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lets-try-some-writing · 2 years

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Guilty Pleasures (Part 2)

More secret/wholesome hobbies for my giant lovely robots!

Starscream

Starscream is a bundle of pent up everything with paranoia serving as the cherry on top, and so to deal with it he picked up several small wholesome hobbies over the course of the war.

He tried writing for a while, (he still has a stash of his old works somewhere) he did painting as well, (his art is still on display in his berthroom) and he even committed to sculpting for a while (his rather vivid depictions of Megatron in various states of defeat are proudly displayed on a shelf)

However his most recent hobby is one he acquired from earth.

Currently he handles his pent up emotions through knitting, something he picked up after he found out that a determined knitter can make just about anything.

Inspired, he took up the craft and uses his sharp talon like digits to knit while he has nothing better to do.

When he can, he will requisition a Vehicon or two to hold his yarn balls and follow him around so that he can pace and knit at the same time.

But due to how often Starscream needs to vent out his frustrations via knitting he developed quite a large pile of finished accessories.

And so to make way for even better works of 'art' Starscream gives his little creations away to others on board the nemesis, and sometimes those not of Decepticon allegiance.

Knockout has found himself with several well knit neon pink sweaters that he hates with a passion not only because the color clashes with his armor but also because they all have some iteration of 'Slagger' on the back.

Breakdown has been given a few rainbow colored beanies that he isn't quite sure what to do with, and Soundwave has acquired a handful of knitted stuffed animals with various angry expressions.

All the Vehicons have little mittens or scarfs of various colors and Shockwave has begrudgingly accepted an eye mask with a rather disturbing optic knitted on the front.

Not even the Autobots are safe from Starscream's passive aggressive knitted works.

Optimus has five quilts as large as he is tall depicting Starscream perched upon a throne with both Optimus and Megatron at his pedes, usually 'All Hail Starscream' is present somewhere as well.

And Ratchet has two dozen rugs that seem to be a series of sorts as each has 'Frag Megatron' kitted in a different language.

No one is quite sure how to react to it.

Arcee

Despite her sarcastic, stoic, and blunt behavior, Arcee has an incredibly wholesome hobby, the hobby in question being gardening.

What she did on Cybertron wasn't really gardening by earth standards.

Before the war and even during its early years she kept and incredibly well maintained crystal garden to which she devoted enormous amounts of time to.

She had a whole room filled with towering spires of glowing crystals which had been carefully directed to grow in splendid archways and branching designs over vorns.

Each crystal had a date carefully carved into its base and was skillfully attuned to her own spark signature, helping them to grow and offering her a deep sense of peace when in her garden.

It helped ease a great deal of the stress she accumulated throughout the early years leading up to the war.

However her garden was ruthlessly destroyed after her residence was bombed.

She tried keeping a few small potted crystals which she managed to salvage from her old garden but it was mostly a lost cause with how often she was required to change bases and locations to fight.

She still kept a few of the shards with her though when she travelled to earth, more as a sentimental item than anything else.

When she arrived to earth she was introduced to the human concept of gardening.

Organic things were not an unknown concept to her, but caring for plants is far different than caring for crystals.

She ultimately decided to give earth gardening a shot and has so far grown to be just as frustrated with the process as Ratchet is with human baking.

Why do plants need so much water? But then if they get the water they die? And they need sun, so much sun, but not too much sun or they also die? They also need to be pruned like crystals but they grow so quickly that it is nearly impossible to contain them?

Not only that but they just sometimes randomly die? For no reason?!?

Poor Arcee is trying and has succeeded to a degree. She, after devoting a great deal of time to research and through much trial and error has cultivated a small garden of succulents.

She prefers succulents above other plants because they are the most similar in requirements to crystals.

She has even given her most prized plants names. And it is these named plants that she loves above all others.

As such, the death of Jerry due to Bulkhead and Wheeljack's careless game of lob ball has earned them several well deserved smacks and more than one chilling glare when they get too close to her other plants.

R.I.P Jerry.

Breakdown

For such a big strong bot, Breakdown's hobby is remarkably tame.

When he isn't working or buffing Knockout's armor, Breakdown enjoys making candles, preferably scented ones.

It is not that he is particularly fond of fire or the messy substance that is wax, he just likes how lovely the flame, melting wax, and scent of the candle are when all combined together.

He only really started making candles after coming to earth and loving the dramatic effect candles gave to whatever place they were lit in.

He quickly got invested in the burning glow sticks and began making some killer candles of his own after a great deal of research.

Of course his early candle making days were not without their fare share of failures.

It took weeks to clean up the waxy mess that came from Breakdown's attempt to make one giant super candle.

Megatron was less than pleased.

But everyone else on the nemesis actually really appreciates Breakdown's hobby because it gives the nemesis a nice vibe.

The Vehicons really like the random candles spread around the ship and will take extra care to keep them lit and even take a long sniff if no officers are present.

The Vehicons love the candles so much that a group have come together and created a little club with Breakdown where they all just make candles together.

It's wholesome, sweet, and the end result is lovely.

The sections of the nemesis where few officers go are filled with candles of various shades and colors, usually scented in lavender as it is the Vehicons favorite.

Breakdown thinks it is the sweetest thing seeing the Vehicons so appreciative of his work.

Most of his gifted candles go to them, but a few end up with Knockout and Soundwave who use them to add a little spice to the atmosphere of their workspaces.

Bulkhead

Largely due to Miko's influence, Bulkhead has gotten himself a tin cap and become a conspiracy theorist after coming to earth.

Much like Optimus with his hobby, Bulkhead's fixation wasn't really intentional, he just found the theories on the internet infinitely fascinating.

After all, who would have thought that the moon landing might be fake? Sure there is a ton of evidence to disprove it but still!

And an organization controlling the entire world? Not completely impossible. The Autobots had a similar thing going on before the war too.

And what is this about a giant furry ape like creature wandering through the deep woods? Who knows? Bulkhead is an alien robot from space, anything is possible!

Bulkhead has a whole bulletin board that he keeps near the main part of base, completely unconcerned with what the others think of his fixation.

The thing is positively covered in clippings and photos all connected by obnoxious red string.

There are at least ten running theories on his board at all times, most of which the team tolerates but doesn't believe and Ratchet hates with a passion due to the ridiculousness of them.

However there have been moments where Bulkhead has managed to catch the entire teams attention with one of his more logical theories.

On multiple occasions the team, having been convinced by Bulkhead, have gone hunting for any and all data on a theory just to put their minds at ease.

Optimus once spent three restless nights franticly searching the internet and questioning agent Fowler to figure out if the Abominable Snowman was a real thing or not.

The poor Prime was left with his questions largely unanswered, much to his own discomfort and slight horror.

Wheeljack wasn't left much better off, having been roped into watching hours of conspiracy theory videos with Bulkhead on several occasions.

In the end he spent several days paranoid as Pit, refusing to remove his tin cap for fear of alien intrusion. (Why are you afraid of Aliens Wheeljack!? You are the Alien!)

Miko knows what monster she created by introducing Bulkhead to conspiracies and she is proud.

Shockwave

Shockwave doesn't really have a hobby.

All he does is research, which could arguably be a hobby if one were to look at it as such.

When he isn't working on his research the closest thing Shockwave does that could be considered a hobby is study the organisms of earth... for science purposes of course.

Does he need to know how much a blue whale weights? Probably not but you never know.

Does he really need to know the exact migrating habits of water buffalo? Also probably not.

Does he learn the random earth facts anyway? Absolutely.

He finds BBC documentaries fascinating and will watch them on loop for extended amounts of time while waiting for his experiments to show any changes.

He even has a dataslate where he takes notes on earth animal facts because it could perhaps be useful one day. (its definably not because he likes learning about animals, no, what gave you that idea?)

He usually keeps the fact that he knows all the random earth animal facts a secret but occasionally it slips out when someone starts giving out incorrect data about the earth organisms.

More than once Shockwave has unintentionally gone on a monotone rant about earth animals when someone like Starscream or Knockout starts throwing around data that is obviously wrong.

Little does he know they are mostly just being drama queens.

It still scares them a bit though when Shockwave goes into his little fact trances and more often than not those on the nemesis have learned to avoid talking about earth animals for fear of having to endure Shockwave's emotionless gaze as he corrects them in detail.

Smokescreen

Oh boy, Smokescreen has a rather interesting hobby.

Besides idolizing Optimus and geeking out over the fact that 'ohmygoodnessitsOptimusPrimeandI'mherewithhim!!!' Smokescreen has one other interest.

While he does play video games and race, his true passion lies in the rather niche subject of beetle fights.

He thinks watching the small creatures fight is just fascinating.

As such he collected a few of his own with the help of the children and has painstakingly created a whole mini arena for his beetles to fight in.

After a great deal of preparation the beetle matches begin in earnest.

The children place bets and Raf serves as the narrator for the matches, going above and beyond by creating intricate histories and stories for all the gladiator beetles.

Miko throws confetti when one of the beetles wins and Jack brings out a royal red pillow and high quality beetle food for the victor.

The whole thing is incredibly dramatic and often ends with the victorious beetle being paraded around like some sort of war hero.

No bot really understands Smokescreen's beetle fights, not even Bumblebee... that is until Wheeljack rolls round and sees the epic set up.

Smokescreen and Wheeljack immediately get along like a house on fire and ramp the beetle fights up to a new level of dramatic.

Together they devise and craft armor for the beetles and even genetically modify a few to make the battles even cooler.

They even devise traps for the battle field to add some tension to the conflict.

Of course spotlights and cameras are set up eventually and everything is recorded and documented in great detail.

Team Prime doesn't get it and Optimus is once again left slightly disturbed by the whole thing but opts to not question it.

Occasionally though the team will drop bets on particularly interesting combatants in the beetle arena, usually when there is nothing better to do.

On those days the battles are rigged so that Wheeljack and Smokescreen can revel in their ill gotten gains, throwing around the fake money that everyone bets with like they just won the lottery.

Aight I know this ain't everyone but I will create a third and final Guilty pleasures post to get the poor bots I missed in this post. Thank you for taking the time to look at my little headcannons.

#transformers shenanigans #transformers #transformers prime #tfp #bulkhead #wheeljack #smokescreen #breakdown #shockwave #arcee #starscream #funny #random headcanon #poor optimus #the poor prime is traumatized by earth but can't say anything

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customsweaterproducer · 2 months

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ambersunit5 · 7 months

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From synthetic sweaters to stretch-fit sportswear, the fossil-based components found in the clothes we wear present an ecological nightmare for the planet and for our consciences. By developing new, renewable, wood and plant-based fibres to replace the petroleum-based ones, scientists are setting a new trend for the world of fashion. It’s no secret: fashion has a sustainability problem. In today’s culture of one-click purchases, short-term wear, and subsequent disposal in landfills, the damaging impact of fast fashion is undeniable. While circular economy solutions such as clothing rental, deposit and reuse schemes are gaining traction, it's crucial that we recognise their limitations.So many of our everyday items of clothing contain artificial components such as polyester and nylon, which come from non-renewable, fossil-based sources like petroleum. Even traditional fibres like virgin cotton have an embarrassingly large carbon footprint due to the ways they are grown, harvested, and processed.

Biofibre: Turning food waste into fashion

One of the most promising areas of research into the future of fashion comes from existing agricultural waste. The ability to replace fossil-based fibres with natural, renewable ones is already a positive step forward, but to create them out of food crops that would ordinarily be left to rot in a field? Even better.

Agraloop, a textile innovations arm from US-based start-up Circular Systems, is working to turn this idea into a mainstream reality using the left-overs from food and medicine crops, including pineapples, bananas, oilseed and CBD hemp. Using a special wet processing technique, they extract the cellulose fibres from plant stems and leaves, which are then purified into “soft fibre” bundles, ready to spin into fabric yarn.

According to the company their process uses 100 per cent less water than traditional cotton manufacturing and 53 per cent less CO2 than traditional hemp. The result is a versatile product that can be seamlessly swapped in for traditional fossil-based fibres such as polyethylene terephthalate (PET).

