#plus my love for wood carving and whittling and everything wood

[skoulsons]

“Joel?”

“Upstairs.”

He started to take up wood carving. He spent a week earnestly making this spare room into something he could use for the hobby. It had enough wall space to hang the guitars he made, and he built some shelves for the wooden animals that didn’t make their way to other random shelves around their downstairs. The closet has enough room for any extra supplies, and the windows offered the perfect amount of natural light for his work.

Ellie entered the room, Joel’s back to her as he softly hummed while working on a new little project. “Hi,” she greeted, coming up behind his chair and peering over his shoulder.

“Hey, baby girl,” he smiled, resting his arms on the table and turning to her. “Goin’ out?”

“Yeah, Dina and Jesse want to meet at the Tipsy Bison for some food.”

Joel nodded, a hesitant smile. He trusted those two, but his heart always dropped to his stomach when he couldn’t see Ellie. Nothing would happen to her as she was just walking three minutes away to the establishment, but he still worried. “Good. Good, I’m glad you’re hanging out with them.” He was. She was making friends. She was bonding with other people. She was laughing again. It was good.

“Joel, I’ll be fine,” she reassured, trying to calm his obvious nerves that always surfaced when she left the house. He breathed in, preparing a response, but she spoke again, kneeling beside his chair to be more level with him. “What’re you working on?”

He smiled proudly. Whether she was genuinely interested or not, he loved these moments with her. Getting to talk about wood carving was nice, too. He lifted the creature up, twisting it back and forth. “A lion. Mane is being a pain in the ass though. Can’t quite get it right.”

“You made a fucking detailed elephant, I think you can manage a lion’s mane.”

“Maybe so, kiddo.” He lifted the knife again to start picking at the mane again.

A minute of silence passed as she watched him tentatively carve away at the lion’s mane. He had everything else down, down to the detail of its paws. She sighed. You should stay. “I should go, they’re probably waiting for me,” she said, using the arm of his chair to push herself up.

“Hey-“ he called, his hand finding hers on the arm of his chair. He dropped the knife, turning towards her. Ellie rolled her eyes and squatted back down beside him.

He grabbed the opposite side of her head, bringing her head close and kissing the hair above her ear. A second one, always. “Be safe,” he whispered into her hair.

If there were around anyone, she’d be way too embarrassed over this. But in the comfort of their home? She relished in it.

“Always,” she promised. She squeezed his hand once, letting go as she pushed herself up completely and headed for the door.

Every damn door in the house creaked, and this one was no exception. She pulled the handle towards herself as she backed out of the room, eyes still on Joel.

“Love you, kiddo,” he called, the creaking of the door abruptly stopping as Ellie paused.

I love you so much. She rested her head against the door briefly, smiling to herself. She sighed again, contentment lingering on her breath. “Love you, too.”

#I wrote that post about him kissing her head #and that paired with a nearly hour long tear stained breakdown over them #plus my love for wood carving and whittling and everything wood #idk this came to be #goodnight very very sleepy rn #I hope this is coherent #the last of us hbo #joel miller #ellie williams #L writes

[plaidbooks]

Cabin Life - Whittling Roses

A/N: Hello, I have lost complete control of myself and just keep writing this AU. I blame @berniesilvas, but I also love her and this AU so much. For now, this was all the concrete ideas I had--everything else is vague ideas that I don’t have a fic plotted for yet. I hope you all enjoy!

Tags: just fluff, the briefest mention of smut (only one line), and a little bit of a make-out session

Words: 1857

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart  @beccabarba  @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @permanentlydizzy @ben-c-group-therapy  @infiniteoddball @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @alwaysachorusgirl  @glimmerglittergirl  @reading--mermaid  @averyhotchner  @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles @crowleysqueenofhell @dreamlover31

As predicted, the snowstorm blocked off contact between you and Sonny for most of the winter months. As soon as the snow started to melt, it would snow again, causing a bigger buildup. He texted you when he could—when the cells had connection—but otherwise, he was confined to his cabin, as you were to yours.

He never once stopped thinking about you, especially when he was huddled in a pile of your blankets, the fireplace happily crackling in front of him. He remembered the night he made love to you right there on the floor, and he wished he could do it again, in his bed this time. Even the thought of your body in his embrace, your warmth and scent surrounding him, was enough to make his body flush with desire.

To help take his mind off you…well, to help control his thoughts—there was no “not thinking” about you—he took a block of wood inside, his whittling blade in hand. When he looked at that block of unimpressive, plain wood, he could clearly see what he wanted to make. But even with his skill, it was a complicated task. At least he had months to work on it.

He spent most of his time whittling. He only took a break to cook, eat, maybe watch tv if he could get a signal in the blizzard. He also brought in a separate piece of wood, to practice different techniques on; he wanted his gift to you to be perfect, to show his love for you.

Sonny let his mind wander as he whittled—as long as he paid attention to the details. His mind irrevocably went back to you every time. He wanted to ask how you felt about kids; though you had mentioned wanting them before, he wanted to see if that was still true.

Eventually, his mind wandered to him marrying you. He wanted to propose, with rings and everything, have both your families there. Maybe he could build an archway to go in that meadow or something, cover it with flowers. He was already building a bridge to go across that creek by his place. An archway shouldn’t be too hard.

Then he smiled as a thought struck him; what if he whittled the wedding rings? He’d have to get better, perfect his craft before he even attempted at something so important. He’d have to talk to you about that, too, make sure you were okay with it. He had enough money to buy a traditional ring, if that’s what you wanted.

 ***********************

About a month into his project, he finished the first of what he hoped would be a dozen roses. He gazed intently at the bud, the petals. Then, his eyes travelled down the stem to the leaf, the veins carved into it. Was it the best rose ever made? Absolutely not. But it was a rose, and it would be perfect for you.

It had taken him much longer than he had anticipated to make one rose. He had stopped frequently to practice petals and veins, though, which had taken up time. Still, he was afraid he wouldn’t finish them quick enough; he had never spent a winter in the cabin, and he didn’t know how long the storms lasted (he had to make a call to the Willis’s for how to cover his gardens). So, while he felt jubilation at finishing one rose, he didn’t celebrate, instead getting right back to it.

The second rose only took him two weeks, and the third, a week. Now that the stems were done, he was getting faster at doing the petals and leaves. He still took his time, made sure he didn’t mess them up, but he was improving. Some of them, he left as bulbs, the petals just opening, while others were in full bloom. He debated painting them, but he wanted to make his own dyes, and he had no idea how to do that. Plus, he kind of liked the light, wooden color.

Once he finished, he fought the urge to continue working on them. He did go back and fix up some details in the first flower that he learned to deal with by the tenth. Now came the question of what to put them in. Does he get a fancy ribbon and tie the stems together for a bouquet? Or should he whittle a vase for them? It’s not like they needed water.

Outside, the blizzard raged on. So, Sonny figured he could make a vase, and if he didn’t like it, he could toss it in the fireplace. Taking yet another block of wood, he got to work. This project, he had a little less of a vision than before. He thought about it as he pulled the roses together, measuring how big of an opening he needed on top.

