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corvuscrowned · 2 years

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a little taste of arson and catharsis for the @magicaltrans pride gift exchange. thank you so much @katie-alden and @crazybutgood for beta reading. for toxik_angel, i hope you enjoy! cw for misgendering, and, uh, arson. read on ao3

The owl reads simply: Alley behind Ollivander’s, three o’clock. Malfoy stubs their cigarette out on the underside of their shoe when Harry arrives at quarter to.

“My, we’re a bit trigger happy tonight, aren’t we?” they say.

Harry pulls the invisibility cloak off the top of his head. “Then that must make two of us.”

Malfoy is in what they usually wear these nights: dark trousers and a sleek black cloak, those flint gray eyes glinting out from the shadow it casts over his face. They look like the poster child for a recent Hogwarts graduate who is up to no good, and Harry guesses that’s exactly what they are. Malfoy crowds in next to him, and he slings the invisibility cloak over them both, letting Malfoy lead them off the side alley and down the empty, darkened street.

This time, it’s a small novelty shop that sells sweets and collectibles on Diagon. Malfoy is disturbingly skilled at advanced unlocking charms, and has them through the front door in seconds. Harry casts a disillusionment charm on the windows, but he knows they won’t be caught.

“You can thank Pansy for the tip,” Malfoy says, hair cast with an amber sheen from the Diagon street lights trickling in through the window. “She spotted them last week.”

“I’ll have to send her a card.”

When Harry lights a lumos, his face smiles back at him from every corner of the store. He grins out from posters, winks from t-shirts, waves cheerfully from a set of postcards. They’re all images of a faded, dated version of himself, someone he no longer recognizes — shoulder length hair and Gryffindor skirts, even a poster of him in that gaudy blue dress they’d gotten him into for the Yule Ball.

Malfoy picks up an honest to God votive candle with Harry’s face on it and smirks. “You’re like a god to these people.”

They toss the candle over to Harry, who looks down at his old face beneath his old name and the calligraphed text: The Girl Who Lived.

“Yeah,” he says. “Then you’d think they’d at least get my name right.”

Malfoy always starts the fires. Harry can never control his magic the way they do, emblazoning a small square of flame in the middle of the shop, artfully contained by a sphere of fire-resistant wards. Harry christens the flame by tossing the candle into it, and it belches out a cloud of gray-blue smoke.

Into the fire goes the rest of it — keychains with Harry’s deadname, collectors’ edition Prophet articles with photos of him when he was in Hogwarts, his long braided hair, his eyes glowering at the camera. He’d given the world a year to catch on, and most everyone had. Even his chocolate frog card got it right. Anyone who didn’t at this point just wasn’t trying.

The flame sparks and grows as they make their offerings, devouring a version of himself he never really was. Malfoy’s face is painted in yellows and golds as they tear posters off of walls and watch as they crumble into nothing but light and ash. The fire licks Harry’s skin with heat and beads sweat at his forehead and reminds him that even now, he, too, can burn.

Malfoy smokes another cigarette on the countertop while Harry makes sure they didn’t miss anything. They’re quieter now than they were in school, and Harry doesn’t know exactly how they became so skilled with flame spells, but he knows that the line between fear and mastery is razor thin.

When Harry is finished, Malfoy extinguishes the fire with a wave of their wand, and the tower of flame collapses into a pile of ash, soot, and ribbony smoke. Harry can’t help but to think of Fawkes, her tiny newborn beak edging out from the ashes, dark eyes ready to overflow with tears.

Malfoy tosses the butt of their cigarette into the pile. “They’ll know it’s you doing it eventually.”

“Good,” Harry says. “Then maybe it’ll make them remember my name.”

They leave the shop like that, half ransacked, reeking of smoke and the scent of burning plastic. Malfoy doesn’t even pull the door behind them when they follow Harry out onto the street.

“It’s been fun,” they say, pulling the hood of their cloak back over their eyes. “Maybe next week we do something more exciting, like rob Honeydukes.”