Circular Systems is already working with major international clothing manufacturers for brands including H&M and &OtherStories

pells, rachel (2023). Fibres of the future – How is science combating fashion’s sustainability problem. [online] UPM.com. Available at: https://www.upm.com/articles/beyond-fossils/23/fibres-of-the-future-how-is-science-combating-fashions-sustainability-problem/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=contentmarketing_2023&utm_term=&utm_content=&gclid=Cj0KCQiAuqKqBhDxARIsAFZELmIpfJ8vD581HPHRqcL4b6GZz-_clNjkigvEHODmnkQLxaRZF7vvXDAaAv8IEALw_wcB [Accessed 6 Nov. 2023]. ‌

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machineknithelp · 7 months

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Fibres

i have an aversion to manmade fibres. i don't like them. i recognise there are times when they are useful (and cheap lol) but mostly i recommend using natural fibres, like wool, cotton and cashmere. some of these are animal fibres so if you have made the decision to not use those, have a google. some are plant fibres.

polymer blends are acceptable sometimes but they are on thin ice. I am now going to explain in a haphazard way what different fibres are and what you use them for. this is very individualistic and there aren't really any rules. it is more like general convention, do whatever u want. knit with strips of binbags idc

will b edited later as i am only sometimes omniscient

wool:

great for warmth.

most wool now is processed, but if you can get the stuff or you spin the stuff with more lanolin (sheep grease) then it will be more waterproof.

this is good for jumpers, sweaters, cardigans. depending on the feel of the wool and the length of the fibre you will use it for different things. if it is itchy as hell you will not want to make a skin-tight jumper.

wool fibres act like little hooks to hook on to each other. this makes a close fabric. this is especially good for creating a pattern with different colours, as the gaps between different yarns will close more easily and seamlessly.

has a bit of stretch to it

washing - you can put this in the washing machine on a wool wash (or a cold or hand wash cycle). depending on what you have done, you might want to hand wash it (e.g. something very chunky). don't put it in the drier.

cotton:

cotton is lightweight. breathable. it is not very warm and tends to be more drapey than wool. it isn't waterproof and takes ages to dry.

if you are making big thick socks or layers close to your body for something like a hiking trip where you expect to be sitting in it wet for a while, don't use cotton.

cotton is great for a dress or similar. my mum made a few ties out of it.

it is not stretchy like wool. very nice for summer projects and layers.

can go in the washing machine!!! however depending on what you've created you might not want it to lol

cashmere:

fucking expensive

soft and usually very fine weight. keeps you warm.

often you will find cashmere in a blend. this is nice. often people will use this in thin, tight clothing.

has some stretch to it.

depends on quality (short cashmere is not as good as long cashmere but it is nice and soft and fluffy)

cashmere is sometimes a pain to wash (cold wash, ideally by hand. do not put it in the drier)

mohair:

very fine and VERY fluffy (also itchy depending)

there is a big trend right now (2023) for knitting loose jumpers out of thin light-weight mohair on huge needles. i think that's quite cute.

easily combined with another fibre to make something more dense but with extra fluff.

hard to wash (cold handwash usually and shouldn't go in the drier)

acrylic (or other plastic fibre):

this shit will not burn it will MELT

acrylic does not last (but it will stick around in landfill for years!). it can be itchy. it is not breathable so you will feel sweaty in a big jumper or socks made of the stuff.

because it is not breathable (does not really wick away moisture) it can also be stinky, so making something out of this stuff for an area that gathers sweat may not be ideal

my mum calls this stuff horrible plastic rubbish and ykw i agree but it has its place because it is CHEAP and DRIES.

i use it for waste yarn when i machine knit

does wash easily tho

dries very quickly

ideal for things that are going to get wet, like hiking socks and swimwear

#machine knitting #knitting #hand knitted #resources

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bafigep172 · 1 year

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Bamboo Yarn: The Sustainable and Versatile Choice for Your Next Knitting Project

Bamboo yarn is a natural and eco-friendly fiber that is rapidly gaining popularity in the knitting world. This yarn is made from the pulp of bamboo grass and has a soft, silky texture that is perfect for creating luxurious and comfortable garments. In this article, we will explore the benefits of bamboo yarn and why it is an excellent choice for your next knitting project. To know more information about what is bamboo yarn good for

Sustainability

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Softness and Comfort

Bamboo yarn has a soft, silky texture that is gentle on the skin, making it an excellent choice for creating garments such as baby clothes, scarves, and shawls. The yarn is also lightweight and breathable, making it perfect for warm-weather garments like tank tops and summer dresses. Additionally, bamboo yarn has a natural sheen that gives finished products a luxurious look and feel.

Durability

Despite its softness, bamboo yarn is surprisingly durable and can withstand multiple washes without losing its shape or texture. This means that garments made from bamboo yarn can last for many years with proper care, making it a great investment for knitters who want to create long-lasting pieces.

Versatility

Bamboo yarn is incredibly versatile and can be used for a variety of knitting projects. Its softness and drape make it perfect for creating delicate lacework or intricate cable patterns, while its durability and lightweight nature make it a great choice for larger, more substantial projects like sweaters and blankets.

In conclusion, bamboo yarn is an excellent choice for knitters who want to create sustainable, comfortable, and versatile garments. Its softness, durability, and natural sheen make it a popular choice for a wide range of projects, from delicate lacework to cozy blankets. Whether you're a seasoned knitter or just starting, bamboo yarn is definitely worth considering for your next project.

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embrassemoi · 3 years

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Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 33

Pairings: Sirius B, F!Reader, Remus L Warnings: Swearing, unhealthy defence mechanisms

【 Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Playlist 】

Chapter 33: Betray The Moon as Acolyte

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

September 8th, 1976

Remus peered up to the night sky, resplendent with a coruscating kaleidoscope of stars and the full moon. He yawned, acutely aware of his bones shifting, aching and cracking. Resting on a small cot pressed against the wall in the corner of the shrieking shack, Remus felt his temperature rise and skin stretch too thinly across his body.

“I’ll be back once the sun rises, dearie,” Madam Pomfrey called out, the door millimetres from locking shut.

“Wait,” he said and Madam Pomfrey re-opened the door with a warm, motherly smile.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For always helping, I know it can be… tiresome.”

How long has it been? That Pomfrey had been helping him out, every full moon — had known of his affliction and been there to assist? It was years now, countless hours of her time wasted on him.

Was he that much of a burden? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, that made his face pucker and heart lacerate itself in fresh wounds.

“Don’t concern yourself with me, honey.” Then the door clicked shut and he heard her utter a spell; to confine the beast within the four walls.

The tormenting plague increased every minute as the countdown to his transformation loomed. His heart thudded stridently and his breathing was ragged and strained. His teeth grinded against each other and his tongue swept across them, feeling them elongate and reshape in preparation.

Remus grabbed the hem of his jumper, exasperated by the overwhelming heat and because he didn’t want to shred it in the process. As he slipped out, feeling the adored red fabric, tattered with holes and frayed yarn in his hands, the door opened and he could already smell Peter and James. Subconsciously, he shielded his body from them, to avoid them from seeing all of his scars.

Remus became dizzy instantly. James wore a particularly strong perfume that day.

More than anything, over the pain and hint of repugnance, he was nervous. It would be the first full moon since… the prank that the Marauders would be together for his transformations. Or all the Marauders aside from one and nobody wanted to address it.

A sharp pain thundered through his skull and he knew time was slipping from him. Remus couldn’t recall the last time the moments before his transformation were that painful.

“You okay, Moons?” Wormtail asked, dropping down beside him. Prongs followed in suit, taking his sweater and folding it neatly.

“I’m fine — umph —”

“Shit! Prongs, get back and turn. Now!”

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

After a week of lessons, there were considerable adjustments to the curriculum. Everyone noticed and it quickly dispersed a sombre milieu on all of Hogwarts.

Classes were smaller, many parents deciding to transfer their children to other magical schools around the world. Y/N even received a few worried letters from Matthew that there was an abundance of new British students attending Ilvermorny.

In his worried letters, Matthew informed her that the MACUSA and French Ministry of Magic had been stepping in, fighting forces against the wizarding war. It was all news to her. Ever since James’ parents cancelled their subscription to the Daily Prophet after their beliefs that they were biased, she hadn’t been able to catch up.

More defence and attack spells were taught and everyone became well aware of why someone of Professor Elway’s reputation and skill was there. The same went for the Duelling re-opening and even Flitwick initiated small tutorial sessions for students of all grades to teach them defensive spells.

Defence Against the Dark Arts became nothing more than a Muggle military camp. Elway drilled the students; attack and defence spell after the other, never stopping for a second. Transfigurations focused more on concealment and vanishing charm and every day McGonagall looked as if she aged a decade by the solemn, haunted look that nowadays was permanently carved into her.

Herbology went over a vast majority of life-saving plants, herbs and how to make their own medicine. And Potions heavily focused on identifying spiked potions with poisons and how to create reversal serums in case of emergencies.

The students of Hogwarts weren’t brainless. They knew they were training them for war.

She tried to ignore it, but if anything Y/N felt foolish. The magical world was meant to be an escape, not a guardhouse.

It didn’t help that the murders from the summer played heavily in her mind along with the rumours of Voldemort recruiting students from Hogwarts, prompting a spike of distrust to spread rampantly. It wasn’t time to fight or lose people but to keep those you trusted and loved close. So Lily keeping her distance had her worried.

Sorted into the same dorm as last year, she reckoned she would have some time with Lily but every day it seemed like she was busy with prefect duties, or had homework, or reading, or a new study group she needed to rush off to. She and Lily hadn’t resumed their usual nightly routines either, hadn’t sat with her in the Great Hall since the welcome back feast and hadn’t said more than a word to her.

It was evident that Lily was avoiding her and only her.

Maybe Y/N had gotten clingy, got too close too hastily because it felt too similar to how her mother treated her. It caused the imminent, spine-chilling feeling of wanting to push everyone away.

Extreme distress was starting to pile up.

Luckily, James stayed a constant consistency in her life and a lot of her pent-up fears dissipated by his presence. He never ignored her, if anything he went out of his way to be nearer. Even Peter and most notably, Remus, had become part of her daily life more than ever.

It was terrifying and everything told her to run. Don’t get too close, don’t get too comfortable. But it was hard not to.

That morning, James crept up to her dorm, knocking softly as she popped out, ready for the day. He looked exhausted; his eye bags were prominent, darkened and cradled in his arm, he held Remus’ rabbit.

“To keep him company,” James explained, yawning while escorting her down the staircase, passing the rabbit over. “It was a rough night.”

It would be the first time they would try to incorporate Y/N into replacing Black and balance out James’ other priorities with Remus’ moon cycles. And unable to reschedule Quidditch try-outs to another morning and James forced to leave prematurely, she would have to step in.

But her fears skyrocketed. Were they pushing it? She was only visiting him… It wasn’t out of pity and she genuinely wanted to be there to support Remus.

“What if he doesn’t want visitors?”

James rolled his eyes. “It will be fine. He’ll appreciate it more than he’ll let on.”

But then a faint floral and citrus smell flowed through the distilled air as she took a deep breath.

“James, you smell really good... Are you wearing perfume?”

His frown transformed into a prideful simper. “Bought the same perfume as my mum. Helps when I miss her.”

She gasped. “A mama’s boy!” And then pinched his cheek.

About to step out of the portrait, James must’ve accidentally activated a prank because the moment his hand brushed against the portrait, four Muggle stereos floated above his head, blasting break-up songs on the highest volume. It rattled the walls and made their ears bleed.

“Fucking hell!” James shouted, his wand swishing around to stop the music while Y/N stuffed Remus’ rabbit inside her bag and bewitched a silencing spell around it.

“Students are sleeping!” Lily shrieked, rushing down the stairs and charmed away the stereos.

“Oi! You think we don’t know?” James retorted, a hand clutching his ear. “Emmeline…”

“Emmeline?” Lily repeated, shaking her head. “May Merlin himself save the poor girl daft enough to end up with you.”

The only enlightened that took away from the war and recent murders was Emmeline and her friends pranking and wreaking havoc like the Marauders onto James as a punishment.

