#this is the first thing I’ve ever sewn!!!

[triguuuun]

Cosplay update!! Here’s how it’s going!

I’m going to be using the dark red fabric in the first one :3 (yes im doing this on my bed don’t judge me) I still have a lot to do but I’m getting closer and closer to finishing this!!!

#cosplay #vash cosplay #vash #vash the stampede #AHHHHH IVE GOT SO MUCH DONE!! #this is the first thing I’ve ever sewn!!! #so many rectangles #i said fuck sewing all the extra buttons on the front panel #THEYRE DECORATION ANYWAYS #I’m sure they really go to the shirt underneath buttt #i wanna take the shirt out and wear a red and black mesh top for sexy vash #trust me trust me it’s good #oooo and the boots #i love cosplaying this is s much fun #pls ignore my dirty hair I’ve been holed up in my room making this outfit all month long and just got a couple days off so I’m 24/7 on this #before the connnnnn #oh god and I gotta get a Yuki cosplay together fucccck #my room is an absolute mess rn

[gildedkrone]

As long as you're next to me, just the two of us

request from somebody asking for military reader with internalised homophobia. john price x male reader

"You really ought to not blow your cigar smoke onto me, you know?"

The warm embers of spent tobacco, an all too familiar sight in the dark, starry night, and he's smiling, albeit faintly. He takes an audible suck of air, and the embers glow brighter and fade into a dull orange.

"Thought yer used to it by now," Price blows the hints of something scorched gently across your nose and you fan the smoke away with a flick of your hand.

"I don't smoke, John." He blinks and nods to take another chuff of the cigar as you look away then back at him.

He says he knows. Infernally glorious bastard of a captain and he's content with the warm tranquility settled into the space and the cigar is the last thing the mind's got time for. On the rooftop, the stars are ever distant in the cosmos’s grasp and he moves to lay with his back to the railing, almost close enough to touch. But he doesn't come any closer than that and a healthy distance remains between you and him.

"How many years has it been?"

Five. Five years since he appeared in his lieutenant uniform with SAS patches sewn neatly onto the vest and now? Now, he's a captain of a famed task force and chasing a terrorist halfway across the world with a short break in between his ever-growing catalogue of missions. The rank suits him well, suits him and his beard nicely as he grew into the man standing before you.

All's well. If all's well, then why does it feel as if there's a divide between you and him?

"You know," his head angles towards you when the silence fills with murmurs, "I never did congratulate you on your promotion, John."

"Never too late to do so, sweetheart."

"You call everyone that? Bet your lieutenant wouldn't take it well. That mask—"

"Not him." The words are scented with woodsy, "Nobody else gets to be a sweetheart." And he's saying it so sincerely, it’s impossible to doubt the truth and intensity in his words.

"Exceptions? You're not being fair, captain."

He scoffs and you take the time to admire his visage with a subtle lean towards him. The left eyebrow hitches a little, then it falls back to its place and he's smiling warmly as the cigar burns away in crumbling ashes falling to the wind under the pale moonlight.

"How's your love life? Still seeing Sandy?" The sudden change of topic and you cock your head slightly and he grimaces slightly to have felt some sense of chagrin at poking the sore wound in your heart.

"We broke up a month ago." He lowers the cigar, "She just, didn't want to be in a relationship with a military man, you know? All the absences made her mad and she just ... left."

"On a Thursday afternoon."

He listens so attentively; he's reminiscent of the cadets under your care when they first arrive at sergeant bootcamp. A little awestruck and very much eager to learn and get going and you lean in closer for a look at the new-ish scar marring the area above his eyebrows.

"You've gone and hurt yourself again, eh?"

Fingers brush across the region of his face gently as his face is pliant in your hands and tilts with each nudge to facilitate your examination of his new battle scar. Eventually, you release his face and he runs a hand through his scar absentmindedly.

"You datin' again?"

"No such luck. Tinder's trash these days. All you'll ever find are people down to fuck and run. 's not much better on the other dating platforms too."

"Just women?" The parting of your lips and nothing comes out; the words don't come as they should.

"Just women. I-I ... I’ve never considered other men, John."

"Why not?"

It's a moment of confusion—you entertain his queries about manhood and love. What do you say to that? It's a minefield of emotions and memories tangled with barbs and spikes laden with the flags of youth and curiosity shaped into a spitball refusing to be verbalized.

"I don't think another man could ever love me. And ..." The forgotten cigar in his hands dull and the soft cerulean eyes are gently imploring you to continue, "I ... well, it's wrong and I ... don't know if I can do it."

He nods empathetically and you lean back into the railing to find fleeting interest in the moon. How did the conversation morph into this weird mess of clunky and awkward conversations?

"Well, I have a problem when it comes to dating." Oh? Go on, and he does go on.

"I met a man, and I don't know if he fancies me the way I fancy him."

"Really? I'm glad for you, John. What is he like?"

It's cute how his brows furrow slightly when he's in deep concentration and he says—valiant and resplendent. The vigor of the sun, the ferocity of the lion, and the tenacity of the stars.

"Valiant? Resplendent? You must really like him to hold him at such a regard."

"It's not an exaggeration, lieutenant."

Who had managed to capture John's heart to such a degree? You lose interest in the moon to lay the brunt of your attention on him. His eyes dart away into inkiness night then back at you and its kept steady as a sniper's hands in a high-tension scenario.

"Have you tried telling him? About how you feel?"

"You have tips? ‘M not sure quite how to break it to him."

He seems mildly amused by the chuckle and you regale him with strategies and tactics to win over the mystery man Price loves so much. Everything you’ve learnt from the trashy romance novels stashed in your drawers never to be seen any other service personnel. Even if they would never find their place with another man.

"So, a hand grasp and a head tilt, lots of eye contact, and a heartfelt confession? It’s certainly shorter than the list on the web.”

“Mmhm, it’s that simple.”

He asks if you would entertain his request to rehearse it. You humor him and step away from the railing to face him head on. He clears his throat and warmth envelops your hand in a hand shaped like John’s. His body posture is open and inviting, and he’s putting in the effort to treat it seriously.

His hands clasped with yours is so damn warm and fiercely domestic, and his fingers are gentle when they tilt your head upwards slightly. Something in your heart twists slightly at the endearment in his eyes; you’ve been privy to aggression, bloodlust, and anger in them. But not this. Blood hammers in your ears and you keep your face schooled in blasé calm even if his grasp is uncharacteristically soft and yet, harbored the love he had in his being.

“I love you, sweetheart.” The words are painful to hear on ears not meant for them and instincts are warring in your head in tumult.

You cough gently to realign his focus with the moment.

“Yeah, so, that is how you do it, John.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“That’s what you would say that to the man you love so much.”

His throat swallows harshly and his hand remains on your chin. He eyes search for something, and he says it again.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

What is he doing? He cuts you off before you can start.

“I’m saying it to the man I love.”

Whiplash. Whiplash at the revelation as your lips part to reveal hollow words and empty reconciliation of the revelation and your thoughts. No. This—

“I mean it. Whole heartedly. Fully.”

“John … I—I can’t love you, not—”

“I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

“Why? Why the fuck would you choose me? Of all the men and women in the world and you’ve gone and loved the one person who can’t give you anything! John, why?”

His hands are still clasped around yours and laced around your runaway heart. Don’t leave.

“Because it’s what the heart wants, love.” He tugs you in closer and in a moment of stupor, you feel the warmth emanating from him against the chilly night.

“It’s wrong—” And by god, it’s so fucking hard to tell him why it’s wrong when he’s looking at you like that. All worried and desperate to alleviate whatever you were feeling.

“I don’t want to be the fool who dies with a million regrets. And this is fixing it.”

He’s so close but he’s waiting for permission to breach the last barrier of that defensive wall built around the wastelands of the heart. He wipes away the tears which had formed, and soft lips are all you can feel when he closes the gap. Plush, soft lips press against yours and his embrace is all encompassing even as your eyes are shut to close out the world. He comes into view when warmth of his lips disappears and shakes rattle your body in his arms.

“I’ll be here for as long as you want me, sweetheart.”

He means it.

“’m not leaving, unless you tell me to.”

“John, I … I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out together. Me and you, we will find our way as a unit. Together, we’ll do it together.”

He is deadly serious again. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“No … I—I don’t want you to leave. I’m so fucking scared, John.”

“I’m here.” He is here. His hands on your back are proof of his existence in a world bending into a pinpoint of focus that is only John and his features and his exhales on your cheeks. What were you supposed to say? Or do?

There’s no need to do anything.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough of a promise for you that everything is going to be ok—if it's John, and this was fine, more than fine. Your nod is what John needed to bring your foreheads together.

“Thanks fer trusting me, love.”

The hints of tobacco smoke don’t smell as acrid as they did a while ago and the night isn’t so cold anymore. Not when he wears his heart on his sleeves and draped over you in the moonlight.

