyn sighed and folded a spare tunic on her lap. Her fingers traced the mending on the elbow. Mages from the Spire- Olivia had spent the past month in the company of Enchanters at least a decade older than her. A day with her peers would be a welcome change, and Olivia was only sixteen. And with the Divine and Andraste's Ashes so close only the most brazen would dare to fight on consecrated ground. There might be bitter words and whispers and watchful gazes, but an attack? No one would attack. Hopefully.

She looked up into Olivia's shadowed face. The sunlight turned the tendrils of her pale red hair white, almost like- Evelyn turned away. Lydia was a ghost who would never leave her mind. She was everywhere in Ostwick, from Deidre's playful scolding to Olivia's hair, and it just- Lydia didn't get a chance to travel. She never left Ostwick. Oftentimes Evelyn caught her mentor gazing out the window, out towards the sea, a wistfully misty look in her dark green eyes. She had friends across Thedas, life-long friendships that meant the world to her, but Lydia never met them. She never had the chance to, and now she never would. It was too late for her to meet her fellow Mages from other Circles, too late to put faces to letters that spanned across decades. Lydia was too late.

Olivia, however, was not.

"You're still sick," Evelyn finally said.

"Bu-"

"But if you're careful, and you buy some medicine from the apothecary, you can go," Evelyn interrupted. One day in Haven couldn't possibly hurt anyone, right? Everyone else was off doing their own business, and Olivia was a responsible girl! She could hold her own if there was any trouble- her ice magic was nothing to scoff at, and she packed a wallop of a left hook. She would be fine. Everything would be fine.

"That's not- wait. Really?" Olivia blinked. "You... you said I could go?"

"You've been patient and steadfast this entire journey. You deserve a chance to have fun. Make friends," Evelyn stood up and slung her pack over her shoulder. "Now hurry along, I'll see you at dinner. I'm off to the Temple, there's apparently a marketplace and someone's selling a manuscript on extinct plants I want to look at."

"Ugh, the plants again!" Olivia stuck out her tongue, just like Lydia might have done when they were young, before she was made First Enchanter. "You be careful too, Evelyn."

"Of course. Remember, go to the apothecary once you reach Haven. And if you're winded, rest!" Evelyn ordered, and she wrapped her arms around the girl and hugged her tightly. Be safe, she wanted to murmur. Don't draw attention to yourself, she wanted to add. But instead she stepped back and gently pushed Olivia out of the tent and into the sun.

"And have fun!" she added with a smile. Olivia laughed, swooped in to hug Evelyn so tightly it felt like her bones may crack under the pressure, and then she was gone, running up the switchback trail from their campsite near the frozen stream and up towards the White Spire camp, further away from the temple gates. Evelyn sighed and adjusted the straps of her pack. Lydia would have teased her for being soft, for relenting to a child's pleading and wheedling. Lydia would have laughed and joked about her secretly tender heart. Oh Evie, she would have said, your secret is safe with me!

"Back to work, then," Evelyn muttered, and she gazed up to the gray stone walls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If it had been anything else Evelyn would stay in the tent, but she had been searching for that particular manuscript for years. It had information about an ancient herb that was often used for medicine that might help slow Blight sickness, and- well, it could be useful. The best way to survive, to make sure that everyone survived, was to be valuable. Useful. Indispensable. And if that document could help- Evelyn shuddered and took one step forward.

She couldn't wait for the day to be over with.