#all my crochet patterns are two dollars

[bluesidez]

Bless Your Heart | PROLOGUE: SUNKEN EYES

The places our minds can go, the beauty we can see, and the feelings that we, ourselves, can only imagine. Oh, the places your heart will go.

tread lightly ⋆⋆⋆ pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy symptoms (cravings, morning sickness, changes in the body), mentions of food, character death, angst, a bit suggestive

word count ⋆⋆⋆ 2.7k (much thanks to my beta @slushycoookie 💚)

note on the fridge ⋆⋆⋆ I ask that you walk with me here....just walk with me. The prologue is important to get to the next chapter.

next ℧ masrterlist ℧ AO3

Wrap, wrap, wrap, and pull. Wrap and pull, wrap and pull.

Tempest hummed a melody to keep up with the pattern in her lap. Milky brown, light pink, and cream white yarn was all around her.

A friend showed her how to weave the soft material some years ago. She even helped her to start it, but it wasn’t until now that Tempest felt that completing it was her biggest goal.

Her fingers tremble as she holds the crochet needle in her hand, peach nails getting stuck against the string.

“Shit,” she whispers. The ring on her left hand snags against her square, ruining the pattern and her pace.

Slumping back, she drops her head on the seat of the coach, the feeling of the floor bringing her solitude.

Everything has been off.

Just a few weeks ago, she had been fine. Enjoying life, riding through the water with Magenta, eating dill pickles and boiled peanuts, and more importantly, knocking boots with her husband.

It was exhilarating.

Then irritation set in soon after.

Pork rinds never made her wanted to upchuck more than they did three afternoons ago. The smell in the air after opening the plastic was like her uncle clogging up the bathroom during Easter dinner.

She saw a charm with a mama deer cuddling her baby deer and startled the entire jewelry department with how hard she sobbed.

One night, the atmosphere was just right with candlelight and glasses of wine, but one hand on her nipples ruined the mood. It felt like someone or something had been pushing and pulling against her breasts all night.

To top it all off, she felt exhausted. Going to bed as early as 7 PM, waking up far too late to feed the chickens.

It was all too much.

Her last straw was running out on the dinner her husband made for her. Usually, she could muster up a smile and fight her way through the burnt veggies. Last night though, one bite of sour green beans had her tripping over herself to get to the toilet bowl.

He was distraught, one hand rubbing her back and the other holding back her dangling necklaces.

After that, she decided to do what she was avoiding for way too long.

A piece of white and blue plastic laid over a napkin on the bathroom counter. Black ink on the tiniest screen set her heart into motion. A decision of a lifetime sat in the pit of her stomach.

Right now, she felt more comfortable holding the empty trash can over her lap and finding relief.

A tug on the yarn distracts her. Looking down, she smiles at the three-month-old kitten.

“At least you’re having fun, Maple,” Tempest says. She rubs a hand on her kitten’s belly, laughing as she kicks at the yarn. “My happy baby.”

She was as big as ever, putting the stray cats around the farm to shame.

“I hope your Papa is happy.”

Maple paid her no mind, jumping at the string she was shaking above her.

Tempest stayed on the floor, waiting. Her mind was elsewhere as a gameshow panned across the TV screen.

The living room got darker and darker. Maple was curled up on top of her ruined square pattern, huffing big as she slept.

It’s not until she perks up and runs off her lap, squealing with all that she’s got, that Tempest notices that her husband is home.

“Roe!”

She smiles, listening to him fuss at Maple for climbing.

“This damn cat likes to climb me more than the 200 dollar cat tree we bought her.”

He sits on the floor next to his wife, holding Maple in one hand and wrapping around Tempest with the other.

“That would make two of us,” Tempest hummed.

He kissed her, groaning as her thumb pressed against his ear.

Their foreheads touch, and he rubs his nose against hers.

“How are you feeling today?”

“About the same. How was your day?”

“Same old thing. Nothing exciting until I got back here. ‘M more worried about you, though. You gave me a scare yesterday, Roe.”

She closes her eyes and sighs, hands forming loose fists in front of his shirt. Her heart was pounding and the AC wasn’t helping the heat forming over her skin.

“Hey,” he says. He cradles her head in his hand. “Everything ok? You know you can tell me anything.”