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist

#fanfic #cod mw2 #captain john price #john price #john price x male reader #john price x reader #male reader #x male reader #x reader #price fanfiction #cod x male reader

[bruciemilf]

Now I’m thinking of Alpha Martha scooping in like “is anybody going to love and cherish that omega” and not waiting for an answer. She uses every Wayne gala to flaunt her Omega and later, pup in Carmine’s face. The only reason she hasn’t killed him yet is that seeing his rage and sad plans to get Thomas back is amusing and if it ever comes down to that Thomas deserves the honors.

Gosh, I’m starting to fall in love with that concept. Just imagine stern browed, lethally beautiful Captain Martha Kane, infamously known for her service in the military.

She reeks of bloodied snow, and sweet pomegranate with a note of petrichor. Of gunpowder, grainy and dark and rich, and of something so alluringly nameless Thomas can’t shake off.

The rumors about her hawk like gaze aren’t just rainwater.

Her look is made of storms and winter and Thomas shivers when he sees her for the first time, walking aimlessly around Gotham’s museum. His mother’s museum.

Carmine’s now, legally.

She stops just besides him, — she’s tiny, for an alpha, and he’s big for an omega, and for a moment, Thomas feels vindicated. So they had anomalies, too. Good. They earned it.

“Beautiful.”

She’s referring to the exhibit they’re admiring together. She has to be. Thomas stays quiet.

“What’s your opinion about it? I’ve visited her hundreds of times and I just can’t understand it. Not correctly, I think.”

He scoffs, but otherwise, the silence continues to expand.

Of course no Alpha understands The Good Omega.

Right above them, exposed almost proudly, imprisoned behind a thin layer of glass with rose gold framing, with delicate ivory marbled in, The Good Omega displays an omega women kneeling by her alpha.

It’s not intricate, or complex in composition. It translates well, and it’s just detailed enough.

Her mouth is sewn shut.

It’s a blood painting.

“She used to be an artist, I believe, “ Martha continues, with just the barest twitch of discomfort in her face, but she doesn’t allow her attention to shift. “I thought maybe you’d have a better perspective about it.”

“I’m not allowed to speak to you. As you well know.”

She pauses for a bit. “I apologize. You have no collar on. Your alpha didn’t pick one yet?”

He hums. “He can collar me when I’m in the ground.”

Oddly enough, that answer satisfies her. Pomegranate blossoms on his tongue.

“It’s freedom,” he continues, not really caring about customs. He already defies them daily. “It means freedom.”

Martha listens, but she huffs, half confused, half incredulous. “That doesn’t look like freedom to me. “

“That’s because you’re used to it,” He grits, turning his own gaze on her. He’s been told he smells horrible when he’s angry. He hopes this tiny, beautiful alpha chokes on it.

“Suffering is the only freedom omegas have. It forces you to look, to awknolege. There’s no exits The freedom of existing, that’s all we got.” He scoffs, not even noticing she’s clingy to every little sound.

“ Enjoy it while you can. Its going in the junkyard next week.”

“The junkyard?” She echoes, almost offended by the idea, but the casual insult. “Who’d throw away something like this, omega? It’s too valuable. “

Omega.

Thomas wants to purr and he rages, almost.

His smile is nasty, and full of teeth, and he’s grown to love how alphas cringe at the sight of it. Not this one, thought. This little beast stares at it like it’s living art.

“The same people you fight for. Thank you for your service, alpha.”

Thomas turns, not bothering to bow, excuse himself, or make a respectful exit. One good thing about being a rich omega is that he follows no rules his alpha doesn’t specify.

Nowhere did Carmine say he wasn’t allowed to ditch gorgeous alphas.

—

“You’re back rather early, Madame,” Alfred greets her with a kiss on one of her brow, soft as anything, his like tea, blueberry and dark chocolate scent hugging her deeply.

He takes a whiff of her, frowns, both in intrigue and concern. “…Why do you smell like unhappy omega?”

“Alfred,” She says, “I want to retire. Would you be a darling and contact my lawyer?”

“Oh, thank heavens. Anything else?”

Martha’s gaze bleeds blue, her thighs buzzing with the sneer of Thomas’ anger still, “Can you ask him if I can legally kidnap a taken omega?”

#IDK HOW THIS TURNED INTO A FULL FICLET BUT ENJOY ^^^^ #dc comics #writing #pennywaynes #thomas wayne #martha wayne #alfred pennyworth #a/b/o dynamics #batman #dc #my writing #text #text post #gilded sparrows au

[zyonsay]

Hello! Could i ask for some super niche things about max's relationshoip w his bf? Thankl you so much :DD

Niche Relationship Hcs MV1

Fem aligned people may read but not f3tishize my work!!

Summary: The title!

Reader: Male/Genderneutral

Warnings: None

Now playing: 'Salvatore' by Lana del Rey

AN: Hey anon! Sorry for taking so long to make this... I try to do request in order they were sent in and i got really busy in the last few weeks! I hope you like it nevertheless <3

Max’s schedule is annoyingly busy, he’d rather be with you than having to attend press conferences and PR related appointments. But, no matter how busy he gets, he will always leave you a small note on your bedside table or on the fridge door. ‘Hey baby! Hope you have a great day, can’t wait to see you in the evening!’, along with a scribbly smiley and a few hearts.

I’ve mentioned this in all the Hcs I’ve ever written about him, BUT: He’ll always be touching you in some way. They are light, innocent touches like a hand on your back while you’re walking through a crowded area or his head on your shoulder while you’re cooking him some soup while he’s sick.

THE shirt. On your very first date, Max had worn a light blue dress shirt, which accentuated the blue hues in his eyes perfectly. Sadly, at the end of the night he accidentally spilled red wine on it. The Bordeaux red liquid left terrible stains on the light fabric, the only thing he could do was throw it in the bin, but this was THE shirt he wore on his first date with you, he could never throw it away! This snowballed into a running joke and to this day, the shirt remains in a picture frame on the wall. Whenever you have guests over, they’ll ask about it and Max loves an excuse to talk about you guys’ first date.

The dutch definitely likes to spoil you, so loads of gifts come naturally when dating him. But it’s not in a show-off type of way, he doesn’t just randomly buy you a sports car or another 4’000-dollar Bengal cat. It’s smaller, more practical gifts. Your favorite perfume is empty? He picked up another bottle of it when he went grocery shopping. You lost your favorite pen? Not even a day after there’s a new pack of the same ones on your desk, doesn’t matter if you’ve already found the ‘lost’ pen, which actually just rolled under your bed. Max loves seeing that shy little grin on your face when you tell him that he didn’t need to buy it.

A sort of ritual you and Max began was playing Mario Kart. Yes, when you get bored you two play on the switch together, but it’s become a tradition to play it the night before the Quali race. It’s some good old lighthearted fun, to settle down and relax before the stressful weekend began.

Even if Max himself isn’t a great cook himself, he loves to create dishes with you. If you know a lot of things about cooking (or maybe you’re a chef), he’ll ask many questions and try to get better. Believe it or not, this man couldn’t cook an egg when you two first got together!

Max travels often, either for Races or different press conferences, there’s always something up. He likes travelling by plane, but usually he sleeps through the flight. But there’s a very specific reason for that! The dutch likes to sew, he used to watch his mother sew his karting suits together when he tore it. You on the other hand, struggled with it. You never knew how long the thread had to be, or which setting you needed to use on the sewing machine. But, Max gladly helped you and with your new set of skills you had sewn him a pillow, as a small gift. It was a tiny bit wonky, but it came from your heart and he appreciated that. Before every flight, especially when you can’t accompany him on it, he’ll spray a little bit of your perfume on the pillow. As soon as he rests his head against it while gazing at the clowds, he sinks in your sweet scent. He’ll fall asleep swiftly, with a gentle smile on his face.

#ZyonsRequests #male reader #f1 x male reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #male reader insert #max verstappen x male reader #reader insert #x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #gender neutral reader #x male reader #male!reader #male x male #gay

[vincentbriggs]

Good sir, I am hoping to pick your brain. I’m making an 18-century (“pirate”) shirt as a gift to my friend. He wants tie closures on the neck and cuffs instead of buttons. Might you have any insight or resources for this? I’ve seen the ties in at least one of the extant shirts I’ve viewed online. I’m still pretty new to the sewing gig and I’d like to minimize inventing metaphorical wheel as much as possible. Thanks in advance!

It's very unusual, but do know of one example! (Not that extant one though)

But first - Link to my most thorough shirt construction blog post. (It's a few years old and I've improved a few little things in my technique since then, and I mean to finish writing a new and better one before the year is over.)

Ok, ties on shirts! I'm assuming this is the extant one you're talking about? Tbh I'd discount this one entirely if you're looking for information on 18th century men's shirts because I don't think it is one.

Besides the attached ties, the sleeves are extremely weird. They're cut off and have no wristbands!! This would make it quite impossible to wear under a coat, the wristbands are an absolutely essential part of an 18th century shirt. I also don't see any reason to believe this is actually 18th century when it could just as easily be 19th century, and considering how short the slit is I think that more likely.

(Lots of auction sellers like to say "late 18th century" about things that are like... yeahh maaaaybe that's plausibly from a very fashion forward guy in the late 1790's but it's much more likely early 19th century. And with court dress they sometimes just straight up date it several decades too early. Look at lots of examples and always question everything, because museums don't always date things correctly either.)