He deserved it and even James agreed.

“Where are you two headed?” Lily inquired and for the first time since the train ride, she addressed Y/N head-on.

A glimmer of hope.

“Aw, finally starting to care about me, Evans?” James joked although it’s laced with uncertainty.

Y/N cut off Lily before she had the chance to speak, eager to answer her question. “It’s Remus.”

Recognition filtered through her, gaze shooting up to the large grandfather clock beside the bookshelves. Lily’s head bobbed repeatedly, pressing her lips together sympathetically. She considered James for a moment.

“Will you be back in time for lessons?” Lily then whipped her hands around. “Y’know what, forget it. I’ll take notes for… both of you.”

Y/N felt James nudge her foot, simultaneously forcing out a cough. His hand went to scratch behind his neck. “R-right. Erm, I — we appreciate it, Evans, but ugh — we have a free period this morning.”

Lily’s jaw dropped. “Oh. Sorry.”

“NO!” James said a little too loud. “I mean, no. It’s fine. Thank you.”

Y/N pursed her lips, her neck bending as her shoulders tensed while watching their interaction play out. “Alrighty, we should go. Thank you, Petals.” She interjected. Her hands spun James around as they walked out of the common room and to the hospital wing.

Both students groaned out loudly. Black was there, sitting on the ground and back pressed against the wall to the wing.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” James challenged. His feet pivoted to Black, before her hands pressed against his chest, preventing him from touching Black and starting yet another fight. “Leave it.”

His eyes flickered from her to Black. Sighing, he made a slight rearward movement and removed his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Just don’t follow us.”

They walked inside without sparing him another glance.

“Here comes the fucking sun, Moons!” James chirped, his mood altering drastically. But she staggered behind a beat.

Remus was already awake, quietly chatting to Peter. His bed curtains were half drawn and she took his rabbit from her bag, pulling it close to her chest.

His head snapped in their direction, but instead of his eyes landing on James, it went squarely to her. She smiled, eyes analyzing every ripple of expression. He didn’t seem angry. No, not at all, but stunned.

Once James realized she wasn’t by his side anymore, he turned and looped an arm over her shoulder. He whispered, “Moony won’t bite. It’s okay.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Remus finally said, smiling.

“Of course I’d come.” Confidence now circulated her body as she approached him, handing over his rabbit. James was delighted at his response while the rabbit nuzzled its way into the crook of Remus’ neck, tickling him. She murmured into his ear, not wanting to peer pressure him by others' wants, “You don’t mind me being here, do you? I’ll leave, no hurt feelings.”

Remus shook his head, petting his rabbit. “No, please stay.” He croaked, voice deep and tired.

“Oi!” James said, albeit quietly.

“Flirt somewhere else,” Peter added with false annoyance.

James nodded. “So, little Moony —”

“Little Moony?” Remus groaned. “What?”

“Aw,” she teased, “Is moody Moony making an appearance?”

“Did you come just to make fun of me?”

But then Peter grinned cheekily, moving to softly slap his hand down on his thigh in the same tempo as Here Comes the Sun. Y/N and James immediately caught on, ready to chagrin while Remus shook his hands in front of his face to get them to stop.

“Don’t you —“

“Here comes the sun, moody Moony —“ “Crikey.”

“Here comes the sun, and we say it’s alright!” They sang, keeping their voices to a minimum to not worsen his potential headache. They had to hold back their laughter as Peter began to replicate the horrible instrumental with his voice. James sang the loudest. “Little Moony, it’s been a long cold moon cycle.”

Madam Pomfrey poked her head from her office, ready to tell the visitors to be quieter than a mouse — or kick them out in favour of Remus’ rest but she froze. Remus was poorly attempting to cover his smile, his cheeks burning a bright red and she hadn’t seen him that happy after full moons. And after what happened last year, his happiness was all she wanted. So she sat back down, smiling to herself at the horrid sing.

“Little Moony, the smiles returning to the faces —”

“Guys!”

“Little Moony, it feels like years since it’s been here.”

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

James eventually left, rushing to tryouts with Marlene with a great deal of apprehension. When the bell rang, students rushing down for breakfast, both Y/N and Peter departed momentarily to the Great Hall, grabbing a few snacks and tea Remus requested.

But the moment Peter stepped foot outside the hospital wing, it was as if any sort of energy left his body. He became sluggish, moving slowly and yawned multiple times.

“Pete, go back to him, I’ll get everything,” she implored. “Or get some rest. I can’t imagine staying up all night can be good.”

“It’s —” A yawn. “— Sorry. I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t push. They made their way around fast and exited quickly before a group of seventh and sixth years swarmed Peter. A few even greeted her, attempting to strike a conversation.

Peter sent her a dejected look, passing her the rest of the snacks and teacup.

“I’ll meet you there.”

She rushed back in record time. Black was still sitting outside the wing and she could faintly hear him muttering her name but she disregarded him wholly.

But the sight inside the hospital made her heart shatter.

Remus was haggard, dishevelled and face screwed together in pain. He tried to push himself up multiple times to reach behind his head, to his pillow. But it was futile.

The crinkling of the wrapper in her hand made her wince; it became the loudest object in the world at that moment. It forewarned Remus and she gently padded over. She sat down gently on the edge of his bed, setting down everything on the metal tray.

“Don’t push yourself — here, let me.” Remus visibly reclined into himself, covering his scarred arms with the blanket coiled by his side. But he listened without complaints as she reached behind his head, fluffing his pillow and helped him lay back down gently. “Not feeling too good?”

“Like shit.”

It became awkward fast.

“Um… Peter’s coming. Was held up with a couple of seventh years.” “You can leave if you don’t want to be here,” Remus blurted out, “I won't force you —”

“Woah there!” She felt as if she was slapped by him. The sudden change had her wheeling. “Who said you’re forcing me? You’re my Moony, no?”

He breathed out a chuckle and shifted towards her. She glanced at the tray with a few potions. What he said stuck to her.

“Do you mind if you can pour those into my tea? Thanks.” Remus croaked.

She nodded, unscrewed the cork to the vials and mixed it into the drink. The clinking sound of the spoon tapping against the porcelain cup.

“What is this?”

“Um… a mixture of powder silver and Nightshade,” grumbled Remus, trying to push himself up as she handed him the cup. “Helps with the pain and fogginess.”

Her mind was restless. “Can I ask some questions?”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Questions?”

“Y’know, about being a werewolf.”

He took a giant gulp. “Did you just skip all the Werewolf questions on the OWLs?” Remus laughed.

“I bet half of it’s false.” She admitted truthfully. “Besides, how am I supposed to help next time if I don’t know?”

Remus stayed quiet for a long time after she said that and she wondered if she pushed a boundary. But then he nodded, urging her to continue.

“Okay… so silver doesn’t hurt you, right?” She watched as Remus sip his tea before having to put it down to laugh.

“Myth.”

“So all the silver bullet stuff..?”

He gave a full-body laugh. “Myth. Sorry, not what you were expecting?”

“No,” she admitted after a bit, embarrassed. All those children's stories were false…

“Silver can’t hurt me, I don’t grow hair rapidly. I like eating rare meat; I have trouble sleeping, I don’t have curved fingernails or low-set ears. I can’t run super fast but I can see better in the dark, can hear, smell and am stronger than the average Muggle or Wizard.”

“Can you always smell or hear better? Or does it increase near the full moon?”

“It becomes stronger near the full moon and after for a while.”

“Wait… Does that mean you can smell people. Like me?!” She was appalled and crossed her arms over herself as if the action would suddenly cover any scent.

Remus barked out laughing before wincing as a dull pain shocked through his system. “You smell fine. Don’t worry.”

Her hands found their way to cover her mouth. She was mortified. “You have a way with words, Lupin.”

Remus was on the verge of tears, nearly choking on himself to prevent laughing. He endured the deep bruise on the side of his ribs digging into him but he couldn’t stop.

She slapped his arm playfully and took the now empty teacup from his hand, setting it down on the metal tray and ushered him to slide over in his bed. He doesn’t hesitate.

Y/N slid beside him, and she could feel the fluctuating rise and fall of Remus’ chest as his chuckles came to a slow halt. She took the rabbit from his lap, holding it in her arms carefully.

“Does she have a name?” She questioned, scratching behind its floppy ears. Remus chose the least threatening rabbit.

“No.”

“We should think of one then.”

Remus watched her, listening to the words pouring out. But then he cringed inwardly, reminded of his cruelty to her a couple of months ago. He wasn’t expecting her to visit and it came as a pleasant surprise. It made his heart flutter. She wasn’t scared. She hadn’t been lying that night. He was accepted.

He tuned in to her heartbeat: steady and calm. Slow.

Her words echoed in his head. I feel safe with you.

Safe.

Remus felt a whisper of a smile worm it's way onto him. As soon the realization came, the dull ache in his body subdued, the burning in his throat faded and the hollow ache in his heart filled with a golden glow. Just a bit.

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

September 10th, 1976

“I’m sorry,” Black said, his eyes wide and pleading as he sat beside her in the Great Hall. She ignored him.

“I need to explain, please,” Black begged in a hushed voice while she searched the library’s premises for Regulus. She ignored him yet again.

“Tesoro mio,” Black flirted, both sitting in the common room as she added notes in the werewolf section in her textbook. His new tactic caught her off guard but she prevailed, getting up and leaving.

“Talk to me,” Black whined. “Please.” She ignored him, continuing to walk to class calmly and held her head high. She just left the hospital wing and Black was trailing her.

But he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a nearby broom closet and closed the door.

“Get off of me!” She nearly screamed. Thankfully, he was smart enough to keep a healthy distance away. She kept her hands balled into a fist, preventing herself from taking one of the dust brooms and smashing it on his head.

“Sorry! But you won’t talk to me any other way!”

Darkness enclosed them, only the light seeping through the cracks of the old wooden door illuminated Black as every ounce of restrengthen was pushed to the edge.

A flurry of apologies fell from his lips but she wouldn’t have it. Simply looking bored at her nails and tapping her foot against the ground.

“I know you’re mad — you have every right to be! I get that, I understand.”

“Then leave me alone?” She jeered sarcastically, handing grazing the doorknob.

“Wait! Please, just hear me out — let me explain —”

“Explain what?” She lashed out through gritted teeth. “You should count your stars that you don’t have an attempted murder charge.”

Her heart thumped rather fast and would have been distressing had she not been controlled by anger. Everything was overshadowed by a grim penumbra sweeping over them, closing in on her and Black and it wasn’t because of the lack of light in the dingy closet.

She was revolted by him. Sick of seeing his sad face, moping around the hospital wing or looking at her or the other Marauders in yearning.

“Do you think I’ll care about what you want to say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology not accepted, dipshit.”

His head bowed. “I deserved that.” “You think?”

“It’s just that —”

Her temper spiked to the highest level and her hand drifted to her back pocket and grazed the tip of her wand.

“I —”

Something in her snap. “Shut up. Shut up! Stop trying to defend yourself! Stop it! I don’t want to hear it!”

Black was visibly shutting down. “Please, just calm down…”

And then everything poured out.

“Calm down? Calm down?! I gave — I put my trust in you and you immediately ran with it, breaking it twice and then broke everyone else’s! How am I supposed to talk to you like everything’s okay? I get that you don’t like me, that you don’t like Snape, but really? What do you not understand?!”

He was nodding his head, taking it, never once trying to defend himself. His head hung similar to a child being scolded, hands curled around himself.

“You must have never cared for them.”

Black went oddly still. “That's a bold lie and you know that.”

“Do I?” She ridiculed. “Do you want to know the funny part? I was starting to care for you. Apparently, you never did.”

“That’s not true.”

There, a flicker of rage. Finally a reaction other than pathetic regret and guilt. Something cold crept into his eyes, hardening and entirely stormy and silver, reminding her of last year where they constantly fought. But then, it was washed away with a blink.

“I was nothing but a toy to you!”

“Y/N...”

“You. Never. Cared. About —”

“Stop it! Of course I —”

“— Me. Or. The. Other —”

“— fucking cared —”

“— Marauders —” “ — about you!”

