Getting really good at a craft takes a lot of time and effort, but here’s the thing: getting decent at one can be a lot easier than you think! And you don’t have to be a master to enjoy things! Felt a wonky hat! Knit a trapezoidal scarf! Carve a duck! Make a drop spindle out of a potato!
I’ve spent a lot of time in communities that work extremely hard in pursuit of technical mastery and that is necessary and valuable, but it’s also valuable just to mess around with things because they seem like fun!
If there’s something you always wanted to be able to do but thought it was too hard, look up some tutorials. Some things really do require access to equipment and materials you can’t easily find, but there’s so many things that you can do at home!
We let the story begin with money
Watch her clink clink clink
Ooh, look at her pretty tan skin
Like a curved ocean wave of lotion leg
But she rattles, too, a broken down shell
Watch her fall fall fall
Ooh so sexy no shelter tanned body
We let money decide our worth
This lady walks very suburban streets
Wonky hat straight from Raiders of the Ark
Black T-shirt exposing décolletage
Carefree days, beach fun, tumbled rock brown skin
Breasts plopped raindrops, dripping down chest
Black yoga shorts and cowboy boots
Talking nonsense to sweatered dog
If she was on skid row, what would they say?
Remember child, you can be anything
As long as it makes you loads of MON-EY
Just noticed that only 2 of my 5 or so posts tagged #miniature millinery shows up in search (and there’s only one other post beside them, so it’s not like they were crowded out). Am now suspecting my wonky pirate hat from yesterday was flagged as sensitive.
Accidentally fell asleep on each other on the train au Elain being the first to wake up to Lucien's snoring.
A/N: I’ve never written Elucien before so this was a little scary, but I also really had fun? I hope you like it :)
Elain stepped onto the train with a rather childish but simultaneously
endearing hop, her skirt curling around stocking clad legs and well worn
leathery boots with fur that warmed her ankles but left the rest at the mercy
of mid winter’s biting chill.
Securing her slightly wonky home knit hat, Elain gripped the strap of her
pack and walked down the cramped aisle, offering fellow passengers kind smiles
and murmured greetings as they allowed her to pass.
Eyeing her ticket, she slowed her pace, watching for her row with brown eyes
bright with excitement. She hadn’t seen Feyre in nearly three months, and
Nesta had gone ahead to get some business done before the holiday, leaving
Elain mostly on her own for the last two weeks. Besides, her fairly messy
break up six months before had left her significantly more lonely and extremely
gun shy. But she was fine, and Elain was
a reasonably self-sufficient modern woman, none of which made her miss her
sisters any less.
A small smile spread across her face at the thought of the mere hours that
separated her from a week long reunion, reacquainting herself with Feyre’s
fiance, and an anticipated first introduction to Nesta’s not so secret
Soon enough, Elain reached row 6H and lifted her travel bag high to fit in
the overhead bin, tilting back slightly at the weight only to have two warm
hands grip her waist gently, “Easy there.”
Still unseen, the stranger’s hands reached overhead to shove the bag further
back before he stepped away as Elain blushed and offered her thanks, tucking a
stray honey colored lock behind her ear.
The man grinned, eyes seemingly drinking her in somewhat subtly, his flush
matching hers. Neither spoke as Elain mirrored his actions, taking stock
of his distinctive russet eyes, one marred by a slim scar, long auburn hair
held in a ponytail behind his broad shoulders.
Eyes dancing merrily when her gaze returned to his, he lifted his own beat
up dark leather back pack onto the rack and gestured for her to slip into her
seat first, before he settled into his own gracefully.
The ticket inspector came by before long, leaving without incident as Elain
rifled through her carry for her iphone and earbuds, securing them in her lap
as she shifted around to get comfortable for the long journey, her fellow
passenger doing the same. When she
glanced up, his deep russet eyes were trained on her thoughtfully, not hesitating
when she caught him looking, offering a small smile in a seeming effort to
Elain mirrored his expression, going about her business until the silence
was broken by the sounds of the train readying to begin the trip.
“Lucien,” her seat mate offered, clearing his throat somewhat nervously.