I think I remember seeing someone mention once that it was a 19th century workman's garment of some sort, but I can't remember where, and all we've got to go on are a few pictures and a brief caption from a seller who doesn't know what they're talking about. It does look like it could have been worn over another layer though, and the fabric is very coarse. It could also have been altered at a later date for theatrical costume, which is something the Victorians did to A LOT of 18th century garments.

So just ignore that shirt!

The vast majority of 18th century mens shirts close with 2 or 3 buttons on the collar, but there is a style that uses ribbons. It appears to have been fairly common in the late 17th and early 18th century, and then slowly dwindles as the century goes on. I have a section for it on my shirts pinterest board with 64 examples. Ooh, wait, 65, just found a new one.

The collar is made with little to no overlap and one buttonhole on each end, and a ribbon is threaded through them.

Portrait of Carl Gustaf Tessin, 1728.

Sir Charles Howard, 1738.

I actually made one of these last year!

The collar doesn't sit as well with the ribbon as it does with 2 buttons, but once you put a stock over it it's fine.

Nearly every single depiction of an 18th century shirt I've ever seen (and I've spent a LOT of time looking) uses sleeve links on the wristbands. (Which I have a tutorial for! They're really easy to make!) I do sleeve links on most of my everyday shirts because I like them better than sewn on buttons. When the wristband is this narrow, sewn on buttons don't sit very nicely.

But! If your friend wants ties on the wrist in a historical way, I do know of one single example, and it's this guy!

Giovanni Maria delle Piane, Portrait of a nobleman. No date given, but if I had to guess I'd say 1680's or 90's. Very late 17th century looking fellow.

We can't see his collar closure, but I think it's very possible that he has a matching red ribbon holding that closed.

Personally I wouldn't want to try these, because they look like an absolute nightmare to tie by yourself one handed. But the good news is that you could make just regular wristband that take sleeve links and they'd work for this too, since both just have a buttonhole at each end! I aim for a finished wristband length that's 10-14mm longer than my wrist measurement, with the buttonhole being about 4 or 5mm in from the edge, which gives me enough ease to wear them comfortably with sleeve links, so if you do that then he'll be able to wear them both ways.

#ask #shirts #18th century #17th century #me

[handsonurknees]

intertwined, sewn together

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this is probably really ooc but this is my first time writing for joel. i really took a narrative approach with this (which i don’t usually do) so if you don’t like it then please tell me! i just couldn’t resist world building…

warnings: touch starved joel, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, mentions of getting shot, joel if he was even more babygirl

wc: 1.9k

the sun had just begun to set when you, joel, and ellie had finally found a place to camp for the night. it was a sad dilapidated excuse of a house, but there was a roof and unbroken windows, so it beat sleeping on hard frozen soil. when you first enter the structure, ellie sprints past you, almost knocking you over.

“holy shit! i don’t think i’ve ever been this happy to be in a house with rotting floorboards and broken furniture.” she laughs, flopping down on a stray floral cushion that seemed to once belong to the couch frame against the far wall of the small living room. a wide smile overtakes your face, but when you turn to joel he looks stern, surveying the house.

“yeah well, i wouldn’t get too comfortable.” he states dryly, entering further, the loud stomp of his boots following him. “i don’t trust this place.”

     “you never trust any place.” you tease, but by the way his face contorts into an annoyed look, you can tell he’s not in the mood for teasing. ellie gets up, brushing dust off her pants and grabbing your arm to stay back while he searches the rest of the building. once he’s at least two rooms over, she leans in towards you.

 “is it just me, or is he more pissed off than usual?” she asks

     “it’s definitely not just you.” you mumble out in a huff. 

     “wasn’t he just fine like, two hours ago?”

     “you’re asking me for what reason exactly?”

     “i don’t know. you always fix him when he’s being an ass. it’s like you’re magic or something.” ellie explains. she always does this kind of thing to you. acting like you and joel had some sort of connection; like you and him were two halves of a brain sewn together. really, you just knew him. you knew what made him smile, what made him laugh, what made him angry. ellie obviously knew you two were old friends, but what ellie didn’t know was that you and joel knew each other before the outbreak. back in texas, you had a daughter, one ellie’s age. her and sarah had been in the same classes for almost their whole lives, but when the outbreak hit, you and your daughter fled and managed to get to a small town on the border of arkansas and missouri. there, she had gotten bitten and then shot by the only man you had began to trust since your ex left. that’s when you ran away and ended up in the boston qz, running into an old friend who convinced you to stay. the old friend that you have spent the past 18 years since with. so instead of explaining this all to ellie, everytime it’s just:

    “yeah right.” then as if on cue, joel emerges from the back of the house and looks at you, then at ellie.

    “i suppose it should be fine here. but only for one night.” he says gruffly, his hand instinctively settled on the gun on his hip. ellie pumps a fist in the air and runs deeper into the house. you feel the urge to celebrate a night not spent on damp wet leaves as well, but something stops you. the something that hangs onto that annoyed look and that stern glare. something that makes you reach out.

     “joel?” he looks out the window, yet still hums impatiently in response. “what’s up?” you pry.

     “why you gotta be so nosy?” he snaps, making you take a step back. 

     “i’m sorry, i just worry about you. you know, when you get all standoffish. you’re not alone, joel.” the words come out as gentle, even though on the inside his reaction stings you. the hiss of hot iron against your heart. 

    “well you don’t need to worry, alright? i’ll take care of myself, you take care of yourself.” he retorts, words like daggers in your side. of course joel was classically cynical and rude, but you always had felt he was different with you. no matter how self-centered that sounded, people around you agreed too. joel just so happened to be more tolerable when he was around you, it was a fact. this however, was not the first time he had snapped at you. and even though it happens every so often, it still cuts like a dull knife.

     “okay, joel.” is all you say before exiting the room and search for some kind of pillow or mattress to sleep on. as you dig through musty closets, your brain aches, racking itself for the reason why joel was acting the way he was. each time, you come up with nothing. once you find a pillow and a frayed rug, your mind shifts to setting up a bed.

      once the sun has nested beneath the horizon and the stars come out, you return to your room from ellie’s after she had fallen asleep to you telling stories from before the outbreak. as you take in your makeshift bed once again, a melancholy feeling overwhelms you. this feeling of looking a tattered rug and a dirty pillow in a battered room and being relieved that you have the privilege of sleeping here. a heavy weight settles on your shoulders, one you feel every so often that reminds you that this is how you will live the rest of your life. that you will never see this world go back to “normal”. what really gets you is the thought that this is all that ellie has ever known. or any kids for that matter. and when the sadness becomes to much you can’t hold the tears behind your eyes anymore, you turn around and leave the room. then you find yourself in a position all too familiar, fist hovering over joel’s door. ready to reach out. 

      “is that you, ellie?” he says from the other side of the door in response to your knocking. you could hear the floorboards creaking as he approached the rotting divider between the two of you.

     “no, it’s me.” your voice is small, weary. a voice he recognizes and opens the door for with a sigh. 

     “what’s wrong?” he questions, noticing the glisten in your eyes from tears that had threatened to spill only seconds earlier.

     “you tell me first, joel.” you cross your arms. he narrows his eyes, then reluctantly opens the door more with a sigh, prompting you to enter. when he closes the door behind you and you sit on the floor, he follows suit. 

     “don’t know what you’re talking about. i’ve been fine all day, you’re the one who’s crying.” he gestures to his own face as if it’s your own.

     “oh come on, even ellie noticed you were off. and she thinks you are a perpetual asshole, so obviously you’re more asshole-y than usual.” his face stays flat, not showing any emotion like earlier, but this time he’s actually listening. 

      “there is no ‘reason’ okay?” he hesitates, “i just can’t seem to wrap my head around all this.” your brows knot together for a moment, wondering if maybe he is thinking the exact same thing you are. but then, he continues. “it just feels wrong. i look at ellie, and i see her. and it scares me, you know?” his words are warm with vulnerability, something you know only is heard when he is really, truly opening up. 

     “oh joel…” you exhale steadily to keep composure before continuing. “i do. i know. for awhile, i thought i was trying to replace my daughter, but then i realized something so so important.” you instinctively reach for his hand, not noticing when he jumps from the gentle touch, “we all will have many loves in our life. that’s the way it is for me, for tess, for ellie, it will be that way for you.” he swallows and you feel his hand clam up in yours, but you don’t let go. “it’s okay to heal.”

     “how do you always have an answer for everything?” his voice almost sounds boyish, the way each word leaves his mouth like it might break. “i swear, you are the wisest person i know.” you laugh quietly and break from his gaze, but his free hand shakily finds your face and guides your eyes back to his. “i mean it.” he affirms. you lean into his touch, your laughter settling into a soft smile. 

      “you know why i came in here?” you ask so quietly, as if not to wake up a sleeping baby. his hand falls from your face and leaves a tingle in its wake. 

    “why?”

    “because i don’t know what to say to myself right now, and i figured you might.” you search deeper into his eyes before continuing, “because i think you’re the wisest person i know.” his look of understanding fades and contorts into something more playful.

