#*holds this up proudly like a child does with a crayon drawing* everyone look at my daughters

[dinodogs]

cries I love them so much

#*holds this up proudly like a child does with a crayon drawing* everyone look at my daughters #rwby #rwby jl 2 #rwby justice league #rwby jl spoilers #btw if anyone wants the source lmk #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #personal

[ask-court-genshin]

Not anything related to events whatsoever but imagine growing up with Kaveh and Al Haitham in an orphanage.

The three of you are inseparable. Although none of you had reached the world outside the Akademiya, your close-knit group was more than enough mental stimulation for your young mind.

You don't remember a lot about your childhood enough, but you'll never dare forget these two. You enjoyed playing with the two boys, often teaming up with Al Haitham to assign Kaveh as a family dog or making Al Haitham play lazy roles like "the tree that stands outside a castle". There was never any need to know any other faces than the people you've seen throughout your childhood, and you've never wanted to cross the outside bother.

That was all until third grade when one day, your teacher gloomily walks to class, dropping a few of their papers, sloppily picking them up before sitting down. Every child sees her as a guardian. It was clear to everyone that Miss Rukkha had been having a particularly rough patch that week, and then she asked you all a question:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Numerous voices– dreams filled the room, bright. Nilou said she wanted to be a dancer– you've heard Dehya speak of becoming an adventurer of sorts that protects her friends– and Kaveh proudly stated that he'll become an architect worthy of expanding the orphanage.

But Miss Rukkha laughed somberly.

"I'm sorry, children, but much like a seed expected to be grown and plucked as a beautiful rose–" she breathed, the pain evident in her voice.

"The truth is, we will see no fruition to those dreams, for you are created and raised to be harvested– with the time for wilting stolen from you." Miss Rukkha sobbed. "You will never see what becoming old is like. We have reared you in for the potential of your organ donations, and to this day, we cannot even tell if you children are human."

Miss Rukkha gazed at Al Haitham specifically.

"Even with my age–" she laughed again, although joking, her chuckle remained hollow. "I still can't tell. I still can't tell if clones are just like us– just like me."

Your teacher slowly skimmed through the papers, seeing Kaveh's crayon drawings. The colors are vibrant and the strokes were masterful: befitting of a genetically enhanced child.

Memories are a fragile thing, but it's not particularly forgiving when it comes to phrases that will haunt you.

"Do any of you have any real souls and dreams at all, or am I fighting for my delusions...?"

You don't have anyone in life anymore. They've all "completed" the goal they were assigned to. Now in your thirties, you've gotten yourself a rather unsurprising occupation as the "carer". You've convinced yourself this was the job for you since it helps you look after the clones who will donate their organs until they inevitably pass.

But it does have it's empty moments. Sometimes, you'd take a good look at the drawings Kaveh had done. You wished you had better momentos to keep Al Haitham in your mind, but perhaps his faulty earphones is enough for you to hold on to.

"Miss Dehya, are you ready?"

She sighed.

"(Y/n), you know this is my last donation..."

"I know, I know..." You nodded politely. "I'm sorry."

"Just– just shut it." This was Dehya, that was by no means impolite. Being blunt was her weapon of choice to protect herself.

...

"Say, (Y/n)," she looked down. "When's your... You know..."

"In October 13th."

Dehya immediately jolted up.

"On the same day?!–"

"On the same day Kaveh and Al Haitham had theirs in 2021 and 2022 respectively, correct."

"These people are demented."

Dehya didn't know you three chose this date.

"At least they're people." You smiled. "We're just clones, after all."

"But it don't feel that way, don't it?"

You didn't say a word.

...

"... Will you be fine?" She asked.

"I'll be fine– and you will be fine." You took her hand. "Because..."

"Why are you crying?" Al Haitham bends down, looking down at you. He was slightly taller, but with you on the ground it seemed as though he was towering you. "Are you sad because we're clones?"

"Of course they're sad about that, you idiot!!!" Kaveh smacked his head. "Who wouldn't?!"

Al Haitham didn't seem to mind as much as anyone else, and perhaps that's precisely why Miss Rukkha gazed at him.

"But what exactly are you sad about?"

"I-I–" you choked out, mid-tears. "I wanted to be with you two!!! I wanted to be with you and Kaveh for much longer!!!"

Kaveh's lips trembled. "(Y/n)..."

Al Haitham frowned. He knelt down to your level.

He hugged you.

"I see."

Al Haitham pulled away. "How about this: why don't we all complete our final donations on the same day?"

"We can't," Kaveh frowned. "I'm older than you guys by two years..."

"If we can't do it in the same year, then let's pick a date." Al Haitham proposed. "This way, we'll still feel a bit closer."

He wiped your cheeks roughly. "How does that sound?"

You sniffled.

Kaveh, knowing that Al Haitham's idea doesn't sound particularly comforting, knelt down beside him and took your hand.

"Hey, hey, you'll be okay– we'll be okay– wanna know why? Because..."

"Because even though we're having a hard time leaving– we're not meant for this world. Our dream life is somewhere up there, on a castle in the sky, where there's a lush green tree that lazily sways and a happy golden retriever waiting for us to come home."

#yes this is inspired by a pretty cool sht i have to consume for grades– look up Never Let Me Go! #... and if you're gonna ask– no i genuinely just had this brainrot over that book and not the promised neverland– i think #that manga/anime is actually based on this book? #kaveh x reader #al haitham x reader #tw: death #tw: sadness #dehya #astronetwrk #this is so low effort but eh hAHAHHA #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x you #alhaitham x reader

[fangurk]

Puppy Love (The Cullen Family x Child! Werewolf! Reader)

Key:

Y/n - Your Name

Y/h/c - Your Hair Color

Y/e/c - Your Eye Color

Y/f/c - Your Favorite Color

Y/f/f - Your Favorite Flavor

Prompt (given to me by @inrice): but could you do something along the lines of the cullens (mainly alice) takes upon the job of raising a werewolf!reader? who's a child of course.

Summary: Alice Cullen stumbles upon a very strange, very lonely child while out on a hunt and, in true Cullen fashion, decides to take them home. Nobody knows how to take care of a werewolf or a child, but when they put in a collective effort (and bring in the help of Bella) things start getting easier...

Warning: Is this kidnapping? It might be kidnapping, fluff, slightly angsty at some parts, AU because Caius is cruel, and potentially odd genderless terms of endearment.

A/n: family fic makes the brain go brrr. so like i didn't really know how to handle the whole werewolf thing because the twilight lore is so... bare... and i wanted to write more on the family parts so it's not like a real focus but it is mentioned quite a bit. I hope that's okay! /gen

Word Count: 1.2k+

Alice wasn’t able to foresee you.

She simply stumbled across you one day on a hunt, your tiny body curled up at the base of a tree. You smelled so much of dog she almost mistook you for one, and then you looked up at her with big y/e/c eyes and she knew.

Carlisle wasn’t very happy when she brought you home.

“The Volturi will have a field day with this.” He says as he repacks his doctor bag. “The child is dangerous to have around.”

“But they're all alone, Carlisle. You said it yourself, they looked like they were out there for days— and I waited there with them until nightfall, no one came…”

Her shoulders fall and she looks at the door separating them from the rest of the family.

“Oh please just let them stay, we’ll all take care of them— if anything we’re better suited for it than anyone!”

Carlisle opens his mouth to protest but is interrupted by Esme opening the door, you asleep in her arms. All of his hesitance melts away at the sight, and at the sound of your small snores.

He sighs. “Fine, the child can stay— but we have to be careful.”

Alice nearly erupts with her joy, and Carlisle tries to hide a smile.

──────────────────

They give you a nice bedroom.

Rosalie, Alice, and Esme take an entire day to shop, nearly clearing out three children’s stores in the process. They build you furniture and they paint the walls a pretty shade of y/f/c; you now own more toys and clothes than a kid can possibly comprehend.

You spend the day with Emmett, the only Cullen boy who’s comfortable getting close to you, and he introduces you to the wide range of children’s cartoons. Your browsing ended with Crashbox, something that had the big man far more into it than you, but it was fun nonetheless.

“Want to see your room, Y/n?” Rosalie hums, poking her head around the corner and flashing you a dazzling smile.

The ladies let you wander around the new space, excitement brightening your features.

Emmett is still enraptured by the TV long after you’re put to bed.

──────────────────

Most days are good days.

Even if two of the family members seem a little afraid of you, you’re happy. You’re fed and clothed and loved.

But then there are bad days.

You wouldn’t eat. Nothing Esme made you was satisfactory and you were too upset and overwhelmed to let anyone know what you wanted; everyone tries to comfort you, even Jasper with his powers, but none of it really seems to work.

And then Edward comes home.

He left at some point during the crying and everyone figured that he was just bailing ship like he usually does when it comes to you. But, in reality, he somehow managed to get a cohesive reading of your mind and immediately went to someone who could help him.

“I brought Bella.” He says, gesturing awkwardly at his equally awkward girlfriend when five sets of frustrated eyes land on him.

“And I brought chicken nuggets…” The brunette human raises the bag up with a smile.

Everyone watches in confusion as you perk up a bit.

“Uh, here.” Bella crosses the room and places the bag down in front of you.

You open the bag and immediately start eating, sniffling but no longer upset. Every Cullen is reeling in shock.

“Well. What do you have to say to Bella?” Alice clears her throat, giving you an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Bella.” You mumble, mouth full of food.

“Oh- it was actually Edward’s idea.”

You turn and thank him, beaming, and he gives you a crooked smile in return.

Afterward, Edward doesn’t really avoid you anymore.

──────────────────

‘Children of the Moon’ don’t pass their lycanthropy onto their offspring.

Alice doesn’t like to think about it, but sometimes the implication that someone bit and infected you consumes her mind and it makes her want to cry.

──────────────────

On the days they go to school, you do too.

They figure it’s good for you to spend time with other kids your age, and it seems to be. You always come home with crazy stories of playtime adventures and smelling of paint and crayons; the teachers love you, or more so the bright little woman who picks you up from school.

“Draw your family.” The teacher encourages one day.

You draw the Cullens.

When you proudly hand it to Alice when she picks you up from school, she lifts you up in a hug. Jasper frames your little drawing and puts it up next to all of their graduation caps.

──────────────────

The full moon is pretty horrific.

In order to keep everyone safe from your tiny claws, they keep you in the basement. For hours before the transformation, you just lie down there and wail-- you’re only little, it’s only fair.

Alice sits outside and talks to you the whole time, her voice wavering and her hands shaking.

She doesn’t move after the wails turn into howls, even if it would be safer to do so.

──────────────────

“Does Jasper hate me?”

You’re wrapped up in bandages, sitting on the picnic blanket with your adoptive mother and eating a sandwich too big for you as her husband pretends to do something down by the water. Alice is completely blindsided. They’ve sort of explained what they are to you, and you’ve kind of filled in blank spaces to the best of your ability, but she’s still unsure how to explain Jasper’s hesitance.

She doesn’t wind up having to.

“No,” He says, sitting down next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, “I don’t. I’m actually quite fond of you darlin’.”

That alone seems to satisfy you and, over time, he loosens up a bit.

Jasper seems happier than he has in a while, listening to you talk about things little kids talk about, and Alice watches fondly with a smile.

──────────────────

One of them reads a story and tucks you into bed every night.

Most times it’s Alice, sometimes Jasper joins in.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re clean and showered, dressed in a cute little pajama set, and nestled under the covers; she’s lying down next to you, Goodnight Moon open in her hands, and he’s in a chair next to the bed.

“... goodnight noises everywhere.” She finishes, smiling at your drooping eyes and lulling head.

Carefully, she unwinds herself from you and, with the help of her husband tucks the blanket under your sides. You tug your favorite stuffed animal close to your chest, y/e/c eyes closed, and a smile on your little face.

“Goodnight, y/n.” “Night, kid.” They each say, Alice bending down to kiss your head and Jasper opting to stand there and smile.

“G’night mom and dad.”

Jasper’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head and he turns to face his wife quickly.

Alice Cullen, the girl who forgot half of her life, never felt more whole than she did standing in your room, holding her mate’s hand, and turning off the light as the hushed sound of a cricket’s song filled the big house...

tag list:

@batmanunicorns523

#alice cullen x reader #jasper hale x reader #alice cullen imagine #jasper hale imagine #the cullens x reader #the cullens #twilight imagines #twilight saga #twilight #emmett cullen #rosalie hale #edward cullen #bella swan #carlisle cullen #esme cullen

[tobesolonely]

it’s not christmas ‘til you come home

a/n: hello!! please enjoy this piece from my dad!harry universe! (u dont have to read any of them for it to make sense, but it would be cool if u did! loosely based on it’s not christmas ‘til you come home by norah jones <3 hope you enjoy! thank u to @harryysstyless​ for beta reading for me!! happy holidays everyone :)

warnings: SMUT, a bit of angst <3 word count: ~5.1k 

my ko-fi! thank you :)

December 23rd, 2:00 PM

For as long as you and Harry have been in a relationship, you’ve never not spent a Christmas together. 

Before expanding your family, you and he used to hop from party to party every Christmas Eve. Both of you would be absolutely trashed by the time Harry’s driver would drop you off at his house in the early hours of the morning. You’d sleep in until approximately noon, willing your hangovers to go away before finally making it down the stairs and into the kitchen to prepare two steaming cups of coffee. The two of you would then make your way into the living room and exchange gifts (where Harry always went way over the budget you’d set). 

Once you had your first child, Allison, your yearly tradition of party hopping and getting so drunk you could hardly put one foot in front of the other was no more. Instead, you and Harry opted for calm nights in, watching Christmas movies and drinking hot cocoa until she eventually grew tired and got carried up to bed. You would wait an hour or so before springing into action, playing Santa and setting out all of the gifts she asked for and then some. Harry never forgot to take a big bite out of the cookie and carrot left out for Santa and his reindeer.

This tradition stayed the same once your second baby, Oliver, was born. Even though he was too young to know what was going on, Harry was still excited to spoil him rotten this year as it was his first Christmas. However, given the current state of the world, you were afraid Harry would not be here for the first time ever.

“Mumma, when’s daddy coming home?” your six-year-old, Ally, asked for what had to be the seventh time that afternoon. “I made him a drawing for his gift ‘nd I can’t wait for him to see it!”

“Let me see what you drew for Daddy, love bug,” you say cheerily, purposefully glossing over her question. Ally proudly holds her drawing up next to her face. She looks up at you with wide eyes, awaiting a compliment from you. 