She looked up, caught off guard, but smiled, blushing slightly, “Elain.”
Lucien nodded his head, hesitating slightly as if he intended to say more,
before a light flush rose up the back of his neck, and he put his headphones in
and pulled his hood over his head.
Quirking a brow quizzically, Elain shook her head slightly but let the
oddity drop, wriggling back into the plush seat as she tucked her earbuds in
and selected the playlist she’d built specifically for the trip, letting her
eyes drift closed, long lashes dusting across her lightly freckled cheeks. As the calming strains of her favorite
relaxing music began, Elain found herself being rocked to sleep by the steady
thrum of the train on its steely tracks.
Early afternoon sunlight cut through
the slats of the pristine white blinds, yellow slivers kissing across the
tufted armchair and warming Elain’s eyelids.
Slowly, she sat up against the back of the buttery leather settee
running her fingers through her sleep mussed hair habitually. The warm house was filled with quiet calm,
only the sound of some unidentified housemate puttering in an adjacent
room. Biting back a yawn she stood and
moved to explore the house, following the muffled sounds to what appeared to be
A man stood facing away from her,
auburn hair pulled into a low ponytail that brushed his bare broad shoulders,
muscled torso tapering into narrow hips, low slung sweatpants bearing his toned
body to the world.
Slowly he turned around, two steaming
mugs in hand and surprised grin tickling his lips, “Up already?”
Just as she opened her mouth to reply,
a rumbling noise echoed from outside the cozy home, although her lovely
companion didn’t seem to notice, walking closer and offering one of the mugs
casually, as if this was a regular occurance.
He closed the distance between them,
lips upturned as they hovered over hers, eyes twinkling happily as he moved
forward, their breaths mixing, Elain’s eyes fluttering closed, heart thumping
in anticipation, ears filled with the rush of blood.
Imagine: Peter Pan (I’m sorry if you feel intimidated by my mad editing skills)
*Ashton is basically Peter Pan but Ashton Pan sounds like a
frying pan you’d find at IKEA so roll with it ok*
SORRY IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES
“Ashton, we caught it!” One of the lost boys beamed while
running toward their older leader.
Ashton swung through the trees on loose vines just like
Tarzan before landing two feet on the ground with a thud. He rested both of his
fists on his hips and stood tall. His green hat sat wonky on his scruffy hair
as the odd few strands fell across his hazel eyes. “Good work boys, now let’s
see what the creature is” He said crouching down.
The remaining lost boys wandered over to Ashton while
carrying an organism in their small arms. As they got closer Ashton’s eyes
widened. “Well twist my hook and call me Captain” He breathed while looking
amazed. “It’s a girl”
“A girl?!” Cubby said absolutely disgusted as his face
soured while the other lost boys let out a sickened groan, dropping her to the
“Yes, a girl”
Ashton said quizzical
“Correct me if I’m wrong Ashton” Fox spoke up “But we’ve
never seen a girl here before apart from Tink and the Mermaids”
“So what you’re saying is there is somebody new roaming
around Neverland” Ashton said shocked but at the same time anxious.
“Tell me boys, is she dead?” Ashton quickly stood up,
looking down at the girl.
“No, she’ll be awake in not long” Cubby informed him
“Interesting” Ashton said, stroking his imaginary beard.
“Sir, what are we go—“
“UNHAND THAT GIRL RIGHT NOW, ASHTON” A voice suddenly shouted causing all of the Lost Boys and
Peter to jolt.
They all looked for the source of the voice. Ashton turned
and parted his lips. Balanced on the branch of a tree stood yourself, Y/N.
Ashton was captivated; you looked like the female equivalent of him. Your bare
tanned legs were on show with the occasional bit of mud smeared on your skin
until it got to your mid-thigh where your green ragged dress began. Your long
thick hair grew underneath your bandana, falling down your back blowing in the
light breeze. You had a look that was terrifying, Ashton couldn’t take his eyes
“Ashton!” One of the boys interrupted his thoughts. “Who is
she?!” He whispered
“I—I don’t know” Ashton stuttered while still looking up at
you stood tall
“Do I have to repeat myself?” You spoke again.