     “you making fun of me?” he says in mock-offense. “i was just trying to compliment you.”

      “okay, i know it sounds that way, but it’s true. i mean i have have known you for god knows how long, and you still impress me every day. did you know that?” his face falls again, this time into a look of content. honestly you didn’t even know you felt this way until this moment, but you weren’t going to stop now, not when words were begging to escape your mouth. “-and you know me, you know me better than anyone else. you care so much, and don’t get me wrong, you are stubborn as a bitch, but i know you too. i know that you care.” his eyes soften with every word in a way you’ve never seen before. 

     “i was thinking about how life will never go back to normal. we will live the rest of our lives being ecstatic to have a roof over our heads and feeling blessed to have enough food to survive.” you continue, mouth starting to dry up. “and even though it’s depressing and-and awful to think about, i cannot think of anyone else on earth that i would rather be living through hell with, joel.” it gets quiet for awhile, a comfortable silence hanging in the air.

     “i have no idea how i became lucky enough to have someone like you think all that of me.” is all he can say. your brain goes into overdrive by his words and crash into him, wrapping your arms about him. then, for the first time in a long time, he hugs you back. strong arms, secure around you. an apology you accept greedily, reveling in the feeling of his embrace. his thumb carefully tracing circles on your back, his face buried in your shoulder, all things you don’t realize are him feeling the same way you do. when you break apart, when two hearts sewn together rip, when two strings that were once intertwined unravel, you feel the urge for more. feelings you hadn’t known were there brewing in your stomach. 

     then, his hand meets your cheek, and yours meets his, you lean in until your foreheads touch and your noses brush. suddenly everything leading up to this moment is washed over with a newfound clarity. you both shake with a nervousness neither of you had felt in a long time as the gap between two lips is closed and the rest of the world disappears. you had not realized how much you missed the feeling of another person’s intimacy. the kiss wasn’t rough or even necessarily passionate, but more clumsy and gentle. you touched each other like you were made out of glass, careful not to break the other as teeth clashed and unspoken feelings built up over decades were silently spoken. 

    and right then you knew, that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

#joel miller x reader #tlou #the last of us #joel miller #ellie williams #fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller x fem!reader #the last of us hbo #the last of us series #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller tlou #tlou x reader #tlou x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller one shot #joel miller drabble #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us joel #the last of us fic #the last of us tv series #the last of us spoilers #tlou hbo #tlou series

[merakiui]

11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall. 

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head. 

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations. 

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze. 

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.” 

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.” 

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid. 

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair. 

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.” 

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red. 

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.” 

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.” 

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?” 

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you. 

The mount on the wall lacks a head. 

The man in the chair lacks antlers. 

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair. 

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.” 

And if it wasn’t natural causes? 

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends. 

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity. 

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin. 

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy. 

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length. 

For every step he takes, you take two backwards. 

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.” 

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could. 

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost. 

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live. 

You can run.

“And from there…” 

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright. 

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you. 

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer. 

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table. 

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.” 

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!” 

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?” 

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” 

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once. 

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew. 

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears. 

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves. 

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring. 

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

He’s stabbed you. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash. 

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.” 

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes. 

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again. 

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar. 

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony. 

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest. 

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction. 

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy. 

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

#if i said jade's version of this concept was far more lighthearted would anyone believe me? #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook hunt x reader #yandere rook #yandere rook x reader #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: violence

[theteablogger]

Another lie

I just received an email referring to Andy's bio, as shown in this post of mine. From someone in the industry:

I can say from direct experience that nearly all of this is a lie. The “large Los Angeles costume house” that he worked for is one I worked for for over 3 years - he worked there on a part time basis for less than six months before he was fired. His work was sub-par and the owner has said that he vastly over-represented his skills when applying.  additionally, I have multiple friends for whom he has offered to make costumes. nothing he has made has even been wearable. we are talking “seams splitting when you bend over” levels of bad. I don’t know a single person for whom he has made a functional garment, nor have I ever seen any kind of portfolio of costumes he has produced. I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen a single thing he has sewn, but he seems to think he can charge money for “consultation”? Absolutely egregious. 

To clarify, Andy was working for a costume house until he was sidelined by long COVID, but it was not a "large" one. The costume house this person is referring to would be one that Andy worked for when he first came to LA.

The closest thing to a portfolio that Andy has, as far as I know, is his costuming Instagram. At least one of the costumes featured in it broke the first time the commissioner wore it and caused them extreme physical discomfort (unrelated to the breakage). I've heard that other people who have commissioned from Andy have had issues with their costumes that they've had to fix themselves, or pay others to fix.

#andythanfiction #thanfiction #andrew blake #andy blake #craftycatdad

[solarmorrigan]

Little epilogue to the “Steve crochets Eddie a scarf” story (I promise I’m done now)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Ao3

“What are you working on?” El asks, leaning slightly into Eddie’s space to watch as he works.

Eddie pulls his latest stitch tight and tilts the fabric a bit so El can see the patch he’s securing. “I’m putting my new battle vest together,” he says. “Since someone bled all over the last one.”

“You knew I was bleeding when you gave it to me!” Steve snaps from the other end of the couch. “Anyway, we salvaged most of the patches, I don’t see why you have to keep complaining about it.”

“Because you’re so pretty when you’re irritated,” Eddie says, and he can hear Will give a snort of laughter from where he’s bent over a sketchpad on the floor.

Baby Byers is the latest addition to their little group of creatives; he doesn’t do anything with yarn or thread, but he does set up with colored pencils or, sometimes, a little set of watercolors and listens while Steve and Joyce gossip.

(His presence has stumped Steve’s continued efforts at naming the group, however.

“Five people probably makes up, like, an actual circle, but he doesn’t do… fabric-related things,” Steve ponders.

“Call it a craft pentagram,” Eddie suggests.

“No,” Steve vetoes immediately. “Besides, it’s six when Murray shows up.”

Right. That guy.

Eddie isn’t quite sure what he thinks of Murray Bauman just yet; he doesn’t appreciate the relentless roasting of his and Steve’s “honeymoon phase” (Bauman’s words, not his), but it is funny watching him threaten to teach Steve how to knit. In either case, Bauman and Joyce are good friends, so he’ll have to be included in the final group count.

Eddie and Steve decide to think on the name a little longer.)

“What is a battle vest?” El asks.

“It’s a metal thing. You put stuff like patches and pins onto a vest to show off the bands you like, the stuff you support, the stuff you don’t support – shit like that.” Eddie spreads the vest out a bit more to show El what he’s gotten done so far; he’s collected a few more patches since this spring, and he’s still considering what he wants to do with the pack panel, but he thinks it’s really coming together.

El runs a finger over the Motörhead patch. “And you sew it yourself?”

“That’s the only way to do it, kid.” Eddie grins. “My uncle Wayne taught me to sew when I came to stay with him. Said it was something everyone should know how to do.” Here, El nods wisely, and Eddie can see both Steve and Joyce grinning in his periphery. “I’m pretty sure I fidgeted and fussed through every single lesson, but he was right. I was glad I at least knew the basics once I started putting my first vest together.”

El studies his work a little longer before declaring, “It’s bitchin’,” and startling a bark of laughter out of Eddie.

“Thank you very much,” he says, pulling the vest back into his lap. “At least someone appreciates it.”

“Not taking the bait,” Steve drawls.

“Did you do these, too?” El draws Eddie’s attention back; she’s brushing a thumb over the bottom hem of the vest, where Eddie has sewn in a tiny swarm of bats in purple thread.

“Oh. Yeah, those are mine,” Eddie says. “That’s a little different from what I’m doing with the patches. Just some dumb embroidery.”

“I like it,” El says, looking up at him. “Would you show me how?”

Eddie blinks, taken aback by the sincerity in the request. “Uh – well, yeah, sure. I think I’ve got some extra stuff at home I can bring next time. I’m not, like, the best at it, but–”

“Thank you.” El cuts off Eddie’s uncertainty with a smile. “And I can show you how to crochet.”

Eddie can’t say he’s ever really wanted to learn how to crochet – or that he’d even really known what it was until a few months ago; he’s mostly been content to leave that particular craft to Steve.

He glances over to where Steve is sitting now, frowning over the blanket (afghan?) he’s finally decided to try his hand at; despite what Steve says about not being sure about what he’s doing, it’s coming out beautifully. Eddie knows it’s going to end up a prized possession on Buckley’s bed when it’s done.

From the chair beside Steve’s end of the couch, Joyce catches Eddie’s eye and gives him a sly smile he finds he can’t help but return.

And as Eddie thinks about it, it’s a gift all on its own, isn’t it? Getting to teach someone something you know, getting to learn something from them, too. And hell, you can never have too many hobbies.

“Yeah,” Eddie finally says, turning back to El. “Why not?”

#steddie #eddie & el #eddie munson #el hopper #steve harrington #stranger things #no tag list this time because no one explicitly asked and I don't know if those things are just supposed to carry over?? #but anyway I'm done bothering you guys with this fic now I swear #solar wrote #eddiesteve

[thetomorrowshow]

Grian was obliterated by a sonically-charged shriek

GoodTimeWithScar died

“Tim?”