“That’s gorgeous, bug! Daddy’s gonna love it,” you inform her. “Maybe you can stick a lil’ bow on it and set it under the tree for him, hmm?” 

“Good idea, Mumma!” Ally runs to the box where you kept all the supplies for gift wrapping, digging around for a pink bow to stick on the corner of her drawing.

While she’s preoccupied with finding the perfect bow to place on her drawing for Harry, you take a quick glance at your phone. He still hadn’t gotten back to you since last night’s quick conversation when he very briefly mentioned he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it home.

He was filming in Los Angeles. You shared your uncertainties about him going before he departed but in the end, this was an opportunity you didn’t want him to miss out on. You read the Los Angeles Times free articles on your phone daily, keeping track of the state of the pandemic in Southern California. You knew it was much worse there than it was at home in London. You feared what you were afraid of was sadly bound to happen— Harry may get stuck in LA.

You didn’t want to say anything to your curious daughter because communication with him had been so sparse. You didn’t know anything for certain yet. But what were you supposed to think? You knew flying nationally wasn’t a good idea at the moment, never mind internationally.

“Hey bug, d’ya think you can watch your brother for a moment? Mumma’s gotta go make a phone call.” 

You hear your daughter let out a slightly irritated sigh. “I suppose I can, Mumma.” Ally responds with a voice laced with exasperation. You chuckle slightly under your breath at your overly dramatic (much like her dad) six-year-old and head into the kitchen, quickly dialing your husband’s familiar number.

“Hello?” 

You let out a sigh of relief upon hearing Harry’s low, hoarse voice. 

“Hi, honey. Just checkin’ in to see how things are going…” you hear shuffling on his end. “It’s December 23rd, you know.”

“I know, love.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Six in tha’ mornin’ here.”

“I’m sorry, H. S’just Allison keeps on askin’ when you’ll be home and ‘m just so worried you won’t make it home on time and you’ll miss Oliver’s first Christmas—“

“Darling,” Harry interrupts your anxiety-fueled ramble. “‘M gonna make it home. Have I ever not been there when I said I would?” 

“No,” you say quietly. “I’m just worried, Harry. I hear traveling is going to get very strict because they’re trying to prevent people from going anywhere for Christmas…”

“Fine, then I’ll get my own plane with jus’ me and a pilot. Wear a mask the entire time and whatnot. Yanno I can make that happen if it’s necessary, pet.” 

Harry’s calm demeanor about the whole situation brings you a bit of peace. Perhaps you were catastrophizing something that wasn’t as big of a deal as you thought it was a mere two minutes ago. If he wasn’t worried about not making it home, you didn’t see any reason to stress about it— not for one second longer.

“Okay then,” you reply, still a bit wary of his travel plans. “What shall I tell your daughter? She’s drivin’ me up the walls asking where you are every twenty minutes.”

Your husband lets out a breathy laugh, causing you to giggle along with him. “Tell her not to eat up all the Christmas cookies before I get a taste of one.”

December 24th, 8:45 AM

Part of you was hoping you’d wake up on Christmas Eve and Harry would be tucked into bed next to you, plump lips parted, the sound of his snores the only noise in the room. However, you were a rational woman, if nothing else. You knew he wouldn’t be by your side when you woke up. 

You make your way down the hall and peek inside your son’s room. He was fast asleep, plump thumb in his mouth. You smile at your sleeping baby and gently close the door behind you, deciding to let him sleep in a bit longer before waking him up to feed him. 

Next, you walk to your daughter's room, gently pushing open the door in case she was still sleeping. Instead, you find her sat at her desk, deeply focused on what appeared to be another drawing. 

“Good morning, lovebug,” you greet your daughter in a sing-songy voice. “You’re up early. What are you working on?”

“Makin’ a letter for Santa,” she replies, not bothering to look up from what she was doing. 

“A letter for Santa?” You start racking your brain for anything you and Harry could’ve possibly forgotten to get for Ally, but you finished your Christmas shopping for your children way back in November.

“Yes,” she answers matter-of-factly. “‘M askin’ him to make sure my Daddy is home by tonight so we can eat cookies together and watch Toy Story, Mumma.” 

“I’m sure Santa will make that happen for you,” you reassure her. “You’ve been a very good girl this year, been so helpful with Olly and doin’ so well in school. The least Santa can do is get you whatever you want.” You see her smile as she digs around in her crayon box.

“Can we wait ‘til Daddy gets home to make Santa’s cookies, Mumma?”

“Sure we can, bug,” Ally claps her hands together excitedly, bouncing around in her tiny chair. “Gonna go make some pancakes, does that sound yummy?”

“Can we have chocolate chip pancakes please?”

“Are you askin’ me that because your dad isn’t here to throw a fit about it?” You give her a knowing smile, causing her to giggle.

“Maaaaybe…” Your daughter turns to face you, swinging her legs back and forth.

“If I make your chocolate chip pancakes, you can’t tell your dad. Deal?” You hold up your pinky. Ally gets up and runs to you and you bend down slightly so she can link her finger with yours.

“I pinky promise, Mumma!”

“Our little secret, yeah?” she nods. “Keep an ear out for your brother for me, bug. I’ll be downstairs.”

December 24th, 3:00 PM

“Love? ‘M afraid I got some bad news...”

As soon as Harry’s voice comes through on the other line, you can tell whatever news he’s about to share with you won’t be what you’re wanting to hear.

“What is it?”

It’s silent for what feels like entirely too long. You get up from your position on the couch next to Ally, telling her you’ll be right back. After breakfast, she convinced you to watch Toy Story with her, which quickly turned into a whole Disney movie marathon.

“Not so sure I’ll be able to make it home.”

You’re not sure if it’s his calm tone that bothers you, the fact that you didn’t want him to go to Los Angeles in the first place, or simply the fact that you and your children missed him terribly and haven’t seen him in nearly a month–– but your mood changes from relaxed to undeniably outraged in three seconds flat.

“You’re kidding.” Your tone is sharp, venomous. Harry once again takes a moment before responding, knowing that the current tone of your voice means he’d best proceed with caution.

“‘M not, love. I woke up early and everything to try and get this sorted out, it’s 7 AM so I was gonna try and catch an early flight––”

“I told you I didn’t want you going to LA,” you cut him off, voice rising slightly. “You knew how bad the pandemic was getting there. I told you this would happen.”

“What do you suppose I do then, Y/N?” His tone is becoming equally as sharp. “Y’want me to tell ‘em, “Sorry, I don’t give a fuck about the travel restrictions. My wife wants me home so let's make it happen!” ‘S that what you want me to do?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Harry,” you spit. “I’ll give the phone to your daughter and you can tell her you won’t be home in time for Christmas, then.”

“Y/N…” his tone is calm again. Fearful. “Don’t make me do that.”

“She woke up early to write a letter to Santa to tell him she wants you home by tonight, Harry,” your tone softens as well. “Even Olly has been asking for you. Swear his new favorite word is ‘dada’.” He laughs at this as do you, and the shared tension that was present just minutes ago dissipates. 

“Just… lemme try a few more things before I tell her, yeah?”

“Harry, it’s already three here,” you gently remind him. “Even if you do make it home today, she’ll be asleep by the time you’re home. I think you just need to tell her.”

Your husband sighs, knowing you were undeniably correct. “Alright. Give Allison the phone, please.”

December 24th, 8 PM

“Almost time for you to head to bed soon, yeah Allybug?” Your daughter lets out a loud sigh in response, not shifting her gaze from the television to you. Ever since Harry told her he wouldn’t be home in time to eat cookies with her, she’s hardly said a word. She’s never experienced a Christmas Eve without her father so understandably, she was missing him tonight.

You shift Olly, who was falling asleep nursing on your lap, into a different position so you could face your daughter directly. From your new position, you can see just how tired she looks. 

“‘M not sleepy, Mumma. Gonna stay up and wait for Daddy,” she informs you of her new plans. “When Daddy is home that’s when it’s time for bed.”

“Ally, remember what Daddy told you on the phone earlier? Santa won’t come unless you go to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna sleep,” she’s quickly starting to grow upset. “Not until Daddy tucks me in!”

You purse your lips, not wanting to argue with your headstrong daughter when your son was so close to drifting off into his nightly milk coma. Turning your attention back to the movie that was quietly playing on the television, you decide to drop it for now and try again later.

December 24th, 9:05 PM

Not more than an hour later, Olly is upstairs in his crib fast asleep whilst Ally is still laying on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, fighting sleep. She was determined to stay up until her father walked through the front door, and you knew getting her to agree to go to bed was going to be a battle and a half.

“You’re not ready to go to bed yet, Ally?” Her eyes fly open once she hears you addressing her.

“Not yet, Mumma. ‘M not sleepy yet.” Her words are a little slurred due to the exhausted state she was in. You hum in response.

“Could’ve sworn your eyes just shut for a minute there,” you pause for a second to see if she’ll look your way. “Must’ve just been my old lady eyes playin’ tricks on me, y’think?”

“I wasn’t sleeping!” She immediately defends herself, frown lines indenting her forehead. “Can we drink more hot chocolate?”

You knew if you wanted your daughter to fall asleep within the hour, another sugar rush wasn’t the best idea. You instead offer her a hot cup of sleepytime tea and she excitedly agrees once you tell her it’s her father’s favorite type of tea to drink at bedtime. You place her down on the kitchen counter while you fill the kettle and wait for it to whistle.

“What are you looking forward to the most from Santa, bug?” 

Her eyes light up at your question. “Well, I really want a new bike! ‘Member Mumma? How I asked him for a pink bike? And I also want a cool swing set! Since we haven’t been able to go to the park in so long,” her smile falters and she looks down at her dangling feet. “I want Daddy to come home the mostest, though.”

Your heart feels like it’s going to break in two upon hearing your daughter admit that Harry being home would be the greatest gift of all. “So do I, lovebug. He’ll be here in the mornin’ to watch you and your brother open all the gifts Santa got you though, don’t you worry.”

For everyone’s sake, you hoped that was true.

December 24th, 11:50 PM

Sleep wasn’t coming easy. 

You finally got your daughter to bed at around ten o’clock and waited thirty minutes before laying out your children’s gifts. It took much longer than it usually did considering you had to do it all on your own. Harry was usually the one to quickly assemble the larger toys while you laid everything out around the living room. 

Despite it taking longer than desired, you were proud that you got it all done without waking your children up. Consequently, that meant you were now left all alone with your thoughts considering you had no more tasks to occupy yourself with. 

You kept contemplating calling Harry, but you weren’t sure if he was busy on set or not. Surely he was immersing himself in work to distract himself from the fact he would not be spending Christmas with his family. 

Deciding you may need a cup of the sleepytime tea you offered Allison earlier, you quietly get out of bed and open your door, sock-clad feet padding softly against the wooden floors. It’s unnervingly silent in your home–– the tea kettle coming to a boil being the only source of noise. You keep unlocking and re-locking your phone, finally deciding to call your husband to see how he’s spending his day. It goes to automatic voicemail.

You assume the reason for this must be that he’s busy filming on set and set your phone down with a sigh, standing on your tiptoes to retrieve a mug from the cabinet. You mutter a slew of curse words under your breath intended for Harry who always puts the mugs up far too high even though you tell him not to.

Right as you begin pouring the now boiling water into your teacup, the faint jingling of your front door causes you to startle so badly that you nearly drop the kettle on the ground. You try to think back to everything Harry ever told you to do in the event of an intruder but your mind goes blank from fright. Deciding to use the scalding water as your weapon, you slowly creep towards the door, your only plan being to fling the water on whoever it was as soon as they got the door open. As soon as you hear the lock click, you flick the lid open that covers the spout and draw your arm back.

“Shit––”

“Harry?”

Your husband jumps slightly, his eyes blinking rapidly in an effort to adjust to the dark living room. You reach beside him and quickly turn on the light, shakily letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He looks exhausted, his hair is an absolute mess, and his eyes are red from sleep deprivation–– but he’s home. You set the tea kettle down on the coffee table and fling yourself into his arms, breathing in the scent of the man you haven’t seen in a month. He drops his bags at his feet so he can properly embrace you, pulling you into him.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays like that for a moment saying nothing, just breathing you in. “Missed ya so fuckin’ much.

“How? I thought…” you trail off. “You said that they said…”

Harry laughs quietly. “Remember what I told ya? I said to ‘em, ‘Don’t give a fuck about your travel restrictions! M’wife wants me home.’” You laugh at him, knowing he was far too kind to talk to anyone that way. 

“Yeah, okay,” you reply sarcastically. You pull him in for another hug, placing wet kisses along his jawline. “I’m so happy you’re home. The kids are gonna be over the moon, especially Allison.” Harry hums, surveying the room.

“Looks like you did a good job in here, Mrs. Claus. See ya even assembled some toys all by yourself,” he quirks an eyebrow. “Were you jus’ pretendin’ not to know how to do it all these years so I’d be stuck with all the hard labor?”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you back into him, tickling your sides. “My sneaky girl,” he bends down so his lips are level with your neck and sucks gently, causing you to let out a quiet moan. You see his eyes land on the tea kettle that was sitting forgotten on the coffee table. “Making a cuppa? Can I have one? ‘M freezin’.”

“I can think of something else we can do to get you warmed up,” you reach for his hands, interlocking his fingers with yours. “If you know what I’m gettin’ at.”

“Hmm…” Harry releases one of his hands from your grip and taps at his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Not too sure I can say I know what you’re sayin’. Maybe you should just tell me?”

You frown. “You’re really gonna make me say it, huh?”

“Y’know I’d give you the entire world if you asked me for it. All you gotta do is tell me what you want from me and it’s yours–– ‘m sure you’ve known that since the first day we met, though.” Harry takes a step back, crossing his arms across his chest. Even in his thick winter coat, you can see the way his biceps flex, and it makes you even more feral for him.

“Fine,” you say quietly, feeling yourself start to grow shy under his intense gaze. “I’m kinda... in the mood.” You say it so softly that it would most likely be inaudible to Harry if he wasn’t standing mere inches away from you. Harry throws his head back in laughter and you quickly shush him, not wanting any of your children to wake up.

“In the mood? C’mon, pet,” he uncrosses his arms and reaches for one of your hands. “Tha’s not tellin’ me what you want from me. Tell me exactly what you want, lovie.”