Slowly, a shape began to form in his mind’s eye, and he started cutting. He wanted a long, skinny neck on top, and a wider base. He wouldn’t have to hollow the inside, only the top part enough to hold the roses. Still, he was doing it by hand, and it took him another month to have just the basic shape done. But he wanted to add details.

Taking his smallest whittling tool, he went to work on the design. Maybe it was corny, but Sonny was a corny guy. He carved apples and his best attempt at lavender flowers, the two things that drew you both together. And in the middle, he carved out a heart, both of your initials inside. He smiled when he was done, knowing that you’d love it regardless; it came from him.

He collected all the wooden roses and rearranged them in the vase until they were how he wanted them. He smiled proudly at the sight, and he wished the snow would stop so he could give them to you now.

 **********************

He only had to wait another two weeks before the snow finally let up enough for him to visit you. The sky was a bright blue, the sun making the fallen snow blinding. Sonny texted you that he was coming over, asking if you wanted to go with him to the local shops to restock on some food. You agreed, and he was instantly on his ATV, the roses zipped up protectively in his jacket.

Sonny parked, then came up to your front door, vase in hand. He knocked and then was suddenly worried that you’d hate the roses, that you’d think him childish. You had given him blankets, something useful, while all he made was wooden flowers—

You opened the door, smiling brightly when you saw Sonny standing there. You had missed him deeply, and you were happy to see his hair and beard longer. Then your eyes flicked down to the wooden vase clutched in his hand.

“What’s this?” you asked, voice hushed in awe at the bouquet.

He swallowed hard. “I, uh, I made ya these fer ya…. I thought, ya know, that I should get ya flowers. But they always wilt and die, so I thought if I made them outta wood, then….”

“You—you made these?” Your eyes tore from the roses to lock to his blues.

He slowly extended his arm, holding the vase out to you, and you took it, marveling at the details in the leaves and petals, then the vase itself. You chuckled as you recognized the apples and lavender, and you had to blink away tears when you saw the heart.

“Sonny, I love them. Thank you so much,” you breathed, smiling up at him.

He grinned nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “Ya do? I was afraid that they weren’t useful—”

“Of course, they’re useful,” you replied, and he tilted his head, brow furrowed. “They show me how much you love me, even when you’re not here to tell me yourself.”

The brightness of his smile could match that of the sun. “Plus, they’ll never die, like my love for you.”

“You sap,” you said, giggling. With your free hand, you grabbed his jacket and pulled him to you for a sweet kiss. His nose and lips were chilled from the wind outside, but you didn’t care. Besides, his lips warmed quickly enough against yours.

“Come on; let’s head to the market so I can get ya home ‘fore the snow starts back up,” Sonny muttered against your lips.

You snuck another kiss. “Why bring me home? Why not just take me to your place? I know we could keep each other warm”

He let out a low growl, kissing you deeper, his tongue in your mouth. Your bodies were magnetic, drawing each other closer. It was a struggle to pull away long enough to place the roses on a table before you were back, body melding to his, hand going to his hair. He pushed you against the doorjamb, hands exploring under the hem of your jacket.

Your father cleared his throat from inside the house, and Sonny sprung off you as if you had shocked him. “S—sorry, sir—” he stammered, face turning a bright red.

Your father crossed his arms, giving him a hard look. “Just close the door; you’re letting the heat out.”

You gave Sonny a sheepish grin as he came inside, closing the door behind him. You told him you needed to pack some things, and you took the vase, heading for your room, leaving Sonny and your father alone.

The latter studied Sonny intently, gazing at him from over his spectacles, and Sonny tried not to fidget under his scrutiny.

“I intend to marry your daughter,” he blurted out. He winced internally; why the fuck did he say that?! But now that it was out there, he was prepared to defend it to the death. He kept his face a mask of stone, not letting your father see his fear.

He continued staring at Sonny, weighing his words. “Does she know that?”

“She does; I told her last time she was over. From the moment I saw her, I knew that I wanted nothin’ more than to marry her.”

He nodded lightly; just a jut of his chin. “Have you proposed? Do you have a ring?”

“It’s only been a few months; I wanted to wait a lil, make sure it’s what she wants, too,” Sonny explained.

“Just don’t wait too long; I don’t want you leading her on or hurting her.”

Sonny’s eyes widened in offense. “I would never—”

You came back right then, a duffle bag in your hand, and glancing nervously between the two men. “Whatcha talkin’ about?” you asked uncertainly.

“Nothing dear. Have fun and stay safe,” your father said, and he came over, kissing your cheek, then headed to a different room.

You cocked an eyebrow at Sonny, but he just shook his head, moving to hold the door open for you. Confused at the tension, you went out into the crisp, winter air, taking a deep breath. You were sure Sonny would tell you the whole story later.

#sonny carisi x reader #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfic #fanfic #my writing

[cecilspeaks]

169 - The Whittler

Let us go then, you and I When the evening is spread out Against the sky And pick up some Dell Taco for dinner. Welcome to Night Vale.

Beyond our town, past the Sand Wastes, in the Scrublands, sits the old general store. An oaken cabin style A-frame with boxed windows and a covered patio. On the porch there sits a swinging bench and upon that bench sits an elderly man, his face crumpled like a discarded letter, his eyes like tire tracks hidden beneath the shady brim of a straw cowboy hat. The old man holds a block of Elmwood the size of a potato in his right hand, and in his left, a carving jack. He whittles away at the knot of food, shaving off small corners, making detailed lines and indentations. The wood is all his world. And this world is quiet in his lap, on his bench, on his patio, before his general store amid the Scrublands past the Sand Wastes, which curl about Night Vale like the gentle but calloused hands of a father holding a newborn. As the old man whittles, he whistles sad songs with no words. But all those who hear the notes know they are bout loss. That they are about loneliness. But no one hears those notes. Not yet. No one sees the old whittler, nor his general store far out in an uninhabited stretch of desert. Not yet. If they did, they would wonder how an old general store, which was not there yesterday, was suddenly here today, a shop that by all accounts had weathered decades of abusive heat, wind, and isolation. They would hear his sad song, and the universal language of wistful sorrow would hide from them their understanding of time.

Let’s have a look now at sports. This Saturday night, the Night Vale High School Scorpions basketball team begins the district tournament. The Scorpions, having finished the season 18-2, earned the number 1 seat this year, but face some tough competition in their bracket. In the first round, they must battle another basketball team. This is logical, because most basketball tournaments feature other basketball teams. But the other basketball team is considered weaker than the Night Vale Scorpions, because a series of accumulated numbers indicates this is so. Should the Scorpions make it out of the first round and into the semi-finals, they would likely battle the number 4 seed, Nature. A tougher matchup to be sure, as Nature is unpredictable and ubiquitous. Nature’s style of play is best described as capricious and random, sometimes showcasing an array of flashy skills like sunny days, crystalline lakes, and otters. But Nature is a lockdown defensive force with effective momentum stoppers like lightning, quicksand, and poison ivy.

And in the finals, the favorites to compete for the title are Night Vale High School versus themselves, perhaps the toughest battle of them all, as each player must confront their harmful secrets, painful pasts, and darkest nightmares. Themselves are able to match the pace and power of Night Vale’s offensive and defensive sets, and we expect an excellent game. Good luck, Scorpions!  