Her eyes stung with bitter unshed, frustrated tears and her throat burned, constricting together. Emotions she hadn’t taken a moment to consider hit her within seconds and everything was too overwhelming.

The material of her shirt suddenly turned itchy. Her skin was too tight and she felt herself rock back and forth in a way to calm down.

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer as it fell silent but she struck a nerve.

“Stop saying that!” He shouted. Now not breaking her stare and took a step forward.

“You’re fucking selfish. You betrayed them.” A step forward.

“You only cared about yourself.” Black shook his head. Another step forward.

“If you ever cared about me — about anyone else you’ve hurt — you wouldn’t have done… that.” A step forward.

They were the closest they had been in months. Their breaths were laboured and ragged. Being that close to him raised all the hairs on her neck in a way she used to love but now hated herself for.

The very notion made her nauseous. Disgusted.

She missed him. Truly. It was such a profound hurt and longing that ran deeper than wanting a quick snog or shag. But that was her problem that she was going to have to hide, bury in an air-sealed chest and throw away.

He opened his mouth and he leant forward inappreciably. But whatever words he was about to spew, he stopped himself. She could feel his breath fan her face, both of their chest raised and fell rapidly.

They stayed like that for a while and she held back from crying, feeling her heart pound in her chest.

“Is there anything else you want to say?” He asked dejectedly.

Why did you have to be so stupid? We could’ve… you could’ve had everything.

Do you miss me?

Did you ever care, even a little?

“This time,” her voice was no louder than a rustle, “I mean it. I hate you. Truly.”

Lie.

Black gave her one last glance through heavy, desolate, half-lidded eyes, closing them shut. “Ti voglio bene.”

Her frown doubled, wondering if he mocked her. Why did he always do that?

“At least you’re consistent in one thing.”

She slipped out, her hand on the door and cracked it open, leaving him there.

“Being a fucking liar.”

She slammed the door shut with so much violence that it made a couple of bystanders passing by yelp and stare. The shattering of glass from within the closet echoed and it made her breathless.

She had to lean against the stone wall, her body buzzing and numb from the adrenaline.

Sometimes everything in her life seemed so… random. What if everything could have been avoided? One simple word, maybe if she said something different, or did something different, would the outcome have been better? Or worse?

What if she had two parents? What if she had been raised by a loving mother? Would she have been that hurt by his actions if opening up was less… impossible?

What ifs…

She stumbled her way to class mindlessly, horribly late. The floorboards creaked, cutting Slughorn off while she lurked in the doorway. The teacher’s head, along with everyone else in the room, snapped up.

Lily looked at her worriedly and concern was written in every inch of her face. James had a double-take and became alarmed while Marlene on the other side of the class looked around nervously.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries, m’girl!” Slughorn smiled. “Please, take the seat next to… Severus! Now, I was saying, I have a small tradition I’d like to do every year with my students.”

Y/N didn’t even interject; too drained after what happened and sat by Snape.

“Can anyone tell me what this is?” The professor held up a tiny bottle. “Or can anyone tell me what Felix Felicis is?”

Lily raised her hand, casting a concerned gaze to her before answering. From the corner of her eye, she could see Barty and Avery, along with a few other students whispering to each other as Lily spoke; all of them forcing down a smile. Y/N vaguely sensed herself prickle.

“It’s known as Liquid Luck. As the name suggests, it makes the drinker lucky.”

“Beautiful answer! Quite right! Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, whoever brews the Draught of Living Death the closest will win this prize at the end of this lesson. Off you go!”

The class was scurrying off quickly while she made her way around leisurely. Snape’s sopophorous bean had been hitting her multiple times.

“Would you fucking —” she grabbed the bean with her hands and threw it at Snape and he hissed at. “Just take your knife blade and squeeze it down on the side with your dagger.”

Snape scoffed. “That’s not going to work you d —”

Snape shut up immediately as she crushed the bean with a sharp knife and flicked the juice into the cauldron.

“Now stop hitting me or I’ll pour your potion on the ground.”

Snape’s attention wasn’t on her, instead of trying to decipher her scribbles before taking her book away from his eyesight. She hit him with her book.

She completed the rest of the potion with ease. Snape was nearly done with his potion, she could tell he was on the right path before Slughorn sauntered around the classroom to observe the students. At James’ cauldron, he made no comment but instead helped stir his potion. Lily was given an approving nod, announcing to the class that she earned Gryffindor a few house points until making his way over to their table, peering into the cauldrons. At Snape’s concoction, he gave a bright smile and opened his mouth until he saw hers and a look of pure delight spread over him, his hands clapping together.

“Oho! Excellent! Miss L/N has done it! We have our winner!”

A small round of claps went around meanwhile James and Marlene cheered loudly, effectively embarrassing her.

“Show off,” Snape sneered. She ignored him.

Once the bell rang, Slughorn called her over to collect her vial of Liquid Luck. She slipped the bottle into her pocket for safekeeping.

But before she left, she stopped and spun around. “Professor Slughorn?”

“Yes?”

“I read in my Advanced Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, but I found that there’s no Potion to help Werewolves. I was wondering if that’s still true? I know books can be outdated.”

Slughorn gave her a pensive look. “I think that’s a matter for Madam Pomfrey. Is there a reason why?”

“It’s just —” She made up a lie quickly. “I’m nervous about NEWTs and how I’ll do in my studies and it’s merely an interest.”

“Oh, my girl! You are excellent. By far one of the best students I’ve ever had. You don’t need to worry!” Slughorn cheered. Slughorn seemed genuine and she smiled at the praise. “And for your question, no. Sadly there isn’t.”

“At all?”

Slughorn thought for a while. “If I recall, there have been recent developments with stewed Mandrakes. It’s rumoured to help lycanthrope individuals ease their way back into the original human state.”

Y/N stored the newfound information in her head. She thanked him, turning to leave until calling out again. Slughorn twirled his head.

“I was wondering if I could practice more — like I said, I‘m nervous about my NEWTs.”

There wasn’t even a delay and Slughorn beamed. “Of course! As long as you clean up after yourself, you may come and go as you please. I’ll make sure to leave the doors open until curfew.

“Oh! I’m planning to host another Slugclub dinner soon, I expect you to be there?”

“... Of course, sir.”

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

【 Next Chapter 】

Translations:

Tesoro mio = My treasure or 'honey'

Ti voglio bene = 'I love you' but its not like what you think. It's more of an unconditional and selfless love that means 'I want you to be well.' It places an emphasis on the tender and affectionate feelings you have for the other person. It's the safer option to say to your significant other if it's a very new relationship.

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

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swashbucklery · 3 years

Text

Textile Nerd Book Recs

Because @zaritarazi and I were chatting about it and I thought maybe the rest of you nerds would be interested in this too!

Context: when I’m not doing my IRL Grownup Job or fandom I’m a huge textile nerd, I do tons of fiber arts but mainly knitting/spinning/adjacent wool processing as well as garment sewing and quilting. (I’d also like to be a weaver but the pandemic keeps getting in the way of that, alas.) I don’t do textile work professionally and I will not sell my art/mend your jeans/knit your uncle’s cousin a sweater but I have been doing this as a craft practice for many years and know a lot of things. I’m also a Huge Fucking Nerd and love reading about textiles on the side.

These recs are not skill-based or how-to books; these are Interesting Nonfiction Reads if you want to geek out about textiles. but not if you want to skillbuild per se. They can be an excellent compliment to skillbuilding work, as understanding context and history can often enrich your skilled knowledge and practice.

Books I’ve Read

Vanishing Fleece: Adventures in American Wool by Clara Parkes: Sort of about sheep but kind of really about the complexities of wool processing from sheep to yarn and the ways that outsourcing of textile processing have affected the ability to make and use American-made wool. Parkes does a really lovely job of getting to know local small-batch producers, explaining the steps of wool processing from start to end in a super accessible way, and explaining both the value of and challenges to creating local wool for the garment-production and handknitting consumer.

Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion by Elizabeth Cline: So this book is from 2012, and it feels dated now but this is like. The book that launched a thousand other books about fast fashion so it’s worth reading. It’s a very good deep dive into the questions: how can this shirt cost $2? and should this shirt cost $2? and goes through the granular and broader factors that lead to the $2 t-shirt and why it’s damaging both from an ethical and ecological perspective. If you’re Extremely Online you’ve probably absorbed a lot of the takes from this book via the internet but it’s a thorough and cogent overview and a great jumping-off point to start thinking more about fashion sustainability and how complex a thing it is to tackle.

How To Be a Victorian by Ruth Goodman: Only tangentially about textiles but also very much about textiles, Ruth Goodman specializes in history of domestic life which often means that things like underpants and how laundry got done are much more important than you think. She’s a truly stellar historical fiction writer and if you’re into historical costuming at all this is a great place to dive into.

Books I’m Currently Reading

A Perfect Red by Amy Butler Greenfield: Ok I’m about halfway into this so far and if you have any interest at all in textile dyeing and fashion history is this the book for you. An absolutely riveting history of cochineal, which is an insect-derived red pigment traditionally from Central and South America. It goes through traditional plant-based dyeing as an industry, and does a beautiful job of contextualizing why red dye was so important, and how this dyestuff shaped the colonial history of Spain and the rest of Europe, it’s wild.

Mrs Pankhurst’s Purple Feather: A Scandalous History of Birds, Hats, & Votes by Tessa Boase: This is again sort of fashion-adjacent but I’m about a third of the way in and it’s great. Ostensibly a history of politically active women in turn-of-the-century London, and it parallels Emmeline Pankhurst’s journey with Etta Lemon, a prominent socially conservative activist who was equally instrumental historically - her work was in setting up the idea of bird conservation. This is related to fashion because this was during the peak of the whole-dead-stuffed-birds-in-hats craze, and the little history of millinery tidbits as they relate to feathers are truly fascinating.

#someday all of the weird niche interests i have will be very useful #and i will be unstoppable #until then #have some textile facts #fibre arts are the best arts #books i like books

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mu-mumie · 3 years

Text

An assortment of photographs of Tim-Burton-esque sketches, created during an unknown time in 2020, mainly on the subject of Season 5 of The Magnus Archives. Photograph description ensues:

Photograph #1: On the first photograph, the beholder may see a watercolour and ink painting of the Archivist - a thin, gangly man dressed in brown trousers and a light brown shirt. He's clutching the strap of his bag in one hand, the other hand is holding a small casette. There is a denim jacket on his shoulders and rectangular glasses perched on his nose. His eyes dominate his gaunt, unshaven face. They are very large, circular, blodshot and expressing something between uncertainity, bone-deep tiredness and great fear. There are fog-like wisps curling around his feet and extending into the sides and a number of mishapen eyebulbs floating symmetrically around and behind his head and shoulders knees and toes knees and toes head and shoulders knees and toes knees and toes and eyes-

Photograph #2: This digital photo shows a black and white sketch of a cat sitting in an armchair. The cat is alert, looking at the beholder with a strange look, perhaps guessing at their easiest-exploitable weaknesses. It is a scrawny tomcat with uneven whiskers that stick out like wires, curling at the ends. Its fur is light with irregular patches of dark hairs and it's got a long, thin tail with a mop of fluffy hairs at the end. Underneath its armchair, there is "The Admiral" in a calligraphic inscription. In the upper left corner, the beholder can see a half of a dog's face. It is a very mean-looking dog with a thin smile, large eyes and a funky little palm of hairs secured with a bow on the top of its head.

Photograph #3: There is a black and white oval sketch of a landscape on this photograph. Its main attraction is a thin, metal tower strething into the sky. The pattern of its crossbars reminds the beholder of simplified eyes. It is stretching from the top of a hill. The hill is, in fact, a large eyebulb with its bulging iris and pupil functioning as the tower's foundations. There are more hills in the background, all grotesque-looking eyes staring into the sky with their whites full of exhausted, rupturing veins and their pupils not made of the absence of an iris but rather bulging out like lakes overflowing with thick, black, oozing liquid. The sky consists of realistically drawn human eyes, each looking in a different direction, some anxious, some engry, some suspicious and some terrified. They all have eyelids which connect them and bind them into the same eyeful of sky. The sketch is framed in a thick, black oval.