“Anything?”

“You were there when I was out on my ass with just a t-shirt covering my closest parts and a rottie on my tail.”

Tempest snickered, “You had no business playing around with those dogs. And they showed out, too.”

“You were also there when I was drunk out of my mind, serenading you in the middle of the night.”

“Almost woke up the entire dorm with The Temptations. How could I forget?”

“And when I lost bareback for the first time. And when Pops almost knocked me into the grave. And when I fought with my brother. And when your family was ready to rough me up-”

“Miguel. I’m pregnant.”

His smile pauses, face shifting as he looks back and forth between Tempest’s eyes.

“What?”

She got up and ran to the bathroom, grabbing her proof. She hands it to Miguel and hugs her legs close.

“I’m…pregnant. I don’t know how far along, but I haven’t been feeling good for a few weeks.”

Miguel reads the test over and over until the lines blur.

“Oh, Hare, I-I know. I know we’re still building our time together. And I still want that for us,” she wipes the tears falling from his face, the ones that match her own. “We’ll figure this out. If you don’t want the baby, we can go somewhere and, and we can make them go away. I’ll be happy as long as you’re happy.”

“But what about you? Do you want the baby?”

Tempest’s lips curl in and out. It feels like he can see right through her.

“Yes, more than anything.”

He pulls her to his lap as soon as she finishes the sentence. Maple jumps on the couch.

“Then, I’m going to be a Daddy.”

Tempest smiles through her tears, laugh bubbling up. Miguel joins in, hands clasping against hers.

“You want to be?”

“No better time than now, Temp. We’ll give ‘em the world.”

“The world and then some.”

Miguel gets up and spins her around, the sound of her laughter louder than the live studio audience over the TV speakers.

“I…I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

Her face hovers over his as she scans his expression.

There was a glow on his skin that she would be soon to match. A fire lighting him up from inside.

“You’re gonna be a Daddy, Guel.”

She’s so beautiful.

Even as she turns her nose up at the plates he brought home, she’s still beautiful.

“These are your favorite!” Miguel holds out meat from a crab leg.

She gags, tears threatening to break free, “And right now they’re making me want to mess up your shoes.”

He takes the meat back and takes a bite. He furrows his brow, “Actually, I don’t even know if they cooked this right.”

“Spit it out.”

She’s so beautiful.

Even as her favorite pants can no longer button up and she’s sprawled out over the bed about to cry, she’s still beautiful.

“I’ll buy you more pants, Roe,” Miguel sighs as he pulls on a different jacket.

“But these ones make my ass look amazing. And I’m bloated.”

“It always looks amazing. You always look amazing. That’s not going to change ‘cause of some denim.”

“But you always end up eating me up like a sundae because of these.”

He pauses, turning to her as she throws an arm to her forehead dramatically.

“If that’s what you wanted,” his jacket is thrown to the floor, “all you had to do was ask.”

She’s so beautiful.

Even as she’s staring at Miguel in disbelief, rubbing a cold towel across his face, she’s still beautiful.

“You’re irritating me right now.”

“When you get sick in the morning, so do I.”

“I didn’t get sick today, Hare.”

“But I did!”

“What are you going to do when this baby catches a cold? Gets a stomach bug? Breaks a bone?”

He turns his head on her lap, face pressed against her barely visible bump.

“Take care of it. Then, come lay in your arms.”

She’s so beautiful.

Even as she nearly jumps through the ceiling when the doctor lays the gel over her stomach, she’s still beautiful.

“I can never get used to that,” Tempest mumbles.

Miguel kisses her head, “You never liked the cold.”

The two of them are holding hands like they’re freefalling on an amusement park ride watching the transducer go over Tempest’s skin.

His heart is drumming so loud against his chest, Miguel almost thinks it’s his baby instead.

“Alright, family. Would you like to hear your baby’s heartbeat?”

“Yes, please.” Miguel can’t help it.

Like the horses galloping across the plains, the sound fills the room.

Tempest shudders out a laugh of relief, of joy, as she leans her cheek on their clasped hands.

“Oh, Miguel. I think that’s the most amazing sound I’ve ever heard.”

He hums in agreement, eyes never leaving the screen.

“Would you all like to know the gender?”