Jimmy doesn’t look up. Not yet. Instead, he gazes down, closer, at where Scar had spontaneously exploded into nothing, his possessions flying every which way. It had been a lonely death for both of them. Like his own.

“Tim,” Grian says again, and Jimmy looks up at him. He looks . . . like himself. A bit frazzled, a bit of Red still glinting in his eyes, but that’s just Grian, really. Behind him, Scar waves, fully clothed once again.

“Why are you here?”

Jimmy almost laughs at that, because where else would he be? He’s always been here, in a sense. So has Grian.

Grian’s different, though. Grian fights back. Grian doesn’t want to be here.

Jimmy closes the eyes he has on Martyn and Pearl and Etho and focuses all of his attention on Grian. “I have to be here,” he says eventually. “You know that.”

And maybe Grian pretends he doesn’t know, but the look Scar gives him is not insignificant. Scar knows Grian quite well, has been around him long enough, will stay with him (Jimmy can See the strings that still connect the two, can See that their futures are sewn together into one seam). Scar knows a thing or two about Seeing.

Grian snorts. “Who are you hanging around for this time? Scott, Martyn, Joel—the game’s over, Timmy. Go home.”

“Funny,” Jimmy mumbles, a pang echoing through his chest. “That’s just what Tango said.”

“Listen to him,” advises Grian, patting Jimmy heavily on the shoulder. “You’re on a new server, aren’t you? Something about kingdoms?”

Grian knows full well where Jimmy lives. Jimmy feels his eyes sometimes, late at night when they’re both supposed to be fast asleep, a foreign sense of panic and then relief at finding him exactly where he’s supposed to be. He humors Grian, though, nods.

“Right. Go there. Forget about these guys, they’ll be along soon enough. Yeah?”

There’s something hopeful in Grian’s tone, in the way he almost-but-doesn’t grab Jimmy’s hand. 

Jimmy hates disappointing people.

He shakes his head. “My work here isn’t done,” he says softly. “You know that.” 

Grian’s jaw tightens, his face smoothing over into blankness.

“Fine. Do what you want, I can’t stop you.”

Grian could try to stop him, if he really wanted to. He was always so powerful. But the avian glances at Scar, then back at Jimmy, and Jimmy wonders briefly if Grian really thinks Scar doesn’t know.

After all, if Scar was any less aware of the situation at hand, he wouldn’t be able to see Jimmy at all.

There’s not another word from Grian as he stomps off, disappearing into the mist that surrounds them. Scar hangs back, shoots Jimmy what’s likely meant to be a calming smile.

“He’s just grumpy that he got us killed, don’t worry about him,” Scar says jovially. Then, quieter, more considerate, he adds, “He’s scared for you. He thinks you’re . . . employed against your will, shall we say.”

“I’ve been a Watcher for quite a bit longer than he ever was, thanks,” Jimmy retorts, and to Scar’s credit he doesn’t even blink. “And he knows what I am, who I am. Tell him if he’s got a problem with that, he can bring it up with the Prophecies of Old, all right?”

Scar grimaces. “I’m sure he knows . . . whatever that’s all about. Season Eight just spooked him, is all. And then this. . . .” he clears his throat. “He'll be back to regular-ol’-Grian in no time! Well, gotta get back to my theme park. See ya, TJ!”

And then Scar’s gone, mist covering him in one great cloud and then breaking apart to reveal he’s vanished. Jimmy nearly laughs—typical Scar and his magic tricks.

There’s still four pairs for him to Watch. And from what Jimmy’s seen (and what he’s Seen) of this game, he knows which ones are going to lose.

His going first had been a given, really—he has to be outside of the game to really manipulate anything. Tango had been an unfortunate byproduct of that.

Next was Ren and BigB, mostly due to Grian’s trap prophecy—and maybe Jimmy ought to find an assistant, because it’s getting rather hard to keep track of all these prophecies and bring them to fruition, but he managed that one rather nicely and then made certain that none of Grian’s traps worked for the rest of the game, which ultimately led to his downfall.

It’s just the four pairs left now, and it’s easy to push subconsciously for the portal to be trapped, and even easier to push both Joel and Etho through it. He had planned for a while for them to die, but Etho’s slippery and Joel’s unexpected, so he feels some sort of vindictive pleasure when Joel swears his way through the After and into the Beyond (trying to forget the abject horror with which he Listened to Joel’s agonized pleas for Etho to find safety, to not feel this pain).

Impulse and Bdubs are an easy choice after that, even though Pearl really should not be able to win that fight. Bdubs Sees a bit more than he should, sticks his tongue out at Jimmy as Impulse pulls him back to Hermitcraft, seeing nothing.

And then he has to end it.

Jimmy can See his friends, the smudges of dirt and dried blood that paint them, the haggard lines of exhaustion in their faces. He can Hear the desperation in their thoughts, the way their voices beg for mercy.

He’s perhaps the only one who can grant it.

And he’s made his choice.

Maybe it’s the ghost of his voice that whispers for Martyn to turn against Scott, and maybe he chooses Martyn because of how well Martyn Listens, but Martyn just tilts his head, nods, and nocks a firework.

Cleo doesn’t want to go along with him, but she has to. Jimmy makes sure to eliminate all of her other options. He sends them after Pearl. He wants to give the victor a little more victory before the end.

When they die, they appear beside Jimmy just as everyone else has, but unlike everyone else, Jimmy speaks to them.

“Hey, Martyn,” he says, and Martyn looks every which way before his face dawns with comprehension.

“Timmy,” he chuckles, even as Cleo frowns at him. “Thought the voice sounded like you. Third again, Tim—have you got something against me?”

“Who are you talking to?” Cleo asks. “We’re alone.”

“It’s not your turn yet,” is all Jimmy can say. He’s not sure when it’ll be Martyn’s turn—there’s dozens of prophecies he has to sort through before deciding which threads to follow next time, and he doesn’t even know if any of them have Martyn as a winner. The Watchers and Listeners alike are rather frustrated with Martyn lately; he wouldn’t put it past them to make him suffer for a while.

“That sucks. Least I didn’t kill myself this time, am I right?”

“Sure. Good job, Martyn.” Jimmy tells him, voice purposefully placating. Martyn doesn’t sputter in outrage, though, as he would in the games. He just shoots a tired smile in the opposite direction of Jimmy (who Sees it anyway) and says,

“How long are you here for?”

Cleo rolls her eyes and steps into the mist, past death. Martyn lingers, waiting—hopefully, almost—for an answer.

Jimmy checks up on Scott and Pearl. They’ve still not met up, yet, Scott taking a moment to rest before finding her.

“Not long,” he says after a moment, the bloodlust that’s been plaguing everyone’s thoughts for so long (and giving him a horrid headache) finally beginning to abate. “Why?”

Martyn shuffles his feet a little bit, shrugs. “I dunno. Figured you might not want to be alone after this, might want to hang out. Yeah?”

Jimmy doesn’t remind him that he’s got an entire server to return to, plenty of friends waiting for him. He knows that Martyn’s not asking for Jimmy’s sake.

“I’ll message you,” he promises, and Martyn smiles again before fading into the mist.

Then all that’s left is the victor.

And Scott.

And Jimmy, of course, but he doesn’t ever really count himself when it comes to these games, even when he’s still within them. He’s always out first, he always has to be—and not only for prophecy purposes. Grian really doesn’t like Watchers—or any sort of outsider—intruding on his territory, but someone has to be there to make sure there’s safe passage to another world.

Scott’s making his way toward Pearl now. Pearl’s still cuddling her dogs, telling them all about how she won.

And then Scott’s there, just behind her, and maybe it’s a little push from Jimmy that puts the idea in Scott’s head, gets him to start unbuckling his chestplate.

It’s not like Scott will ever know. With the Red bloodlust, Scott would be lucky to even recognize thoughts that are his own.

Pearl doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like Scott’s tower of tnt, doesn’t like that he’s talking to her, could be a distraction—her fingers flex around the sweat-stained leather of her sword hilt, ready to block any attack that comes, ready to slash the wire of a fishing rod—but Scott simply smiles, congratulates her, and lights his pyre.

She screams, quick and cut-off because soon enough Scott’s dead and just afterward she’s dead.

The world relaxes under Jimmy’s hands, held taut for so long. He relaxes as well. It’s over. It’s finally over.

Scott turns up before Pearl, and Jimmy, knowing all, knows why—he’s let her ghost linger for a few moments, long enough to say farewell to her dogs.

Scott looks around, and there’s a light behind the fading Red in his eyes that tells Jimmy exactly what he’s looking for, exactly what he’s remembering.

“No happy ending this time, eh?” he asks with a quirk of his lips. Jimmy chuckles. Scott can’t hear him or see him, though, so it’s a moment of humor reserved for himself.

Scott turns to leave, but pauses. “Don’t forget MCC this weekend, yeah?” he tosses over his shoulder. Then he’s gone.

And it’s just Jimmy.

And Pearl, who has suddenly appeared.