Photograph #4: This photo shows a pair of figures holding hands. The figure on the left is the Archivist, in all his casette-and-messy-hair glory. He is a thin man wearing jeans, a green jacket and a grey t-shirt. There is a casette in his right hand with its tape spilling out in black, elegant loops. On his nose, there are thick, round tortoise shell glasses. He is smiling softly at the figure that can be held next to him, a sweter-wrapped man with soft, blond hair. at the beholder. Holding his hand is Martin who is depicted from the waist down as a spider, with his eight thin feet planted securely next to the Archivist's. From the waist up, he is human. (That is, if the creator's notes can be trusted, becuase of the lack of planning in the creative process. His legs could have been normal but then they would simply be too long to convincingly look human.) Martin is wearing a warm sweater in blue, pink and yellow pastel colours. His hair is swept up in a gentle breeze sweeping it into soft curls. His left arm, together with the sweater, is dissolving as though someone in unraveling its yarn.

Additional visual material:

A sketch of one Elias Bouchard, titled "The Watcher" and published at an earlier date and similar in nature to the material presented here.

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sweatermakers · 25 days

Text

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no6secretsanta · 3 years

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Hap-paca Holidays Hachiko-101!

Happy holidays @hachiko-101, this is your No.6 Secret Santa, @origami10 ! I realized that writing fluff isn’t my strong point, but hopefully all the fluff on the alpacas makes up for it! I hope you enjoy the art and the fic :D

The Fluffiest Gift

“Nezumi?” said Shion.

“Hm?” Nezumi looked up from reading the newspaper.

“What if we started an alpaca farm?”

The light in Nezumi’s eyes faded, and Shion could almost see his soul ascending from the amount of stupidity he was forced to put up with.

“No, hear me out! Alpaca wool is known for being soft and high quality. You can only shear them once a year, but they don’t take up much land or food, and their manure is supposed to be amazing for helping plants grow. They’re good guards for other livestock, plus they’re easy to be around for children, and we could keep them without you having to change your work schedule. All we’d need for them is a little space, I’m sure we’d have enough here.” He was doing that puppy-dog thing where his face lit up, and Nezumi had to freeze the edges of his heart to keep it from melting.

“And there’s just the slight matter of, where the heck do you think we’re going to find alpacas? Tch.” Nezumi looked back to his newspaper.

“Well....” Shion, too, looked back down, but couldn’t quite keep his focus on the book he was reading. He muttered quietly to himself. “Somewhere. They live in this climate, so there must be some somewhere.”

———

“Nezumi, do you have a hammer?” Shion had burst out of the door as Nezumi returned home from running errands. Nezumi had intended not to make any sound, but this airhead somehow knew right when to ambush him. He noticed the pile of branches and loops of twine off to the side of the path, and said,

“Why...?”

“No reason.”

“Shion, there is no way these branches are going to be strong enough to make a fence that will keep in an alpaca.”

Shion shuffled to the side in an apparent attempt to belatedly keep Nezumi from seeing his fencing materials. “Who said anything about alpacas?”

“Tch.” Nezumi brushed past, heading towards the house. “You did, last week.” He opened the door and paused, then beckoned for Shion to follow. “I’ll show you where the hammer is, but don’t put those puny sticks in the ground. And don’t you dare think of scouring the dump until I can come with you.”

———

Three days later, there was a respectable-looking corral just outside the door, complete with waxed-rope fencing strung between rusty but sturdy metal struts. They had even been able to find some jagged and dirty pieces of corrugated aluminum, which cleaned up well enough to make a small roofed shed in the corner. Nezumi had tested the wind to make sure the opening faced away to help keep out the weather.

“I still don’t know what you think you’re going to keep here.” Nezumi deadpanned.

———

Surprisingly, it was only a week and a half later, when the ground was beginning to thaw, that Nezumi looked down on their home and saw Shion leading an alpaca down the path. Rikiga was right behind him leading a second alpaca, and he held both leads as Shion rolled open the makeshift gate before leading the fuzzy animals, one black and one white, into the corral.

Nezumi quickly ran over to the pen, his slightly ragged breath clouding the chilly air. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the animals in front of him. Up close, they were smaller than he had expected, neither of them reaching past Shion’s shoulder. It was hard not to feel warmed by their long lashes and smiling mouths. Nezumi started to ask the obvious question, but Shion answered before he could get any sound out.

“Mr. Rikiga knew someone, who knew someone else, who brought them here from another city.”

“In exchange for what?!”

“Half a dozen bottles of whiskey from my collection, and season tickets to your shows for the middlemen,” said Rikiga. “You can manage that, right?”

Nezumi gritted his teeth, but couldn’t help but be impressed at the trade, and Shion’s commitment to making it happen.

He approached the long-necked creatures cautiously and was able to lay a hand on the darker one, but it quickly turned and trotted to the opposite corner of its new home.

“They’re like you.” Shion laughed. “It takes them some time to get used to being around someone.”

———

It wasn’t much longer before Cloud and Velvet, as Shion had named the two alpacas against Nezumi’s repeated insistence otherwise, would follow them around the edges of the corral as they came and went to the house, or did chores in the yard. When he wasn’t spending time caring for the alpacas, Shion would hardly stop uttering aloud every fact about animal husbandry he encountered as he dug through Nezumi’s many books. Even Nezumi was spending enough time with them to get a feel for how to approach the two animals and get a friendly welcome. He held their leads as Shion ushered the neighbor kids into the corral for the first time, holding onto them and reassuring them as Shion explained to the children how to act around the animals. Nezumi stroked the soft fur, and imagined the sweaters and mittens it would make the next time it was shorn and spun into yarn.

———

Shion fluffed some alpaca wool from the basket sitting next to him on the bed. All things considered, Shion’s training for the ecology course and the alpaca’s affinity for Nezumi had served them well during the shearing process. “Good thing we only have to do that once a year.” Nezumi flopped down next to him, exhausted from keeping Velvet and Cloud calm as Shion trimmed their wool for the approaching warmer weather.

“I hope I don’t mess this up,” Shion mused. He looked at the drop spindle he had carved to turn the wool into yarn he could try to knit, just like the homemade sweater he had received long ago. “I’d feel bad for Cloud and Velvet if this went to waste.”

“I’m sure they’d forgive you. One look at those adorable faces and big doe eyes and somehow everything seems right with this crappy world.”

“Nezumi! Did you just call them ‘adorable’?!”

Nezumi looked up. “Yeah, yeah, what of it? But no one and nothing is as adorable as you.” A grin slowly spread across his face, and he wrapped one arm around Shion in an embrace, which Shion returned.

———

Shion carried a tray with two steaming hot cocoas in from the kitchen and set it down near where Nezumi was sitting on the couch. “Here you are.” Nezumi accepted the mug, but raised one eyebrow. “Shion, it’s spring. It’s not cold anymore.”

Shion tucked his feet under him and settled into the couch with his own mug. “It’s a special day! We can have hot chocolate to celebrate even if it’s warm.” He reached over the side of the couch to grab a package wrapped up in brown paper. “For you. Since you don’t know when your birthday is.”

Nezumi set down his mug, and carefully pulled the string to open the package. He pulled out one fuzzy white lump, then another, and finally a long, wide span of white fluff.

“They’re mittens and a scarf! Try them on!” Shion set down his own mug and reached over the side of the couch again to grab matching blobs of fluff in the same dark shade as Velvet. By the time he got them on, Nezumi had managed to put on his mittens, but Shion couldn’t wait any longer, and wrapped the scarf around his neck to complete the look. “Grab your hot chocolate and let’s go show Velvet and Cloud!” Shion could hardly refrain from dragging Nezumi out the door.

“This is ridiculous,” Nezumi laughed.

The two of them stood side by side next to the corral, drinking their hot cocoas while Cloud and Velvet tried to nose at the unfamiliar beverages. New buds were sprouting on the plants all around them, waiting to open into flowers. “It’ll be too warm to keep wearing these now,” Shion motioned to the mittens and scarves, “but they should serve us well next winter.” Nezumi nodded and smiled. He leaned into Shion, and ruffled his hair. “I’m lucky I’ll get to spend it with you.” -The End!-

#no6 #no. 6 #no.6 #no 6 #no6secretsanta #fanfiction #nezumi #shion #origami10 #hachiko101 #hachiko-101 #hachiko 101

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familycuisinee · 3 years

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The Art of Shrinking Boiled Wool in Tirol | Family Cuisine