Harry sees Malfoy at parties now and then, the odd pub, the occasional Quidditch match. This is the only time they ever speak. He can hardly remember how it started sometimes, or when he started trusting Malfoy more than most people in his life. But Harry knows there are parts of themself Malfoy throws into the fires too, even though they might not burn in the same way.

The night air is thin and cold, and the fire has burned an afterglow onto Harry’s eyes, the shape of the raging flames outlined in white everywhere he looks — the empty night, the starless sky, and Malfoy shrouded in darkness beneath it. Not the only person who cares, and not the only person who understands it — but the only person who’s willing to do anything about it.

“Thanks,” Harry says. “For the tip.”

Malfoy shrugs one shoulder, the way they always do. “I wouldn’t want anyone to do it to me.”

Malfoy pushes their fingers into Harry's hair when Harry kisses them, like they’ve been expecting it, like they knew Harry was going to do it before he did. Harry tastes smoke on their lips, the memory of extinguished flame. There will always be more to burn, Harry knows, even when the flames singe his skin. But in the spaces in between, there will also be room for this: faint whispers of light, and pockets of immutable warmth, waiting to be sparked into life.

#drarry #trans harry potter #trans draco malfoy #nonbinary draco malfoy #drarry fanfiction #hpdm #drarry fic #drarry fanfic

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mailmom · 1 year

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ALSO question: will the keychain pre-orders eventually turn into a regular item on your shop, or is this going to be a short-term sale? I've got some things I've gotta deal with monetarily before preordering me a Cole one but I don't want to miss my chance to have him. Cute little Zappy Man.

So I put it on preorder initially because I was worried my charms wouldn’t sell very well, whether because infamous fans are small in number or they just didn’t like my art. I wanted to see if people would be interested. However, I got a TON of positive feedback on them so I went ahead and ordered a small stock.

When I’m out of stock, I’m definitely making more. So don’t worry, he’s not gone forever. It’ll be a regular item! I’m thinking next time too I’ll have Zeke available as well. We’ll see!

Thank you for your support!

#historicalmedium #Etsy

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amarylliasky · 4 months

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It’s been a hot minute since I posted huh? Life’s been busy. New job, writing a book, new hyperfixations. But I’ve been considerably more productive since the new year started!

Case in point, I’ve been prepping some stuff to eventually start up an online shop! I’m thinking something small. I’ll sell things like pins and keychains. Maybe some bookmarks or art prints.

These are just a few of the ones I’ve made!

It’s a work in progress, but hopefully I’ll be able to get them out there soon.

And maybe start posting art more regularly-

#don’t think I’ve forgotten all my unfinished works on here!#especially that ninjago au👀#tbh I haven’t been on tumblr for a while #but that’s gonna change!#my art #diy projects

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spherafim · 7 months

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ANNOUNCEMENT!!

Not new art BUT I got keychains of my little Vocaloid and Sanrio designs! And there’s sticker versions on the way too!

For now, I’ll only be selling them locally in the Savannah, GA area. But rest assured, I will be reviewing my options for setting up an online shop and shipping arrangements for when I eventually do open an online store!

-UPDATE-

A few of them are currently being sold at Planet Fun in Savannah, GA!!

Alright NOW I’m going back to work!!

#art #merch #fan merch #keychain #acrylic #vocaloid megurine #vocaloid hatsune #kagamine rin #kagamine len

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ephemeral-eternity · 1 year

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hi! i also left a comment on your youtube channel asking the same question, but im not sure if you’re still active there so i figured i would ask here as well. do you still have any of the shinji plush from your toreba videos? if so, are you willing to sell them? i have a collection of him, and i already have the nesoberi actually but i really like it and i want more copies of it lol. i’ll pay you well for them, especially if they’re new with tags but if not that’s totally ok! i’ll pay for shipping too. actually ill buy any shinji items you have tbh, if you have any you want to sell. hes my favorite character of all time im trying to collect literally every figure and all the merch of him.

Hey! Unfortunately I don’t have any items of Shinji for sale - however if you would like I can send a link to the toreba facebook page where people buy/sell items - someone on there might still have it available. I can also try to ask on my sideblog though that will be a pretty big shot in the dark but can’t hurt. There are also sites like mercari and ebay where people may eventually post ones for sale that you can check periodically.