“Oh,” she says quietly, then louder, “hello? Is anyone here? Scott?”

She’ll leave soon enough and forget her loneliness, so Jimmy turns his attention toward more pressing matters. The world’s going to collapse entirely soon—otherwise it would just be taking up space—and Jimmy helps it along, grabbing a line of code and yanking, watching it unspool an entire hill. That’s always going to be satisfying to him, no matter how many times he does it.

A sound from beside him—she hasn’t left yet, oddly enough. “I’m still alone,” Pearl sniffles, and one unseeable eye blinking open before her shows Jimmy that she looks so terribly lost, tears just forming in her eyes. “Except I don’t even have Tilly with me, here. It’s just . . . me.”

What’s left of Pearl’s tower folds in on itself, vanishes as the world itself begins to twist. Box crumbles. Jimmy winces as his own grave cracks and disappears.

Pearl’s crying, Jimmy realizes with a start, a fat tear rolling down her cheek before she can stop it. She rubs at her eyes with the torn sleeve of her hoodie, takes in a shuddering breath.

“I wanna go home,” she whispers to no one, and Jimmy wonders why she doesn’t. “Which way is home?” 

Oh. If Jimmy isn’t mistaken, she’s glitched. 

It’s not the first time he’s had to deal with a glitched player in one of Grian’s death worlds. Last game, Bdubs’s final death had glitched similarly, leaving him stuck in the limbo of the void. He’d started to become Watcherish for the week that he was stuck, looking down at the game below and eventually Seeing. It had taken Jimmy far too long to try the simplest solution, the one that actually got him out, after working through dozens of different ones.

This time, he takes Pearl’s hand before he tries anything else.

She gasps, but she doesn’t let go. Instead, her grip tightens around Jimmy’s not-quite-corporeal hand.

“I’ll lead you home,” he tells her, knowing she’ll hear nothing.

Pearl, to her credit, follows.

She doesn’t stop crying, which is awkward for Jimmy, really, because how is he meant to comfort someone to whom he is nothing more than mist right now? And sometimes her cries are less anguished and more angry, and that’s a whole issue that he really doesn’t want to deal with so maybe it’s better that he can’t help.

She’ll start feeling better once she’s on Hermitcraft again. Red still stains her skin and mind, leftover from being Last. Both Grian and Scott had each had a particularly difficult time shaking off the despairing bloodlust after their respective wins.

But neither of them had glitched. Both had moved on almost instantly to their next servers. Pearl is stuck here with all of those warped feelings.

He doesn’t envy her position. He does pity it.

It’s not a short walk to Hermitcraft, but not a particularly long one either—Jimmy leads her into the mist for maybe ten minutes before he starts feeling the pull, that distinct Hermity feeling that tells him in gentle whispers that this is where Pearl belongs.

He releases her hand and her defenses shoot up, face guarded and one hand ready to punch while the other grasps aimlessly at nothing.

She needs a final push, then. If she were more in her right mind, she would have sensed the pull of her home.

And she just looks so terribly lonely.

So Jimmy forces all of his strength into giving his body weight and wraps her in a hug.

She’s surprised, and murder is still very much at the forefront of her mind, but after a moment she relaxes into it, hugs him back, her hands grabbing for a body that isn’t there to her. She sighs, butts her head up against him, her head finally going quiet enough that it isn’t grating on Jimmy’s ears.

“Don’t know who you are,” she says. “Too tall to be Grian, which is who I expected, really. Thank you, though—whoever you are.”

“You’re welcome,” Jimmy responds, and she still doesn’t hear him, but she lets him ease her into Hermitcraft’s current before releasing her to disappear into it.

And he’s really been alone for quite some time, but finally he’s alone-alone, with no more voices and faces that he has to keep track of. He can just close all of his eyes and stop Seeing and stop Listening and just Stop for a moment.

There’s so much paperwork to do.

He could stay here to do it. Once he’s done overseeing the destruction of the server he could just hang out in the timeless nothing of the void, where no one can bother him and he can get it done on time, rather than cram it all into his schedule the night before the deadline.

Or he could go back to Tumble Town, finally get a chance to relax. Stretch out in his own bed with Deputy Norman by his side. Get dirt under his fingers, feel the mesa sun beat down on him, build something with his own two hands. It’s really not a tough choice to make.

He’s always been more Player than anything else.

So Jimmy goes the way Joel and Scott went, follows the thread that whispers of Empires until he finds the current, lets himself be washed away into it.

He’ll definitely do some of that paperwork tomorrow. Totally.

-

Jimmy wakes with a gasp, lungs frantically filling and refilling after so many days in the void without needing to breathe. He’d forgotten how much of an adjustment period properly having a body is (at least it’s not as bad as waking in the Cod Empire had been; the air of the mesa is much thinner and doesn’t feel like soup sliding down his throat).

Other than his breathing, it’s quiet. Not quiet in the way of the void, the suffocating silence only broken by the words of the dead. Quiet in the way of the world—wind kicking up a bit of sand outside, the cry of a faraway bird, Norman purring at the foot of the bed.

He thinks maybe he’ll build a shop today.

Jimmy takes a few more long minutes to figure out how to breathe and move before forcing himself up. He rolls out of bed, pulls on his jeans and buttons up his shirt. He grabs a bite of hardtack before stepping into his cowboy boots, dusts the crumbs off his hands and pins his sheriff badge onto his vest.

He’s about to step out the door when he realizes he’s almost forgotten the most important part! On a hook by the kitchen table is a beautiful ten-gallon hat, and he swings it on and fingers the part of the brim that’s already wearing thin before marching out the door, ready for a day of living.

A violet eye blinks open in the back of the hat.

#double life smp #trafficblr #dlsmp #double life fanfic #mcyt #jimmy solidarity #traffic smp #solidaritygaming #watcher jimmy #listener jimmy #listener martyn #ask to tag #empires smp #I TOLD YOU I WASNT HURTING HIM IN THIS ONE #so welcome to my new au #will be on ao3 once i title it #i don't currently have any ideas for writing more of it #but there's. there's a lot of lore here #the day the last dl ep came out i went into a haze and emerged two hours later with this #i didn't even know what it was about until the next day #there's so much lore for this au that i'm probably not gonna do much with #just bc i have other focuses atm #but basics: jimmy is a triple threat and the first one ever #which means there's a lot of prophecies abt him #and he's learning how to fulfill prophecies so he can bring peace to his peoples etc #very chosen one-esque ik #mas writes #anyways lmk what you think! #love you guys

[cosplayinamerica]

Merengue from #AnimalCrossings Cosplayer: @BlueClarice Photo: @angeladalton_author Con: #AwesomeCon

I’ve always enjoyed dressing up. When I was a kid I would refuse to go anywhere without wearing a tiara which eventually evolved in me not going anywhere without my detective hat. But then one day when I was 14 I decided to dress up as a character from my favorite anime at the time and I’d like to say I jumped head first into #cosplaying then but I didn’t. I was scared to be open about liking to dress up.

Even though I went to many conventions in my younger years it wasn’t until my 20s that I started to cosplay more consistently with more elaborate costumes. There were many moments where I thought I might actually be good at this and one key moment was my first #cosplaycompetition. It took me a year to work up the courage to even enter.

I created my first ever suit which was covered in hand sewn zippers and I went in not expecting to win anything. So I was completely surprised when I had entered as beginner and won as intermediate. I’ve been cosplaying competitively ever since because it helps push myself further to create bigger and more complex costumes and meet some amazing people.

As soon as I saw @Sunset Dragon’s version of Merengue from Animal Crossings, I immediately knew I had to make it and make it look like real strawberry cake!

This was my first time ever making a dress and was the hardest cosplay to figure out how to make. I had to do a lot of research to figure out how people traditionally make fake cakes. They use sponges for the cake and spackling or modeling clay for frosting but I had two problems I couldn’t find a sponge large enough for a skirt and clay could potentially chip and be too heavy.

I solved this by using a roll of memory foam for the skirt and hand sculpted wool for the frosting. I did a lot of hand sewing, dying, beading, and needle felting for this cosplay. I even crochet a matching strawberry bag with a strawberry chain and created strawberry cake hair clips.

My most proud cosplay is my Jolyne Kujo cosplay! I think it’s my best sewn cosplay to date because it is patchwork that I literally hand stitched together to look like it was strung together by her stand. I’m also really proud of the wig because I turned a white straight wig into a blue and green afro with box braids! I especially love the braided butterfly detail. I also will forever love this cosplay because it got me my biggest win yet. I won Blerdcon’s Craftmanship contest 2022 and became their first black cosplayer of the year for my hard work. 

The only thing I’d like to add is that I’m just getting started. I can’t wait to create and show the world all the crazy designs I have in my head.

#animal crossings #cosplay #cosplay interviews

[mega-byte]

Hello! I’m the person who’s been asking you about Azone/general doll stuff. I thought you might like to see the end results. So here she is! My first ever custom doll. She’s supposed to be Tohru Honda from the 2001 anime ‘Fruits Basket’

(Everything on her is sewn by hand except for her shoes. I’ve been teaching myself how to do that along with patterning, though I’ve only made plushes previously. And I’m still learning how to paint so any messiness is due to those things :-P)

Thanks again for your help ^_^

Omg shes one of the most darling dolls I've seen!! I'm so glad I could help you out, I hope you stay customizing!