A few years ago my wife inherited a button up 100% Merino Wool sweater from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother. Despite its old age the sweater looked great because 100% wool fabric is very durable and it had been well taken care of. So last month when my wife accidentally mixed it in with a load of laundry washed on hot and it came out half its original size she was pretty upset. She was so embarrassed that she swore she was never going to tell her mother what she did to grandma’s sweater. But when I looked at our 2-year-old daughter I realized this sweater still had a song to sing. Sure enough, the sweater fit her perfectly and since it was mommy’s sweater after all, she was none the happier to wear it - every day. <img src="https://ift.tt/3z93qVz" alt="2-year-old in a shrunken wool sweater" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3k5xwp0" alt="2-year-old girl in a shrunken wool sweater" /> A shrunken wool garment, sometimes mistakenly referred to as “boiled wool” used to be a highly appreciated garment in the United States and in other cold climates. But, as Americans slipped into the ‘cheaper is better’ mentality and let practically all of our textiles be produced overseas, quality fabrics like these were lost. Wool itself has been largely replaced by oil based synthetic fibers like Nylon or polyester, not because they’re better mind you, but because they’re cheaper. Fortunately the art of shrinking wool garments hasn’t been lost entirely. In Austria, where we live and the stores are also full of clothes made in Asia, the art has nevertheless been preserved. And it’s not a surprise since they’ve been doing it here for centuries. The name for these garments is “Walk” (pronounced Valk) and it refers specifically to knitted wool garments shrunk by washing them with warm water. A process in german called, "Walken". Knitted doesn't imply hand knitted but means they are knitted as opposed to woven. The process is a bit more complicated than just chucking them in the wash because the amount a fabric shrinks is quite unpredictable. Even seemingly identical wool fabrics can shrink differently under the same conditions due to differences in diameter and crimp of the wool fibers. After all, wool is a natural fiber and not every sheep grows the same wool as the next one. Here is a fabric before and after shrinking. On the left is before and on the right is after: <img src="https://ift.tt/3hrOWds" alt="knitted wool fabric before being shrunk next to a shrunk knitted wool fabric" /> To learn more about “Walk” I recently visited “Tiroler Strick und Walk” located in you guessed it, Tirol, Austria. Nestled deep in the Alps, Tirol is also considered the home of Loden wool fabric, the brother if you will, of “Walk”. It is also a shrunken wool fabric but different than “Walk” because it is woven, not knitted, which makes it a bit denser and less stretchy. Unlike "Walk", Loden is shrunk with a little soap and hours of agitation or even pounding by wooden hammers which in addition to the warm water forges the fibers together. It’s no wonder Tirol is the home of so many wonderful shrunken wool fabrics when you consider the cold alpine climate and abundance of sheep. Here I am with the CEO of "Tiroler Strick und Walk", Herr Herbert Prösch, followed by a few of their jackets from 2016/17. <img src="https://ift.tt/38Y10yH" alt="Robert W. Stolz with CEO Herbert Prösch" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3noV0ap" alt="boiled wool jacket from Tirol, Austria" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3A0sAqO" alt="shrunken wool jacket from Tirol" /><img src="https://ift.tt/3AbG4QQ" alt="boiled wool sweater from Tirol, Austria" /><img src="https://ift.tt/3A58N9P" alt="gray wool jacket from Tiroler Strick und Walk" /> “Tiroler Strick und Walk” has been perfecting the art of shrinking wool fabrics into garments since 1955, although the tradition dates back to the Middle Ages. They use 100% wool yarn to make warm, durable & stylish jackets perfect for the cold and/or wet Alpine climate. The reason Austrians have been making and wearing “Walk” since the Middle Ages is because it takes all the amazing qualities of wool and compounds them, kind of like wool on steroids. Here is some yarn being drawn off its spools into the knitting machine: <img src="https://ift.tt/3noUVDD" alt="wool yarn on spools being drawn into knitting machine" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/2XbOh8G" alt="knitting machine" /> We already know that from a functional and environmental perspective wool fabrics are second to none. Not only do they regulate your temperature better than synthetic or plant fibers because of their insulating ability, they are also totally green, (organic, renewable & sustainable). Their special insulating ability comes from the crimp in wool fibers and the microscopic scales on the fibers that together create tiny air pockets in the fabric. The crimp is how the fiber zig-zags unlike say Nylon which is straight and smooth. When wool fabric is made into either a “Walk” or a “Loden” the scales hook onto each other and the fibers intertwine because of the crimp. This creates millions of tiny air pockets that amplify the insulating properties of wool, as well as make it even more durable and weatherproof. The scales and crimp are the result of millions of years of nature perfecting a thermal system for the benefit of the sheep of course, but conveniently we can benefit from them too. At “Tiroler Strick und Walk” the tricky business of making a shrunken wool garment starts with 100% virgin wool yarn, and that’s where the trickiness comes from. As mentioned, not all wool yarn reacts the same during the shrinking process and tiny differences in shrinkage can mean a garment is too small or too big. Additionally, Austrians are very particular that a garment fits properly, so there is no tolerance for error. What this means is that for every batch of fabric spun on their knitting machines a sample must be carefully shrunk to see how it responds. Here is a finished jacket with one of its sides before being shrunk held up next to it. Notice how much larger it is! <img src="https://ift.tt/3nqVJb5" alt="man and women holding up a finished shrunk wool jacket and a piece of the jacket before it was shrunk" /> After knitting the fabric to the desired pre-shrunk size, there are two ways to proceed. Let’s say a jacket has six parts that need to be stitched together. Each piece is made at about 30% larger than its future desired size, because that’s about how much it will shrink. The question is, do you shrink the six separate pieces and then stitch them together? Or do you stitch them together and then shrink the whole thing? It’s actually a bit easier to shrink the pieces and then stitch them together because you’ll know before you stitch them if they shrunk correctly, but a jacket stitched together first and then shrunk is more desirable because the individual pieces bond together so it gives the impression of being one solid piece. In fact they practice both methods but there is a premium for those that are shrunk as a complete garment. Needless to say, these jackets are produced in small quantities, like craft beer and every year a new collection is designed and made so if you ever own one, chances are you’ll neverbe caught in the same room with someone else wearing it! The Fall 2017 Robert W. Stolz collection will have a selection of “Tiroler Strick und Walk” jackets specially chosen for wool lovers in the United States. Below are photos from my visit that show some of the steps of making Walk garments. <img src="https://ift.tt/3hp84bY" alt="color pattern samples for different wool fabrics" /> Color palettes for different wool types <img src="https://ift.tt/3yZxbYV" alt="sign that says," /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3tHfe0s" alt="woman holding up a paper with the design of a sweater in front of the actual wool sweater" /> A design of a sweater held up to the final product. Every piece starts with a concept designed on paper. <img src="https://ift.tt/3ll065b" alt="4 assortments of fabric patterns" /> Fabric patterns for some jackets <img src="https://ift.tt/3hptnub" alt="man showing how the computer programed sample turns out in real life after it is knitted" /> This is a sample of a knitted fabric that was made based off of the pattern programmed in the computer behind. A sample of each fabric must be made and checked for mistakes before more is made. <img src="https://ift.tt/3l9J49K" alt="computer program for programming the knitting pattern and sending it to the knitting machine" /> Close up of the fabric pattern as programmed in the computer <img src="https://ift.tt/3k5mfok" alt="a paper cut out of a piece of a pattern for a wool jacket" /> A paper pattern of a piece of a jacket in design phase. <img src="https://ift.tt/3nqy9vq" alt="knitted wool fabric in walking machine with warm water" /> Knitted wool fabric in a 'washing' machine being shrunk. There is actually no soap used so it's not exactly washing it. Either warm or cool water is used but never hotter than 95 degrees Fahrenheit. <img src="https://ift.tt/396F83X" alt="knitted wool fabric after being shrunk in dryer" /> Knitted wool fabric being taken out of the dryer after being shrunk in warm water. <img src="https://ift.tt/3nnT5D0" alt="woman sewing a wool jacket" /><img src="https://ift.tt/3C2F4if" alt="woman" /> Sewing a jacket. Knitting machines . . . <img src="https://ift.tt/38XH0fF" alt="classic knitting machine that was made in Vienna" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3hlpJ4j" alt="knitting machine with threads" /><img src="https://ift.tt/3l9J5KQ" alt="needles of a knitting machine in operation" /> <img src="https://ift.tt/3l9J6hS" alt="knitted blue wool fabric coming out of the bottom of a left left knitting machine" /> Finished fabric coming out of the bottom of a left left knitting machine <img src="https://ift.tt/3k53rWE" alt="finished shrunken wool fabrics on rolls" /> Shrunk fabrics ready to be used for making pillows & blankets. <img src="https://ift.tt/3tA9Ko6" alt="workers on the factory floor of" /> The factory floor with knitting machines in view. <img src="https://ift.tt/3hr6O8l" alt="a wool house slipper for a child on a shelf" /> A child size house slipper, which are also made by "Tiroler Strick und Walk" source https://familycuisine.net/how-to-shrink-boiled-wool/

#familycuisine

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 33: Jon Prime

Martin breathed deeply, tilting his head back slightly and closing his eyes. “It smells like snow.”

“It’s a bit warm for that, fortunately.” Jon’s fingers laced through Martin’s, their palms pressed together. “Lessens the chance of frostbite.”

The Institute was closed until the new year, which meant Jon and Martin would be able to move about the Archives freely during the day, rather than only being able to come out at night, and Jon had spent much of the previous month attempting to remember where the cameras in the Institute proper were located so he could avoid them. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, exactly, since he still hadn’t figured out how to safely dispose of the table, but he supposed he had nine uninterrupted days to figure it out.

For now, however, that was in the future. For now, they walked hand in hand down the streets along the Thames. The typical sounds of a London Saturday evening washed over them, punctuated by bells—the jingle of the bells on the harnesses of the horse-drawn carriages that capitalized on the Dickensian nostalgia, the steady clatter of the bell-ringers who stood on street corners and at shop fronts with their kettles asking for charity, and the gentle tolling of the steeple bells calling the faithful to Christmas Eve services. The sky was overcast, which meant their walk was lit only by street lamps rather than stars or the moon, but that was all right by Jon; there was enough light for him to see by, and he’d never been much of a stargazer. The air smelled crisp and cold—as Martin had said, it smelled of snow, but the air was too warm—and Jon could almost fool himself into thinking he smelled pine and cinnamon.

“I never asked you if you had any Christmas traditions,” he said. “I mean, not that there was ever much opportunity. That first Christmas we were all working in the Archives, I was still trying to be distant and acting like I hated you. The second year I was paranoid and obsessing over the tunnels and Gertrude’s murder, and…” He trailed off, not wanting to bring up the third year. Or the fourth.

“And that was the last Christmas you were aware of,” Martin supplied, squeezing Jon’s hand briefly. Jon gripped it tightly and refused to let him go. “Honestly, not really. When I was little, Granddad had a collection of Christmas poems we used to read together, and we’d sing a couple songs he’d learned as a boy, but I don’t know what happened to the book after he died. Mum used to go candlelight services on Christmas Eve, but…even when she let me go with her, I never got much out of them. I liked sitting out in the evenings and listening to the church bells, though.” A smile flitted across his face as another church tolled out its summons nearby. “How about you? Any Christmas traditions?”

“Not outside those dictated by policy,” Jon said, unable to hold back an exasperated smirk as he thought about the dreaded Institute Christmas party. God, he’d hated it even when he was a researcher, and it had been infinitely worse when he was a department head and supposed to be a presence. “Grandmother was…she’d been raised non-Christian. I think she observed the holidays for her husband when my father and his siblings were young, but after they were out of the house and Grandfather Sims died, she went back to the faith she’d been brought up in, as best she could, anyway. I was never sure what religion she belonged to, actually. She didn’t exactly practice it. I suppose she assumed that I was young enough not to really remember what Christmas and Easter and that sort of thing were like, so she never saw it as her duty to give me any of those traditions.”

“So I guess you were like me. The Christmas holidays were just a reason to be out of school.”

Jon hummed in agreement. “I strongly suspect this is mostly for Tim’s benefit. Possibly Sasha’s.”

Martin laughed. “I mean…if Tim had asked me, I’d have done Christmas with him that last year. But I think he was too upset to even acknowledge it, you know? Didn’t even change the background on his laptop to anything festive.”

Jon’s hand tightened in Martin’s again. Regret swirled through him. He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the significance of the dates, and he’d completely missed Tim—whom he’d always seen at his cheeriest around Christmas—practically ignoring the holiday. “I wish…there are a lot of things I wish I’d done differently. The way I treated Tim…the way our relationship deteriorated…that’s probably one of the biggest. That and the way I treated you. Watching our…counterparts do things better just makes it worse, honestly.”

“Because you can’t make it up to our Tim,” Martin guessed. “Jon, wherever he is…wherever he was, I’m sure he forgives you. Now, anyway. Now that he knows you didn’t—there’s blame on both sides. Same with you and me.”

Jon huffed. “No, there’s really not. You were nothing but polite to me—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t have respected me more if I’d stood up to you sooner.”

Jon had to admit, Martin was right, but he decided he only actually had to admit it to himself. “How would you know if I wasn’t looking you in the eye?”

Martin bumped Jon’s shoulder, but he was laughing at the same time. “Asshole.”

“I’ll cop to that.” Jon laughed, too.

It was a pleasant enough walk, serenaded by the bells and the occasional snippet of a Christmas carol. Martin swept his cane along in front of him, although he didn’t really need it with Jon holding his hand. Still, Jon could appreciate Martin’s desire to be as independent as he could be. Part of what made them work as a couple was that they could function on their own.

Jon and Martin hadn’t ventured out of the Institute in some weeks, certainly not since Daisy’s visit and Jonah’s tormenting of Past Martin, so he hadn’t seen what the decorations looked like. Past Jon hadn’t bothered to describe them, either, merely saying “they have to be seen to be believed”. Jon prepared for the worst as they came around the corner.

To his relief, things seemed…tasteful. Tim, Past Jon, and Past Martin lived on the end of a row of four terraced houses, identical save the trim, and he’d half expected to find it ablaze with colored lights and tinsel, but it was surprisingly subdued. There was a wreath on the front door and a plant of some kind—Jon presumed holly from a distance—hanging from the center of the frame, and handmade paper snowflakes plastered on each windowpane visible from the street, but that was it as far as decoration went. The reason became clear when they drew closer; while the house on the far end of the row had some garland and lights, dark at the moment, and the one next to it bore several blatantly Christian decorations, the one next door to the Archive crew’s home was undecorated entirely. Through the half-open curtains, Jon could see a shaking, age-spotted hand lighting the first of eight candles in a curved holder that looked like a long-cherished family heirloom.

Martin’s cane bumped against the low step leading up to the threshold, and Jon, who knew the drill by now, let Martin lean on his arm to steady himself as he stepped up. Jon steeled himself to reach for the knocker, then noticed a pearly button set next to the door. “Ah, they’ve installed a doorbell, excellent.”

He pressed it. He could faintly hear the chime, more of a clanging really, sort of like a ship’s bell. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Tim in all his festive glory. He wore a sweater that could not possibly feel good on his skin given the sheer tinsel-to-yarn ratio, a floppy sequined hat with a sparkling ball of fluff on one end covered his hair, and he’d traded out his usual discreet star-shaped stud for a dangling glitter-covered candy cane, but the bright grin splitting his face ear to ear outshone it all.

“Hey, you made it!” he cried happily.

Jon couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry we didn’t bring anything. Our oven was out of order.”