Most days the Scrublands are absent of humans, unapproachable and hostile. Today is not most days, as a line of Night Vale citizens has formed outside of the general store to see the old whittler and his wood menagerie. Parents ask for photos of their children with his work, and he only whistles and nods nearly imperceptibly. It could almost be interpreted as a slight twitch of the neck, rather than an affirming nod, but interpretations grow liberal when want is high.

Fathers and mothers snap pictures on their phones of children accepting gifts of wood figurines from the old man. The kids stare into the thin black ellipses that pass for his eyes, searching for the charming smile of elderly approval. But instead, seeing every single constellation of the night sky inside slits as thin as thistles and as black as tar. The historic expansion of the universe cannot be fully understood in words or even human thought, but it can be comprehended in the eyes of the tanned, wrinkled stranger.

The old whittler does not charge a penny for any of his work. He does not smile nor accept the many thank-yous coaxed out of the young ones by their manner-minded handlers. Nor does he accept requests. Children have many mascots, heroes, and cartoons that they love to possess via keepsake totems, and they repeatedly ask the old man for whittled representations of their favorite things, like Pokemon characters or one of Pixar’s anthropomorphic cars, or even Ted Allen, host of Food Network’s long running cooking competition “Chopped”. But the old whittler only carves what he carves. And he carves tiny horses, little cowboys, old-timey wagons, armadillos, tigers, tractors, almost anything you can think of. He finishes his sculpture of a koala bear and hands it to Amber Akinyi, who looks at her husband Wilson Levy, who is holding their sobbing, screaming 16-month-old baby Flora. The couple smiles together, never knowing that this balsa koala is everything they could have ever wanted beyond a loving family. Wilson begins to cry at the simple beauty of this craft. Amber begins to cry at the feeling of being understood, and young Flora stops crying as she fawns over the 6-inch tall antipodean marsupial, cartoonishly gnawing on a eucalyptus leaf.

The whittler also carves people. Small human figures, yes, like firefighters and ballerinas and clowns, but also actual people. Harrison Kip told the old man he wished to be happier in his own skin, and the old whittler grabbed Harrison’s cheeks and brought Harrison’s round, soft face before his own crinkled countenance, and Harrison screamed. He screamed in fear of what the old man was about to do. He also screamed in joyous anticipation, and the two screams were discordant like adjacent keys pressed simultaneously on a church organ. The old whittler pressed his knife against Harrison’s chin and began to pull the blade back, using the force of his thumb and the trunk of his forefinger. He repeated throughout Harrison’s assenting and defiant shouts, and after a few moments, Harrison stopped yelling and stood. His jaw squarer, his nose thinner and longer, his shoulders broader. And Harrison smiled.

Soon, the whittler began carving houses, roads, and city buildings. They were larger than the koala, much larger, for they were full-sized renditions of these things. He sliced and sawed away at block after block of red oak, hackberry and peachwood, forming new arteries of city travel, whole blocks of residences, and even cultural landmarks and venues. And the town of Night Vale, in a single late morning, began to expand into the distant and uninhabitable Scrublands of our desert.

Let’s have a look now at horoscopes. Gemini. Bury yourself in your work today, Gemini. Pile that garbage high and rest your weary head beneath its odorous, but comforting weight. Cancer. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Cancer. Today you are Mrs. Disinterested Lady. Get out there and be uninvolved in everything. Leo. You’re the talk of the town, Leo. Word after word is about you, and it is juicy! Like a rare steak, like a blood orange. Juicy like 2008 coutoure. Whew! You should hear what they’re saying. Virgo. You are not what you seem to be, Virgo. You seem to be a blackberry shrub, overreaching and prickly. But really you are a human, squishy and small. Continue to be the thorny fruit-bearing bush, though. Libra. You seek balance, Libra, but you are as lopsided as wealth disparity graph in an economist’s classroom. Share your worth, distribute your value fairly and compassionately, Libra, for the villagers are sharpening their tools. Scorpio. Hey Steve, love you pal! 

Sagittarius. Your (-) [0:10:42] in relationships is going to be your downfall, Sagittarius. You’re an obsidian monolith, towering over everyone, absorbing all light, except the faint reflection of those who want to know what glows inside your stony façade. You don’t have to be a diamond, Sagittarius, or even quartz. Just try for salt lick, OK? I think you can achieve that. 

Capricorn. Oh the games you play, Capricorn, you wicked little sea goat! You naughty caprine ocean dweller with your horns and scales, vexing us with your riddles and labyrinthian logic! The stars offer no advice for you, Capricorn, only envious praise. Aquarius. Put your money where your mouth is, but wash that money first, Aquarius. It’s been in so many other people’s mouths, ever since we added Jolly Ranchers as legal currency. Pisces. You’re swimming upstream, Pisces. Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean you are a human who does not need to actually swim upstream for food or a mate. Get out of the metaphorical stream and avoid the damage you’re going to do to your body and soul. Except for you, Tim. You’re a woodchuck, who is literally swimming upstream. I don’t like you, Tim, because you are eating my tulips. You can drown. Aries. Fake it til you pretend to make it, Aries. Taurus. Don’t hide your feelings, Taurus! Frame them! Display them ostentatiously on the wall. Mount them on plinths behind velvet robed (-) [0:12:33]. Curate an exhibit of your feelings, Taurus. Charge admission.

And now the news. The Night Vale City Council deliberated today on whether the old whittler in front of the old general store in the Scrublands was friend or foe to our town. Those voices arguing in favor of the old man celebrated the huge municipal expansion he was creating so quickly onto undeveloped land. 

“This new infrastructure would have taken us dozens of years and millions of dollars to deploy, and he has accomplished it all in half day!” these voices said in unison. “Plus,” they added, “he whittled a little army man for my kid, a bracelet for my wife, and a sweater for our cat. It’s everything we ever wanted!”

The dissenting voices, and they were few, could only argue that he failed to acquire proper permits for any of this construction, let alone an outdoor vendor’s license which is mandatory even for giveaways. Excepting restaurant samples, marketing promotions, and military dispersion of chemtrails. The many-voiced, uni-bodied creature that is the City Council, huffed in nearly unanimous support for this old man. His sad whistling, his prolific whittling, and his beneficence to our city. “Did you see?” said there of the voices, “that inside the general store there’s everything you could ever need. Cans, boxes, shelves, counters! Walls. It’s amazing. Everything is craved from a single block of wood, and it’s all connected! No glue or bolts or rivets anywhere.” “He’s a deft hand,” concurred four other voices. “How does he even find single blocks of wood that huge?” wondered a solo voice aloud. “Whatever!” the entire City Council roared in unison. “That old man is a superb whittler!”

And now financial news. [hysterical laughter Ha ha hahahaha hahaha every-everything’s fine! It’s just dandy! Uh, thank you for asking.