[sleebyfrogs]

The shirt for my historically accurate Toy Soldier cosplay is done!!!!!

[Image: two photos, both taken in a mirror, of a young, transmasc person in their bedroom, wearing a reconstructed, white Victorian dress shirt. It has a shield-shaped bib area and a tab below the placket, with a detachable rounded collar and cuffs. The front placket and collar have a narrow black edge, and everything is fastened together with pearlescent shirt studs and cuff links. In the first image their face is blurred out, with comically simple eyes and a moustache doodled on top. In the second it is obscured by the body of a mandolin, held by its neck in one hand. Their short, dark hair is visible under an antique black-and-red military cap. End ID.]

(*almost historically accurate, and almost done)

After all this time!!!!! I started in September(?) and it’s now May but a lot of that was just putting off starting the twenty eight hand-done gimped and tailored buttonholes this ended up requiring because I can’t do anything by halves

If you’re wondering, I used this pattern, which worked wonderfully for me (special thanks to this tutorial too for demonstrating some of the more difficult parts), but I spent a long time trying to alter it to fit me, and to fit flatteringly, as I have never made a garment this complex before and I do not have the body an average men’s pattern expects. I had to do a lot of things multiple times over, but I’m really glad I did, because it’s definitely the most effort I’ve ever put into anything like this, and the finest sewing work I’ve ever done. I feel very dapper and handsome.

I did machine-stitch most of it because I knew, knowing me, that I could either end up with an ahistorically-sewn shirt or no shirt at all as I would procrastinate sewing all of that by hand just. Forever. I did hand-stitch a lot of it though, mostly the felled seams and fiddly collar bits. And the buttonholes. God so many buttonholes. The black edge is bias tape that I folded in half and ladder-stitched to itself through the shirt/collar fabric. (Also the horizontal seam you can see near the bottom in the lower picture exists solely because I didn’t have the fabric to cut the front out in one, and that part gets tucked into the pants anyway. Piecing is period.)

I’m still working on combining my various incomplete bits of antique cuff link and stud sets in the least-mismatched way, and the shirt itself is definitely not perfect (and there are still some minor adjustments I want to make), but all this to say I’m delighted with my work and excited to move onto the next item, which will probably be either the trousers or waistcoat, and I intend on documenting those too! I learnt so much from this experience and one day I’ll likely make another shirt much like it.

(Also, I’m happy to answer any questions about it!!! I know I could have used footsteps to follow in when I started this project)

They/them

#The Mechanisms #The Mechs #The Toy Soldier #Cosplay #Victorian #Fashion #Sewing #Historical sewing #Shirt #Dress shirt #19th century menswear #Toy Sewldier #Is my new tag for this project holy shit #Doriginal #One step closer to becoming a full-time dandy #It begins

[hiswitchcraft]

Hi, I have been going back and forth in starting my craft, I’m mostly studying because I’m not ready for spells, but I learned that sigil magic is one if the easiest for me to do.

I usually charge my paper sigils by fire or sunlight but I’ve noticed a lot if witches sew sigils in clothing, how does one activate and charge a sigil like that? Every time I try to research this I only get “charge with your energy” what if I’m not good that? How would I charge a sigil like oh e that?

Hello! That sounds like a good start for you. One of the first spells I wrote was basically just sigil magic with a lil flair actually.

I suggest you do learn to manipulate energy yourself. It's investing in a skill that will generally make a lot of things easier and help tune you into the world around you and yourself which is very valuable, but sometimes that takes a while and maybe you wanna try this method now. I get you. I think I can help.

How Do You Charge a Sigil That's Sewn?

I think you first should check out my rough guide to enchanting post because I go over a ton of ideas there that are relevant to this question.

In the same vain as that post, you've got options here. It's a very customizable concept and you can make it as simple or as complicated as you want.

A lot of the methods there could be used once the sigil has already been sewn to charge the sigil but I think the best one for you might be using magically charged water to trace the sigil that's already on the garment and let it dry. This won't be very complicated or take too long. You could also use smoke that corresponds to the intent of the sigil for example, but personally I don't like my clothes to smell like anything so that wouldn't work me, still, it's a simple option.

If it were me though? I think it would be ideal to charge or cast a spell on the thread before you ever even use it, because then you can use a petition to make it so the sigil charges itself theoretically forever and it's low maintenance. Ideal for warding in my opinion! I know you said you like sigil magic because it's easy, and you're not ready for spells, but I wanted to mention it for others or in case you do decide you love this concept and want to use it a lot or take it up to the next level later, y'know?

I'm rambling. Basically you can use charged water or other methods mentioned in the post or just any method used for charging that won't ruin the garment could be applied.

I hope that helps!

#witch #witchcraft #witchblr #witches #witch tip #witch tips #witchy tips #witchy tip #new witch #baby witch #beginner witch #baby witch tips #new witch tips #sigil #sigils #sigil magic #sigil charging #sigil witch #charging sewn sigils #sigils and clothing #sewing sigils into clothing

[gudvina]

The things I do to keep you near.

Ship: Effie Trinket/Haymitch Abernathy

Fandom: Hunger Games

Chapter 9: I need you to know (not too much)

Can be read on AO3. <3

74th Hunger Games, part seven.

He should have known Gloria would come back. She left just after he sent Katniss an ointment for her burns, parting with recommendations that they rest a little, not to work themselves too hard. He’d thought she’d be like the occasional sponsors, for a fleeting moment. The ones that came in, signed their deals and left.

But there was nothing occasional about Gloria.

Just a few hours after midnight Haymitch and Effie came down to the Sponsors’ Lounge, and were surprised to find Gloria already there. She was sitting by Chaff’s stand, between him and Faustina, Eleven’s escort. The lounge was almost empty, and the Victor’s voice bellowed across the room, inviting them to their stand.

The table was already set for breakfast, and two added seats were already waiting for them. It was suspiciously convenient, and his friend’s unusually cordial smile didn’t help his scepticism. He knew what this was all about. He’d feared this would happen the moment Katniss spotted Rue clinging to the branches of that damn tree.

An alliance. He’d made a few in the first years of his mentorship, before giving up altogether. He’d sworn he’d never make one again.

“Up, up, up, ‘Mitch!” Chaff teased, mocking Effie lightly, “How did you sleep?”

“Ha, ha, how funny” Effie rolled her eyes and took a bite of a pastry. She was trying to fight the remnants of sleep, and he knew that it would probably take another strong cup of coffee to fully wake her up. It was surprising that, despite the lack of sleep, her makeup was still flawless.

“Come on, Effs, you know Chaff��, Faustina smiled. She was sipping on some pink coloured juice, reclining on the sofa. He didn’t know how close Effie was with the other escorts, but he’d heard enough about Faustina from both her and his friend. Incredibly tone deaf, but she was determined to get a winner and that meant that she tried her absolute best every year. The only thing that differentiated her from Effie was the lack of grief after losing.

“Yeah, she knows me. How’s boyfriend, by the way?”.

Effie froze beside him, and Haymitch glared at his friend. He knew that it came from a place of caring, but Chaff didn’t have the right to question her about Crane.

“Crane is fine where he’s at”, Haymitch grumbled.

“Good, now that we’ve asked about friends and family, Chaff, why don’t you begin with the serious subject?”.

Chaff took Gloria’s suggestion, and started to talk about the benefits of an alliance. It would help both their tributes when receiving a gift, and if anything happened to one of them the funds for one would go directly to the other’s mentor. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever had to sign, and after all Chaff was his friend. His tributes this year weren’t the worst, but they’d been outshined by his girl, so it was only fair.

“You know what I feel about alliances, but I will accept. Only this once”.

“I knew I could count on you. So, Effie, are you ready to team up with Faustina?”.

“Chaff, I’ve known Effie from the Academy. We’re always ready to team up!”, Faustina quipped in, winking at Effie, “When we were sixteen, we had a modelling exam and we passed with flying colours! Seneca was quite taken with the result”. Haymitch frowned and looked at Effie, confused by what he’d just heard. A modelling exam? What the fuck was that?

“Faustina, I’d rather not discuss our modelling exams”.

“Oh, come on! It was so fun. Well, maybe we were a little young for certain poses, they were a little risqué, but Mr Sewned loved the pictures. I think Seneca still has some of them, maybe I should ask”.

“We were sixteen, Tina”.

“Since when have you become such a prude? You don’t want to talk about our exams and you don’t sleep with sponsors anymore, not even with Seneca. I’m starting to think your mother has rubbed off on you”.

“And I’m starting to think this conversation is over, darling. Whatever Effie does is none of your business”. Gloria redirected the conversation towards the strategies for their incoming interviews.

Every year, at the start of the games, mentors and escorts were supposed to give out interviews. It was during these interviews that alliances were laid out. Effie listened to Gloria’s tips, taking notes on her little notebook. Gloria’s whole strategy had always been to charm the audience, making it fall at its feet, and as he listened to her he understood that Effie had, during her training, made hers the woman’s lessons.