“You know what I want, H,” you tell him with a hint of annoyance in your voice. “It’s been a month. Yanno I want you to fuck me, why are you makin’ me say it?”

Harry gives you a shit-eating grin. “You jus’ said it. I didn’t make you say anything.”

You roll your eyes at his immaturity, already in the process of lifting your nightshirt (one of his old t-shirts that’s become just a little too tight on him) over your head. “Are we gonna get to it or not? Because if not, I’ll just go back to makin’ myself some tea and call it a night––”

Harry takes half a step towards you and reaches up to cup your face, colliding his lips with yours. His lips are a little chapped and taste of his favorite rose lip balm. You feel your body relaxing into the kiss, knees going weak as he walks you back onto the couch.

“You’ve been eatin’ up all the sugar cookies, haven’t you? Can taste it on ya. Thought those were for Santa,” he’s pulled away from you to examine your face. “A bit naughty of you, wouldn’t ya say?”

“Please stop referring to yourself as Santa when we’re about to have sex, Harry.”

“You’re not bein’ very kind to the person that’s about to go down on you, are you?” He sucks harshly on the valley between your breasts, wanting to be sure a deep-colored bruise will appear on your skin later. “That’s okay. It is Christmas, after all. ‘M in a giving mood.”

“Stop talking and get to it then.”

Harry slides off the couch and onto his knees in between your legs, gently kissing your thighs. “Cute pair of undies–– s’like you knew I was comin’ home tonight.” Before you can respond Harry’s fingers are tugging at the waistband of your underwear, eager to get them off of you. He presses light kisses to your core, mumbling about how much he missed the smell of you and how sweet you tasted. 

One hand is resting across your stomach while the other one is in between your folds, spreading you open. You try squeezing your thighs around his head, overwhelmed by the feeling of your husband’s lips around your clit after being away from him for so long, but he removes his hand from your stomach and pushes your thighs back apart.

“Feels so good,” you’re breathless, tangling your fingers in Harry’s hair as his hollowed cheeks begin to suck more roughly on your clit. “Missed you so much. Missed this–– us.” 

Harry pauses momentarily to look up at you. “I know, angel. God, do I know.” He attaches his lips back on you, swirling his tongue around your clit as you  choke back your moans. The hand that is holding you open moves down to toy at your slit as he wordlessly checks to see if you’re okay with his fingers being in you. 

“Please,” you say softly, encouraging his next move. He spits on his index and pointer finger before slowly sliding both of them in you, immediately curling them up. “Oh, Harry. Fuckin’ love when you do tha’...”

“Know you do,” His response is curt, simple. He’s focused on the task at hand–– getting you off. He uses the hand that’s lying across your stomach to rub tight circles on your clit, sensing you’re nearing your orgasm from the way you’re starting to clench around him. “Such a good girl fo’ me, darlin’. Gonna make a mess on my fingers in a second, aren’t you?”

You nod as you try to control your breathing and the loudness of your moans. The last thing you wanted was for your daughter to come down to inspect the source of the noise. “Fuck, Harry.” 

“Come on, darlin’,” he gently pinches your clit, causing your body to jolt at the sensation. “Gimme a good one. A lil’ welcome back gift for me, hmm?” 

Your hips are bucking up to the rhythm of his fingers slipping in and out of you as your orgasm quickly approaches. “Har, I’m close…” it comes out sounding more like a warning than a statement. He moves the two fingers he has inside of you in a back and forth motion, coaxing your first orgasm out of you.

“Tha’s my girl,” he whispers, not stopping his movements even as your back arches as your first orgasm rolls over you like a giant wave. “Givin’ me a good one jus’ like I knew you would. Jus’ like you always do. M’ sweet girl.” As you’re starting to still, Harry pulls his fingers out of you and holds them up to your mouth, instructing you to suck them clean. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows so you can properly lean in to steal a kiss from him and notice a rather sizable tent has formed in his pants. Harry gives you a sheepish grin as he palms himself, hissing from the feel of his palm against his cock.

“Want me to do somethin’ about that?” You scoot over on the couch and pat the spot next to you, signaling for your husband to sit beside you. He lifts himself from his seated position, stretching his legs out a bit before plopping down beside you.

“Are you offerin’ me a blowie?”

“I mean, yeah?”

“Can we skip that an’ you can jus’ ride me instead? Think I’d quite like that.”

“Oh you would, would ya?”

Harry nods and unzips his pants, taking himself out. He licks his hand and gives himself a few pumps. “Still on birth control, I’m assuming?”

You roll your eyes as you move to straddle him. “Only been gone for a month, Harry. Of course ‘m still on it, you goof.”

“Can never be too careful. I don’t think now’s a good time for another lil’ one, do you? Think we should at least celebrate Oliver’s first birthday before we try for another one.” His hands are on his hips as he lines you up over his cock, helping you slowly sink down. You missed the burn of him which was even more intense than it usually was considering it’s been a while since he’s taken you.

“I think you’re right,” you reply. You rest your head on his shoulder while you adjust to the size of him, needing to take a moment to yourself before attempting to move. After a short adjustment period you begin rolling your hips, grinding against him in a way that was also bringing pleasure to your clit, still swollen and sensitive from your last orgasm.

Harry’s eyes are fixated on the way your breasts bounce in front of him, the way your stomach slightly jiggles each time you crash back down onto him. His lips are caught in between his teeth; you’re hoping he doesn’t break any skin so you don’t have to hear him whine about how badly the bruise hurts him later.

“Ridin’ me like your life depends on it,” Harry mutters. “Fuckin’ love takin’ you like this, angel. So fuckin’ deep.”

You simply hum in agreement, brain far too foggy to form a coherent sentence. Harry notices your movements starting to become smaller, lazier, so he puts his hands on your hips and decides to take over. He’s thrusting up into you like you’ll up and run away from him if he doesn’t give it his all. He cups your face with one hand and gently guides you towards him, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your lips.

“Fuck, H,” your eyes are squeezed shut and your wrap your arms around his neck, feeling your second orgasm quickly approaching. “Rub my clit please, almost there.”

Harry’s fingers immediately come down to rub at your slick nub, not faltering his relentless pace in the slightest. “Clench around me again, lovie,” his voice is higher than usual, whiny, and you know your husband is just as close as you are. “Love when you do tha’, jus’ need you to do it one more time.”

You do as he wishes once more, knowing once he cums you’ll be directly behind him. Harry lets out a string of expletives as he releases inside of you, pulling you tightly against his chest as he rides out his orgasm. You continue riding him, not slowly down as you chase your own release next.

“Harry,” you’re in a trance-like state, chanting his name over and over as you bring yourself over the edge. “Harry, fuck!”

“That’s my good girl,” he says quietly, rubbing your back as you rest your head on his shoulder while you catch your breath. You feel him beginning to soften inside of you so you lift yourself off and lay back on the couch, legs still shaking. It’s quiet for a couple of minutes as the two of you reveal in the afterglow of your orgasms, Harry gently running his fingers along your leg.

“Round two in the shower?”

December 25th, 6:42 AM

“Mumma! Santa came and he left lots of toys–– Daddy?”

Harry lets out a dramatic “oof!” as Ally jumps onto him, pulling the covers back. Her eyes are wide and she giggles are Harry pulls her into one of his infamous bear hugs, placing kisses all over his face.

“Mornin’, love bug! What’re you doin’ up so early?”

“It’s Christmas, Daddy! Santa came!” she sits back on her feet, a confused look on her face. “Did Santa bring you on his sleigh last night after me ‘n Olly went to bed?”

“Y’know what? He told me to keep it a secret, but he did,” Allison gasps in response to his news as she processes it, placing a little hand over her mouth. Harry sits up and gets out of bed, scooping her up in the process. “How ‘bout we go make Mum a cuppa before we see what Santa got for you and Olly? Tha’ sound good? Let’s let them sleep for a while longer, hmm?”

As you hear them exit the room you take a second to reflect on how lucky you are to spend another Christmas with you beautiful family before drifting back off into a deep, albeit short, sleep.

#harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #its not christmas til you come home #thanks for reading!

[master-sass-blast]

Strong as Stone --Part Sixty-One, Epilogue Two.

A look at Okoye’s retirement ceremony --and something extra special.

Rating: G. Just a lot of fluff and joy.

Pairing: Okoye x M’Baku.

Taglist: @the-last-hair-bender, @skysynclair19

Ten Years Later

 The main training arena of the facility where all the Dora Milaje recruits trained –and lived at least part-time—was practically packed. All the current, former, and future Milaje soldiers were there, along with T’Challa, Nakia, Shuri, Dewani, Okoye’s biological family, the other leaders of the tribes, and –of course—M’Baku and their children.

It wasn’t every day that a new General was named, after all.

Okoye let a small, soft, fond smile cross her lips as she watched the new set of tattoos be done on Ayo’s scalp. She could remember when she’d sat for hers, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers –former and past—and the recruits and the trainers…

The feeling of elation that had gone through her when the artists had finally finished had been -still wasn’t—like nothing else she’d ever experienced in her life.

A tiny, high-pitched voice broke the solemn, respectful silence that had settled over the room. “Hi, mama! Mama, hi!”

Okoye grinned as a rush of chuckles ran through the crowd –she could see Ayo smiling—and waved to her daughter and the second child she’d had with M’Baku, Zarah, who was just five and hadn’t quite mastered the art of “sitting quietly for long periods of time –or at all.” She watched as M’Baku gently shushed their eldest daughter, before turning and saying something to Khari, before he finally adjusted their youngest daughter, Dayo, in his lap –who had understandably fallen asleep, since she hadn’t yet turned three.

Then, the tattooers stood and stepped back so Ayo could stand up.

This is it, Okoye thought as Ayo stretched subtly, then turned to face her.

It’d been a long time coming; she’d known that it would arrive eventually. The role of General was physically taxing –and then a recent field mission had earned her a pretty substantial knee injury, and that had been that.

“Ayo,” Okoye said, voice ringing out across the room. “Do you swear to serve the throne and protect those who sit upon it and the family of those who sit upon it?”

“I do,” Ayo said solemnly.

“Do you swear to serve the nation of Wakanda by serving her leaders?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to honor the women who have come before you and will follow after you in your conduct, towards your job, yourself, and others?”

“I do.”

The corner of Okoye’s mouth turned up in a proud smile, and she nodded. “Kneel for me, please.” When Ayo knelt down on one knee, she picked up the gold collar that every General wore with their armor and carefully clipped it around her friend and protegee’s neck. “I present to you General Ayo of the Dora Milaje, protector of the throne and guardian of Wakanda.”

The crowd applauded as Ayo turned to face the room, a triumphant smile on her face.

Okoye applauded along with them, beaming proudly. Well done, Ayo. Well done.

 ***

 “How does it feel not being General anymore?” Khari asked as soon as they were seated at their table in the banquet hall where the celebratory reception was being held. At nearly twelve, he was intensely curious about the world around him.

“I’m still me,” Okoye said with a chuckle as she ruffled her son’s curls. “It hasn’t really sunk in yet, though –but I don’t feel bad. Your Aunt Ayo has worked very hard to get to where she is today. She’ll be an excellent General.”

“Yeah, but are you going to miss it?” Khari pressed, brow creasing with worry. “Are you going to wish you hadn’t retired?”

He looks so much like M’Baku when he does that, Okoye thought fondly as she gently smoothed her son’s brow with her thumb. “I may miss it from time to time, but that’s normal. That, and I’ve known since I became General that there would be a day where I would have to step down, and it would likely be around this age anyway. It’s a very physical job, and eventually it isn’t fair to the person in the role to expect them to meet all those demands because they’re liable to hurt themselves. However, I am very much looking forward to whatever life brings next for me –and be able to spend more time with you and your siblings and your father.”

“And we’re looking forward to spending time with you,” M’Baku said as he carefully set Dayo down in a chair, then sat down in the seat between her and Okoye.

“Where’s Zarah?”

“With Dewani and Shuri,” M’Baku answered, pointing to a table a little bit away from them. “She wanted to sit with her aunts. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Okoye shook her head. “As long as she behaves.”

“Zarah?” Khari asked, incredulous. “Behave?”

“She’s five,” M’Baku reminded their eldest gently as he got Dayo set up with some crayons and a couple sheets of paper. “‘Behave’ means something different at every age.”

“Yeah, but still.”

M’Baku shook his head, amused, then stood and tapped his glass with the blunt side of his knife. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said as the room fell quiet. “But I would like to make a toast.”

“We don’t have a toaster here, Daddy!” Zarah shouted from where she was sitting with Dewani and Shuri.

M’Baku chuckled with everyone else, then turned to face Okoye. “To Okoye, former General of the Milaje, and the woman I love with all my heart.”

Okoye could barely hold back her excited grin; she knew what was coming. They’d only been working towards it for –what—over a decade now.

“These past several years with you have been nothing short of incredible,” M’Baku continued before he lost the attention of the room. “You’ve taught me so much about life and love, and have been the best partner and mother to our children that I could ask for. Your resolve, diligence, patience, and compassion inspire me to do better every day.” He knelt down on one knee next to her chair and withdrew a ring carved from Jabari wood and set with lapis lazuli from his pocket, drawing several gasps and a few squeals from the room. “Which is why I want you to be my wife. Will you please marry me?”

Okoye beamed and nodded. “Yes. Absolutely.”

A chorus of cheers erupted from everyone around them as M’Baku slid the ring on her finger, then leaned in to kiss her—

And then the sound of someone violently smacking something against a glass made it all die down, and Okoye broke away from the kiss just in time to see Dewani whisking Zarah’s glass away before the young girl could knock it over –or, worse, break it.

“Hold on a second!” Zarah shouted once she realized she had everyone’s attention. “Are you guys getting married?”

“Yes, honey,” Okoye said while M’Baku laughed. “Mommy and daddy are getting married.”

“Yes!” Zarah pumped both her fists, eliciting several laughs from those watching her. “Thank Hanuman and Bast! I thought you guys would never get with the program!”

M’Baku snorted and shook his head as Dewani finally got Zarah to sit back down. “Where did she even learn that phrase?”

“Dewani or Shuri, probably,” Okoye said between bouts of body-shaking laughter. She looked back at her partner –fiancé, now—when he cupped her face with his hands. “Hey.”

“Hey,” M’Baku murmured back with a grin. “I love you.”

Okoye smiled back and leaned in to kiss him again. “I love you, too.”