Also this is tangentially related and may be a bit much and depend partially on where you live, but if you want other official evangelion merch you can buy them from the official site and use a proxy service like buyee to have the items shipped overseas. Its expensive but I have used them multiple times for various items from small keychains to collectible manga and even a record player. They have great packing and shipping if you are willing to pay and be patient. Just a thought if that is something that interests you!

Also I wish you luck on getting all the Shinji merch! There is an endless supply of Evangelion merch in general so that is no easy task but it will be cool to display a bunch of it in the future!

#ask #answer #ill send the fb link in a message and post on my sideblog with a photo of what you are asking about hopefully it helps track something down #evangelion

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riddlerxcx · 2 years

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Here’s my ita bag! It’s my first one, so it’s still a work in progress and doesn’t have a set theme yet. Below is a list of all my pins and keychains and where I got them from:

1. Daft Punk album art pins. I got them from the physical Daft Punk pop-up merch store back in 2017, and as Daft Punk disbanded as of last year, I don’t think their online merch store is active anymore. Lots of Etsy sellers sell pins of various album covers, so check there if the official merch store is inactive.

2. Sugar Bunnies Danganronpa pin. I got this pin from eBay. I don’t know who the character is as I don’t play Danganronpa but I thought the design was very cute when I saw it in the promo pictures, so I had to have it.

3. Evangelion acrylic keychains. I bought these keychains on Mercari Japan via a proxy service called Buyee.

4. Howl Pendragon acrylic keychain. This keychain is from the artists hanavbara on Instagram. They usually restock their store every few months.

5. Kuromi mini photo holder. I bought this mini photo holder from a shop called Oori Chingoo on Instagram. The stickers I decorated it are from an artist named coraltree_jj and I bought them through another Instagram shop called itsdecoday. I added a small photo of Keanu Reeves inside.

6. Keychains hanging from zipper. Unfortunately I have no idea where the pizza and macaron keychains are from as I randomly found them inside a junk drawer lol. The crochet cherry keychain is from a vintage Harajuku Lovers by Gwen Stefani purse I have.

7. Hello Kitty 8-bit pin. Freebie from the Sanrio store in Hollywood (I don’t think that store is in business anymore either unfortunately)

I’ll keep posting updates on this bag as I keep adding stuff. This photo is a few months old and I haven’t had time to add more items to it, but I will eventually :3

(Also ignore the improperly stored signed Wicked playbook I promise I’ll get a frame for it soon >_<)

#ita bag #neon genesis evangelion #Ghibli #Sanrio #danganronpa #daft punk #keanu reeves

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spvce-cowboy · 3 years

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drivers license

francisco morales x f!reader - oneshot

rating: mature

3.1k words

warnings: drug/alcohol use, reader is a dealer, age gap, so much YEARNING!!!

summary: a surprise visit from an old friend

a/n: 100 follower celebration!! partially inspired by this post but also the fact that i have been sing-screaming “drivers license” for oh about four days straight now. thank you guys so so much for all the support so far ! 💕

A fist slamming against your front door wakes you from a dreamless sleep.

You push yourself off your mattress, blearily checking the time on your phone and cursing under your breath when you see that it’s almost 3am. You sit up all the way, blinking as you wait to see if what woke you up was something you’d imagined or if it were real.

It’s real. It starts again after a second, three sharp raps against the door, followed by some kind of muffled talking. Your heart rate picks up in your chest, you grab the baseball bat you have leaned against the wall as you reach your apartment door. Squeezing one eye shut, you look through the peephole.

The good thing is that it definitely isn’t the cops. You take a relieved breath, leaning away from the door.

The bad thing is that whoever is knocking is hunched on his knees, just outside of the peephole’s line of sight, so you have absolutely no idea who the fuck it is.

“Please open the door,” the man’s voice begs from the other side of the door. You’re about to yell at him to fuck off, but he interrupts you before you can even open your mouth. “Little flower, it’s me, please.”