The two nod. Days of wondering have led to this.

The probe moves and Miguel’s thumb moves over the back of Tempest’s hand as a reminder to breathe.

“It looks like a perfectly healthy baby girl!”

Tempest shouts, all of her intuition and old wives’ tales were validated. She’s getting the girl she wanted.

Miguel hopes she looks like Tempest because Tempest is so beautiful.

Even as she crosses off Miguel’s first choices for a name, she’s still beautiful.

“Why don’t you like Mist? It’s us, Roe! Miguel and Tempest. Mist!”

“We are not naming our baby after condensation, Hare. No.”

“With the way you’re going, her initials are going to be GMO. A farmer’s daughter with the initials GMO? A future cowgirl with GMO on the back of her shirt? Really?”

“It could be cute!”

“It could be lethal.”

Tempest huffs, “Well what else do you have?”

He flips a page in his notepad, “Tempel.”

“Like a temple? You know you would hate that. You barely like stepping foot in a church pew”

“Touché,” he drags his pen down the page, “Teguel.”

“Sounds like kegal. Do you want her to get bullied? Do you really want that for our child?”

He laughs, thinking the frown on her face is beautiful.

Even as she sits a package of frosted sugar cookies and ranch on her stomach for dipping, she’s still beautiful.

“This is rancid.”

“I think you mean delicious. I’m gonna try pickles wrapped in Rice Krispies treats next. Oh! And dill pickle chips with strawberry ice cream. I heard that’s the best.”

“And I need to go get these things now?”

“I suggest you do, unless you want to sleep in Magenta’s stall.”

“Yes, honey.”

He thinks she’s beautiful when she hands him the keys to the truck.

Even as he comes running to the bathroom when she yells his name, she’s still beautiful.

There’s an open half a gallon of milk in his hands and his tank is dangling over his shoulders.

“I think she just kicked!”

He’s not sure where the milk lands, but he’s on his knees, hands on Tempest’s stomach in a heartbeat.

He waits and waits, eyes going from her dark skin to her anticipating face.

Then he calls out to her.

“Baby girl, it’s me. It’s Papa!”

Three sharp kicks have Miguel squeezing around Tempest’s legs tight, pressing long kisses where she left an impression.

Tempest runs her fingers through his short hair softly and hugs him close.

“You got milk all over my floor.”

When she directs his mopping from her pregnancy pillow from the bed, he teases her about being beautiful.

Even with her exhausted state, trying to sleep through his soft chords, she’s still beautiful.

“You would think that this would keep her up, and yet, here we are singing lullabies at 2 AM.”

“I’ll keep humming, Roe. You just rest up.”

The timbre of his voice and his fingers sliding across guitar strings warms the chilly bedroom. His back is piled with two quilts while Tempest keeps a thin bed sheet just under her hips.

As she finally sleeps, Miguel thinks she’s beautiful.

Even when she stands in the mirror, taking in every last change to her body, he knows she’s still beautiful.

He stands behind her, rubbing cocoa butter into her skin. He follows the stretch marks up her stomach in awe. They remind him of roots of a tree, intertwining and intricate.

When he finds her face through the glass, she’s glowing. The black finger waves she sported eight months ago have turned into a small, curly fro with hot pink tips.

“You’re gorgeous today, Mama Roe,” Miguel whispers.

“Thank you, baby.”

The two of them cradle her stomach, sinking into the late afternoon. Maple is asleep upside down on an ottoman having tired herself out from chasing butterflies in the grass.

“Are you ready? To be a daddy?”

“Never been more ready. I got my pink hatband and everything.”

Tempest beams, “I guess it don’t get more ready than that, huh? You got your pink spurs, too?”

“You better know it.”

His words tickle her so, she laughs in his arms for what feels like hours.

She’s so…

Beautiful.

With lips like a heart and a sharp cupid’s bow to match. The top lip darker than the bottom and a mouth like a sailor.

Hair so thick, she cuts it off to not deal with it. The finest pixie cut you’ll ever see. Waves curling deeper than the ocean, grown a little and dyed for fun.

Toned thighs and a once hard stomach from pulling stubborn pigs riding horses without a saddle. Low-rise jeans in almost every shade adorned her closet.