“Who are you?” Ashton asked, stepping forward – a slight
thread of confidence washing through him.
“Y/N.” You spoke.
“How do you know my name, wench?” He asked making the lost
“How mature” You smirked “How about you give me back my girl
and then I will tell you” You reasoned
“Your girl?” Ashton asked
“Yes, she’s my one of many. None of them have parents so I
took them for my own” You informed him. “Now hand her over before you give me
no choice but to shoot you” You said holding up your hand crafted bow and arrow
causing the boys to panic – they’d all left their weaponry where they stay,
Tink was the one that helped them get the little girl.
Ashton looked up at you with twinkly eyes. Despite there
being a bow and arrow in your hands he still managed to focus his gaze on your
beautiful eyes. He was interrupted again when he felt someone tugging on his
arm. “Ashton, what are we going to do?” One of the lost boys whispered
Ashton shot his head forward again, his trance over.
“Whaoh look, I don’t want any trouble here” He said quickly
“Boys, let the lady out while myself and Y/N here do some talking” He said.
They followed his orders and began to untie the sleeping
girl. You eyed Ashton as he came toward you. You jumped down from the tall tree
you were on landing with a thud. “A deals a deal” He spoke
“We never shook on it, Ashton” You smirked with a sultry
voice causing Ashton to look disappointed and needy. “However if you must know,
I heard Hook talking about you when I was spying on him. I knew it was you
right away when I saw you just now after I saw all of your boys” You informed
“So you have an army of girls too?” Ashton asked intrigued
“Yes, I do” You said “They depend on me and I depend on
“Why have I never seen you before?” He asked quietly
“Because some of us are better at keeping ourselves unknown
unlike others” You informed him with a smug grin
“Here’s your girl, ma’am.” One of the smaller lost boys said
nervously from yours and Ashton’s side. Beside you were all of the lost boys
with your girl in their arms.
“Thank you, young man” You said crouching down to him “I’m
sorry if I scared you all” You smiled, taking the girl into your arms before
standing up straight again. “Goodbye Peter” You looked at him before walking
“Wait, will I see you again?” He asked desperately
“You can hope” You answered, disappearing into the trees.
I think I might turn this into a little 10 part ish imagine, it depends if people like it *nervous laugh*
PS PLEASE TELL ME WHAT DISNEY CHARACTER YOU THINK THE OTHER BOYS SHOULD BE
To help you feel better after the awful AU I posted earlier (I’m truly sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking) I want you to imagine Thorin knitting, because it’s quite a lovely thing to imagine.
Since Bilbo was not overly fond of the jewelry Thorin made for him Thorin decided to find another way to present Bilbo with handmade tokens of his love and appreciation (he looked pleadingly at Dori until he taught him how to knit).
Knitting is also very relaxing *nods*
And a few years down the line Thorin is an expert knitter, but Bilbo still has the wonky hat and the twisted scarf and what was supposed to be a shirt tucked away in a drawer, because Thorin made them for him and he will treasure them always (just not wear them because somehow the shirt had three sleeves).
in the tenth year of the age of mothers, the dag starts to raise sheep. they come to her from far away, an impromptu flock crossing the wastes at a crawl. cheedo spies them from the top of the look out tower one still afternoon. she calls for dag, who comes to look.
“what are they?” she says, chin in her hands. “i don’t know,” says the dag. “they look like clouds,” says cheedo, and giggles. “little clouds, on black stick legs.”
they send out a scout to look; she returns with the animals in the back of her car. they are somber and still, but their eyes are wild. when dag reaches out to touch, they shy, and bleat, and stamp. it takes a long time to figure out what to do with them, and by the time they’ve decided cheedo has already won their trust. they stand near her and allow her to stroke them, from head to tail along their soft backs. their coats are curly and overgrown, matted near their feet and tails. “we should cut them,” cheedo says, and looks anxiously at the dag. “their coats, i mean. we’re not going to eat them, right?” “no,” dag reassures, and puts a hand to the nearest one, coaxing it close. she pushes the wool carefully back from its face with her fingers. “they’re called sheep,” she explains. “magdalene says people used to keep them for their wool. you can spin it, like the hemp.”
in the thirteenth year, their flock has doubled. what was three, now is six. the lambs are sweet and gambol about, teasing the children of the citadel into games of jump-and-chase. the dag has long since perfected how to shear them, and cheedo helps to hold them still, keep them calm as the dag collects their wool. the vuvalini show them how to skirt and wash it; the milking mothers teach them how to knit and to darn. they make socks and scarves and tops and leggings.