The nickname makes your heart go to your throat. The bat in your hands falls to the floor.

You rub a hand over your eyes, huffing an exhale in a vague attempt to prevent your heart from ricocheting against your ribs. It doesn’t work. Because as soon as he says it, as soon as you realize who it is, it brings everything back with him.

A set of sturdy, tanned fingers cupped against the knuckles of your grandfather’s hand, the voice went low in a warm but respectful greeting. You didn’t realize how gnarled your old man’s hands had gotten until you had someone else’s to compare them to. You looked back down at the crumpled up dollar bills you’d just been handed, one of them still rolled. Turning to find your bag on the coatrack, you stuff the money in your back pocket.

“My little flower, this is a good one,” your grandfather told you with a small hum that signifies whatever he just said must be set in stone. You hear the sound of him heavily patting the hand cupped over his own in that way he does when he appreciates the presence of something. “He has a decent head on his shoulders, no?”

“Little flower?” You can hear the boyish smile in that all too familiar voice before you even turn back around. “That suits you well, I think. Florita. I like that.”

“Christ, Frankie, what are you doing here?” You rest your head against the doorframe, heart sinking in your chest. You don’t open the door, to protect him or yourself you don’t know.

“I need—”

“You’ve got a kid now, Frankie. I told you I’m not going to sell to you anymore.”

“Ever the moralist,” the bite to his words is so uncharacteristic you can’t help but flinch. He seems to realize this, too. His apology is nearly immediate. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re right. I… It’s not…”

You swallow, closing your eyes and wrapping your arms around yourself for some bare semblance of comfort. “Please go,” your voice is so quiet you’re not sure he can hear you through the layer of wood separating the two of you. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

It’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that you nearly think he’s left. Long enough that you don’t know why you’re still standing at the door and not back in bed.

And Frankie says your name, voice cracking. Your actual name. It’s been so long since you’ve heard it come off his lips you can’t help sink into the door.

A held breath leaves you in a shuddering sigh. Your shaking hands open the door.

The man who spills onto the ground before you is a stranger, yet, heartbreakingly, just as he had been when you first met him. Messy hair, worn blue jeans, gray button-down stretching over the perfect expanse of his back. All that is missing this time around is that lazy smile, that easy, Hey, darling.

In a bar. Right when your grandfather started getting sick.

“Eighty,” you said without him having to continue his sentence beyond his syrupy greeting, eyes trained on the shelves of liquor in front of you instead of having to meet his gaze.

He copped an eighth, tucking the little baggie in a pocket on the inside of his jacket. You went back to your drink, angling your body away from him again and expecting him to return to his table of friends. But then the knuckles of his hand nudged the side of you elbow. He gestured to your beer, the neck of the bottle clasped between your thumb and the hook of your middle and index fingers.

“Lemme buy you your next one, yeah?” He had a hunched lean to his posture, in that way that men do when they want you to feel like you’re the only person in the room. You were mad that it worked. He extended a hand. “Frankie Morales.”

The truth of it was that the two of you became friends, after that. Nothing more. Regardless, it was too close for you to get to someone you dealt to, but you were so lonely at that point in your life—taking care of the old man by day, GED classes at night--that meeting Frankie was a small blessing. Nothing ever happened between you two but God you wish it did.

To describe what you felt towards him as a crush didn’t really cut it, but you were fine with friends. Being completely fair, he was definitely one to send mixed signals—Christ, your weekly tradition of driving to an overlook to split an order of fries and milkshakes on the hood of his truck just about screamed every romcom you were raised on. But despite the occasional prolonged touch, the hand he would place on the small of your back to move you out of the way or guide you forward, nothing happened.

You dealt with it. Tried to be supportive as possible when he met his girl. Frankie broke the news that she was pregnant. The two of you saw each other less and less frequently. Sometimes he would call to catch up. Eventually, you stopped answering when he did. Your grandfather died. You got into a local art school.

It was sad how quietly it all faded. You didn’t know it could, but it did.

And now here he is, literally crumpled at your feet.