Her eyes are like the sun setting in the summer. Warmer in the depth of the night, holding his heart close, leaving him bare. Orange and burnt umber. Somehow, yellow could make it through. Black pupils with nearly white, shining highlights.

Too beautiful.

“Daddy?”

Miguel breathes in sharp, the smell of freshly cut grass cutting his senses.

A monarch lands on a sunflower planted in the rose gold vase and he blinks.

His knees are starting to go numb and the sun is blaring against his back. He reads over the stone one more time.

A heart like no other, A soul that shines bright

Tempest Monroe-O’Hara

Miguel sniffs as a loose strand of hair goes across his cheek and a face slots against the side of his, nearly knocking his hat off. It’s a familiar feeling.

“Almost ready to go?”

“Yeah, Sunshine, I’m almost finished. I promise.”

“Ok, I’m going to wait on the back of the truck!”

She squeezes his neck and runs to the truck bed, not before her little hands grasp his own.

He rubs his hands against his jeans, head ducking as he thinks.

“Every day, she’s growing up to be more and more like you, Roe,” he chuckles. His throat is tight and some spots on his pants go from dark blue to navy. “Impatient as ever.”

He takes off his hat and looks at the embroidery on the inner rim. The once anticipated date staring back at him is not too far off from the sunset on the marble before him. The pink hatband is still intact.

“And she’s just as beautiful.”

The butterfly dances from the flower to his hat, wings slowly expanding and pinching.

“I hope you’re still watching her grow. I hope you’re still watching us and smiling up there.”

A dragonfly lands next to the butterfly, its abdomen shaking swiftly with iridescent wings buzzing away.

“Daddy!” Gabriella yells. “C’mon! We’re going to miss our show!”

The two insects twist together as they fly off, cool and warm colors mixing with the grass. Miguel sees them off until they become miniscule.

“I guess you heard the princess. Can’t miss our show.”

Miguel gets up and places his hat back on his head. He presses a hand from his lips to the top of the stone.

“Te amo, Roe.”

divider by ⋆⋆⋆ rookthornesartistry 💚

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[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Happy Wednesday! It's that time of year again, when the weather acting erratic has me in a constant arthritis flare up. So instead of working on anything useful (except my crochet blankets) it's random hat time!

Well, the brown hat on the left was something I started a while ago and wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with it, so I decided to do some 1 colour brioche rib with two row of regular stockinette occasionally. Which looks Really good irl but doesn't photograph that well. Every row also takes fifteen years but that is mostly due to how to splitty this yarn is.

The purple hat on the right is actually a chanukah present so working on it is very justified! My sibling was going to buy a C.C Beanie for like 14 dollars from Amazon and it made me so annoyed I immediately demanded we go to miss Joann. 2.69 USD later I started this hat. In looking at the different patterns people have used to recreate this hat, I'm pretty sure literally all of them are wrong in some way so that's fun. I'm doing a half twisted rib for the folded brim However I'm planning on having the twisted bit on the inside and the untwisted bit on the outside, if that makes any sense. I'm also going to do 1 colour brioche for the 1x1 rib in the body of the hat just as a treat. The only sad part of this hat is that I don't like how the crown looks but I don't really feel up to fighting with it rn.

As for my crochet blankets, the colourwork blanket I'm making for my mother is coming along very slowly but surely. I just hit the middle of my second repeat out of four and finally feel like I don't need to constantly read the pattern to not fuck it up. My mother is hoping I'll be finished before the end of the year but I seriously doubt it.

[naritaren]

A round up of the gifts I crocheted for this holiday:

It doesn't seem like a lot, but those cowls took a few days, and the shawls took a few weeks to make. There was part of a gift that did not get done in time. The hat with the yellow state fair ribbon is supposed to have matching mittens and a cowl. Unfortunately, I could not source the yarn until last week, and I have been trying since July. My brother is aware and is fine with waiting. I should be able to get his stuff out in the mail next week. To be fair, he's also not been in the country until like two weeks ago and didn't respond to my damn text about what size his hands are lmao

But this is everything. Details below the cut.