#sass writes #black panther fanfiction #okoye x m'baku #honestly i love zarah #she's too precious for this world #only one more epilogue after this #wakanda forever

[babywarg]

ironstrange fic: Love Through Time

This ran on a bit long (close to 5k words). I can’t seem to write shortfic anymore, help T_T

Does anyone else love the new dark blue Tumblr theme? I love it. So soothing to the eyes

Notes: This is a fill for this prompt: “Tony discovers an old drawing of, and finally remembers, his invisible friend Stephen from when he was a child.”

originally on AO3.

tagging @cumberunicorn-ceioln​, as requested :)

“Mr. Stark,” Edward Jarvis greeted. “I’ve come with the items you requested.”

“Hm?’ Tony’s mind leapt out of his musing. He was in his laboratory, trying to solve a particularly sticky schematics issue with a new suit he was developing. “I didn’t request anything.”

“You did, sir,” Jarvis gently corrected. “You said I should salvage whatever I felt was necessary of your family’s summer home, and bring them to you.”

“Oh...yeah.”

The Starks’ summer home. It was a white elephant; nobody wanted to rent it, and selling it off was proving to be troublesome, considering the high real estate rates in the city it was in.

Tony had thought it best to sell or auction off the things in it, and let the space itself rot, if that was its fate.

“So the auction guys have everything else, right? How much was left?”

“Not much, sir,” Jarvis informed him. “I took the liberty of using the old toy box in the nursery as a receptacle. It was where most of the items were stored, anyway.”

Jarvis held out a small, plain wooden box to him.

“Very good, Jarvis, thanks,” he absently said as he took it.

When Jarvis had left, Tony opened the box.

There were old medals from summer school, old photographs...encouraging notes from his mother. Those were always a treat.

Then there were the old drawings.

The crayon sketches Maria Stark had kept, for no good reason.

One of them made Tony pause.

Made time stop.

***

  On the sketch was a tall, lanky man with a long face.

A loose blue long-sleeved shirt.

A red cloak.

Blue-green eyes.

And gray hair brushed back from his temples.

The man was standing beside a little boy with dark hair, whom Tony presumed to be himself.

Little Tony held a wrench (it was called an adjustable spanner, he knew now) on his right hand.

The man in the cloak had a halo of golden light around his left hand.

It was a cute, innocent child’s drawing.

Which was why Tony couldn’t explain the sudden, splitting headache he got after looking at it.

“FRIDAY,” he said to the room, “save everything, but keep the simulations running. I need a nap.”

“Will do, boss,” the room answered.

Tony dragged himself to the couch in the living room upstairs, and threw himself down on it. He didn’t make it to any of the bedrooms. He didn’t really want to.

He just wanted his headache to go away.

So, right after collapsing, he closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

    ***

The very first time Stephen made an appearance was when Tony was still in the cradle.

It stands to reason Tony was too little to remember.

Baby Tony had been awakened by the loud male voice yelling “NO!!” that came out of nowhere. He had been frightened. He had cried.

He had been too little to comprehend the loud noises. The lights that had flooded his room. The tall shadow that had been bent over his cradle and his unsuspecting self. The screaming that had come from his tiny, panicked lungs.

The large, shaking hands that had picked him up, rocked him until he calmed down.

And the soft voice that had said “Ssh, I’m here now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re loved. You’re safe.”

He was starting to fall asleep again, when he felt himself being lowered gently back down to his cradle. He fidgeted, unable to help himself.

That was when his mother raced into the room to pick him up, hold him close.

She said only the same things that the low, male voice had said.

And, doubly reassured, little Tony was able to go back to sleep, finally.

  ***

  The first time he realized he was a Stark was when his father slapped him across the face.

He’d fallen from his bike, scraped his knee, and wept in pain in front of his father.

His father had not liked that he had fallen off the bike. He liked it even less that he cried afterwards.

“Stark men are made of iron,” his father had told him.

He was 6 years old. Before that time, he had thought he was...

...happy.

Not a Stark.

Not a Stark man.

And certainly not made of iron.

But these didn’t make sense to Tony, at the time. These words, the sting, just burned into him, without explanation.

His father walked away, and told everyone watching to leave along with him. “He fell on his own, let him learn to stand on his own,” was his specific instruction.

So 6-year-old Tony found himself alone, sitting on the ground, sobbing and nursing his wounded knee.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a tall, lanky man, wearing a large red cape that blocked Tony’s view of the sun.

“That doesn’t look good,” the man said. His voice was low, soothing and oddly familiar.

Tony wiped his nose. “Who’re you?”

“Someone who shouldn’t be here...”

The man sat in front of Tony.

“...but I guess supernatural threats aren’t all I’m here to shield you from.”

He reached out as if to touch Tony’s knee. Tony flinched but did not move away. His hand stopped short of skin making contact.

Tony noticed that his hand was shaking.

A halo of golden light appeared on the man’s hand. Tony could feel it: it was warm.

Within seconds, the scrape on his knee healed. It was as if it had never even been there.

“Wow!” Tony exclaimed happily. “You fixed it! Thanks, mister!”

The man smiled.

“No need to thank me,” he said to the child. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.”

  ***

  “Who’s that, Tony?”

He held up his unfinished crayon drawing for his mother to see.

On the drawing was a tall, thin man with a red cloak. Tony was still starting to draw a dark-haired little boy standing beside him.

“My friend,” Tony proudly answered. “Doctor Magic. We’ve been hanging out.”

Maria Stark smiled. “Is that really his name?”

Tony shrugged. “I call him that. He’s my friend, so I got to name him.”

Tony went back to finishing his drawing.

Maria Stark wondered if she had reason to be nervous. Tony was always surrounded by adults tasked by her husband Howard to look after him. But she didn’t remember any one of them having blue-green eyes and black hair that grayed at the temples.

Still...a man in a cape, and a glowing hand? Surely this was someone Tony had made up.

“I’m really glad you made a friend, Tony. Maybe your father and I can meet him sometime?”

“No...Doctor Magic says only I can see him. He says that’s because he’s a wizard.”

“A wizard, is he?”

“Yep! He’s magic. That’s how he fixes things.”

He just had a thought. He put down his crayons and faced his mom, his face beaming with excitement.

“Mom, when I grow up, I wanna fix things, too. I wanna be a wizard!”

“Oh dear,” Maria chuckled, “don’t let your father hear that.”

Tony pouted.

  ***

  “That’s a bad idea, Tony,” Doctor Magic said.

Still pouting, he demanded: “Why can’t I be a wizard?”

Doctor Magic laid his hand on Tony’s head.

“We all have our place,” he said to the child gently. “We’re both around to fix things. I can do it with magic. You can do it...in other ways.”

“I don’t want to do it in other ways! I want to be like you!”

Doctor Magic was about to protest, but the child lunged forward and hugged him, hard. It took the breath out of his lungs for a bit.

That was the only way Tony knew how to hold his first friend. His only friend.

“When I’m a wizard,” Tony muttered, “I can be with you all the time. You never have to leave. And we can go anywhere. We can go away.”

Doctor Magic pulled away briefly, so he could go down on one knee. That way, he could wrap his arms around Tony.

His magic cloak wrapped itself around Tony, too. The only time Tony ever felt warmer, was in the arms of his mother.

“I’ve already stayed too long, Tony,” Doctor Magic whispered. “I just...didn’t leave right away because I wanted to see you happy and smiling a bit longer. I need to leave again soon.”

“Take me with you?” Tony pleaded. “And my Mom, too?”

Doctor Magic sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the boy. “It’s for the best.”

He wouldn’t leave Tony upset, though. They spent the rest of that last summer day together, with Doctor Magic conjuring fanciful images and stories out of thin air, amusing the little boy until tiredness and sleep took him.

6-year-old Tony woke in his bed alone, from a dream of blue-green butterflies and a soft, low voice telling him about how he was safe, how he was cared for, and how he would never be alone.

  ***

  Tony couldn’t sleep. So many thoughts were running through his head.

And the headache still wouldn’t vanish.

“FRIDAY,” he said into thin air, “dial the Sanctum. Try to reach Doctor Strange for me.”

After a long pause, thin air reported: “Sorry, boss. Wong says he’s not available. Says he’s on a mission.”

“When will he be back?”

“Didn’t say, boss.”

For a moment he considered going back downstairs and looking at the drawing in the box again. But something told him it wouldn’t make his headache any better.

There was no earthly explanation for why he’d made a drawing of a man who looked like Doctor Strange when he was little.

The memories were a blur, and trying to make sense of them was physically painful, but he was sure he’d made that drawing. He remembered showing it to his mother.

He remembered golden light, and the scar on his knee disappearing. How warm it was to be enveloped in a red cloak, those arms.

But it couldn’t be him.

    ***

  Tony saw him again on the night of his parents' funeral. He was 21 years old, out drinking and partying, as perhaps everyone expected. It was “his way of dealing with grief.”

He was fumbling in his pocket for the keys to his car, when he saw someone coming in out of the shadows, from the corner of his eye.

The newcomer stepped into the light: it was a tall guy wearing a weird blue tunic and a ridiculously swishy red cape.

“Hey, man,” Tony greeted, slurring. “Neat costume. It isn’t Halloween, though, right?”

“Tony,” the man said firmly. “Don’t get in that car.”

“Mmh? Why not?”

“In a matter of minutes, a powerful, formless entity will find its way to you. If you’re on the road when it happens, it’s going to be much harder for me to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Tony laughed incredulously. “From what? Vicious balloon animals?” He waved the man away. “Get lost, doc.”

“Doc,” The man repeated. He stepped forward. “You remember, don’t you? You know who I am.”

Tony stopped short of pressing the button to unlock his car.

“Can’t be him, though,” he answered, without looking at the man. “Wasn’t real.”

The man snatched his car keys from his hand, held them up to the level of Tony’s eyes.

“That real enough for you?”

With one swift gesture, the keys in his hand disappeared.

Tony chuckled.

“You know I got spares of those. But I’m not taking them out now, ‘cause you’re just gonna magic them away again.”

“I know you have a spare key. I’m imploring you not to use it.”

“Sure you’re not a mugger? ‘Cause a mugger’s easier...”

“The worst-case scenario is that in the morning, people are going to find the wreck of your car at the bottom of a cliff and conclude that you’d driven yourself off the road while drunk. Which, in fairness, is something you’re likely to do in this state.

“What will really happen is that a creature will attack you, you will lose control of the car, and the creature will manage to kill you, as he wanted.” His voice softened unexpectedly. “Trust me, Tony. I fix things. Let me fix this one before it breaks.”

Inebriated as he was, Tony had a hard time looking the guy in the eye. But those blue-green-what-the-fuck-color-is-that magic eyes just drew him in.

“Look.” He faced the newcomer, though he had a hard time staying upright. “If you’re who I think you are, I haven’t seen you in years, and you don’t get to make demands of me. I don’t owe you shit.”

“There’s no time - “ the newcomer began. But then he caught himself and sighed.

“- you’re right, Tony. You deserve an explanation. So this is my proposition. Stay with me here, where I can keep you safe. Sober up just a little, just enough. And I promise I’ll explain everything.”

Tony considered this for a moment. He truly wasn’t in a hurry to go home.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to sober up in this weirdo’s company. Besides, there was something about the way the man said “keep you safe” that sounded...real.

  ***

  “Before you say anything,” Tony began, “I want to let you know how shitty you are.”

Tony sat on the hood of his car, nursing a cup of coffee his companion had magicked out of nowhere.

His companion wasn’t drinking anything. He simply sat beside Tony, alert and listening.

“You stayed with me just one summer, then whoosh, you were gone,” Tony kept griping. “Some imaginary friend. I thought you guys could be summoned on command.”

“We’re not genies in lamps,” the older man retorted. “And I don’t even count as imaginary. I’m flesh and blood, just like you.”

“Yeah? Then you got a name, too? Pretty sure it’s not ‘Doctor Magic.’ “

“Close, actually.” The man smiled. “My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. You can call me Stephen.”

“How about I call you a jerk?”

Stephen said nothing.

“I waited and waited, but you didn’t come back.”

He said it into his coffee cup, almost as if Stephen shouldn’t have overheard. He sounded like a little kid. 21 years old, a man now, old enough to drink himself stupid and drive himself off a cliff.

But to Stephen, he sounded 6 years old and lost.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t with you just that summer.”

Tony snorted. “You were the only playmate I had at the time. I’d recall if you were around.”

“Do you remember having dreams about me, at various points in your life?”

Tony blinked.

This was the first time dreams were brought up.

On the night before he was shipped off to boarding school, he had dreamed of Doctor Magic holding him close, saying he would be all right...and he remembered waking up from that dream thinking yeah, being away from his Mom and his bedroom-turned-laboratory wouldn’t be so bad...

He also remembered dreams where Doctor Magic fought off things that attacked him - a demon, a dragon, a giant disembodied cloud. Sometimes, Doctor Magic came off the battle badly wounded, and just left...but sometimes, he emerged relatively unscathed, and in a good mood, and he stuck around a bit longer.

At times like those, Doctor Magic spirited little Tony away. He showed Tony other dimensions, other timelines - realities where his father wasn’t a gigantic dick, and where he didn’t have a father, or a mother even. Places where flora and fauna that didn’t exist on earth, thrived. Animals that talked, colors that the human mind could never have conceived of...

Remembering all this gave Tony a headache. He touched his fingers to his temple.

“...Ow.”

“Yep.” Stephen was unfazed by the overt display of pain. “That was me. Saying hi.”

When Tony was able to shake off the discomfort, he continued:

“You...really jumped through time, into my dreams,” - he narrowed his eyes at Stephen - “just to say hi?”

“Well, no. Technically they weren’t dreams.” Stephen scratched his head, as he thought of the words that might explain it best. “Each time you had a ‘dream,’ it was me pulling you into...I don’t know what else to call it except a ‘mirror dimension.’ Most of the time, it was because I had to fight an entity that was coming for you. Then wipe as much of our encounter from your memory as I could, before restoring you to reality.”

Tony’s still-sobering mind was having trouble keeping up.

“Wiping the what from my what?” He shook his head, in a feeble attempt to shake understanding into it. “You can do that??”

Stephen looked a little guilty.

“Memory spells aren’t foolproof. They’re like - throwing a blanket over the part of your brain that remembers certain things. They don’t really erase anything, but rather obscure them, until they’re triggered and the blanket comes off.