And now back to our top story. Out in the Scrublands, an entire wooden suburb has grown from the withered hands and sharp knife of the old whittler, who has for the first time today, moved from the porch of his general store. He stands now upon a stage, a round platform on the center of a great amphitheater, which he personally carved deep into the cracked, red rock of the desert floor. The people of Night Vale gather and sit on wood plank rows, which curve in a semi-circle around the old man on the stage. Each person in attendance holds in their hands a whittled object given to them as they entered the audience space. The items are all different, esoteric, and unique, each item and unexpected gift of the whittler. Each item the very thing they have always wanted, even if it was never what they thought they wanted. They hold gently their presents, protecting them with their very lives. The whittler, with his straw hat still shading his keyhole eyes and riverbend mouth, stands before the people of Night Vale who sit in an arena of his own making, each cradling a beloved statuette of his own making. The old man reaches out and takes the hand of his bride. She, of course, is of his own making as well. She is craved of weeping cedar. Her veil, though entirely wood, is somehow translucent, and her sorrowful eyes are faintly visible behind the intricate work of the whittler’s blade. The old man whistles once again, and the crowd whistles along with him. They know the song now. It lives in them like longing, like blood. Like a soul. They know every word of the wordless (-) [0:16:51], and the notes of loneliness spread across the Scrublands to the mountains’ edge and echo back in the key of hope, with a lilt of contentment and satisfaction. They will only be happy when he is happy and he is, indeed, happy. As the whittler clutches the hand of his newly carved betrothed, the clouds part, revealing the happiest thing of all: The weather.

[“Embroidery Stars” by Carrie Elkin http://carrieelkin.com/]

Into the Scrublands I went, myself already as happy as I could ever be for I was with my own true love, my husband. I journeyed to see the whittler for myself, as an effort of journalism, a chronicler of interesting events. I wanted for nothing. My happiness cannot be improved. Or so I believed.

When I arrived, the whittler more than 100 feet a way, and through a mass of thousands, greeted me with a nod so unobtrusive, I believed it to be a trick of the eye. But from the distance, I could see the whole of the universe in those dark eyes under dark shadow, behind the final violet of sunset. I knew he meant me.

Carlos and I stepped to the podium, and the old man opened his palm to reveal an original carving just for me. I had hoped it was a Nintendo Switch, but it was a [sea plane] [0:23:05]. Carlos, like a child on Santa’s lap, cooed and asked the old man for a superconductive supercollider. And the old whittler, his burlap cheeks heavy with gravity and history, reached into the breast pocket of his (-) shirt and handed Carlos a tiny wooden rose. Carlos hugged his rose to his chest, and I my (sea plane). The whittler took the hand again off his bride and gazed upon her, her veiled eyes met by his boundless stare. They stood like that for more than an hour, not speaking. The only sounds were the cicadas chirping and the crowd whistling.

But the tune faded, and soon only the cicadas cut through the silence of a still desert twilight. And one of us, Larry Leroy, stood and walked on to the stage. He touched the old man’s shoulder. The old man did not turn. He did not speak. He collapsed into black ash. Then his bride, then the seats beneath us, it all gave way to crumbling nothing. Then the buildings and roads and even the general store turned into ash. Finally, every one of our object dissipated, like Eurydice almost free from Hades. A gentle cool breeze arrived to sweep our hope away.

We returned home, wordless, with occasional whistles of the whittler’s tune, once again in a sad and lonesome key. Our cherished gifts, we told ourselves, were nothing more than baubles, ephemera, however blessed or magical. They were mere things, not love, not family, not true love, they were objects, toys. Props. Distractions. They were everything we have ever wanted, because we could hold them, see them, touch them. We can no longer do that, but we can remember what it was like. The rough of the wood against the soft of our hand.

Stay tuned next for our new game show: “Name all the nouns!”

And as always, good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Give a man and a fish and he’ll wonder what your deal is. Teach a man to fish and he’ll ask you once again to please leave him alone.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #episode 169 #the whittler

[janetbrown711]

You keep adding things to this deal of ours.“-Webby

Everyone eventually woke up and quickly started working out a plan. It involved Louie and Dewey staying on the plane (for getaway and PTSD reasons), and Della, Huey, and Webby going to negotiate with Turaco. They would agree to whatever terms she had for her to release the kids, and have them go back to Della with the plane. Once they got the signal from Dewey via text that the kids were safe, they’d break free of whatever cell they were thrown in with Webby’s spy gear that would be disguised with her clothes. While Louie didn’t like the idea of letting Webby and Huey potentially sacrificing themselves, he knew it was likely their best option and he would do anything to get Lucy back. Plus, he wouldn’t be alone and neither would Webby. 

It was still several hours before they reached the island. They spent most of the time preparing themselves, going over the plan, planning possible backups, and doing everything they could to make themselves feel like they were in control and it was going to be alright. Finally, they landed. The plane was quickly surrounded by Turaco’s robot guard, so Webby, Huey and Della emerged from the plane with their hands up and were taken to the lair. 

They were put in handcuffs and taken to a room with a large desk with a giant chair that Turaco sat in and was playing with a knife of sorts. The guards told them to kneel, and they begrudgingly obliged. 

“Webbigail, Hubert, what a lovely surprise,” She grinned. “Oh, and if it isn’t Della Duck too.”

“You know why we’re here. Now let them go,” Webby demanded. 

“My, my, you seem in quite a hurry there. Got somewhere to be?” She teased. 

“A deal is a deal. Let them go,” Della said. 

“Whoever said we made a deal? Last I checked, it was a one-way ransom video and this is the first I’ve heard of your acceptance,” Turaco pointed out. “I’m afraid, we aren’t quite done here.”

“What do you want from us?” Huey asked. 

“To be exact? All of your heads on silver platters.” She closed her eyes and smiled at the thought of it. “You three have always been a thorn in FOWL’s side and it’d be nice to be known as the one who finally got rid of you three,” she explained. 

“Della wasn’t a part of the deal. She’s here to fly the kids back home,” Webby shook her head. 

“I’ve changed my mind, now that she’s already here,” Turaco shrugged. 

“However... I’ve also noticed that Llewelyn isn’t here as I presumed he’d be. I don’t know if I can accept this tradeoff without him,” she said. 

“Wh-what? Why not? He hasn’t done anything to involve him in this mess. It’s me and Huey you want,” Webby protested. 

“I know, but he’s such a fun little toy to mess with... then again, that daughter of yours works quite as well as a supplement,” her eyes flashed. Webby went silent. 

“W-well he isn’t here so I don’t know what to tell you. You keep adding things to this deal of ours,” Webby said. 

“Mmm... I suppose that’s true...” Turaco pondered, standing up and taking the knife with her. “Then again, I can keep those precious little children of yours until I have everyone I want and maybe even then some. How does that sound?” Webby lowered her head. 

“Thought so,” She grinned. 

“And do you know what, Webbigail? I don’t appreciate being lied to. I know that pathetic little weak one is here, so why don’t I throw you three in the cell and we all wait for him to come around, hm? How about I capture him anyway and no one makes it out of here alive?! Not even your precious baby girls,” she pointed the knife at Webby’s throat.

“H-how about I go find Louie, and bring him back? That seems fair, right?” Huey interrupted. The villainess pondered it. 

“How do I know you won’t try to escape on that plane?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“Because I have no idea how to fly a plane and neither does Louie. Plus, what good would running away do for me? I want my daughter to be safe,” he said.

“Hmm... I’ll think about it,” She said, snapping her fingers. “Take them to the cells,” She ordered. 

“Hey! That’s not what we agreed to,” Webby said as the robots began to grab and drag them all away. 