The dark purple hat is the Mathom Beanie by KAME Crochet. The red and dark purple cowl is the Mathom Scarf that I heavily modified from KAME Crochet. The light purple hat is the Tranquility Beanie from MrsBCrochet. The dark blue hat is the Braided Harvest Beanie from Sheepish Stitches. The hat with the ribbon is my own pattern called the Paradise Hat. The bi-colored shawl is the Morrocan Mint Tea Shawl by Teapot Atilier Designs. The other shawl is the Jasmine Tea Shawl by the same designer. All of the hats except the dark blue hat use various shades of Malabrigio Rios. The dark blue hat is a yarn from a local yarn store (BeWoolen), and it's their house line called pigments and is in color Frontenac. The bi-colored shawl is a Hobbii twister cake, and the other shawl is a cake from an Amazon brand called HobbyMia.

All of the pompoms are from TheFireflyHook on Etsy. I highly suggest her poms as they're well made, very affordable for the XL ones (11 dollars for ones with snaps), and she's local to Minnesota! The tag on the blue hat is from LaserLlamaBotique.

[luthiest]

Could you please recommend knitting tools/supplies and other things for first time/beginner knitters? I’ve seen how expensive some things are and it’s a little overwhelming. Thank you❣️

hi!! yeah knitting is not exactly a cheap hobby… there’s definitely a point where being able to make and mend things rather than paying top dollar for quality assurance and design can be more cost effective, but that point is pretty far down the line.

as far as tutorials go, there are a ton of good youtube channels out there, but NimbleNeedles and SoWolly are two of my favorites. nimbleneedles is one i like for technique explanations and tips because the colors are very crisp and the explanations are trimmed and easy to understand. sowolly, i like for exploring new stitch patterns and textures, which are a pretty low stakes brain/technique exercise that you can do with any kind of yarn and needles.

for tools, there are a couple things you will be needing for just about every project: needles, a darning needle, stitch markers, and a small crochet hook/stitch fixer. (technically, everything but the needles are optional, but these tools all save you a ton of time and effort as you go on) most of these things can just be found at a local craft store for pretty cheap, but for stitch markers, id recommend getting a bunch of these bulb pins ! they serve just about every purpose imaginable.

needles:

these are categorized by shape, material, and size. the basic shapes are circular, straight, and double pointed (you’ll see these called “dpn’s”). when shopping for needles, be aware that they are labeled generally with the diameter of the needle either in mm or a US#, and the length of the needle or cord in cm/in. you will need the diameter to match the recommended needle size on the yarn u have! (usually found somewhere on the label where it has the gauge. example: 10cm x 10xm = 20sts x 23 rows)

circular: connected by a flexible cord, best for knitting in the round (aka knitting in a continuous circle to make a tube) but can also be used for knitting flat.

straight: straight with a bulb at one end, are used to knit flat pieces.

double pointed: straight with points at either end, can be used to knit flat, but are best for knitting in the round, particularly when the size of the tube is variable, like in hats or socks.

for a beginner, the most cost effective needles will depend on the projects you’re undertaking. if you plan on getting your feet under you with just flat knitting for the time being, a pair of bamboo straight needles will serve you well! in my case, the majority of the projects i did starting out were in the round, so i actually began with a set of circular needles. i found this blog post that has a great overview of needle types and price options for increasing experience levels!

when knitting in the round, you’ll find that the majority of your expenses going into projects will be rebuying needles of the same size but different lengths and cord lengths. if you plan on making lots of projects with circular needles, i would recommend buying only 1 pair of needles in the appropriate size with a long cord, (more than 24 inches) perfecting first the traveling loop technique, then magic loop. these 2 techniques will save u a lot of money on downsizing circular cord lengths. (arguably the same can be done by using dpn’s, but i personally think these techniques minimize the risk of mistakes early on)

so however you decide to start out, flat or circular, i think looking for bamboo needles will be the most cost effective and beginner friendly material, since they have more friction than plastic or metal needles, and stitches will not slip off as easily. also, if they are too pointy or not pointy enough, you can always modify the tips easily with sand paper.

your other main expense will be YARN. and boy is it expensive. you’re going to have to experiment with a lot of fibers to see what you actually like knitting with, but this post from nimbleneedles is a fantastic place to start. his breakdowns of fibers and gauge are great, and i totally agree about wool being the most agreeable and versatile fiber to start out on! i would avoid cotton and synthetic fibers while you’re still learning.