“In your case, it seems that while you remember having had a ‘Doctor Magic’ to play with as a child, chances are you’ll remember every encounter we’ve ever had. And if they don’t make sense, your mind is going to process them as dreams.” He narrowed his eyes at Tony, as if studying how his brain worked. “I think I’ll have to do something about that...”

Unsettled by his staring, Tony leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees.

“You promised me an explanation,” he reminded Stephen. “Why are you even...stalking me? If that’s the word? Why bother with me at all?”

Stephen leaned forward as well, linked his fingers together.

“I can tell you all of this, because in the end I’m going to wipe every memory you’ve ever had of me, and you won’t remember a thing.”

“Cool. Fun. Hit me.”

He wasn’t taking this seriously. Which worked to Stephen’s benefit. He didn’t want a scene at the end of all of this.

“Many years from now,” Stephen began, “a powerful time-traveling being is going to pick a fight with me. It’s going to be a big fight. He’s going to want me dead.

“But since he won’t be able to kill me, he’ll go back in time and try to kill the people who are most important to me. I’ve already recruited the help of interdimensional beings to make sure my parents and family are safe. He won’t be able to get to them, so they’ll be able to get to their natural ends...”

“ ‘Natural ends’?” Tony interrupted.

Stephen answered, “They’ll die, Tony. All of them. Leaving me alone. Like they’re supposed to.”

The resigned tone in his voice told Tony what he needed to know: Doctor Stephen Strange travels through time, but doesn’t meddle with fate.

That wasn’t enough of an answer for the young, emotionally fragile Tony.

“However, the help I’ve been able to secure is limited to people with whom I share blood ties.” Stephen looked at his younger companion. “And because you don’t...he can get to you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I care about you, Tony. That makes you a target.”

“Then why didn’t you stop my dad from hurting me or my Mom?” he asked, in a deliberately hostile tone. “If it’s true that you cared...you were there, you must have known. Why didn’t you help?”

It was a loaded question. Hard enough to answer while looking into an angry young Tony’s eyes. So Stephen looked away.

“I can’t interfere with what happened to you. I can only save your life, during all those times you were never meant to die.”

“Okay, then answer me this, wise guy: why do you have to save my life? Why not just let me die?”

He could almost see Stephen’s heart breaking through his eyes.

“Because you’re important, Tony.”

“Oh yeah? Important to whom?”

“The world, mostly. But also me.” He took a deep breath, and sighed out, “I love you, Tony. The older you. The one you’ll be decades from now.”

Tony fell silent.

“I know that of all the crazy things I’ve told you tonight, this is the craziest, so I’m going to give you a moment to process that...”

Tony took that moment. When he was done, he asked slowly, “Why am I not allowed to remember you telling me that?”

“Because, in the future, you don’t love me back. You don’t even know how I feel.” Stephen smiled sadly at him. “That’s how it is. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Tony thought about it some more. Then he leapt off the hood to pace a bit.

“You love me, though, right?” he said loudly to Stephen, presently. “Now - I mean, right now? You love me? Enough to save my life, at least?”

Stephen noticed a young couple walking nearby, staring at Tony and whispering. He realized they must feel weird, watching Tony pointing to his car and yelling “You love me” at it.

As per the deflection spell he’d always been careful to cast, nobody but Tony could see him.

Fortunately, a drunk, raving young Tony wasn’t exactly an uncommon sight in those parts. (By this point, Tony was actually completely sober. But nobody else needed to know that.)

“Tony,” he answered, “I love the version of you that I met after he’s gone through all the pain. All the heartbreak. All the mistakes he never got the chance to fix. The person who had survived so long and so well without me. Given the chance, I would love him over and over.”

Stephen left his seat on the hood, walked up closer to the young man.

“But if you’re not going to be that person...I don’t know how I’ll feel. If you grow up remembering me, and the things I’ve said and done, you may no longer be the Tony Stark I met. The one I’d love through time.”

Tony stuck his hands in his pockets.

“So,” he carefully began, “let me get this straight - if I remember you...you may not love me? Ever?”

Stephen nodded. “That’s...one of many likely outcomes.”

“And if you don’t love me...the creature you’re fighting now doesn’t come after me at all. Do I get that right?”

Stephen paused, then nodded again.

“That...is also a likely outcome.”

“Doesn’t that mean it’s better for you to let me remember, and to just not fall in love with me as a result?”

A look of sadness crossed Stephen’s face.

“Tony,” he said softly. “What makes you think I’d want a future where I don’t fall in love with you?”

Tony stared long and hard at the person who had just said what was either the sweetest or the most terrifying thing ever said to him.

Stephen returned that stare evenly. He had only told the truth so far. There was no reason to falter.

Eventually, Tony looked away, asked, “Am I really worth it?”

“You’re worth everything.”

“...All right. Then I don’t care. I don’t care if I don’t remember you.” He looked back at Stephen again, spread his arms wide. “If there’s a chance in hell you’ll fall for me, I’ll take it.”

His sudden light-heartedness worried Stephen. Was there something the boy misunderstood? “Tony...”

“Listen, doc. This is just me being practical. A magic man falls for me in the future, goes back in time and saves my life - why would I say no to that?”

He looked Stephen up and down and smirked.

“Besides...I can do much worse, you know?”

Both of Stephen’s eyebrows rose. He laughed incredulously.

“Are you seriously hitting on me right now?” He reached out for a friendly pat on the boy’s upper arm. “Grow some decent facial hair first, then we’ll talk.”

Tony caught his hand. Held it. It trembled in his grip.

“Doc...”

Then he caught Stephen’s gaze, held it, too.

“Don’t let older me stay in the dark about your feelings, okay?” He released Stephen’s hand. “I don’t know what goes down when it happens...but at the very least...I’m sure it won’t kill him to know.”

“Won’t it?” Stephen’s smile was sad again. “Trust me, Tony, your future self has a lot of problems. Adding to them is...not in my job description.”

The smile Tony shot back at him was radiant with confidence.

“Haven’t you heard, doc? Stark men are made of iron. He can take it.”

His fearlessness was infectious. Stephen found himself feeling like things were on the right track.

Much like how the older Tony made him feel.

As Stephen thought about this, there was a rumbling, a sound of thunder just over their heads.

And there was no time to think of anything else.

“He’s here,” Stephen pointed out. “It’s time, Tony.”

Tony nodded, suddenly grim. “Do it, doc.”

Stephen took a deep breath, then held his hand up in front of Tony’s face. Already, a golden glow was starting to emerge from the center of his palm.

Tony closed his eyes.

    ***

  These were the memories hidden away:

All the kind words. All the peaceful embraces. The other worlds and dimensions and the blue-green butterflies that used to give the little boy so much comfort to watch. The laughter and corny jokes and assurances that everything was going to be all right.

All the way back to the cradle.

Except.

Stephen was going to let him keep one.

The only memory that was harmless to keep.

The memory of lights, then soothing darkness, and warmth, and a voice telling him he was safe.

  ***

  “He may not come back today,” Wong warned him.

“Yep, I heard you.” Tony proceeded into the Sanctum.

“Those might be wilted by the time he returns...”

“No problem.” Tony glanced down at the bouquet of blue and mint-green roses in his arm. “I’ll just get new ones.”

He could hear Wong shaking his head behind him. Wong had a way of shaking his head that carried across the room.

Something told Tony he’d better get used to that head-shake.

Per tradition, Stephen was supposed to appear in the topmost floor of the Sanctum after a mission.

That was where Tony saw it fit to wait.

Hours passed. He’d paced up and down the floor. Finished reading through his daily news feed twice over (narrowly avoiding some unnecessarily nasty Twitter wars in the process). Barely kept himself from touching anything, thus avoiding certain death.

Soon it was getting dark. Still no Stephen. With a sigh, Tony prepared to go home. He was going to take the flowers down to Wong, who hopefully had a large vase stashed away...

Then the portal appeared.

Tony stood with the flowers in his arms, waiting for Stephen to step through.

Except Stephen stumbled through.

His robe and cloak were drenched in green liquid. Which, Tony was willing to bet, was actually someone else’s blood.

The flowers fell to the floor. Tony rushed to Stephen’s side.

Stephen failed to register surprise as soon as he saw Tony in the Sanctum. “It’s done,” he said between fast, ragged breaths. “It’s done.”

“You got him?” Tony held him up by the arm. Stephen leaned his weight on Tony, used him to stay upright.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got him.” He blinked, suddenly aware of where he was and who he was talking to. “Wait. Got who?”

“The creature that was trying to kill me in the past. You were chasing him down, right?”

Stephen looked at Tony, eyes wide.

“Yeah. Took him down just now. Slippery bastard. But you’re not supposed to know about that...”

Tony took out a piece of folded paper from his pocket, showed it to Stephen.

It was the drawing he’d made as a child.

The surprise in Stephen’s face vanished as soon as he saw it.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.” Tony folded the paper and stuck it back in his coat pocket before Stephen could get any green gunk on it. “So, when were you going to tell me?”

Stephen stood apart from Tony. Brushed some of the blood off his person seemingly as a way of gaining a semblance of dignity.

“Never,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Because this was a Master of the Mystic Arts problem. Iron Men not required.”

“Not about the mission, smartass.” Tony wouldn’t stop staring into his face. “I meant how you felt. What you told me on the night of my parents’ funeral.”

Stephen was still catching his breath. He kept his eyes on Tony’s all the while.

“I think I’d better learn how to level up those memory spells,” he muttered.

“Yeah.” Tony turned, started walking away. “Clearly, you suck at them.”

He picked up the roses from the floor, brought them to Stephen, who received them with a puzzled look.

“What are these for?” Stephen asked.

“So you won’t get too surprised when I do this.”

Tony leaned forward and touched their lips together.

The roses ended up on the floor again.

“Jesus,” Tony laughed. “You have any idea how hard those were to find? Handle with care, okay?”

“You dropped them first,” Stephen pointed out.

“Fair enough. Look.” Tony put on his “boardroom” voice, the one time-tested for getting desirable results. “You once told me you might not have feelings for me anymore if I remembered you. Now I do. I remember all of you. From the time you saved me back in the cradle and told me I was loved.” He spread his arms wide. “What now?”

“What now?” Stephen said breathlessly. “Here’s what now.”

Stephen kissed him again, shamelessly getting green gunk all over Tony’s newest Tom Ford.

At that precise moment, all parties in the room stopped caring about the roses on the floor.

#ironstrange #tony stark #stephen strange #iron man #doctor strange #strangeiron #wong

[axlaida]

Based on this prompt~

I decided to upload this here too because it’s dumb and short and I want to try to be a bit more active with my writing on Tumblr, so enjoy!

٩(*ゝڡ◕๑)۶♥

~Support me on Ko-Fi!~

The Misadventures of Yuri Plisetsky

Summary: Yuuri wondered if he just didn’t want to believe it. It didn’t change anything – well, maybe it frightened him just a little – but Yurio was his son. He and Victor adopted him with the excitement to start a family, so who cared if Yurio was the antichrist?

They still loved him, no matter who he was.

Words: 2431

They had thought about telling Yakov for some time now. The coach deserved to know the true origins of their son, even if it was bizarre and somewhat hard to believe, but they trusted Yakov would try to understand. Victor reassured Yuuri of that.

But as they sat across from Yakov at the kitchen table, having just told him the truth, Yuuri found Victor’s reassurance hard to believe.

“What do you mean you’ve adopted the antichrist?”

They shared a look, uncertain how exactly to answer Yakov’s question.

“Well…” Victor cleared his throat. “We adopted a child who so happened to be the antichrist.”

Yakov’s mouth hung open but no words came out; trapped in the back of his throat as he tried to process their words. Yuuri could understand his disbelief, or even his bewilderment. It was a lot to take in. He only hoped that Yakov would be understanding of their son who was different to other children.

“You mean to tell me…” His eyes closed as his head shook, lost for words until he asked, “what gave it away, exactly?”

There were a few things that gave it away.

They probably should have seen it coming after his name was changed from Damien to Yurio before he was adopted, but neither Victor or Yuuri thought much of it at the time.

He was just like any other kid his age; maybe a little strange, but he was good.

“Well, he used to turn all our picture frames upside down every night,” Yuuri mentioned, but as Victor pulled a face as he shook his head, he too realized that wasn’t the beginning. “But at the time, we thought he was trying to be funny. We were just happy he was settling down nicely.”

“I think it was when he began to draw what we noticed something wasn’t right,” Victor suggested.

Yurio liked to draw.

He'd draw little scribbles on the table and napkins; intricate designs of symbols he made up. Yuuri would smile and ask him what they meant, but Yurio never told him. He’d stare for a few moments, eyes glistening before turning back to his doodle. They praised his creativity, but after he began drawing in red marker on the walls, they didn’t necessarily discourage him from doing so, but instead, suggested he’d stick to a drawing book instead.

He was a rather good artist too. One morning, he tugged Yuuri’s sleeve to show him a drawing he had done. It was a picture of a goat-faced man draw in red crayon with the word ‘father’ written above it. Yuuri was… somewhat concerned to say the least, but who was he to judge what his child decided to draw?

“Is this for me?” Yuuri asked him. Yurio nodded mutely. Although it made his stomach twist with nerves, he was taken back by its detail. He couldn’t deny it was a good drawing. “It’s wonderful, Yurio. Victor! Come look at this!”

He showed the picture to Victor, who patted Yurio’s head for his efforts and put it on the fridge.

“Now everyone will see it,” Victor grinned.

They hadn’t taken it down since.

“He’s a very talented artist, even if he likes to draw pentagrams and goat-men,” Victor smiled proudly. Even Yuuri couldn't deny that he was proud, regardless of what Yurio chose to draw. “We’re not going to discourage him from the arts just because of what he draws. He’s good at it and he deserves the recognition.”

“Vitya…” Yakov sighed hard. He stormed to his feet, snatched the drawing Yurio did from their fridge and slid it across the table to show the two. “He’s drawing the devil.”

Now that Yakov mentioned it, Yuuri could see what he meant. He wondered how he didn't notice that a long time ago but it didn't change anything. "It's a good drawing too," Yuuri beamed as he picked up the picture, showing it to Victor who held a smile wider than his own. "Look at how talented he is, Victor! He could be a famous artist if he wanted.”

“You two are completely out of it!” Yakov bellowed.