Frankie messily pulls himself up off the ground and onto his knees. He reeks of booze and old cigarettes. You freeze as his hands wrap over your hips, as he presses his face into your stomach and murmurs an incoherent apology—for what, you’re not exactly sure.

And when you finally processing what’s happening, what you had begged the universe for years, you can’t help yourself. Your card your fingers through his hair, gritting your teeth and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Frankie,” it’s a warning. It’s a reminder. “You’re drunk. You need to go home. Your girlfriend--”

“She left a week ago,” he speaks into the fabric covering your belly. The words burst forwards as if not even he was expecting to say them. It’s a confession. His hands flex from where they hold onto you. “She’s gone.” Your heart drops to your gut, your chest aching. “I need… Just for the night I… Little flower, the house is so empty.”

You keep petting back his hair until his breathing quiets. He keeps holding onto you, even then. The two of you stay like that for a long time.

“Why don’t,” your voice comes out too shaky. Too unsure of itself. You clear your throat and try again. “Why don’t you take a shower, I’ll get you some water and we can sober you up a bit. Okay?”

He tilts his face up at you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in well over a year.

And he hasn’t changed. It’s all there—the soft mess of shaggy hair, dark but kind eyes, the beloved hook of his nose.

One sun-sick evening, you rode your bike to the beach just to get out of the apartment. You need somewhere to sit and think for a while, just until your head feels more clear. There’s enough of a chill in the air that you have to throw on a jacket, it’s nice. It’s like you can feel the wind moving through you. Past you.

When you arrived at the beach, you got off your bike, leaning it against your hip as you scoped out a spot to sit in the sand. You were about to wheel it over to the rack when--

Someone pinched your elbow in greeting. Their steps were so quiet you didn’t even register their approach. It, obviously, startled you, and your hand immediately flew to the keychain in your back pocket. The knife you had attached to it.

When you turned, and it was Frankie’s familiar face, his hands raised in joking surrender.

In that light, with the sun still flirting with the horizon, it rendered his face into shapes and shadows you had only previously seen in the old oil paintings of long-dead greats. You thought it was in the deep bourbon of his eyes, soft when illuminated by a tangerine sky. It was him. All of him. Slightly breathless, hair ruffled by the wind.

“Hey, hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he sounded genuinely apologetic. You released a relieved huff of air.

“Fucking Christ, Frankie. A little warning would be nice next time.”

“Did you bike the whole way here? From the apartment?” He asked, there was a tinge of concern to his voice.

You shrugged, trying to hide your embarrassment by lowering your kickstand with the heel of you boot. “It’s not that far.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“Can’t drive,” you wrinkle your nose. “Never needed to.”

He looked you for a moment, if you didn’t know any better you’d say critically.

“I was just about to get something to eat, if you wanna join me,” he tucked his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “There’s this overlook nearby that has a way better view of all of this.” He motions to the ocean with the tilt of his head. “I can drive us there.”

You regarded him as he spoke, cautiously looking him up and down. And you nodded, smiling slightly. He smiled back, it was big and crooked. It made something in the pit of your belly feel warm.

You step away, holding out your hand to help him to his feet. He complies, stumbling slightly and rubbing his hand over his face as he does so. He disappears down the hall without having to ask where the bathroom is.

Sighing, you go back into your room, pulling out a shirt and a pair of oversized sweatpants for him to change into. You knock on the bathroom door on your way to the kitchen. The apartment’s walls are so thin you can hear the hiss of the shower from all the way down the hall.

“Come in,” Frankie’s voice barely rises above the sound.

You crack the door open, keeping your eyes trained to the floor as you place the folded clothes on the sink’s counter.

“Here’s something for you to change into,” you tell him. He thanks you, the shower turning off right as you close the door behind you. You walk back down the hall and into the living room, making two glasses of water before settling on your couch.

Once, after a night out, the two of you were too drunk and too broke to afford separate taxis home. He proposed going back to his house, split the cost, grab a cab for you once it wasn’t so late and the rates went down.

You agreed, as you did anytime he extended the offer to spend time there. There was something about the quiet, tucked-in nature of the suburbs that was so novel to you. So calming.