i hope this has been helpful!!! i’m no expert by any means, but i definitely made a lot of ill-advised purchases early on lolol. please let me know if you want a second opinion on a purchase, have any burning questions about a pattern abbreviation, or if you’re struggling with something and want to know if there are other ways to do it—odds are, there are. (this last point is specifically about norwegian purling. iykyk, it blew my mind last month)

edit: link to the instagram of the 2nd hand fiber arts shop !! @swansonsfabrics

[ab-crochet-club]

Some Words About A Project - BMO cute little purse with Jake plushie charm

A project for Blue, which I think came out quite well. Didn't follow a pattern for most of this, but for some: the cone tip, the heart of gold little wallet thing, and Jake the dog. Other than those, just worked off of pictures of other crochet BMOs and various images from the show. The yarn Lion Brand 24/7 cotton, I find it works quite well for the sort of projects that I mostly work, nice colors and feel and very little splitting and all that. Also, I used here a 3mm hook, the purse is rather small, can just carry maybe a phone, some dollars/credit card, and maybe a few other small items. One might like to try with a 4mm hook or so for a bit larger interior.

All is done almost entirely using single crochet and slip stitch, with some occasional half-double or double crochet. Also it's mostly built up in one big piece, with many small bits to be added on, and a fair bit of embroidery. I use the chart here for the lettering.

Beginning using Jade color yarn we start with BMO's undercarriage, a simple rectangle.

Now, at this point I worked around the rectangle, in the back (or maybe it's the front? The one 'above' anyway) loop along the long sides, and just sort of doing my best along the short sides. And then just work around a lot to start to build up the body. This is probably the more easy approach, not having to build several pieces and attach all together, but it does make for a somewhat poorly shaped body; that is, we get a fair bit of 'stitch drift' heading up the body, and the corners are rounded, so all together it doesn't quite have the boxy shape, more of a slightly deformed and rounded rectangle cross section. Once it is all complete it seems to look pretty nice, but some might prefer to do it a bit more 'proper' by building the sides all as separate rectangles and then sewing together in the end. That may also make other steps easier, for example the embroidery and attaching the buttons and such; for me it could be a bit difficult at times working into a cramped space. Experiment eh.

Enough rows to comfortably fit the 'O' and the red button (a simple magic ring start with a few single crochet rounds).

More rows, just enough to make room for the 'M', probably six, also starting to add the directional buttons and thinking about placement for the green (a simple disc like the red, but smaller). I made several attempts at the yellow directional buttons, but ultimately was unable to feel happy with any one-piece results, they just all came out terrible, maybe someone has a nice technique for that but I ended up just doing two thin rectangles and sewing one over the top of the other; it's fine I think.

View from the back about this time; along the side we have the 'O' and the 'M', in front pretty much as the previous image, but the yellow directional button and green round have been sewn in and also the light blue triangle. Triangle can be made by working like a rectangle but not doing turning chains so you lose stitches as you go.

Nearly to the top now! All side lettering is complete, and the speakers are there, just need a bit more for the face screen. It's at about this time that I start thinking about doing this as a purse rather than a doll, and also notice that it'll be way too small for a purse, so start to think about adding a hat for extra interior space.

FACE! Also a lovely star sticker for BMO, who is brilliant and pretty. The screen is made as a rectangle, then the face is slip stitched on, and finally the screen is slip stitched onto the body. Don't recall now exactly how the star was made, here is a video which seems close enough, others are available.

Another look at the backside, not so much going on here. Mostly all done using slip stitch through the body.

A look at BMO's golden heart; it's little, but can just about hold a couple credit cards or folded bills.

The strap, not perfectly added, messed up a bit, but it came out pretty well I think, can easily attach various decorations and is a lovely Navy Blue. Starts with along chain, then working single crochet along the chain, then double or maybe half-double while skipping a couple stitches in between to create a nice sort of window pattern, then finish with another single crochet row.

Went with the cone hat, like Football. Like much of my work it's a bit sloppy and just sort of doing stuff and thinking it'll probably be fine, probably. Here we attached Orange at the top and single crochet around with some increases at the corners to create the brim, also some skips along the short sides to go around the strap. Once the brim is complete, attach the Orange again at the top and this time work in and up, distributing some decreases so that you build up into the sky with the rectangle gradually turning into a square and finally closing up. Lastly, build a witch hat without the brim and sew it at the top so as to have a nice pointy cone.