“Haymitch and Chaff, instead, should be a little more… affable than usual. I will explain later, but Chaff, you know I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary”.

“I know, Gloria. Remember I swore to my old man I’d listen to you, so you don’t have to worry about me. Look at Haymitch, instead. He’s the one who’s hell bent into upsetting people. Poor Trinket has almost had a heart attack once or twice”.

“Haymitch can behave when he wants to, so he’s not a problem”.

“When he wants to, yeah”.

“I’m right here, y’know that, right?”.

Effie and Chaff smirked, but then turned their attention back to Gloria.

“Effie, I need you to engage audience and sponsors a little more. We need your savoir-faire more than ever, so you can lead the conversation and Faustina can also have a little of the spotlight. It’s not going to be easy, but you can do it”.

“What do you mean with engaging the sponsors?”, Haymitch asked.

“The usual, a little harmless flirting here and there. Nothing I haven’t done myself”.

“Those freaks are going to want to follow up on it”.

“Effie will know how to deal with it. I’m not asking her to sleep with them, Haymitch. I’m asking her to play pretend”.

It made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t say anything without mentioning their marriage, so he just clenched his jaw and ignored Effie squeezing his hand under the table. The conversation continued for another half hour, and dawn was still one hour away. Breakfast ended in a high note for everyone but him, and they all parted to prepare their stands.

Effie was arranging the documents, unusually silent. She probably sensed his irritation.

“Modelling exams? What the fuck was that about?”, he asked, lighting up the mood a little.

“Yes, they were mandatory at the Academy. They gave us a prompt and we used to spin a shooting around it”.

“So, you were sixteen doing strip teases for pictures that would be sent to a fifty-year-old man?”

“You make it sound so bad, but Mr Sewned was a professional, and it wasn’t strip teases. I admit we were a little precocious, but they were harmless compared to those awful magazines you and Chaff like to go through”. She wrinkled her nose, and he smirked. He’d never actually looked at Chaff’s zines more than once, as they never did anything for him, but Effie seemed to be of the impression that he was doing who knows what with them, and he liked to know he wasn’t the only jealous one there.

At least on that, their marriage was balanced.

“D’you think Crane still has those pictures?”.

“No, I don’t. And if he does… Panem! That would be awfully weird, wouldn’t it?”, she put on her escort mask as a sponsor walked in front of them, aiming for the breakfast buffet already laid out at the centre of the room.

“More than that. Anyways, do not be too friendly with those sponsors”.

“You can’t seriously think I would”, she turned toward him, a flash of hurt in her eyes, “I also agreed to our arrangement”.

“I’m don’t think, sweetheart. I’m… can I be honest? I will be honest. I don’t like the idea. I understand we need to do this, and that it’s your part of the deal, but I hate it. I hate to think of the ideas those maniacs will get. If any of them try anything, you come to me. Please”.

His speech showed more vulnerability than he would have liked, but he needed her to know. That he wouldn’t mindlessly pimp her out, that he didn’t like the idea of those man touching her. He couldn’t tell her she was his wife, but he could tell her that.

With the excuse of having to arrange the pillows behind him she leaned closer to him and, taking advantage of the backrest shielding her, she whispered.

“I am yours. Always and all ways”.

The reminder of their night after the training scores made him groan, as he felt his cock twitch and his hand tingle to touch her skin. He’d have to wait, though. And if her words had brightened his mood, he tried not to let it show too much.

***

Effie’s hands shook as she laid out Haymitch’s outfit on the bed. It was a dark navy suit she’d bought him months ago on a whim, before reaping season had even started. She’d imagined him wearing it, moving in it, and concluded, right after the purchase, that it had been a smart investment.

Unfortunately, the long-awaited moment felt tainted now.

Katniss throwing the tracker jackers’ nest onto the other tributes resulted in Peeta sacrificing for the girl once more, and coming out of it badly injured. The girl wasn’t in the best shape either.  Fortunately, Rue, who watched the whole thing hidden from the ground, took over and got her to safety.

She’d tried to reason with Haymitch, but there was no way of convincing him to send something to Peeta. Throwing things hadn’t worked, and he’d been firmer than the previous days. Given that the boy was in hiding there was no reason to help him out, unless he was dying. Haymitch always had the last word, and she could only hope to convince him sometime later.

The sound of the shower stopped. He came out of the bathroom with just a towel covering him from the waist down. Her mouth went dry. Droplets of water slid down his torso, and she stared for a second too long before returning- or trying to- her attention to the suit.

“Maybe Faustina is right, maybe you are becoming too prudish”, he sneaked up behind her, pressing her back to his chest. She felt warmth pool below her stomach, and, despite herself, she relaxed against him.

“How infuriating, coming from you!”.

“We do have a little time”, he smirked against her nape. He wasn’t wrong, but he’d just showered. She didn’t want to lose time with another one.

“After the interviews”, she whispered, but pressed her backside to his crotch. His groan didn’t help her temptation, nor did his hands when they settled on her waist. God, she hated being so weak, but she wanted him. Badly.

“You’re giving me mixed signals here, sweetheart”.

When she bent over to slide down her panties, she hoped her message was loud and clear. She held onto the mattress and braced herself for him. His hands held onto her waist and slid inside of her, setting a rather slow pace to prolong the moment. She rewarded him with a soft moan.

When he was inside her, his hardness against her most sensitive spots, she felt full. Full of him, full of pride for being the reason for his arousal. It was amongst the few things she was sure of. She had a vague suspicion that he’d come to consider her a little, at least enough for their affair and work relationship to continue, but his feelings were an incognita she didn’t want to find.

Feeling her distraction he increased his pace, and she couldn’t think about anything but him and his hands travelling all over her body. When they were both spent, his hand gripped her jaw to turn her around. He kissed her with abandon, and she reciprocated. If her kisses tasted a little too much like love, she hoped he wouldn’t tell.

“How about we take your shower together?”

“Just showering, Haymitch! No improper behaviour allowed; I have a schedule to follow. Unlike you, I need to visit the prep team, and it wouldn’t do to keep Octavia, Venia and Flavius waiting”.

He snorted, pulling himself out of her. It reminded her of the first time they’d had sex without a condom, too taken by the moment to realize until they were done. Thankfully, she’d been on the drips since she was twelve. She’d started using them as a hormone stabilizer, but continued because of their contraceptive properties. He’d told her she’d taken ten years of his life with that stunt.

“Let’s go, sweetheart”.

Uncharacteristically, he listened to her this time. He touched her here and her, relishing in the softness of her skin, but otherwise kept his hands- and nether regions- to himself. When they were done he stayed in the room to dress and prepare, while she walked to the prep team's work area, undergoing the usual routine. It relaxed her, allowing her not to think for a little while.

When they were done with her she was dressed in a dark red dress that reached her mid-thighs, sported a daring decolletage, and came with a pair of matching gloves. Her wig was light blonde, almost white, and contrasted heavily with the dress and her makeup.

Cinna and Portia were aiming to bring out her sensuality, and in that dress, it wasn’t too hard to embody. She looked beautiful, tempting, like a red apple dangling from the branch of a tree. But she didn’t care about the sponsors or the audience’s opinions, no. Flattery, after some time, faded. Haymitch’s desire for her, on the other hand, lingered for longer.

When she left the prep team she took the elevator, meeting Haymitch, Chaff and Faustina backstage at Ceasar’s television studio. She was wearing a forest green dress that was dotted with real thistles. Her opposite, she looked quite innocent. Exactly what they were looking for.

She complimented her with a wink, before turning her attention to Haymitch. His eyes widened as he took in her attire, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. She walked to stand by his side and heard Chaff whistle.

“Girl, you’re breaking hearts tonight. Sure you don’t want to switch districts, huh?”.

“Hey!”, Faustina protested playfully, “Finnick has been waiting for years, get in line!”

“There is no line, stop being assholes and leave my w- escort alone”.

He tripped on his words a little, and, without taking notice of what he was saying, she basked in the knowledge that she’d managed to render him speechless. They lined up with the other mentors and escorts, watching on a small screen as Ceasar started the show by introducing himself and a few of the Gamemakers. Soon, he called for the mentors and the escorts. The audience roared, calling out to them.

#hayffie #haymitch x effie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #the hunger games #thg series #thg fanfiction #<3

[a-cosmic-elf]

I have been writing. In fact, in the last few days I have added some truly beautiful stuff to chapter 17, that harkens all the way back to events from chapter 4.

It was after it occurred to me that although I may have been writing this story for years, for the characters it’s only been a few months and the trauma of those early events will still be raw. They can’t just move on and take more and more crap without being triggered in some way.

I’m very happy with it. I’m used to sewing things up with canon, but I think this is the first time I’ve sewn things up with events my own story. It’s very satisfying. I doubt anyone else will pick up on that, and that’s okay. Like all the little lore references I sew into the fabric of my fics that nobody ever notices, I know that they’re there. And it feels good.

#fic writing #ao3 writer #my writing #cosmic chats