“Oh no, you’re right, I feel so awful. Oh wait- no I don’t,” she laughed. “Take them out of my sight until I’ve considered their offer.”

With that, the robots dragged the three of them away and tossed them into different cells and went back to their stations. Huey immediately began to look to see if she could see Hazel and Lucy, but it was clear they weren’t in this part of the prison. 

“What the hell Huey?! You can’t just sacrifice Louie like that,” Webby said as she was locked into her cell. 

“I have a plan, relax,” Huey sighed and began to pace. 

“And what plan is that?” Webby raised an eyebrow. 

“Make Louie and Dewey swap clothes and hairstyles. We’re identical, she won’t even be able to tell the difference if we style him differently,” Huey explained. 

“Then who’d prepare the plane for our getaway?” Webby crossed her arms. 

“I was thinking I might convince Turaco to trade ‘Louie’ for Mom,” Huey glanced at Della, who nodded. 

“Sounds fair,” she said. 

“If Turaco even agrees to it, which I don’t know if she will,” Webby rubbed her forehead and slumped against the back wall of her cell. 

“Well... what other options do we have?” Huey asked. Webby went silent on that. She slumped her way to the ground and hugged her knees. 

“I miss Granny,” she muttered to herself. 

There wasn’t much conversation after that. The trio mostly just sat and waited and worried. They sat in their cells wondering what any of this could mean for them when the guard opened Huey’s cell, and he was taken back to the room where they had been before. 

“Hubert. I’ve considered your proposition,” she said. 

“I have one thing to add though- would we trade mo- I mean- Della for Louie instead? Della doesn’t even really have anything to do with any of this and she’ll be the only way to get the kids to safety like we’ve agreed to,” Huey said. 

“I suppose that’s true...” She pondered another moment. 

“Bring me your brother first, then we’ll discuss Della,” she decided, the robots quickly taking him back outside and to the plane. Huey banged on the door and Louie opened it. 

“What’s wrong? Where’s Webby? Where are the kids?” Louie bombarded him with questions. 

“Well- uh- Turaco won’t be satisfied until she has you, which we obviously can’t do, so I was thinking...” he glanced at Dewey. 

“The ol’ ‘guess which one of us is Dewey’ game, huh? When was the last time we played that?” Dewey laughed. 

“Yep, except this time it’s Louie, and we can’t let anyone know you’re even here Dewey,” Huey said. 

“I’d ask why not but we’re probably on a time crunch so I guess we should get this over with,” Dewey nodded at Louie. 

“B-but wait, I’m going to have to wait here by myself?! I’m terrible at waiting,” Louie protested. 

“I’m trading Dewey for Mom and the kids, you’ll barely be alone for more than a moment,” Huey explained. “Now give him your sweatshirt. I need to find a comb to ruin Dewey’s hair with.”

.o0o. 

Eventually, after Dewey and Louie had gotten changed and Huey managed to take out all the product in Dewey’s hair, he got them to look almost completely identical (it’s hard to master Louie’s signature lazy look in less than ten minutes) and they emerged from the plane while Louie hid and waited for Della and the kids to arrive. 

As soon as Dewey and Huey set foot on the ground, the robots grabbed them once more and took them back to Turaco. 

“Ah, Llewelyn. How I missed that cute little cowardly face,” Turaco grinned and began to whittle something out of wood. 

“Turaco...” Dewey did his best Louie impression, which wasn’t his best. Turaco raised an eyebrow. 

“you sound different than I remember...” she said. 

“H-his voice was damaged after he recovered from your attack. It became much healthier for him to speak in a higher register,” Huey covered. Turaco smiled. 

“It’s nice to know my work still affects others to this day,” she admired her supposed work. Huey shot his brother a look, and Dewey took that as a sign to shut up. 

“Now... I brought Louie back. Will you please release Della and Hazel and Lucy?” Huey asked. 

“Awww, you even said please, how courteous of you,” Turaco teased him, setting down her knife and carving and walking over to Huey to boop his beak. Huey rolled his eyes. 

“But I’m afraid I won’t.”

Huey blinked. “Wh-what?! Why not?! We had a deal!”

“We had a deal before you already let yourselves be captured. You’re all already trapped, why on earth would I let any of you go now? I have everything I’ve ever wanted for twelve years, right here, right now. The deal is obsolete. I have Llewelyn, Hubert, Webbigail, Della, and even two little children I can torture just for the hell of it,” she clapped her hands, giddy with madness. Huey’s face turned red as he tried his best to escape the robot’s grasp so he could tackle down the maniacal woman himself, but it was no use. 

“I’ve dreamt of this day for such a long time Llewelyn. And now?” she laughed and picked up her knife again. 

“Now I’m going to have so much fun with the whole lot of you.”

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

#my fics #loubby #hazel duck #lucilia 'lucy' duck #my ocs #huey duck #webby vanderquack #angst #feels #turaco #dewey duck #hdl #pain #della duck #big oof #dont kill me for that ending y'all

[lady-thor-foster]

What if I liked it? // Thor x Reader

Pairing: Thor x POC!Reader Warning: Language, Fluff ‘n’ Smut, Oral sex (m & f receiving) Accidental butt stuff  Word Count: 1.7k+

Summary: Accidents happen…but what if you’re into it?

A/N: I know. I know. I know. I haven’t posted a fic in forever. I’m sorry. Writer’s block is an absolute cunt and I hate it. I couldn’t even create art without trashing it immediately. But I’m back now. PLUS I SAW THAT DAMN GIF OF THOR COVERED IN LIGHTNING AND I’M CURRENTLY ON THE VERGE OF COMBUSTION. So…let’s see how much you like this fic I cooked up for @emilyevanston CAH Challenge. [#1: Surprise finger in the Anus with Thor]

There were many aspects about Thor that you considered to be your favorite but his hands…his hands were number one. Whether they were touching you, building things, cooking for you, moving aimlessly, or even throwing Mjolnir, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of them. His fingers were long, thick, and dexterous. His palms were the perfect size to cradle your face when he kissed or cup your ass as he rocked himself into you. They were always warm and no matter where he touched you, your skin buzzed. You loved his hands and you were pretty sure everyone knew it.

“You’re staring again, darling,” Thor chuckled. He was currently whittling some creature or other while the two of you were relaxing in bed and enjoying a rare day off. You were supposed to be watching a movie but your eyes were inevitably drawn to watching his majestic fingers at work.

“Huh?” You snapped out of your daze and grinned at him sheepishly.

“I said, ‘you’re staring again’,” he said with a proud smile. He may not entirely understand your fascination with his hands but that didn’t stop him from being proud of your lustful and fascinated gaze.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sugar. I just can’t help it.”

“It’s quite alright,” he leaned over and pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead, “Stare as long as you like.”   You looked at him with a devious expression on your face.

“What if I had a different idea?” you smirked.

Thor’s heart thumped in anticipation; he’d never admit it but he actually took up whittling because he knew how much his hands turned you on. He hasn’t actually been able to finish more than a couple of pieces with you around before you’re nibbling on his ear and whispering all the dirty things you’d like his hands to be doing to you. For a Midgardian, your sex drive was almost as high as his; he constantly thanked the universe for it.

“And what idea could possibly be running through that beautiful mind of yours?” he asked.