Here we are with the lining added in; this may not be necessary if you carefully weave in all of your yarn ends, I couldn't be bothered and anyway it seems super cute with some nice space lining inside. Quite low on interior space, but maybe enough for a too cute little bag.

Lovely. Next, build a friend to attach onto the strap, I went for Jake with headphones, which shine.crafts explains well, link to their ko-fi shop where the pattern can be obtained:

Looking good Jake!

Final result: Totally Algebraic! (I say final, I think probably fine without the arms or legs, but I'll add them if Blue wants me to).

[wonderful-d0g]

project #2: headphone sprout

my sweet girlfriend sent me a fun tiktok about someone who crocheted a headphone sprout for their boyfriend, so i wanted to practice making one too.

i did not have green yarn so it ended up looking like a bow…! this is because i didn’t want to buy new yarn.

it took about two hours to make; i have never crocheted a flat piece like this (given that this is literally the second thing i’ve crocheted) so didn’t know the stitches or method. this is not counting the time taken for my first attempt - i made it about 75% of the way into one when my yarn got all fucked up so i had to snip it and restart from the beginning (dollar store yarn moment). not sure what to do with that one.

it fits nicely with no alterations to the pattern. i used a 4mm hook and an I-have-no-idea yarn. pattern and tutorial by ETM’s Studio!

[tj-crochets]

Hey y’all! I want to start getting some of my sewing patterns up for sale, but at least for the first pattern I’d want to remake the plushie myself and, if possible, have someone pattern test it. I’m going to list the patterns I’ve written that I might put up for sale, and please let me know if any of them interest you! Especially if you’re willing to be a pattern tester - elephant (version 1 and version 2) - octopus - frog (small but detailed, with two options. Grumpy and less grumpy) - whale - mini bee - hammerhead shark - tiny skunk? maybe? - sunfish (aka mola mola) (might just make this one a free pattern, it’s pretty simple) - jack o lantern (same for this one, if a pattern only has two pieces I’m reluctant to charge for it) - a large gecko - cuttlefish - spherical bee - teddy bear but it’s a deer (also with cat and penguin options) - human teeth (molar, canine, and whatever front teeth are called) - robot - s’mores ghost (probably a free pattern) - eel (also maybe a free pattern? But it uses an unusual technique, so maybe a free pattern, maybe free pattern but a video explanation of the technique will be on my patreon. Idk. Gotta figure out how to do videos) Edited to add links

[kaiyonohime]

So I got my study book in the mail today for the level 1 lace exam from the Japanese Knitting Organization.  I want to stress the word KNITTING here.

I always forget that, in Japanese, knitting is frequently 手編み, which also covers crochet too.  I was prepared for that, I can study crochet lace because I actually do know how to crochet, I just don’t do it often (long story short I broke two fingers in my right hand many years ago and it hurts to hold my crochet hook for long periods of time.  I knit to compensate).  But it turns out that it means more than that.  A fuckton more.  

In Japanese, 手編み (teami) also means bobbin, tatting, macrame, embroidery, cross stitch, and whatever the hell the two images above are.  Does anyone know what those two images relate to?  Because, by the time I take the course next year, I need to be a master at them as graded by Japan’s skill level.  Thankfully, after looking through the book as to the level of product I should be able to produce, probably not hard to be able to study up to be able to pass the exam next year.

Their knitted lace portion is ladder lace, some of the simplest lace in my opinion, and some feathers and fan lace.  Those were their examples of master level lace.  I’m... I’m good on that front.  Really super good.  But I haven’t done crochet lace in years (thankfully Japanese patterns are all charted, and I can read those easily and do it with little difficulty), and, thankfully, YouTube has a shit ton of instructional videos to watch that I can learn from.  And, if I use clothes pins and improvise a pillow (sturdy, round, cloth covered pillows are plentiful and cheap in Japan, as a lot of people use them for sitting on floors with), I can start doing that tomorrow, and I can get tatting supplies at the dollar store easily enough.  I just have no clue what the two pictures are related to.  But I’ve also only glanced at the book, I’ll be reading it much more carefully and taking notes tomorrow.