The two of you settled on the couch. Feeling bold, you lay your head in his lap and kicked your socked feet up on the opposite armrest as you describe to him the gallery opening you’d snuck into. How you successfully schmoozed to the owner as well as one of the artists.

He asked you if you had heard back from any of the scholarships you’d applied to. You hadn’t, but you’d only just submitted the applications, so it would be at least a few months wait.

You tell him your dreams of becoming an artist. A real one. He already knew that, but you really tell him this time, all the details you usually keep to yourself, too special to you to have the courage to voice aloud. The fantasy of moving out into the mountains, getting a cabin just big enough for a hotplate and a bed and a studio. You’ve lived and breathed LA for your entire life and you were tired of the city. Tired of every street corner baked with the memories of high school and the listless years that followed, of the small humiliations you had to succumb to in order to survive.

Frankie listened and nodded enthusiastically at all the right parts. It was only then that you realized his hands smoothed over the top of your scalp as you talked. You let it continue, it felt too nice not to.

He told you that you should, and if you needed help finding the money he could always--

You cut him off before he could finish the thought, shaking your head. Responsibilities came first, you had people who needed you. A degree to finish. Savings to maintain. You asked him about the new girl he’d been seeing and he eagerly launches into a story about a different, wild night out. You smile and laugh throughout the whole thing, trying to ignore the pang it gives you when he describes the dress she was wearing. He fingers continued to brush over the crown of your head as he talked.

You fell asleep there, on his lap. You woke up before the sun rose, hot and sweaty and still a little drunk from the vodka Redbulls that never agreed well with your heart.

It took you a second to realize you were in Frankie’s bed, alone. When you padded back into the living room, he was passed out on the couch, a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders, using his arm as a pillow.

You left after helping yourself to a shower, texting him a sarcastic good luck with that hangover. You’re about to call a taxi home but something stopped you. You thought it might be the way the sun was barely breaking over the cusp of the smoggy horizon, the sky reduced to pale shades of violet with the coming dawn.

The quiet neighborhood Frankie lived in is all the more beautiful, like this. Subdued, empty, houses in winding but even rows that scale up the mountainside like sets of bad teeth. You decided to walk, just until the sun got a little brighter. Until the people started to shake themselves awake for a new day.

You got a text from him as you were making breakfast, back at your apartment by then. Thanks. Hope you slept well, little flower. Something about the small missive kept you smiling the whole day after.

You mess with your phone until Frankie returns.

“I’m sorry, for showing up like this,” Frankie says as he hovers over the living room’s threshold. The clothes you leant him fit well enough, only slightly oversized on his frame as opposed to how they generously drape off of you. He holds his towel in his hands, looking down at it instead of you. “I honestly don’t have an excuse and you… you shouldn’t accept any. But I thought I should still tell you.”

You look at him for an extended beat, knowing he’s being honest. You’re at a genuine loss as to how to handle the situation.

“We can deal with it later,” you settle with that. It sounds good enough to you, and when he finally meets your eyes again he looks a little relieved. You nod you head towards the glass of water you placed on the coffee table, he takes your lead and settles on the opposite side of the couch, leaning over to take his own glass.

“So um… how are you?” He asks you earnestly, angling his body towards you.

“Okay,” you take a sip of water, trying to keep it casual. “Cleaning up my act a bit, you know? Going to school, picking up jobs here and there. Trying to figure out what I want to do. Oh! I uh… I learned how to drive--impressive I know.”

“The city flower herself, operating a vehicle?” His face breaks into a familiar, goofy smile you can’t help but reciprocate. “I’ll add every pedestrian in LA to my prayers.”

“You should,” you shake your head as you laugh, leaning into your corner of the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest. You finally relax, giving yourself the small allowance of settling into the comfort that inevitably comes with his presence.

And it really is just as easy as it always has been between the two of you. The conversation naturally ebbs and flows, neither of you bother to broach the heavier stuff. For now, just this it’s enough.