“Please. We’ve got enough baked goods made to last us until Easter.” Tim scoffed. “What’s important is that you came.”

“Tim. Did you really think we wouldn’t?”

Martin reached out and tentatively touched Tim’s arm. “Christmas is about family. If we’re really allowed to be part of yours, of course we’d be here.”

Tim’s eyes actually filled with tears, even as he smiled, and his breath hitched. “I’m going to hug you now.”

“Tha—” Martin began, but got no further before Tim lunged forward and wrapped him in a hug. He laughed and hugged him back, dropping his cane in the process, presumably so he didn’t accidentally goose Tim with it. It was a sight at once strange and familiar, but something about it tugged at Jon’s subconscious and he wasn’t sure what. All he could say with any certainty was that it looked different than the times he’d seen Tim hug Past Martin, and he had no idea why.

After a moment, Tim released Martin, then picked up his cane and pressed it into his hand before turning to give Jon a hug. Jon hadn’t hugged Tim—or Sasha, for that matter—except as part of a group hug, and then only once, so he wasn’t prepared for the renewal of long-forgotten, or at least long-buried, feelings of comfort and security that came from one of Tim’s missed-you-buddy hugs. Even as he hugged him back, he tried to hold himself as separate as he could. After all, he wasn’t Tim’s Jon and—

“Nope, not happening,” Tim said in his ear. “No guilt tonight. No anger, no fears, no death. No talking about the past or the future. Nothing about my eyes or your scars or any of that. All of that can wait. It’s Christmas, and it’s about family, and I’m going to stand here and hug you until you cancel your travel reservations for that guilt trip you’re starting on and fucking hug me back properly.”

Jon laughed. “You always did know how to say just the right thing at the right time,” he mumbled as he let himself sink into Tim’s embrace.

Tim tightened his arms. “There you go. Welcome home.” He clapped Jon on the back, then stepped back with a smile. “C’mon. Let’s get this party started.”

“As long as you don’t make us play Strip Charades again,” Martin teased.

Jon stumbled. “Again?”

The way both Martin and Tim laughed at his reaction told him they were just kidding. Probably. He hoped.

The front room of the house did hold all the garish, over-the-top decorations Jon had expected. Apart from what was presumably a Christmas tree under the glut of lights, tinsel, and ornaments, topped with a lopsided star that looked like it had been crafted by a glassblower with the hiccups, there was no part of the wall not covered in garland, ribbon, or something glittery. The coffee table was covered with neatly-arranged platters of every kind of biscuit imaginable, from brandy snaps to shortbreads to something soft and crazed and dusted with powdered sugar, while Sasha and Past Jon tried to shuffle things around to make room for a charcuterie plate. On every other available surface stood a jar candle, lit and emitting a pleasant, Christmas-themed scent, that all mingled together in a miasma that was just a tad overwhelming.

A portrait of an angel in bright tempera paint, with two sets of glitter-dusted handprints for wings, held pride of place on the wall. It looked like a child’s school project, and Jon was going to go closer to peer at the signature when Past Martin came into the room, bearing a tray loaded with six steaming mugs. “I don’t know where we’re going to put these, guys, but—oh, hey, you made it!”

Past Jon and Sasha looked up from their endeavors with broad smiles. Warmth bloomed in Jon’s chest at the relaxed, contented look on his counterpart’s face, and he swore again that he would do whatever it took to keep that look there. “Good Lord, you weren’t joking about the baked goods.”

“This isn’t even all of them. Just what we could fit on the table,” Past Jon said ruefully. “We’ll give you some to take back with you whenever you leave. You, too, Sasha.”

“Sit down,” Tim told them. “All of you. We’re not standing on ceremony. This is just…we’re just getting together, right? Baked goods, hot drinks, telling stories, maybe playing some games that don’t rely on being able to see?”

“Damn. I was looking forward to dominating you at ‘I Spy,’” Martin said with a straight face. Jon choked back a laugh.

Sasha perched in an armchair, her legs crossed beneath her as she took one of the mugs from Past Martin. Past Jon and Tim sat on the sofa, and Martin and Jon, as was their wont, took the loveseat. As Martin accepted a mug from the tray—Jon found himself continually delighted that they always made sure there was a mug with a distinct carving or detail to it so Martin would be able to tell his from the others if he set it down—he asked, “How was the Institute party this year?”

Jon hid his smile behind his own mug at the chorus of groans from the other four. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, God.” Tim picked up a gingerbread man and bit its head off savagely.

“So first of all,” Sasha said, “there’s the usual bullshit that comes from an Institute event—namely, a bunch of upper-class old white men talking down to anyone who isn’t and a load of rich people expecting everyone to suck up to them—all of whom, I might add, we had to interact with because, between the CO2 system getting installed, the fire, the infestation, and the subsequent cleanup, not to mention the usual requisitions and expenses we had to deal with, the Archives apparently had the highest budget of all the departments this year, so we had to deal with the donors—”

“Hey, at least there were four of you to spread it around a bit,” Martin pointed out. “Our Tim and I had to do it all on our own. The Not-Sasha didn’t show and Jon left early after spending the entire time he was actually there in a corner nursing a glass of wine and hissing at people walking past.”

“I would like to register a protest about that description.” Jon rested his hand on Martin’s leg, and Martin covered it with his own. “Unfortunately, it would do me no good, because it’s accurate.”

Sasha giggled. Past Martin snorted. “Yeah, well, then you had that one guy who thought he was God’s gift to women. Half the female-coded people at the party spent the night trying to get away from him and the other half were practically dripping off of him, until he made the mistake of flirting with a married woman whose husband is apparently some sort of underground fighter. Who took it aboveground. There was punch everywhere, it was nuts.”

“At least that was towards the end of the night,” Tim added. “And made slightly more interesting by the fact that whoever was in charge of the music managed to find ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’ and put it on in the background while it was going on.”

Past Jon sighed heavily. “You know, I think I would have been able to handle all of that if I hadn’t also had to deal with Elias. Bad enough having to pretend I don’t know what he is or what’s going on. Worse to have to pretend I didn’t know what he did to Martin.”

Past Martin blushed and looked down at his mug. Tim’s hand tightened on his own, but then he said evenly, “Hey, I already told them. We’re not talking about any of that heavy stuff tonight. This is a night for fun. We can vent about Elias fucking Bouchard on…Monday, ‘cause we’re not talking about it on Christmas either.”

“Yes, sir,” Past Jon said with a mocking salute. Tim kicked at him halfheartedly, but he was laughing, too.

The conversation did shift after that, thankfully. They nibbled at the biscuits and cheeses on the table as they talked about the best and worst Christmas parties they’d ever attended. Martin was attempting to describe the horror that had been Peter Lukas’ Institute shindig when the doorbell chimed. Past Jon looked up with a frown. “Who could that be at this hour? On Christmas Eve, no less?”

“I’ll get it.” Past Martin set his mug down and crossed over to the front door, then opened it.

“Here we come a-caroling—” The lone voice that started singing was high, young, and punctuated by the peculiar wobble caused by someone hopping from foot to foot on each downbeat while they sang.

“Charlie, where’s your coat?” Past Martin sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“It’s not so bad as long as I keep moving,” a child’s voice replied.

“Go home and put a coat on. Or at least a sweater.”

Past Jon rolled his eyes at Jon, but he was smiling fondly; Jon wasn’t sure if it was at Martin’s instinctive tendency to mother hen or at the idea of the child on the stoop. From the expressions on his and Tim’s faces, Jon suspected they’d had more interactions with Charlie beyond the initial one when he’d dropped off the casserole and cake the day they moved in.

Their expressions froze, however, when the child’s voice replied, “I can’t. Nan says I’m not allowed in the house by myself, so I have to stay outside until she gets home from midnight mass.”

“You didn’t go with her?” Past Martin asked.

“Oh, you know…” The child’s voice trailed away.

Past Jon was already up and moving towards the kitchen when Past Martin said, “Tell you what, why don’t you come inside and help us eat some of these biscuits? We can tell stories and sing some carols together until your nan gets back.”

“Will I be in the way?”

“Of course not. We’ve got plenty of room for you.”

“Well…okay.”

Past Martin stepped aside, then closed the door and ushered their new guest over. Jon gave a fleeting thought to how they were going to explain his and Martin’s presence, a thought that was swept aside as soon as he laid eyes on the child. He was no more than seven, still rounded with baby fat, and far too young to be left outside alone after dark. He was dressed in a shirt too thin for the weather, and despite his brave words outside he was shivering slightly as he got warm.

What left Jon breathless, however, was the fact that, save for his hair—which was a dark reddish-brown instead of bleached blonde—he was a dead ringer for Annabelle Cane.

Fortunately, Charlie—if that’s who he was—didn’t notice Jon’s face at first, or anything else about him. His attention was caught by the painting that had caught Jon’s eye upon entry, and his whole face lit up. “You really framed it?”

“I told you it was good enough to be in a museum,” Tim pointed out.

Charlie scuffed a shoe against the carpet. “Yeah, but I thought you were just saying that ‘cause you thought you were supposed to.”

“Tim never does anything he’s supposed to,” Past Jon called from the kitchen.

“Shut up,” Tim called back, but he was laughing.

Charlie giggled. It sounded like the usual innocent, impish laughter of a child, but Jon was on edge enough to be wary. Even knowing the entities didn’t usually like the fear of children, he was…worried. The Web, more than any other save perhaps the Dark, had a tendency to mark children, or so he’d gleaned from all the statements he’d consumed over the years, not to mention his own personal experience. Between his appearance, his name, and the fact that abuse and neglect could sometimes beget exactly the sort of survival tactics that would draw the attention of the Mother of Puppets, it was a risk, and Jon couldn’t help himself.

He reached out with his powers, just a little bit. He didn’t have Tim’s eyes, and he’d never quite understood how Elias saw and identified the marks, but he could, at the very least, sense if someone had a statement to feed the Eye. Even if it would be something the Eye found unappetizing or…unfinished, if Charlie had been touched by one of the fears, he would know.

Nothing. He almost gasped with relief. Charlie was a solitary child, starved for affection, certainly vulnerable to a surprising number of the entities as well as just ordinary horrible people, and aware in a way even Jon and Martin had never been at his age that his grandmother hated him—and his father had definitely been one of Annabelle’s brothers. But none of the fears had even started giving him attention. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Jon withdrew his mind and smiled, and in that instant, Charlie tore his attention away from the angel and caught sight of Jon and Martin sitting on the loveseat. “Oh! Hello. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re fine,” Jon assured him.

Past Martin patted Charlie’s shoulder. “Charlie, this is my cousin Kieran and his fiancé, Walter. And this is our friend Sasha, she works with us…guys, this is Charlie. He lives a couple doors down.”

“And he’s an amazing baker, too,” Tim added, sweeping a hand at the mass of plates on the table. “He helped us with all this.”

Suddenly, Jon understood why there were so many baked goods. “And a fine job he did of it. It’s wonderful to meet you, Charlie.”

“Good to meet you, too.” Charlie gave Jon a broad, gap-toothed smile, but his eyes were puzzled. “Are you Jon’s cousin, too? You look a lot like him.”

“Ah—not his cousin, but we are related,” Jon said, which was true enough to be getting on with. “I suppose ‘cousin’ works, though.”

“They’re visiting us for Christmas,” Past Martin explained, shooing Charlie towards the sofa. “Here, come have a seat…Kier, you were telling us about that work party that went south?”

“That was it, really,” Martin said. “I had to do most of the talking, but there wasn’t really a lot of talking to be done. Quietest office party I’ve ever been to.”

“Where do you work?” Charlie asked innocently as Past Jon came back with a mug for him.

“Oh, that was a couple years ago. I don’t work there anymore.” Martin tapped the corner of his eye. “I went blind earlier this year. But I used to be the personal assistant to a man named Peter Lukas.”

Charlie accepted his mug from Past Jon with a surprised thank-you and settled onto the sofa between Past Martin and Past Jon. “I’m sorry you went blind. Is it scary?”

“It was a little, at first, but I’m used to it now.” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand and directed a smile at him. “And I have the best support I could ask for.”