(cheedo gifts max with a wonky woolen hat complete with bauble upon his next return. she only sees him wear it once about the citadel: after the scorching temperature of the day has dropped, and it is his turn to take the night shift. he jams it on over his hair before he takes the stairs, and cheedo sees furiosa give him a look that suggest she is trying so hard not to laugh.)
HBD to my girl, badass warrior, Ginny Weasley. In honour of her birthday, I wrote a timeline type thing for her.
is one, and she is already losing the oldest of her brothers, the one whose
hair kisses his neck, to their mother’s chagrin, who bounces her on his knee
whilst humming the tune of, “Can You Dance Like a Hippogriff?”. She doesn’t
really understand all this “Hogwarts” business, but maybe it has to do with the
shiny new stick that Bill is twirling around, which the twins keep pawing at
and finding ways to take. But there’s so much time before she will really
understand, and she’s so tired, and her mother is whisking her away for a nap…
are four wax candles, moulded into dinky little cauldrons, on her birthday
cake. All the figures who sport vivid red hair are cheering animatedly when it is placed before her, but this is nothing compared to the raucous yells of glee she
hears when somehow she levitates the cake to collapse over Ron’s head, because
he puffed at her candles and blew them out before she had a chance to. A myriad
of light bursts from her fingertips, bright little sparks, and her family, even
Ron, are thrilled. This is the first time she’s done something like this, and
as everyone is nibbling slivers of mottled icing from her slightly-disgruntled
brother’s face, she is wondering what else she can do.
is six, now, and in her opinion, definitely old enough to glide into the
orchard on one of those “broomsticks”, chasing those leathery balls which smell
delicious and play alongside all her brothers. But the answer is always a
resounding no, however sympathetic Bill and Charlie might be, however knowingly
her father is looking at her. But she is not willing to give up, not ever, so
she bides her time. When they’re all enveloped cosily in their beds, she
manoeuvres her way downstairs, wincing at the tell-tale, whispered creak on the
sixth step, and tugs at the rusty lock on the broomshed until it gives. When
she slides her legs over the burnished, honey-tinted wood, it feels right, and
a short kick has her slicing through the air. The night has an icy blanket and
she is undeniably cold, but the warmth that spreads through her body at this
feeling wins. It is perfect.
finally. Despite the faint lines which materialise on her mother’s forehead
whenever her required schoolbooks are mentioned, and the frenzied whispers of
Knuts and Sickles and Galleons, or the fact that it has been impressed upon her
that she won’t have anything new, it will be battered textbooks of Percy’s and
tatty cloaks that completely shroud her legs, nothing can stop the growing anticipation.
She is going to Hogwarts, finally, there will be no more lonely days with her
mother, rereading Ron’s infrequent letters until the ink is smudged and the
parchment dog-eared. And she is even more delighted when Bill and Charlie chip
in for her wand – her new wand. The
kindly but sombre silver-haired man, Ollivander, talks much of “hazel” and
“dragon heartstring”, but she is not really listening to this; she is too busy
enjoying the tingles dancing in her fingers whenever she touches the wood. When
her moment eventually comes, and she is perched precariously on that wonky
stool, the Hat clasping her head, there is relief, but more importantly,
happiness when it tells her to join the ranks of the scarlet and gold, her
brothers: the twins and Percy - but not Ron, who is mysteriously missing. She has some qualms, yes,
and hides her shame at being one of the only first years with old cloaks and
books by working hard. Her new diary, which she discovered with some
trepidation in her cauldron at Flourish and Blotts, is there for her when she
needs it, a friend to carry in her pocket. Things are good for Ginny Weasley.
is thirteen, now, and beginning to shake off the horrors of her first year.