It’s enough to see the spark in his eyes when he tells you about his daughter, how bright she is, how much trouble she gets into—just like her dad. It’s enough to hear about his friends, all those names and backstories that you still vividly remember. It’s enough to bask in the feeling of how he leans into you with laughter, a hand lingering on your knee for seconds longer than it probably should have, as he always tends to do.

It’s enough to see him grin when you tell him about the scholarships you got, how weird it felt being the oldest person in all your classes, even if it was only by a handful of years. He doesn’t ask how your grandfather is, the living room being cleared of all the heart monitors and breathing machines is enough to answer that question. You’re grateful he doesn’t. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep a brave face if he did.

You don’t want time to pass. You want to stay here, with him, like this, in that perpetual state of catching up, in that breathless deluge that has the not-so-subtle undercurrent of this is what has happened since you left. I wish you would have been there. But I am so happy you are here now.

When you can no longer stifle your yawns, you stand to refill your glass of water, speaking on your walk over to the sink.

“I’d love to keep talking but I honestly don’t think I can keep my eyes open much longer,” you tell him as you turn the tap off. “I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you turn to look back at him. He’s staring at you from where he is seated, eyes dark with something that isn’t just from the low light of the living room.

“What?” You ask after a few more seconds of him not responding. He looks away from you, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

Your eyes search his for a moment, positive that that was not at all what he was turning over in his head during those few seconds of silence. You’re too tired to press, so you gather a spare set of sheets for him. He stands when you come back into the living room, holding out his arms to take them from you. You wave him away, setting up the pull-out bed yourself. You’d grown up sleeping on this thing, tucking the fitted sheet into the corners was always tricky, and he didn’t know where the bolts of the couch’s frame would cut the shit out of his hands if he wasn’t careful.

Throwing a pillow down, you turn back to Frankie. He’s standing closer to you, now. You have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes.

“All set,” you tell him. He nods, eyes searching your face for a moment. Your brow furrows. “Frankie, you’re being weird. Stop it.”

His chuckle breaks the tension.

“Sorry—I’ve been saying that a lot tonight, haven’t I?” He takes a deep breath. You’re smiling again, about to agree with him, and without warning his hand is comes up to cup the side of your face. You still, lips parted in an unasked question. “Thank you, little flower,” his voice goes rough again, as it had when you were speaking to each other through the door. “I really mean it.”

Frankie’s hand drops when you nod, lips pressed together. He sits back down on the pull-out. You wish him goodnight quietly and return to your room.

Leaving your bedroom door cracked open, you climb back into bed. With everything in you, you hope he’s still there when you wake. He will be.

#francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #reader insert #triple frontier #angst #hurt/comfort

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mossysunflower · 3 years

Text

Hi! My name is Sam and I just started an Etsy store called "Safety Snails"

I had some background in sewing since I was 6, but when covid came I began sewing masks for family members, and then started selling them to friends and coworkers, and sometimes strangers who liked my pattern.

I started looking at all the scraps, stuff that was big, but not big enough for another mask..

Then I came up with a pattern to use most of those scraps.

A stuffed snail!! And what scraps were too tiny for that I could cut into tiny pieces and use them for partial stuffing.

I started thinking about ways I could evolve this pattern, and I came up with an idea that I'm very happy to be pursuing.

I'm adding a zipper pocket to some of the snails!! There will be options to buy them with things in them (tiny med kits, hand sanitizer, gender neutral menstrual products *like reusable pads*, and a one day pill container ) and other ones I'd leave empty, for the consumer to fill with things they want, like loose change, cool rocks, and eventually when I get foodsafe fabrics even snacks like goldfish or pretzels!

There will be a keychain option for the zippered and non zippered. And I will also be selling gender neutral reusable pads by themselves.

My whole idea with this company is to use up every last bit of what I consume. Paper scraps from patterns will be processed into recycled paper, which I'll turn into business cards, or shredded and used for cushioning in packaging.

My first listing is up on my store if you want to check it out, or if any of this sounds like something you would like to see you can save my shop to look at later when I bring all of these ideas to life!!