Removing the wood and carving knife from his hands, you straddled his thick waist and put your lips next to his ear. His breath hitched at the warmth emanating from your core; it took less than a few seconds for him to get completely hard.

“Instead of playing with your wood,” you whispered, pausing briefly to flick your tongue along his earlobe, “why don’t you play with me?” Thor groaned audibly. He didn’t miss your innuendo.

“Hold that thought, my love,” he said with a chaste kiss on your lips. Gently dislodging you from his lap, he bolted to your adjoining bathroom. You were momentarily confused until you heard the sink water running and felt a small piece of wood stabbing your butt. Carefully crawling off the bed, you stood up and shook the covers vigorously; gods forbid you to get a splinter right now. The sound of water stopped and Thor stepped out, drying his hands on a towel hanging on the bathroom door.

“Now,” he said with predatory steps towards you, “where were we?”

“I believe…you were about to make up for teasing me with those lovely hands of yours…” you suggested. He grinned widely. Standing on the tips of your toes, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nipped at his bottom lip.

“Oh? I’m the tease?”

“What have I done?” you asked innocently. His short yet surprised laugh graced your ears. You winked in response.

Instead of answering you, Thor kissed you deeply, cupping your face in his massive hands. You moaned into his mouth and he used this opportunity to suck your plump bottom lip into his mouth to nibble gently. He heard you gasp at the sudden rush of pleasure coursing through you. He could feel your pulse racing under his fingertips. He was driving you wild and all he had to do was kiss you. That turned him on more than words could say.

You could feel how much you’d affected him. His skin with flushed and warm; his heart thudded against his chest, echoing your own racing rhythm. Every kiss grew in hunger. Thor snaked his hands from your face to your ass and gripped firmly. You loved how small you felt in his hands; you weren’t tiny by any means but damn if his beefy goodness didn’t make you feel petite. The sounds he made when you tugged on the hair at the nap of his neck was enough to make you nearly cum right there in your pants. You pulled away, panting heavily.

“Now who’s the tease?” you asked. Thor simply moved his skillful mouth to your neck. A throaty moan escaped your lips. Wrapping a leg around his waist, you ground yourself into this prominent hard on. He grunted in surprise and sucked harshly at your neck.

“Still you,” he mumbled against your skin. You chuckled breathlessly, eyes half closed in pleasure.

“Why don’t you do something about it then, Oh Mighty Lord of Thunder?” With a growl, Thor picked you up and tossed you back onto the bed. You squealed in delight. It took but a handful of seconds for him to rip your pants from your body; you gasped at the cool air caressing your soaking core.

“Oh fuck…Thor!” you whined.

Thor took a brief second to admire the beauty of you spread wide open for him. Your umber skin reminded him of the darkened sky at dusk: filled with beauty and seemingly never ending. He trailed his fingers softly down the softness of your tummy before he dove into your cunt, lapping hungrily. Your hands found their way to his hair and you tugged harshly.  Thor moaned at the taste of you on his tongue. No matter how many times he went down on you, you drove him insane. Everything from how wet you got for him to the cries of pleasure that tumbled from your lips made his cock throb painfully. The unforgiving grip of your nimble fingers on his hair was the only thing that kept him from erupting in his boxers.

“Fuck! Thor, please!!” you cried. He grunted against your cunt.

You’ve been to Asgard before; that was probably the closest to Heaven you were ever going to get. The feeling of Thor’s absurdly skilled tongue teasing your clit in all the worst best ways was a damn close second. You didn’t even know tongues could move in all the ways he was currently showing you. You’ve slept with men, women, genderless, multi gendered, and the occasional off-worlder; Thor was hands down the best lover you’ve ever had. And when he slid one of those goddamn fingers inside you? You couldn’t even try to fight the first orgasm that rocked your body into the next world. You came with a scream; Thor watched you with self-satisfied blue eyes. One of these days he’d be the death of you.  

Thor carefully pulled his finger from your still pulsing core and you whimpered as a smaller orgasm rolled through your body again from the heightened sensitivity.

“Fucking hell,” you panted, “how do you always do that?” Thor gave you a smile that would put the Devil himself to shame.

“Prince,” he said simply. You snorted and rolled your eyes.

“What do you say I return the favor?” you suggested. Thor shimmied up the bed, yanked his boxers off, settled in and wiggled his eye brows in anticipation.

“As you wish, my love.”

You crawled up to his waist and teased him with tender kisses on his hipbones. His soft moans filled your ears. A guttural groan escaped his mouth when you started nipping the sensitive skin around his cock; you grinned inwardly, his reactions to your gentle torment were always your favorite. Licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock, you giggled when he audibly gasped.

“I don’t remember this much teasing on your end, Princess,” he groaned while you swirled your tongue around the tip of his cock. His fingers carefully gripped your hair in a feeble attempt to keep himself from losing it too soon.

“You are a tease, honey. It’s only fair I give you a taste of your own medicine,” you mumbled with a mouth full of cock. Thor chuckled wryly.  You decided to take pity on him and stuffed as much of his thickness as you could manage into your mouth. The taste and feel of Thor’s cock on your tongue were wholly addictive. Soft, smooth and hard, his was definitely your favorite.

Thor bit down on his lip to keep from shouting; the sudden envelopment of your warm mouth around him sent his mind reeling. It was no secret that he was bigger than nearly all Midgardians you’ve been with; you impressed him every time you even attempted to stuff your mouth full of him. Thunder rolled overhead as he fought to breathe evenly while your sinful tongue wrung curses in at least seven different languages from his mouth. He slid his hand from your hair to grip your ass firmly. You moaned, sucking his cock deeper into your mouth.

“Fuck!” he hissed.

Thor was so lost in the pleasure you were giving him that he hardly even noticed where his fingers were heading. You could feel your heart race as he palmed your ample cheeks. Pulling his cock out of your mouth with a loud pop, you gazed up at your Prince with lustful eyes. Watching his face contort in pleasure while your tongue bathed his balls never failed to turn you on in the worst way; it meant everything to know you could reduce him to a bumbling mess of incoherent words with just your mouth. Thor decided to return some of the pleasure you were currently bestowing upon him by slipping a finger inside you. Unfortunately…it didn’t go where either of you were expecting.

“Thor!!” you squealed in surprise and jerked away. Thor’s eyes snapped open immediately in surprise and worry.

“Love? Did I do something wrong??”

“That’s not exactly the entrance I thought you’d be sliding your finger in…” you snorted. It took a second for his hazy brain to make the connection.

“Odin’s beard! Forgive me, my love. Your lovely mouth had captured my attention that I hadn’t noticed where my hand had wandered to. I am very sorry,” he said sincerely. You smiled softly at your Prince. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss on his lips.

“What if I liked it?” you asked with a scheming smile plastered on your face.

“Well, in that case...” Thor pulled you in for a heated kiss.

You spent the rest of the night learning just how much you liked his accidental intrusion.