They shared a glance again with a small smile on their faces. They knew exactly the thing to tell Yakov that’ll drive the coach insane, but the question was whether they should let him know. He was already stressing too much about the situation, and Yuuri wondered perhaps they should go gentler with the man. It was a lot to take in.

But it seemed Victor had other ideas.

“That’s not all he did.”

They went to the park.

Yurio didn’t want play with the other kids. He was happy to sit on the ground and rip the grass from the earth. He even actively ignored any of the kids who came over and wanted to be his friend.  He was more interested in other things, and soon found enjoyment in picking daisies. Yuuri thought he was going to make a daisy chain and nudged Victor to have him watch too, but when Yurio was done, he held them out in his hand. He stared intently, eyes narrowed until a fire sparked in his hand and the daisies burst into flames.

Yuuri had never seen anything like it. He shared an equally startled look that Victor held when their eyes met.

“Did he just-?”

“He did.”

That night, they celebrated with chocolate cake for dessert and reminded him that fires should be set in a controlled environment. If he wanted to start one, he should ask an adult or do it out in the garden.

“He can set fires by will…” Yakov sighed, falling down to his seat with a thump. He scrubbed a hand across his face. “You do realize how dangerous that is for a child?”

“We are very well aware of that,” Victor stated. Yuuri was a little insulted that he’d assume they wouldn’t be aware of the dangers of fire. “Which is why we taught him how to be safe around a fire and ask an adult before he sets anything alight. We found it’s safest for everyone if he keeps the fire in his hand until it burns out. It doesn’t hurt him either. How incredible is that?”

Yakov didn’t share the same amazement. He continued shaking his head, exhaling heavily whenever they mentioned something he didn’t quite agree with. Again, Yuuri understood his incomprehension. It was a lot to take in that their son was the antichrist. They went through their own worry themselves, spending too many nights wide awake with questions and uncertainty in their mind, unsure what to do or how to care for a son who was different.

Yes, Yurio was different than other children, but they realized it didn’t mean it had to be a bad thing.

“And what else can he do?”

“Well, we soon found out that he speaks Latin,” Victor began, holding out a finger as he counted. “He also hates the taste of salt which… didn’t alarm us that much until we discovered he’s the antichrist, so that made sense. He also asked us if we could adopt a hellhound, but we didn’t know how to get one.”

“And you two never spoke about this?” Yakov asked frantically.

“Do you think he was abused by bad people?” Yuuri asked with a lump in his throat and his stomach twisting in despair. He couldn’t dare imagine anyone doing that to his son. “There must’ve been a reason he was put up for adoption.”

“They said he was found on their doorstep, so if he was, it’s unlikely he’d remember it,” Victor replied. It spread relief through his bones but didn’t shake his unnerving feeling. “But I do agree with you. There’s something different about him.”

And as Yuuri sat there, trying to piece the puzzle pieces together, he couldn’t come up with a logical conclusion.

“That doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing,” He shrugged.

“No, but I think for his sake, we should find out soon.”

“We did.”

“We concluded that we didn’t want to try to change him,” Victor continued. Yuuri nodded along, ignoring Yakov’s bug-eyed glare. “This is who he is and what kind of parents would we be if we tried to change him?”

“Appropriate,” Yakov stated.

“We’d be terrible!” Victor gasped, startled that Yakov would even suggest such a thing. “We're not going to be mad at him for something that he is. We're going to encourage the good he does, even if his powers aren't so good."

As much as Yakov was huffing and shaking his head at them, Yuuri believed they were getting through to him – or at least, he was beginning to calm down. It was a lot to take in, even for himself and Victor; they were still learning something new about Yurio every day. It wasn’t an easy task to care for the antichrist, but all they needed was some extra help, or even acceptance from other people. If Yakov could accept Yurio for who he was, perhaps this could help him begin to open up to others as well.

That was the idea, at least.

“Alright, it seems you two have really committed yourselves to this,” Yakov sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “So, what was it that made you realize he was the antichrist?”

They looked at each other.

“When he summoned a hellhound.”

The morning was young as they sat in the kitchen, watching Yurio through the window as he played in the garden.

He wasn’t doing much. He did what he enjoyed; burning daisies and grass in his hand. That was nothing new to them. They trusted he’d stay safe while doing so, but they watched him cautiously, just in case.

What startled them was when Yurio jumped to his feet. He quickly ran inside and past them, bolting up the stairs with an excitement neither had ever seen from the boy before. They shared a curious glance, brows furrowed heavily.

“Yurio!” Victor called as they heard thumping from upstairs. “Yurio, what are you doing?”

But as Yurio came rushing down the stairs and past them again, coloring book and red crayon in hand, he ignored Victor’s question.

They watched him through the window as he sat on the grass. He began scribbling symbols in his book with his tongue stuck out and concentration in his eyes. It wasn't unusual for him to make sudden choices before. They'd seen it when he'd quickly grab his coloring book and begin drawing a new symbol. What was unusual was his excitement. They'd never seen him with such happiness before - even when they adopted him!

When he closed his eyes and began muttering under his breath, Yuuri turned to Victor as they shared a curious look, and asked,  “what do you think he’s doing?”

Victor shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

But as they looked back, their hearts stopped as they jumped to their feet, both pressed against the window as they watched the scene unfold in front of them.

A dark portal rested by Yurio’s feet. The world turned dark, the sky went black, and they watched as a creature spawned from its depths. It climbed from the portal and into their world, and what stood in front of their son was what appeared to be a dog. It stood taller than their son; its fur was black and mangled with eyes that were glowing red, and the strong smell of burning brimstone filled the air.

The portal then disappeared. The delighted squeal from their son took them back, but what surprised them even more was the dog-like creature pouncing on the spot, tail wagging as Yurio picked up a nearby stick and threw it across their garden. The creature chased after it and safely returned it to Yurio who continued the game of fetch.

“Victor…” Yuuri gulped, “have you pondered the possibility that we may have adopted the antichrist?”

Yakov didn’t blink for thirty seconds – at least.

“And…” He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “Is – is this thing still around?”

They said nothing as they pointed to the window behind the man. He turned, watching Yurio play outside in the garden with a dog – a hellhound – that chased after the stick held in his hands, leaving behind burnt pawprint marks on the grass where it had walked.

Yakov said nothing as he turned to sit back down in his seat. His face was white. His eyes had bulged wide, clearly alarmed by the hellhound that was now their pet. Yuuri had expected such a reaction – their own wasn’t too different – but when Yakov cleared his throat, he was hopeful for the man to say something. He waited, but nothing seemed to encourage him to speak. His voice was lost – trapped as he could do nothing but stare.

“We understand it’s a lot to take in,” Victor explained calmly, “but we wanted to tell you because we want him to flourish as a person. We don’t want him to be ashamed of who he is or what his future might hold. We believe if his family is accepting of him, he’d have a brighter future. His life would be better.”

Yakov’s eyes closed as he exhaled a long breath. He still didn’t say anything, but when Yuuri caught movement to his left, all three eyes turned to their six-year-old son, Yurio.

“Papa…” He walked towards Victor as he tugged his sleeve, wanting his attention. “Papa, Makkachin wants to meet Uncle Yakov.”

At Yurio’s words, Yuuri caught the way the coach’s eyes dazzled as a smile appeared on his lips, and it encouraged Yuuri’s own to show too. He watched as the man crouched to his knees as a cautious and careful hellhound – Makkachin, so Yurio called it – slowly walked towards him. It sniffed his trembling fingers.

Yuuri understood Yakov’s terror. It was a scary creature at first glance, but they learned it was as harmless as a bunny. Yakov came to realize that too as Makkachin’s tail began to wag and allowed Yakov to pet it, excited to meet a new person as it barked a deep and growling boof!

It was then that Yuuri wondered perhaps asking Yakov to accept Yurio into the family wasn’t what they needed to do, but for Yurio to accept Yakov into the family was.

“Well…” Yakov said, clearing his throat as he stood to his feet. “If you need a babysitter, I wouldn’t mind the job.”

And as they smiled, Victor nodded. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Read it on AO3!  Support me on Ko-Fi!

#Yuri on ice #Yuri on ice fanfic #yoi fanfic #yoi #yoi fanfiction #Yuri on ice fanfiction #time to overtag! #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #yuri plisetsky #writing prompt #one of the dumbest but possibly lighthearted things ive written in a while #i hope you guys enjoyed it #Axlaida writes

[voicehumanity]

The Humanity Party®’s Portrait of a Mass Shooter.

This is a framed mirror.  

This is THumP®’s portrait of a mass shooter, of a killer, of a murderer, of a shooting victim involved in a suicide.  

At any time, in the same circumstance of emotional imbalance and despair, any one of us could be in this portrait.

THumP® has outlined its official response to the recent American mass shootings and our stance on gun control.  (Here is a link to this response.)  

Here are a few of the main points of our response:

There will be no effect on gun violence until there are rational changes made to American law and order.

 ...

We do not believe that government should force the American people to give up their guns.  We need the right form of government that can prove to the people that its “well-regulated militia” can do the job better, safer, and more efficiently than unregulated gun owners.  Only when the people are convinced that the government is able, will they feel safe enough to trust a government controlled “well-regulated militia.”

Therefore, THumP®’s first course of action is to establish a type of government in which the American people can trust, in which the rest of the world can trust.  Only then can people be influenced to give up their possession and use of guns. 

Furthermore, we acknowledge that most gun deaths are a cause of suicide. When people lose hope, they lose their desire to live.  We insist that if the right form of government existed in which people could hope for a better world, less would want to end their life. 

...

Our patience comes from our hope that people will consider many of the underlying causes of violence against oneself or against others.  Economic and social inequality is one of the root causes of desperate, hopeless acts of violence.  Another one, just as important, is emotional inequality, where one feels less valued than others.

We have outlined our platform and presented our plan to give hope to people through economic and social changes, as well as personal self-worth and value.  A strong, righteous government that is not self-serving can provide relief from the pressures of hopelessness and worthlessness. 

...

We ask people to please consider our proposals for the right form of government first.  Keep your guns and back our proposals.  Once we have proven to the people that the right form of government is one in which a person can hope, and we can prove that this government’s “well-regulated militia” can indeed provide safety and freedom to the people, then we hope that people everywhere will put down their guns and support human equality and a unification of the world.

“Hope” is the intrinsic measure of our humanity, or better, that which we feel can be possible in spite of the improbabilities that seem to be part of our present experience.

It is improbable that we can convince American gun owners to put down their guns, but if we do not try something different that demonstrates a measure of our shared humanity, that we feel can be possible, then there is no hope.

We all share the same humanity.  None of us started out in life as one who would kill another person, or our self.  So, what makes us become a killer?  

What would we find out if we had the patience and took the time to get to know the perpetrators who take others’ lives, or their own?  What happened that caused the moment of emotional imbalance when each decided to take the lives of other people, many of whom, in most situations, the perpetrators didn’t personally know?

Society doesn’t seem interested in WHY a person decides to kill others.  Once a person makes the choice, the person is no longer seen as human.  Society and the media brand them as “perpetrators,” “killers,” “terrorists,” “monsters,” or “mentally ill,” to name a few of the inhumane names given to these human beings.

It will not make a difference whether the U.S. passes stricter gun laws or takes away all the guns from people outside of a “well-regulated militia” (see and read the entire 2nd Amendment to the U.S. Constitution).  A knife is a weapon.  A rock is a weapon.  And a properly aimed vehicle can take many more lives than any gun can, even quicker.  Take away all guns and we will witness an emotionally imbalanced human use a vehicle to mow down tens of innocent school children as they walk in crosswalks, to their school bus, or down the street to their own homes.   

These types of seemingly senseless violent acts will not end until, unless, we learn WHY human beings become emotionally imbalanced.  

Many will say that all of us have personal problems, that all of us have experienced the unfairness of life, but that few of us would kill an innocent person.  Can any of us honestly claim that we have had the same experiences, of whatever kind, that the perpetrators had?  Have we walked in their shoes?  Have we experienced life as they have experienced it? It is The Humanity Party®’s claim that all of us (the world) have contributed to these mass shootings and to the increase in instances of suicide.  

Suicide holds the highest rate of death by a gun.

New York Times reports:

“When Americans think about deaths from guns, we tend to focus on homicides.  But the problem of gun suicide is inescapable: More than 60 percent of people in this country who die from guns die by suicide.

“Suicide gets a lot less attention than murders for a few reasons.  One big one is that news organizations generally don’t cover suicides the way they do murders.  There’s evidence that news attention around suicide can lead to more suicides.  Suicide is more stigmatized and less discussed than homicide.

“But, as a matter of public health, gun suicides are a huge problem in the United States.  Suicide is the second-most common cause of death for Americans between 15 and 34, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.  Across all ages, it is the 10th-most common cause of death, and caused 1.6 percent of all deaths in 2012.

“Not all of those suicides are by gun, but a majority are.  And while some people feeling suicidal impulses will choose another method if a gun is not at hand, public health researchers cite two reasons guns are particularly dangerous: 1) Guns are more lethal than most other methods people try, so someone who attempts suicide another way is more likely to survive; 2) Studies suggest that suicide attempts often occur shortly after people decide to kill themselves, so people with deadly means at hand when the impulse strikes are more likely to use them than those who have to wait or plan.

“That means that strategies that make suicide more inconvenient or difficult can save lives.  Guns, when they are in the home, can make self-harm both easy and deadly.”

It is our position that a child’s upbringing, culture, religion, and other societal pressures heavily contribute to suicide.  

Take for example, a child who colors outside of the lines with crayons and says, “Look how pretty, mommy!”  

A loving mother responds with caring platitudes of adoration and appropriate accolades.  The child’s coloring is proudly taped on the refrigerator for the rest of the family and others to see.  The child’s art is loved and praised, but later, if the grown child shows no natural artistic ability and shows their work to the world, the world rejects the person because the person draws “outside of the lines.”  Where the child could once do no wrong, and no matter what the child did, the child received praise and acceptance, the world does not treat the aged child as the child was emotionally foundationalized.  

The alignment of a child’s emotional balance begins from infancy.  Children do not learn how to fail.  Parents, teachers, the world, do not teach children that failure is okay.  Children learn that failure is not an option.  The aged child only receives worldly value and acceptance when the person meets the world’s conditions of value and success.  

The child is loved, supported, fed, clothed, housed and cared for when sick or when emotional pain is experienced, but once the child reaches the age that the world has determined is adulthood, the child is thrown into a world of inequality and of forced economic livelihood (you either work like everyone else has to or you die.)