#etsy #snail #sewing #gender neutral menstrual products #reusable pads #stuffed animal #snail plushie

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aconstantstateofbladerunner · 4 years

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I know you're not a Harry Potter fan and you hate how some people seem to center their entire life around being a HP fan (I'm thoroughly sick of these people as well. please give other fictional works a try ffs!), but out of curiosity: did you ever like/was neutral to HP and got soured by those people's inability to read a different book, or did you never like it and your opinion on it was worsened by the aforementioned reason?

My frustration with Harry Potter and its fans is fairly recent. I watched some of the movies back in the day and liked them well enough, but not enough to watch them more than once or check out the books. For years, it was always “that popular thing I’ll probably get to eventually.” That changed last year.

The thing that catapulted HP to the top of my most hated fandom list was simple: no other obnoxious fan culture has ever bothered me in real life. I live in Orlando, and until recently I worked as a cashier at a dollar store close to the epicenter of tourist traffic. We of course sold HP merch because everyone does, but even without that Universal is right there. The thing about HP fans is that they either assume everyone else is also an HP, or for some reason they think it’s a niche nerd thing that makes them special for liking. The following are Just some of my experiences in no particular order.

- The HP jellybeans are apparently called something else in-universe, and a customer came up to me asking if we had them. Since I don’t know shit about HP, I just assumed it was a specific brand, and since we sell several brands I just pointed her to the candy section. She came back to the register with her beans and smugly told me maybe I should quote “have another reread” if I couldn’t remember an in-universe candy brand.

- We sell house shirts. Two women came through the line to buy some. They asked me what house I was, and I said I don’t know. No lie they start asking me weird and kinda invasive questions about bravery and intelligence and bullshit while I’m trying to ring them up. They don’t walk away when I’m done. And they are fucking giddy about it like they think they’re making my day, ignoring my obviously fake customer service smile and my eyes begging them to leave.

- It’s busy. My coworker (who was a normal fan) forgot her time turner necklace, so it’s sitting on top of my register so she can come back and grab it. A customer sees it, gasps dramatically, and asks where they are on display. I Explain the coworker thing. She understands, but goes into a whole thing about how there isn’t enough good merch (really?) and some story about finding something or whatever that I only half engage with. She eventually realizes I don’t actually care, then says she pities me for “living a life without magic.”

- I’m ringing up a little girl from a tourist family who’s nervous to pay for herself. I try to lighten the mood by asking about her about what parks they’re going to. They’re going to Universal the next day and ask me about it, I say what I remember but I haven’t been since before they added HP land. Transaction complete, little girl and her family leave. Next woman in line walks up and starts rattling on about HP land. “Do you remember this thing from this book? It was just like that! What about that bit from the movie! Just like it! It’s so great you have to go!” Over and over. I say I haven’t read the books. She looks at me like I’ve insulted her, and doesn’t say anything after. Not even thank you.

- “Do you sell wands?” “We have shirts, candy, and keychains.” “What about robes or costumes?” “Shirts, candy, keychains.” “How about any spell books?” “I’m sorry that’s all the HP stuff we have.” “When are you getting more?” “To my knowledge, that’s it.” “You should have more.”

- Mom with a young child and a wand. Does a whole routine about “not understanding muggle money,” including casting a spell on the card reader, making what would have been a 1 minute transaction into 5. There’s no line so I can’t tell her to leave. She keeps looking to her child for a reaction. The child does not care.

- Group of four women 5+ years older than me(23) come in with full robes and wands. I can hear them cackling in the back of the store while I’m in the front. They’re talking about their favorite thing from HP land. When they get to the register, they ask me mine. I give the same song and dance about how I’m not really a fan. Theirs eyes fucking light up, and they launch into a full-on summary of the premise and plot. Of Harry Fucking Potter. The most popular piece of pop culture in the English language from the past two decades as if I’ve never heard of it. I cut them off and say yeah I know what happens. The smiles drop. “If you know what it’s about, why haven’t you read it?” I said I just didn’t. All of them then spend all four long transactions trying to convince me why I should read the books, including “the wonderful fandom.”

In conclusion:

#shut up about harry potter

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