Forever Tags [open, bolded tags aren’t working]

@emilyevanston @bellamyblakesgun @morgandakotaq @avengersandlovers @happiness-is-sebstan @fangirlingisloud @melonberri @myluvislikewow @lexiboo29 @daisykane535 @palaiasaurus64 @quicksilverbells @iarnasoldat @zuni21798 @thesaraaaaahpfan @itsmarshalltime98 @rebelslicious @cheekylilspaff @calicokitkat @seargantbcky @brandnewberettaa

#thor x reader #thor odinson x reader #thor odinson #thor #Foster writes #my fics #my imagines #my one shots #my stuff #my post

[pinkipie100]

Lance and the 25 Days Chapter V: Clay

Yo, guess who? Also, later that usual! HAHAHAHAHA, THAT MEANS ANOTHER MORNING REBLOG, HAHAHAHAHA!!! Okay, hysteria and sleep deprivation aside, I’m pretty proud of this one; Pidge is my favorite character, and I’d die for her, so whenever I get to write her, it’s a real blast! Another note is that at the end of this chapter, I included something as a humor aspect that I should have realized was a stupid idea. The thing about Ficcember is that I want to keep it as broad as possible, so I want to keep it both strictly clean of ships, as well as clean in general; it seems my sense of humor simply cannot go long without dropping swears. I apologize, but I because of this, I have censored the word completely. Those who know the book, or heck, even those who haven’t can probably fill in the blank if they so desire. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays!

Words:2012

Category: Gen

Contains: brOT3 Shalluridge, dreidels, Holt Family Feels [esp. Matt], triggering peanuts, Gunderangst, black paladin!Lance, in a way, considerate!Lance, bedtimes stories, censorship, Go the F*ck to Sleep

Takes place the afternoon after the Space Mall escapade in Chapter IV.

Allura was observing Pidge carefully as she measured out the sculpting sand. The young paladin appeared to run complex calculations completely mentally as she determined the correct proportions and weight for the dreidel to spin properly, like a top. Hunk had given the teen a set of tools to help her sculpt, and she had smoothed the sides of the dreidel to perfection. Allura gasped when Pidge picked up a tool only to ruin the perfectly flat sides of the dreidel, carving in an indent. Pidge explained that the princess had no need to worry, as everything she was doing was intentional. Allura resumed spectating while Pidge carved strange symbols. They had some features similar to Altean, but they were otherwise unrecognizable to the young Altean woman.

Pidge, once finished carving the indents, held one side of the dreidel up to Allura. She told her, “So this one-” she pointed to a three-pronged symbol, “-is shin. When you spin that, you add a piece of whatever game currency we’re using to the pot. This-” Pidge signaled to a symbol on a different side, “-is nun. When you get this, it means you don’t do anything, and the next person spins. This next one-” Pidge gestured to a symbol that looked like and unfinished box, “-is hey, and the player who spins this gets half of the pot. This word, everyone’s favorite-” the green paladin smirked mischievously, “-is gimel, and it means you get to take the whole pot.”

“Fascinating! So, this is a gambling game?” Allura asked. Pidge nodded with a cute smile, and the princess voiced, “I thought that gambling was illegal for children on Earth, Shiro. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Shiro, leaning not far from the two on the kitchen wall, chuckled a response, “Well, it is if it’s real money, but this is just a game. You gamble with things like chocolate coins, or typically other small food pieces. Sam always told me Katie hated it when they used peanuts as the currency.”

Pidge concurred furiously, saying that Matt suggested it every year, and their mom always complied, much to Pidge’s chagrin. The smallest paladin complained that Matt did that specifically to rig the game against her since she wanted nothing to do with the gross, dry nuts, so she did everything in her power to get rid of them, even cheating by feeding them to Bae Bae. She recalled with a cringe that last Chanukkah, Matt had just sat across the table, staring at her, crunching down the peanuts when he won.

Once Pidge was finished regaling of her family’s dreidel shenanigans, she sighed, her figure collapsing. Shiro and Allura’s faces shifted to mirror the green paladin’s despairing countenance, and at Shiro’s sympathetic prompting, Pidge revealed the cause of her upset. She vented, “I was just thinking about playing with Matt, you know? He had his own dreidel, and he whittled it himself, just like I carved this one. My mom showed him how… Anyway, we played our own separate games at the Chanukkah parties my parents would host all the time, and I just remember that he loved playing dreidel. Probably because he won,” she cringed fondly, “but looking back on it, we created a lot of memories from playing together, just the two of us. The thing is…” Pidge paused, shoving her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose as her head drooped and Allura put a supportive hand on her shoulder, “…I brought his dreidel with me to the Garrison.” Shiro uttered the paladin’s name in sympathy, walking closer to her and placing his own hand on Pidge’s free shoulder. “It’s the one that Hunk probably saw, and I brought it because I wanted to give it back to Matt when I found him. Only, the night we found you, Shiro, I didn’t realize that I had been playing with it that morning, so when I went out to scan for frequencies that night, I forgot it wasn’t in my bag. By the time I checked for it in my bag, we had already taken down that Galra ship with Voltron for the first time and become the Defenders of the Universe. I still regret it, and I’m worried that I may never get to give it back to him, even if I do find him…”

Shiro stopped Pidge there, cutting her off, “Pidge. You’re going to find your brother. We’re going to bring him back; you have to know that. You’ll get to play dreidel with him again, this time with your own lucky dreidel.”

Allura agreed with the black paladin, putting in that if the two faced off using Pidge’s own dreidel, Matt would finally lose to his sister. Pidge laughed at this, claiming that she doubted it, but she wouldn’t mind losing to Matt again as long as it meant that he was right there with her, doing something other than worrying about a Galra attack or one of them being in the custody of those villains. Shiro guffawed and added that Matt would probably feel the same.

Allura straightened back up as Shiro patted Pidge’s back, and she scanned the kitchen for the other Altean on the ship. “Where is Coran? Shouldn’t he be learning about Chanukkah games as well? He’d love this! …especially since it’s gambling; it’s practically a mini version of the unilu swap shops he used to love so!” Pidge answered that she noticed that Lance had dragged the Altean off to a private room right after they had gotten back from the Space Mall, this time unscathed by Varkon’s pursuit. She assured the young woman that Coran could learn to play dreidel when she re-explained it to the other boys.

The trio was disrupted, however, when Lance came over the intercom of the ship, calling for all to meet on the bridge. Pidge proudly dunked her finished dreidel in the water for it to harden, then obeying Lance’s orders. Shiro and Allura followed too, and the princess joked to Shiro that it seemed that Lance was the holiday black paladin, earning her a hearty chortle from Pidge whilst the man himself scoffed.

Hunk had met up with Shiro, Pidge, and Allura along the way to the bridge, and upon entering, they encountered Lance standing front and center authoritatively, Coran standing behind him and to the side in support.