What had started off as near-perfection soon fizzled out and was replaced by
trauma and fear, blotting out her initial joy at being at Hogwarts. Awakening
in bizarre, secluded corridors clutching handfuls of feathers or being caked in
blood; the climax which led to her almost dying, splayed out on the cold marble
floor in the Chamber of Secrets. Alone. The nightmares where she abruptly jumps
up in bed, beaded in sweat, gasps dying on her lips, have almost stopped. She
makes good friends with the girls in her dormitory and even a few of the boys,
who are friendly and don’t treat her as a fragile doll who might break if she
so much as looked at a Quaffle.
and has quenched the thirst to prove herself; she has fought alongside her
brother and Harry, shown them that she is just as capable, if not more so. Knowing
what it’s like to be the outsider, she befriends the enigmatic but kind-hearted
Luna Lovegood. She thrived in Dumbledore’s Army, and although what happened at
the Ministry was dangerous and could have got her killed, it was exhilarating. Sirius’s
death leaves an ugly grey mark at the end of the year, and ominous shadows
under Harry’s eyes. Pangs pierce her stomach when she realises he is beginning
to notice her. The slow flush creeping up his cheek when their skin brushes.
The way he stares at her a lot, those bright green orbs boring into her,
whether it’s at Quidditch practise or just when they’re all closeted up in the
Common Room. How he walks with her to and from practise, occasionally to her
classes, dissolving into laughter at her jokes, the warmth and pleasure in his
voice when they talk. He is not like
a brother, whatever she tells herself, and her crush is back but it’s different
this time, more intense, stronger, less like a crush and more like love. She
knows he feels the same way, because he kisses her in front of everyone, and
it’s better than Quidditch, better than Butterbeer, better than all her
birthdays rolled into one.
sixteen, and so young to be fighting so many. Her arms are riddled with so many
dried cuts and gashes. The skin on her arms is papery, her fingers droop, but
they remain tight around her wand, which sleeps in her hands, most nights.
Resentment and contempt burns in the eyes of the Carrows, who know she is
behind most of the rebellion. Luna and Neville remain by her side, and her
resolve is strong, but she is consumed with worry for Harry, Ron and Hermione,
for the rest of her family who, strangely – other than her mother – do not tell
her to lie low, to stop fighting, to shut down Dumbledore’s Army, but exactly
the opposite. She coats the walls in graffiti such as “Long Live Harry Potter”
and “Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting”, she releases the trembling first
years chained up in the dungeons, and she allows the smirking Slytherins to
perform the Unforgivables on her, instead. She is starting to feel numb to the
pain, after all. When the final battle arrives, she thinks to herself, this is it, but finds herself once again
held back by the old refrain, “you’re too young”. It’s not fair, hasn’t she
spent the year fighting these people? Hasn’t she proved herself again and
again? There is a betrayal from Harry, too, who refuses to see her risk her
life, but she is stubborn, and she does it anyway, and she survives, because
that’s what she does. Ginny Weasley is a survivor.
Seventeen, and the war was won, but at a
terrible cost. There is a gaping wound in her heart where Fred used to be, but
this is nothing, she knows, to how George feels. In a way, it is like she has
lost them both, because he is drifting away from them. Little gestures begin to
reel him back in, like going through her mother’s photo albums, or making
light-hearted fun of Percy, who doesn’t mind so much anymore. She feels guilty
for it, but part of her is only thinking Harry,
Harry, Harry, the part of her which pined for him all last year, and on her
seventeenth birthday, August 11th, she kisses him for the first time
since that day on his seventeenth
birthday, and he promises not to leave her again. She believes him, because he
also tells her that he loves her, which makes her so happy that she can’t quite
believe it. There are small things, like Ron and Hermione holding hands, or
George sharing savoured memories of Fred, and her father fixing the broomstick
that the Carrows snapped when they stripped her of her Quidditch captaincy,
which begin to heal her heart.
and she marries Harry Potter on what, is possibly, the best day of her life.