In the real world ... in the adult world ... no one cares about the child’s “out of the lines coloring.”  Unless the aged child submits their free will to the enslavement of employment, they will have no money, and no one is going to clothe, feed, house, and provide health and mental care for them as their parents did.  

The child loses an extreme amount of emotional self-worth and value to the world once the child becomes an adult.  The child must forget about everything that the child did to find personal happiness in life from the personal freedom enjoyed as child, liberty that is ripped away when one becomes an adult.

Besides economic struggle and inequality, the self-worth and value that a child receives from established emotional anchors of religion and the prejudiced teachings learned from parents, are threatened as an adult.  In the real world: Everyone is right. Which makes everyone wrong. ™️

If we base our individual self-worth and value on our personal right, and another tells us we are wrong, we naturally respond in self-defense.  And so many times throughout our shared history this self-defense results in killing through murder and war.  

Why can’t we have a world where everyone is right?  Why can’t we teach our children that everyone has their own version of right; that the version taught to the child is pertinent and relevant to the child only; that every other child has the right to be right and protected and supported in this individual right?  We do not teach this to our children because it threatens our own emotional anchors of, I am right and everyone else is wrong.

We have a world where no one really cares about anyone outside of their circle of loved ones and friends.  We stand in this circle, protected, praised, and supported.  The circle has replaced our parents and the security of our childhood home life.  Few dare to step out of this circle because once one steps out of the circle, and if one does not step into a new circle, the one feels lost, unloved, valueless, and hopeless.  Why wouldn’t one take their own life and end this emotional pain and suffering?

The above things are about suicide.  What about mass shooters?  Why do they do what they do?

To explain why we will use a real-life scenario: 

The Humanity Party® has become the only supporter of, and we also could have provided a caring circle of humanity that could have surrounded a human being who lived by the name, Thomas Hamilton.

In March of 1996, Thomas walked into a Primary School in Scotland and killed 16 innocent children under the age of 8.  He killed their teacher, then himself.

Why?

Thomas Hamilton isn’t around any longer to tell the world why, but we know why.  

Here is why:

Thomas loved children.  He was the Director of a few local youth clubs.  He was the leader of a local Scout group of young boys.

“Thomas Watt Hamilton was born on May 10, 1952, in Glasgow, Scotland.  His mother, a hotel chambermaid, was divorced from his father by the time Hamilton was born.  Hamilton never knew his father and grew up with his mother's adoptive parents, believing they were his biological parents.  They legally adopted him at age 2.  He also thought his biological mother was his sister until he was told the truth when he was 22 years old.”

A loner, Hamilton never formed any close relationships with adults of either sex and seemed particularly uncomfortable around women.  Can one imagine why?  If you were brought up to believe your grandparents were your parents and your mother was your sister, wouldn’t your view of normal relationships be affected?

There had been several complaints to police regarding Hamilton's behavior towards the young boys who attended the youth clubs he directed. Claims had been made of his having taken photographs of semi-naked boys without parental consent.  The entire local community was suspicious of his moral intentions towards boys.

Thomas was never arrested, charged, or convicted of ANY immoral act or behavior towards any boy, of any age, but the people spread their rumors.  The police did their investigations.  The world took away the only thing that gave Thomas self-worth and value: his ability to be involved with and help young boys.

Thomas Watt Hamilton took from that local community what it had taken from him.

How many lives have been destroyed because of rumor?  How many lives have been destroyed because of the unregulated freedom of the press?  How many innocent people have been arrested and charged with a crime that they did not commit, but had their name blasted in the media as the “alleged” perpetrator without being given the due process of law that Americans tout is part of their inalienable rights?  Rumor, gossip, and the sensationalized media reports generated by unscrupulous journalists are a gross representation of what our humanity has become.

Let’s consider the more recent mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in the United States:

In December of 2012, Adam Lanza outdid Thomas Hamilton and killed 20 children under the age of 8 and 6 teachers.

Why?

No one has ever investigated and reported why. 

Why?  

Because an honest investigative journalist would be crucified by his or her peers and blacklisted from journalism if he or she investigated and wrote a story about the human being ... not the killer, not the monster, but the human being ... named Adam Lanza. No media outlet in this world would dare publish an honest and thorough exposé of the real life of Adam Lanza and what was really going through his head when he decided to kill 20 innocent children and 6 innocent aged children.

The Humanity Party® has done its homework.  We are not afraid to tell the real truth.  We are not afraid to report it.  We know that only if we start to understand why, can we begin to find a solution to, not only mass shootings, but the increasing number of suicides.

Here is some of what the world believes and is taught about Adam Lanza:

“Lanza attended Sandy Hook Elementary School for four and a half years.  He started at Newtown Middle School in 2004 but according to his mother, Nancy, he was 'wracked by anxiety'.  His mother told friends her son started getting upset at middle school because of frequent classroom changes during the day.  The movement and noise was too stimulating and made him anxious.  At one point his anxiety was so intense, his mother took him to the emergency room at Danbury Hospital. In April 2005, she moved him to a new school, St. Rose of Lima, where he lasted only eight weeks.

“At age 14, he went to Newtown High School, where he was named to the honor roll in 2007.  Students and teachers who knew him in high school described Lanza as ‘intelligent, but nervous and fidgety’.  He avoided attracting attention and was uncomfortable socializing.  He is not known to have had any close friends in school.  Schoolwork often triggered his underlying sense of hopelessness and by 2008, when Adam turned sixteen he was only going to school occasionally.  The intense anxiety Lanza experienced at the time suggests his autism was exacerbated by the hormonal shifts of adolescence.  He was taken out of high school and home-schooled by his mother and father.  He earned a GED.  In 2008 and 2009, he also attended some classes at Western Connecticut State University.”

Some of the clues to the real truth about Adam Lanza are in what the world believes about him, but the world does not want to see Adam as a good, caring human being.  The world wants Adam remembered as a monster, as a killer, as a mass shooter, as mentally insane.  

The real truth: Adam did not want the children to suffer through the same educational process that he did.  This is the only reason why he killed them ... to save them from the world that had abused him.

The Humanity Party® doesn’t want anyone to suffer through the same social and political processes that can change any one of us from a human being into a monster.

We are our biggest problem.

THumP® has the solutions.  No one else does.   

#the humanity party #sandy hook #thump #suicide #mass shooting #gun control #gun controversy #thomas hamilton #adam lanza #equality #American gun owners #centers for disease control and prevention

[i-have-a-wonky-eye-too]

Teach, America...Part 2

The second time I met him was a couple of weeks after that. It was at the Natural History Museum. There was an exhibition on about Captain America and being a first grade teacher with a class full of adoring fans I just had to take them. Excited isn’t the word for what they were feeling. The week leading up to us going, all they talked about was Captain America.

So, as soon as we walked in I was expecting them to run wild. How wrong was I when they just stared up at the figure that had Captain America's uniform on, their tiny eyes glazed over and their mouths wide open. I stood back proudly. My arms folded over my chest as my eyes rolled over 30 little heads, checking everyone was getting a good look at their hero. I hadn't noticed anyone had joined us in the exhibition until I got to the last child.

A tall man wearing a rather low baseball cap and a brown leather jacket stood just behind the children like I was. My eyes looked over the side of his face curiously, he was alone and looked kinda sad. He must have sensed me staring because he turned his head my way. Those eyes. Those beautiful blue, sad eyes. It was him.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

I snapped my head down. The small, hopeful face of a boy looking up at me. “Yes, Nathan.” I answered warmly.

“Do you think we’ll ever get to meet, Capen’ ‘merica?” he raised his hand over his shoulder.

I looked out the corner of my eyes, a knowing smile spreading across my face. “Perhaps one day, maybe. Why Nathan?” I asked unfolding my arms.

“So I can thank him.” he smiled.

“For what, may I ask?”

“For saving you.” he pointed up. My heart thumped against my chest hearing those words. “You’re the best teacher in the WORLD!” he jumped up grinning.

“Yeah!” the rest of the class joined in cheering with him, making me laugh a little.

“I’m a teacher, you’re not meant to like me. You’re suppose to think I’m horrible and smelly.” I scrunched up my face bending forwards poking his sides, earning a giggle from him.

“You’re not horrible, Miss Y/L/N, you’re wonderful!” Ellie giggled from my side.

Another one joined in. “Yeah and pretty.”

“And you smell like flowers.”

“And rainbows!”

I began laughing again. “Well, thank you all, very, much but… I already thanked him.” I smiled.

“Do you love him?” Ellie asked with a big smile.

“Of course she does, have you seen her notebook?”

“Miss Y/L/N and Capen’ ‘merica, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G!” they all began singing and jumping up and down.

“Alright, alright! That’s, enough…” I held my hands up. “Why don’t you all go over there, with Ms Anderson and pull your crayons and paper out and draw a picture of Captain America.” I pointed over to where my teaching assistant was stood waiting for them. Once they were out of earshot I turned my head a little to the side taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry about them.”

“No need to apologise, ma’am.” he spoke softly, moving slowly. “And they’re right… you are pretty.” he whispered.

I turned my face as I began blushing profusely. “Do I smell like rainbows too?” I joked. Why? I mentally slapped my face for sounding so stupid.

He began chuckling shaking his head as he stood by my side. “I don’t know about that.” he smiled.

I glanced round at him nodding, hoping my face wasn’t bright red. “How, have you been since… you know…” I pointed towards the exhibition. He nodded sighing heavily, suddenly tensing up. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be prying-”

“No, no, please don’t apologise. I-” sighing again, his hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I just find it hard, that’s all, to talk about it.” I nodded looking down.

“Well… it might be Saturday tomorrow but, I’ll be here… and the next day…” I shrugged looking up from my feet. He nodded a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he looked at me. “That’s-”

“Miss Y/N/L?”

I looked down to my right nodding. “Yes, Sarah.”

I watched her as she leaned round my body, peering up. “I’ve finished my drawing.” she beamed holding her very colourful scribbling of Captain America. “Do you think we can send it to him?” she tilted her head to the side.

My eyes widened a little surprised by her question. “Oh, I’m not sure, Sarah. He’s a very busy man.”

“Too busy to open mail?” she witted frowning slightly. I covered my mouth with my fingers trying to hide my smirk as I heard a muffled chuckle.

“Hmm, no.” I smiled. “Okay, I’m sure we can.” I nodded, smiling when her face straightened out and lit up. She quickly spun round and ran off back to others telling them their drawings were going to be given to Captain America. “So, you too busy to open mail?” I looked over my shoulder to him, smirking.

He shook his head smiling. “I’d be honoured to.”

#captain america #captain america x reader #captain america fanfiction #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america love #fluff #captain america fluff

[kidslovetoys]

Easy Christmas Crafts

“Every child is an artist. The problem is to remain one when we grow up.”

Pablo Picasso

Do you cheat when you do craft activities with your child?

Do you 'fix' mistakes and tidy up the messy bits?

How does your child feel about that?

When we embark on a festive, creative activity with our children, we are often consumed with producing something that is universally recognisable, accurate, aesthetically pleasing or that mirrors an example made by us. We set up the activities with carefully selected resources and we hold those little hands to ensure the prints and marks go in just the right places. We adorn their marks with our own, to really make sure the end product looks as it was intended to. Then, perhaps, we photograph and display the work on our social media platforms and in our homes, to show the world what those little hands can do. But was it truly those little hands? Or was it really our grown-up hands, that have lost the art of, well, art?

What about the children? Where do their own thoughts, skills, ideas and wonderings come into the process? At what point during the carefully planned and prepped activity, does the child become passive and disinterested? When they are visiting home in 30 years and they see the immaculate handprint Christmas wreath displayed proudly on the mantlepiece of their family home, are they looking at anything more than a physical indicator of how small their hands were when they were 4? Whilst there is a place for the odd hand or foot print picture, there are so many other wonderful crafts and activities that we can arrange for our children during the festive period, that allow them to play more freely, create more honestly and produce things that they are truly proud of.

The post ‘Down with Pinterest-friendly craft ideas!’ reminds us of the importance of open-ended resources and how this freedom to explore and create can really support children’s development in ways that recreating Pinterest products simply cannot. Activities that value the process over the end product, ensure that children are engaged, enthralled, immersed and excited throughout the task. By celebrating these creations, we are actively showing our children how much we love and are proud of their ideas and abilities, by investing in their unedited, honest art and sharing this openly with the most special people in their lives. After all, ‘Art has the role of helping children become like themselves instead of more like everyone else’ (Sydney Gurewitz Clemens).

Here are some simple, cost-effective and easy Christmas craft activities that you could carry out with your children:

Making Paper chains

You can buy pre-cut paper-chain strips - and for the youngest children this might be OK - but best of all is to make them from scratch. It's hard to overstate how important cutting, sticking and glueing are for your child's development. Using both hands together, or bilateral co-ordination, is an essential skill. One hand to hold the paper steady while the other uses the scissors or glue. There are other learning opportunities, too. You could count the chains as you go, measure the length needed or length achieved, therefore developing skills in maths and problem solving. And, best of all, have lots of fun.

Tip: Using those squares of shiny, gummed paper that we are all familiar with from school is an easy way to make paper chains, but you can get by equally well with plain white paper. Just rub the side of a crayon across the entire sheet on both sides and you have a unique material packed with home-made charm.

Paper snowflakes

I think we all remember making these at some point or another! Folding a paper circle into eighths (maths) and cutting small shapes into the sides (cutting, fine motor skills and hand/eye coordination) before opening it up to discover what pattern we have made. Children love the anticipation of finding out how their snowflake will look and will likely make adaptations to their cuts and snips each time they produce another one, therefore applying new knowledge to existing ideas and stretching them beyond their capabilities.

Tree decorations

Children can draw and design their decorations on card before cutting them out and decorating them with paints, environmentally friendly glitter, stickers, buttons or any other decorative items you may have to hand. Then, using PVA glue to stick them together, punch a hole and use a ribbon to hang them on the tree. There are so many skills involved with such a simple and easy activity such as applying the right amount of glue, positioning a hole in the right place, threading the ribbon through, selecting and using different decorations. Children love to let their creativity run wild with their choices in shape, design and decoration, and then they get to see their beautiful decoration on the family Christmas tree, which is a huge confidence booster because it is 100% their creation.