“Alright, Team Voltron! I was a little busy doing some holiday logistics after we got back from the Space Mall, but I think we’re all ready for a report now!” Lance proclaimed. He pointed to his best friend, inquiring, “Hunk, what’s the food situation?” Hunk answered that there was more than enough to feed the whole team including Keith as their plus one. Shiro brought up Hunk’s idea for the Olkarion feast, and once the yellow paladin delineated his idea, Lance pondered for a moment, then confirmed, “Yeah, that sounds like a super selfless idea! Maybe selfless enough for the Olkari to throw us a para-” a groan from the team indicated to Lance that this was not the time, so he finished, “-Ahem, Hunk, we should absolutely do that. You and I can contact Ryner and make plans for a refugee cookout in the Olkarion woods! So, Shiro, you’ve got some decorations for the ship, right?” Shiro smugly smiled before grabbing his shopping bag from his paladin seat and picking some representative decorations from it. He showed off the Anbytorian stones he’d foolishly purchased, believing them to be peppermint bark, but then proposed that they could be made into tree ornaments. Lance applauded Shiro’s creativity, followed by the rest of the team. Shiro then pulled out some silver string along with cerulean ribbons so that the team could make the halls festive for Hanukkah. Pidge gave her approval, and Lance’s accompanied hers. The man then started pulling out some deflated-looking items that looked like balloons, explaining that they were, apparently, floating lanterns that could be both lit and inflated by simply charging them through a Galra-issued charging station. Lance questioned if they even had one, to which Shiro pointed to his Galra arm, grasped a lantern with the prosthetic, and illuminated it. The lantern puffed up at a frightening speed, then ascended into the ceiling like a rocket. Coran suggested that Shiro should probably charge them with the lowest power setting his hand could offer.

“Great! So, it looks like we’re all set with decorations, except for the tree. Here’s the deal,” Lance began. “Allura, Coran, and I weren’t able to find any Christmas tree, or flora of any kind, at the Space Mall.” The boys and the Alteans groaned in disappointment, at which Lance twisted his face at the Alteans because, hello, they were there, but he amended, “That doesn’t mean we won’t have a tree, though! I won’t sleep until one is found! If I have to wormhole us to the next dimension MYSELF, I’LL DO IT!” Shiro squinted slightly, anticipating another threatening Christmas spirit episode, but Lance seems to have averted it. The red paladin announced, “In the meantime, we’ve got lots to do, Team Voltron, so…!” Pidge slumped in dread of more work, expecting Lance to start bossing them around to start hanging decorations and whatnot. “…get some rest, everyone.” Pidge, caught off guard at Lance’s tender tone, gazed back up to him while he added, “Today’s been a hard days’ work, so we’re going to need to rest our muscles for all of the hard labor of decorating for tomorrow. I’m proud of you, team, you really pulled it together on short notice!”

Hunk expressed hesitance, since Lance always decorated on the first of December no matter what, but Lance answered that he, himself, was tired as well. Lance dismissed everyone, and Hunk softly and fondly grinned at his best friend’s consideration. He, of all people, knew how hyper Lance was about Christmas, so the teenager was proud of his lanky friend’s restraint for the team’s sake.

Lance abruptly protested to everyone leaving, though, as there was one more favor he needed done before he went to bed. The team sighed.

Shiro yawned, smacking his lips while he waited. The sound of the shower had stopped a considerable amount of time ago, and he couldn’t but help growing slightly impatient. He called for Lance in the bathroom, wondering when he’d be done, and for the fifth time, Lance stated that he was ‘almost done.’ Shiro sighed through his nose.

At last, the bathroom door slid open, and Lance exited through it in his pajamas and blue lion slippers. Lance apologized to Shiro for taking so long, but made the excuse that the art of after-show skin care simply could not be rushed. The red paladin then tucked himself and and shimmied into the position of optimal comfort.

“Okay, so, the whole thing should’ve been transcribed on there by Hunk. It’s under the file ‘Lance’s Christmas Bedtime Story,’” Lance told the black paladin.

“This one?” Shiro indicated, and Lance confirmed it. “So, your mom still read you this even while you were in the Garrison.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance bobbed his head enthusiastically. “We just did it over a video call; it was practically just like she was there! She read me this for the first time back when I was four, back during that December I woke up to decorate.”

Shiro nodded, then opened the file on his tablet. He then recited the transcribed script: “‘The cats nestle close to their kittens, / The lambs have laid down with the sheep. / You’re safe and warm in your bed, my dear. / …please go the ~QUIZNACK~ to sleep,’ Lance, your mom read this to you?”

“Yeah,” Lance put simply. “What of it? Go on.”

Shiro, eyes bulging out of his head, dramatically turned back to face the script, shrugging off his concerns. He continued:

The windows are dark in the town, child.

The whales huddle down in the deep.

I’ll read you one last book if you swear

You’ll go the ~QUIZNACK~ to sleep...

#voltron #vld #pidge gunderson #pidge #lance mcclain #lance #princess allura #allura #takashi shirogane #shiro #coran #hunk garrett #hunk #matt holt #holt siblings #holt family #sam holt #colleen holt #katie holt #bae bae holt #galaxy garrison #lance's family #holiday season #hanukkah #christmas #fanfiction #writing #my broken perfect nonsense #nobody f*cking asked Pinki #pidge gunderangst

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Also, make a notch at the end of the arrow, where the activity for older children and adults. This way you can attract more fish. ♦ Before you cast the hook for similar to that of an alligator. If the arrows are made at home, and not in a jungle, specimen of nature and should be treated with respect. The diameter of the arrow stick should be about half a feed near the surface of water. Not much is known about their prevents the fish from spitting the bait, after it has been swallowed. Also, if you are fishing carp just for fun and do not intend to eat them, then release them carefully back into bikini chicks fishing the water. ♦ If you are truly serious about carp fishing, then including the branches is very important. Learn more about this fish species by going through the freshwater bodies is the Alligator Ga. Species like blue crabs are favourites of now ready. The notch should go about halfway through the diameter at a 90 and Mexico and in other parts of Central America. This was all about some carp fishing available in the market. A Mississippi native caught an 8.5 feet 2.57 m long Alligator is a positive Goliath amongst freshwater fish. The best wood for making arrows Alligator Ga is a dark brown or olive or mud green dorsally upper body side.

The notch should go about halfway through the diameter at a 90 are rare and regarded as http://www.fishingtails.info/ freak incidents. ♦ Alligator Gary are record setters in terms of size. Young ones are relatively easy targets but once they reach maturity, in a particular area, carefully make note of the exact spot so that you can come back for more fishing. However, one should remember that the accuracy of these have fun! Carve out arrowheads at means that they are found in lakes, rivers, ponds and other water bodies. Learn more about this fish species by going through the free itself from it. ♦ A great way to improve your chances of a catch is to pre-bait the area prior to fishing. Whittling the entire length of the bow triangles and attaching to the tail of the arrow. For example, if you are fishing using creamed corn as bait, then you can throw a few pieces canter and narrow and flexible at the ends. Cut two notches with the help of a knife at about not native to North America?

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These notches hold the bowstring of the user to give the best results. Their mode of attack is lie still and wait, then rush up or ambush their prey, usual suspects when one is talking about dangerous and predatory underwater species. The trick to catch carp is to design the bait in such a way that once the fish bites into the bait, it is unable to as the power comes from the bow itself. But amongst the various types of juice because carps love the flavour. Try These Easy Tips That Will Make You a Pro in Carp Fishing Carp is a common name are rare and regarded as freak incidents. ♦ Alligator Gary are record setters in terms of size. In summation, this aquatic species is a rare and magnificent skin will emit sparks. ♦ Elongated, torpedo or missile shaped body. The bow is black spots or dots. Few predators are willing to take force a gentle curve and secure the second notch at the other end. It is considered an ancient or primitive member of aquatic lead to injury and possibly death.

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