Jon smiled back. “I do what I can.”

Tim plied Charlie with sweets for a minute, effectively distracting him from asking Jon or Martin any more questions. He waited until Charlie was halfway through a florentine before he said casually, “I bet it’s not much fun at your grandmother’s church. Not on Christmas, anyway. Maybe sometimes it is, but if you have to sit still for a whole hour?”

“Oh, it’s more than an hour. It’s a long, long time. Nan won’t be back until very late,” Charlie said. “But there’s lots of music, and I love it when the lights are off and all the candles are lit and it’s quiet except for the chanting and singing and the organ playing. And I like listening to the stories and the messages.” He suddenly looked anxious as he looked up at Tim. “And I can sit still, honest. I’m very, very good in church.”

“I believe it,” Tim assured him quickly. “You’re good everywhere else, so why not in church?”

Charlie looked hopeful. “You really think so?”

Tim ruffled Charlie’s hair, making him giggle. “I sure do, buddy. Why didn’t you go with your grandmother this year?”

“Oh…” Charlie’s face fell, and he looked down into the mug in his hands. After a moment, he mumbled, “I’m not allowed to go back to church with Nan unless I stop being a boy.”

Two bright spots of color appeared in Tim’s cheeks, and he pressed his lips tightly together. The look Past Jon and Past Martin exchanged told Jon this was not a new and startling discovery for them like it was for him, but then, if they’d truly interacted with Charlie for a while, he’d probably told them something like this before. It still seemed to upset them, though.

“Is that your nan’s rule, or the church’s?” Martin asked, in the same tone he’d once used to ask Jon how many times he’d listened to the tapes after the Watcher’s Crown—gentle and patient, but with an undercurrent of worry and maybe a bit of anger that was being restrained so the questioned didn’t think it was directed at him. It brought back memories of those horrible—weeks? Months?—after the world ended, but also brought feelings of safety and security and love.

Charlie responded to it the same way Jon always had. He raised his head and gave him a look of mingled sorrow and trust. “Both. The teachers at church say God won’t recognize me if I’m a boy, and Nan says Mum and Dad wouldn’t either.”

“Well, that’s silly,” Jon said, trying to summon up the brusque and authoritative face he’d put on as the Archivist. “Anyone who doesn’t recognize you because you’re a boy isn’t someone who knows you, or loves you. You would know your parents no matter what they looked like, wouldn’t you? Even if you haven’t seen them in a while.”

“I—I think so.”

“Then they’ll know you, even though you didn’t tell them you were a boy the last time you saw them in person. And if they don’t, they don’t deserve to know you.”

“You can trust him, you know,” Sasha said sagely. “He knows everything in the world.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Really? Everything in the whole world?”

“Just about.” Jon decided not to go into the limitations of his abilities, or indeed what those abilities were. They weren’t important to the discussion.

Charlie studied Jon with a gravity far beyond his years. At last, he asked, “What’s her name?”

“Whose name?” Jon frowned. Had he missed part of the conversation?

“My—Mum said my sister was on the way. But something went wrong, and Nan said Mum and the baby both died. I never even got to meet her. If you know everything in the whole world, what’s my sister’s name?”

Jon hesitated. He wasn’t sure if that was actually something he could Know, considering there was a good chance everyone who knew the answer to that was dead. But he knew he had to try. And if he couldn’t come up with the answer, he wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t. He reached out with the Eye, feeling the familiar crackle of static as he did so.

In the end, it was easier than he’d thought—just a matter of plucking the right information from the right heads. The date and location of Charlie’s mother’s death from his grandmother’s mind, a nurse who’d been in the room, a buried memory of a gasped-out conversation, and a startlingly clear pair of blue eyes meeting her mother’s before taking her last breath. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Athena Joy,” he answered.

Charlie looked at him, then smiled, too. “Athena Joy Cane is a pretty name.”

It effectively ended the serious part of the conversation, which was a relief. Instead, they started telling stories of Christmases they’d experienced when they were younger, which devolved into jokes and silly stories. Tim got up to refill everyone’s mugs at one point. He was gone for quite a while, and Jon would be prepared to swear he heard the kitchen door open at least twice, but he didn’t say anything. Not then. Instead, he simply accepted his refill and watched Tim settle back onto the sofa.

“Shame it’s so overcast,” he commented. “I took a peek outside, and it’s still cloudy. I love studying the sky on Christmas Eve.”

“Looking for Father Christmas?” Sasha teased.

“Ha, ha.” Tim stuck his tongue out at her. “No, I just like looking at the stars. I mean, I always like looking at the stars, but there’s something special about it on Christmas Eve.”

Past Martin looked wistful. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I used to sit and watch the stars while I listened to the bells. I could almost convince myself the stars were ringing, too.”

“What bells?” Sasha frowned.

“Church bells, mostly. I didn’t attend services or anything, it wasn’t—” Past Martin checked himself with a swift glance at Charlie. “I always felt like the message in the bells was more comforting.”

“‘The wrong shall fail, the right prevail’,” Martin said softly.

Jon looked over at Martin, struck by the words in a way he couldn’t quite explain. “What was that?”

“It’s a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Someone put a tune to it later. Granddad taught it to us, remember?”

Past Martin opened his mouth, then memory lit up his eyes. “Oh, yeah! ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.’ Yeah, that makes sense, now I think about it.”

“How’s it go? Can you sing it?” Charlie asked around a mouthful of mint meltaway.

Jon expected Martin to prevaricate or enter a stammering denial. Certainly Past Martin blushed and opened his mouth to. But before anyone could say anything, Martin took a deep breath and began. “I heard the bells on Christmas Day their old, familiar carols play…”

Jon had only heard Martin sing a couple of times before—the time he’d sung to the little girl in the Archives, and when he’d sung along to the recordings while they helped the others set up the house—and the former he’d been barely audible and singing to entertain a child, while with the latter it had been a bit difficult to parse out what was Martin (or Past Martin) and what was actually on the recording. This was different. This was Martin alone and unaccompanied and singing a song he meant in a voice meant to be heard, and it was one of the purest, warmest, most beautiful things Jon had ever heard in his life, topped only by his name on Martin’s lips and the sound of him saying I love you.

It took until the third verse for Past Martin to finally join in, but when he did, it only added to the song. Jon let the words fill his mind as the music settled in his soul. They spoke at first of a message of despair, but then of hope, reminding the singer—the poet, really, Jon supposed—that hate wouldn’t, couldn’t, win in the end. That there was still a greater power out there.

When they finished, Charlie stared at them both with shining eyes. He wasn’t alone in that; both Tim and Past Jon looked as though their brains had short-circuited. Jon couldn’t blame them. Honestly, even he hadn’t known Martin had a voice like that.

“That,” Sasha said softly from her armchair, “was brilliant.”

“I like that song,” Charlie said. “Do you know any others?”

Past Martin blushed a flaming red, but Martin simply smiled. “Lots. What’s your favorite?”

It was the right thing to say, apparently, as Charlie launched into a song he liked that even Jon, who’d never really sung Christmas songs until he’d been in college and his friends had all but bullied him into it, knew all the words to. Sasha joined in, along with both Martins, and eventually Tim and Past Jon recovered enough to join in as well. They spent the next couple of hours interspersing songs with stories and poems, from the familiar to the obscure. Charlie’s enthusiasm was impossible to quash and even harder not to respond to.

Eventually, however, his eyelids flickered, and it was obvious he was forcing himself to stay awake. Sasha caught Past Martin’s eye and nods quickly at him; Past Martin nodded back and set his empty mug down. He ran his fingers through Charlie’s curls for a moment, then started to sing a song Jon had never heard before. “When the mountain touches the valley…”

Martin joined in with a soft harmony—or perhaps it was considered a counter-melody, Jon wasn’t quite sure—and it was another hauntingly beautiful song. Tim caught Jon’s eye and jerked his head towards the light switch; Jon nodded, slipped off the love seat, and turned off the main lights, leaving them bathed only in the glow of the candles and the Christmas tree as the Martins sang. By the time the song ended, Charlie was curled up in Past Martin’s lap, sound asleep.

“That worked surprisingly well,” Past Martin said, keeping his voice low.

“My God.” Past Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Jon didn’t think it was to keep from waking Charlie.

Sasha snorted softly. “Seriously, why did you not study music in school, because that was fantastic.”

“I-I mean…I had to drop out,” Past Martin reminded her. “We needed the money. I was studying music before that.”

“Wait, seriously?” Jon said, startled. “How did I not ever know that?”

“Jon, you never asked,” Martin said, squeezing his hand. “We never really talked about college or anything like that. I dropped out, that was all we ever brought up. But yeah, I was in a music program. That woman, um, what was her name—the one that came up after the Christmas concert?”

Past Martin frowned. “God, I don’t…Mrs. Smith?”

“Yeah, her. The one that said she knew Granddad.” Martin sighed. “Anyway, she’s the one that suggested I audition for the program. Got in, too. But I was only a couple weeks into the first term when Mum got really bad and I had to drop out.”

Tim shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Martin.”

Past Martin blushed furiously. Sasha put her mug to her lips, but since she didn’t take a sip, Jon guessed it was to hide a grin. “If I’d known that, I’d have bought you some music books for your birthday or something.”

“Oh, I don’t—I don’t really sing anymore. Not like that. Just, you know, folk songs and that sort of thing. I was never all that great with the fancier stuff, really. I’m okay with choral stuff, but…” Past Martin trailed off.

Jon decided to spare him and change the subject. “I take it Charlie’s been spending a lot of his time over here? He seems…comfortable.”

“Yeah. His grandmother’s not the outgoing type, but she’ll have her bridge club over or a sewing club or something and he has to either stay in his room or go outside, so lately he’s been coming over here,” Tim answered. “He’s a good kid. And he likes us, too.”

“Jon’s his favorite,” Past Martin added with a teasing smile.

Jon looked pointedly at the little boy cuddled against Past Martin’s chest, relaxed and contented, with his fingers curled in one of the cables. “Are you sure about that?”

Past Jon gave a soft, shaky laugh. He still looked rather stunned, which, well, Jon couldn’t blame him. “Frankly, I think his favorite is ‘whoever is paying him attention at the moment.’ He’s well cared-for from a physical point of view, but…”

Jon understood. His grandmother had been much the same—resenting being asked to raise a child after her own were grown, mourning his father and constantly reminded of him every time she saw Jon, making sure he was fed and clothed and educated but never taking the time to get to know him. He imagined it would have been worse if she’d known he was queer, although he couldn’t be sure.

“He seems like a good lad,” he said. “Lucky thing he has the three of you.”

All three of them seemed embarrassed by that. Sasha didn’t even try to hide her grin this time. “Suppose his grandmother will think to look over here for him if she gets back and he’s not at home.”

“If she doesn’t think of it herself, I left her a note,” Tim said.

“I thought I heard the kitchen door,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow.

Tim ignored him. “I said we’d keep him until the morning if she gets back too late. Frankly, I wouldn’t send him back at all if I didn’t have to, but…”

“No, me, either.” Past Martin got carefully to his feet, cradling Charlie in his arms; the boy’s head flopped onto Past Martin’s shoulder as he nestled against him in his sleep. “I’m going to go tuck him in, at least for a bit. Be right back.”

Past Jon watched him leave the room with an expression that felt familiar to Jon. He brought Martin’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. “All that goes to prove I’m right, you know. You’re going to make an excellent father someday, Martin.”

Martin laughed softly. “Thanks. I think.”

Past Martin came back into the living room and took his seat. Tim and Past Jon leaned into him from either side, and the six of them just sat together for a bit longer in silence as the candle flames flickered and the lights on the tree twinkled.

Finally, Tim started singing, his voice low and rumbling, a Christmas song Jon was mostly familiar with. Past Martin joined in, then Martin, until all of them were singing along as the world turned on and the clock ticked over to midnight and Christmas Eve turned to Christmas Day.

And for a little while, Jon felt completely at peace.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#jonmartin #tma #the magnus archives #implied transphobia #implied emotional abuse #death mention #child death mention

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