Salt dough decorations

Salt dough is a cheap and more readily available option than clay. It is easy to make, dries hard enough to paint/decorate and will last many years in the Christmas decorations storage box in the loft!

Using the salt dough recipe here, you can allow children to create their decoration shape, or use cutters and objects to make prints and patterns in circles or balls. Children can create the shape and then after baking the items with help from their adults, they can be painted and adorned with all manner of festive decorations. Conversations during modelling with dough or clay are wonderful! Lots of talk around texture and shape, ideas and stories. Children often change their ideas as they progress and talk you through what they are thinking.

Potato print wrapping paper

Buy a roll of drawing paper if possible as this works well with wrapping gifts as opposed to A4 (although that will work just as well for smaller gifts). Cut a potato in half and carve some shapes into the ends. The children can use these potato stampers to create patterns. They will naturally explore tessellation, pattern, grouping shapes, counting and concepts of space and measurement.

Pine cone decorating

There have been a lot of opportunities for being outdoors lately during walks and you may have stumbled upon some pine cones. Collect some pine cones and, using PVA glue, adorn these with splendid Christmassy things like environmentally friendly glitter, any craft items you may have in the home such as pom poms or stickers. Tie a ribbon or string to the top and make decorations to hang on the tree, or just for placing around the home.

Christmas card collage

Using old or unused cards and wrapping, alongside some safety scissors and glue, allow children to cut out shapes and pictures and create their own Christmas collage! They may wish to tell a story, catalogue things they like or simply create something decorative. This offers children the chance to cut around shapes and pictures, developing cutting skills.

Snowglobes

Using old jars, biodegradable glitter, glycerin and water (or baby oil if you do not have this) and some objects to stick inside the lid of the jar, children can make an effective snowglobe. This activity is very scientific in nature and there are opportunities for conversations about how and why things work the way they do such as how the water/oil stays in the jar, why the glitter moves more slowly or how the light reflects. Then, at the end, watch their eyes as the glittery snow falls down through the liquid.

Making Christmas stockings/sacks

Using an old bag for life, old clothing or fabric, socks, or some cardboard cut into the shape of a stocking, children can decorate with anything to hand (buttons, stickers, shapes, pom poms, photos). You could introduce sewing or fabric glue with older children and allow them to really let their hands get busy with new skills and thought processes. 

Wrapping presents

At this time of year, we tend to have a lot of excess boxes from online deliveries and purchases. Children always seem to gravitate towards the good old fashioned cardboard box as it represents freedom to be anything they wish! They could wrap them, tie bows on them, make up presents for others, or just decorate them as Christmas props. Perhaps they want to turn one into a present costume or hat. The options are endless, but the process of creating the end result is going to involve a lot of different skills and ideas along the way.

Icing Christmas biscuits

This could can be as basic as taking an existing cookie or biscuit and simply icing it with a variety of sprinkles, or baking them together and then decorating in any way they choose. Mixing icing to the desired consistency, using it with different utensils (piping bag, spatula, spoon etc) and then waiting for it to set and be ready for eating, will support development in science, understanding of the world and the properties of various liquids and mixtures, patience, resourcefulness and consequence.

Christmas cards

Folding (maths, fine motor skills, hand/eye coordination), decorating (creativity, colours, confidence, expression), writing, sealing, sending. An oldie but a goodie! Children enjoy all of the stages of making cards and they can really feel a sense of pride when the card they took so much care in making, is sent to someone they love and care for.

Stained glass windows

These are fabulous! Using tissue paper and sugar paper or card, cut the frames out by folding and cutting shapes into whatever patterns the children choose. Stick the tissue paper over the spaces created and then stick to the window. Children can really play with colours, shapes and experience the illusions shadows and silhouettes can make. Children may need a sample to help them with the initial concept, however this shouldn’t be something they are expected to copy, but rather an example to inspire and guide them. Christmas is a great time to do these activities because shapes such as stars, Christmas trees and snowflakes are familiar, recognisable and easy for children to cut out, if they choose to. 

Junk modelling

Christmas often accumulates a lot of waste packaging. You could provide your children with a crate or bag of boxes, wrapping paper, cardboard inserts, plastic pots/bottles, tags, sweet wrappers, packaging fillers such as shredded cardboard or polystyrene. Along with some glue, scissors, decorative papers, pens/crayons to construct and decorate, let the children model something. Junk modelling is a wonderful way of supporting children’s problem solving skills by posing different opportunities to solve problems (why wont the cylindrical tub stick to the cardboard box? Could I do anything differently to make that work?). It also supports their gross motor skills such as lifting, reaching and stretching, as the objects are bigger and more difficult to manoeuvre than small, tabletop items. 

In all of these suggested activities you will find opportunity to explore every area of development. There are chances to introduce new vocabulary, extend existing ideas by asking questions, model your own thinking by talking out loud about what you are doing or how you could approach something differently. There are opportunities to develop maths by using mathematical language (is this big enough? How many will we need? Are there more or less here?), counting, measuring and estimating. Science is introduced with mixing, experimenting, hypothesising (I think I will be able to do this because…). You can encourage children to express how they feel, articulate their thoughts and ideas. You can help them to develop physical skills from both large scale movements to small fingertip work. Children will engage in highly focused, deep play, that is powered by their own ideas and motivation, thus empowering them and their ideas. The end product may not be a perfectly replicated Pinterest reindeer, but it will be something your child has enjoyed making and is pleased as punch with in the end.

from One Hundred Toys - The Blog https://ift.tt/2JLhWiu

#One Hundred Toys

[xcheybaby]

Grace

Disclaimer: Some names of people and places have been changed for privacy reasons

“Cheyenne!”

        I turn around and a long-haired little girl comes barreling across the room and into my arms. I hug her as tight as I do every Wednesday night when I come to the town;s humble church to tutor my favorite first grader. The large meeting place turned cafeteria has large round tables with folding chairs filling the space. The small windows toward the top of the walls don’t let in much light, but the bright LED bulbs make up for the absence of natural light.

        “How have you been, Grace? I missed you this week,” I tell her. She giggles and tells me that she missed me too.

        “I made you something at school today!” She exclaims.

        “Oh, you did? What is it?”

        “It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.” I close them as tight as I can and I hear her digging around in her backpack. Finally, the rustling of papers stop and she taps my shoulder to let me know I can open my eyes. I open them and in front of me is a hand drawn picture of two girls, one tall and one short.

“It’s me and you!” she says as she hands it to me. “I made it during free time at school. My teacher helped me spell the words.” I look at the top of the page and “I love you this much” was scrawled in her sloppy handwriting.

        “See, my arms are out like this because I love you thiiiisss much.” She holds out her arms for another hug. I hug her tight once more. This is the last time I'll see Grace and I don't know how to tell her. The Study Buddy program is coming to an end for the school year, and I won’t be able to volunteer again next year. I decide that I won't tell her until it is absolutely necessary. My heart breaks at the possibility that I won't see my little Grace again. I can feel the sting in my nose as I fight back the tears.

"Come on, let's go get some dinner, okay?" I pull away from her so she can't hear my sniffling.

"It's mac and cheese today!"

 I remember the shy and scared little girl who was assigned to me for Study Buddies at the local church at the beginning of the school year. I remember praying for a girl when they were reading the names off on that first night. I mean, I would have been happy either way, but something about tutoring a young girl made me excited. I wanted to be a role model for her. And plus, all the young boys in this program were bouncing off the walls 24/7. I didn’t think I could handle their never ending energy for very long. But when they called my name and I walked up to the front of the room and saw Grace, my heart immediately felt both elated and saddened at the same time. I was ecstatic that I was assigned a her, but she was so scared that first day. Unlike many of the other kids who had been a part of this program for a while, this was her first day, too. The program leader, Val, introduced me to this very nervous looking child.

“Cheyenne, this is Miss Grace.” Val placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And Grace, this is your new study buddy, Miss Cheyenne.” Grace stared at her feet. “Why don’t you say hi to her.”

Without glancing up, Grace spoke in the quietest voice, “Hello, Miss Cheyenne.” I bent down to her level and smiled. “You can just call me Cheyenne if you want.” Grace looked up at me for an instant and then back down at the floor.

“Okay.” She said.

 Watching her now, bouncing through the meal line, talking with all of the other first and second graders at a million miles an hour, smiling, laughing, it’s like she is a completely different girl. She is much more outgoing and confident than when I first met her. I’d like to take some credit for that. It makes my heart full to see her so happy and unafraid. After getting her tray, she practically spills her juice fast-walking back to our table.

“Be careful,” I warn her, but I can’t hide my laughter.

“I’m sorry, mac ‘n cheese is just my favorite and I couldn’t wait!” She flashes the brightest smile as she shoves the first spoonful into her mouth. “Aren’t you gonna get some?” She mumbles through her cheese filled mouth.

“I already ate before I came,” I answer her. She shrugs and continues eating her meal.

I hadn’t eaten before. Truth is, I was too nervous to eat. Trying to figure out what to say and when to tell her that I probably wouldn’t see her for a while, if ever, left my stomach churning. She finishes her last bite as Val claps her hands.

“Okay everyone, time to get started. Let’s all throw our plates away, please.” I grab Grace plate for her and stand up.

“I’ll get this tonight. Just grab your backpack and we’ll go pick a spot upstairs to do your work, okay?” She complies and we make our way up the stairs to the kids rooms. Our favorite couch is taken tonight and Grace pouts. “Ugh, I wanted to sit there!”

“Hey, it’s okay. We have to give some other kids a turn on the couch, right? We can’t hog it every week.” She sighs and picks a table on the other side of the room, near the coloring station. This girl loves to color. Every time we finish her homework and reading, she makes a beeline to the coloring station to get some crayons and paper. The church didn’t have coloring books, so I’d draw the outlines of trees, or stars, or farm animals, and she would color them in.

 For that past Christmas, I had spent hours upon hours making a special gift for her. She had told me once that she didn’t have any coloring books or crayons at home, and that gave me an idea. I stayed up for hours the night before I saw her for the Study Buddy Christmas party, drawing outlines of scenes for her to color in and even printing out some free Disney coloring pages I had found online. I compiled them all into a book, bought her a huge pack of crayons (you know, the 64 pack with the sharpener on the back — the one all the cool kids had), and wrapped it all up with a big bow. She opened it the next evening and she was confused. I had to read the cover of her new coloring book out loud before she understood what it was.

“It says ‘Grace’s Coloring Book.’” I pointed out each word as I read them aloud to her. Her eyes lit up and she squealed with delight. She put the book down carefully and wrapped her thin arms around me as tight as she could.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered to me.

 That was about five months ago and since then, we’ve colored a page together every Wednesday night. Each page a collaboration between the two of us. When the book was all colored up, I bought her a new one. And when the book was all colored up, I bought her a new one. Each page a collaboration between the two of us. I’ve been lucky enough to receive a page or two from her as presents and I proudly hang them in my dorm room.

But tonight, we will not be coloring. Grace has an ungodly amount of math homework for a first grader. “What are these teachers thinking?” I think to myself.  I help her through the math as best as I can, because sometimes I even struggle with first grade level mathematics. Then it’s on to geography. I help her identify all the states she has learned so far and she tells me their capitols.

After we finish her last page of work, she zips up her backpack and then looks at me with a gigantic smile. I know what she wants. I turn around to the bookshelf behind me and pluck out the same book we read together every Wednesday night, Where do Balloons Go?. We take turns reading each page out loud. She struggles with a particularly large word, and I help her sound it out.

“Sk-” I say. She repeats

“-eye”, “-eye”

“-scer”, “-scer”

“-ape”, “-ape”

“-er!” she finishes. “I remember now! It says skyscraper!” She giggles and continues onto the next line.

It’s amazing how far she’s come since she first started. Before I started tutoring Grace, she was below her grade level in reading. She could hardly read any of the books the church had in their small children’s library. I had to scour the shelves for something for her to start with. Now, I’m not crediting myself for teaching her to read, but I could tell she wasn’t getting any help from anyone else. Her teacher had too many students to be able to focus on Grace specifically. Her mother has two other kids, another on the way, and is too busy to help her with school work. I think I was the only one available. Having the appreciation for reading that I do, I was happy to help this young girl become a more efficient and passionate reader. By the time our tutoring was over, she had caught up with the other students and was now equal with them in level and able to join their reading group instead of being assigned an easier book all by herself. I was so proud of her. I still am.

Hearing her read words she had struggled so much with only a few months ago fills my heart with joy. She celebrates every word she learns and every book she completes. This book, Where do Balloons Go?, was even more special for one other reason. It had stickers. And not only normal stickers, but they were, as Grace called them, “magic stickers.” They could be removed and reused over and over again. This meant that every time she successfully read the book, she’s allowed to play with the stickers in the back of the book. She was able to create her own story with these stickers and it’s always a really fun way to end the night.

Val comes up the stairs and announces that since this was the last Study Buddy session for the school year, we will be taking a group photo in the gymnasium. I suck in a sharp breath and hold it in for a few seconds. I was having so much fun reminiscing my time with Grace and reading with her that I had almost completely forgotten. This is my last night with her. My class schedule for the following school year does not leave room for the weekly Wednesday night Study Buddy hour..

She grabs my hand and says, “Come on, we have to get a good spot!” I let her pull me along and the other leaders usher us to our spots for the photo. We are two of the first people to be placed in our spots which means we had a little time to wait before the photo was taken.

“Cheyenne,” Grace says in her smallest voice.

“Yes?”

“Are you coming back when I go back to school next year?” She looks up at me and waits for my answer. Damn her puppy dog eyes.

“I’m not sure,” I lie. I knew I wouldn’t be back, but I didn’t — no, couldn’t — admit that to her. I didn’t want to leave her without hope. But, I knew that wasn’t fair to her. Tears well up in the corner of my eyes and threaten to spill over.

“It’s okay, Cheyenne. I’ll miss you, too.” She hugs me and buries her face into my side. I bend down and hug her back tightly. In the last moments I spent with Grace, a flood of thoughts overrun my mind. This girl has impacted me infinitely more than I ever thought imaginable. Grace has taught me that I should never give up and to work through my problems even if I become frustrated. As I watched her overcome her obstacles with reading, she taught me how to overcome my own struggles. She taught me what it’s like to love someone else and that friendship can come from all people of different sizes and ages. Grace will always have a place in my heart no matter where I am. And as the photograph is taken, Grace whispers, “I love you, Cheyenne,” and I swear every muscle in my heart breaks.