I need to check to see if I need to bring a completed product.  None of the master lace is beaded.  I want to see the eyebrow raise for my ‘unconventional beaded lace’ if I bring that in as my completed project.  Japan doesn’t do unconventional well, even if the rest of the craft world sees beaded knitting as completely conventional.

[unbridgeabledistances]

ok i have an inbox full of prompts, but i was making valentine’s day plans & all of a sudden felt very inspired to write some valentine’s day gallavich! featuring uncle mickey, homemade cards and a lot of domestic fluff- i’ll probs have a part two up sometime this week!<3

--

It was a lazy, slow-paced Sunday afternoon at the Gallagher house. Mickey had been lying on the couch passively watching trashy reality TV for god knows how long—and apparently at some point he’d fallen asleep, because now the TV volume was just a low hum, and he was being woken up to the startling crash of the kitchen back door slamming shut, and the rustling of shoes and coats being taken off and discarded by the front door.

“Alright Franny, let’s set this stuff up on the kitchen table.” Mickey heard Ian’s voice sail across the room, his eyes still closed to block out the cheery sunshine teeming in the living room.

Mickey tried to doze off again, attempting to block out the bright light infiltrating his eyelids, but it was no use— whatever Ian and Franny were doing, murmuring and clanging in the kitchen, there was no way for Mickey to escape the sound now and drift back into his sunwarmed sleep. He begrudgingly shoved the scratchy crocheted blanket off of his lap, stretching as he rose and stumbled into the kitchen.

He wasn’t expecting the carnage that he saw when he turned the corner; the kitchen table was covered in an explosion of sheets of multicolored construction paper, all reds and pinks and whites, with tiny multicolored stickers and tubes of glitter and shiny ribbons arranged and spread wide across the countertop, scattered with glue sticks and pairs of scissors and an exploded box of crayons. There was a small mountain of cut-out hearts piled high on the table, smattered with glitter-glue and blocky handwriting.

Mickey rubbed his eyes, taking in the scene. “What’re you two Picassos up to?” he asked drowsily.

Ian looked up, his eyes light. “Look who’s awake!” He gestured at the table emphatically, like it was Christmas morning. “Isn’t it great? Me and Franny grabbed all this stuff at the dollar store for less than ten bucks. The glue sticks definitely kind of suck, but I think it’ll get the job done.”

Mickeys eyes scanned to Franny, who was hard at work trying to cut a shape out of a piece of red construction paper, her brows furrowed in concentration. Ian kept chattering on as he unwrapped another sheath of the paper.

“Debbie left Franny with me since some rich lady called her with a weekend handywoman emergency that popped up at the last minute, so now I’m helping Franny make her valentines for school.”

Mickey scoffed. “Fucking valentines?”

Ian rolled his eyes as he contentedly started to glue together two pieces of paper. “Yes, Mickey, valentines. You know, those nice things that normal people give to each other on Valentine’s Day, along with a box of chocolates or some shit and a note about how much they love each other—”

“Yes, I know what they are, smartass. Don’t know why you didn’t just buy the little cardboard ones at the store though.”

Ian smirked, his eyes still focused on the paper beneath him that he was smudging glitter on. “Yeah, well. Franny wanted to make them, and I thought it’d be kind of fun.”

Just then Franny gasped triumphantly, raising a lopsided and crumpled paper heart up for Mickey to see. “Look, Uncle Mickey! I cut a heart! Uncle Ian showed me how!”

Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, who had a sheepish look on his face. “Didn’t know you had so many hidden talents, Gallagher.”

Ian flashed a grin. “I used to be really into art class in elementary school, what can I say.”

Franny looked up at Mickey with wide eyes. “Do you want to make valentines with us? We have to make twenty-seven, because that’s the number of people in my class.”

Mickey faltered. Sitting here gluing fucking glitter to pieces of paper was not exactly what he’d had in mind as his plans for the weekend…

“Uh. That’s okay kiddo. I think you two’ve got it covered.”

Franny seemed to readily accept Mickey’s answer, instantly looking downward again and grabbing a fistful of crayons from the table to continue enhancing her masterpiece. Ian, on the other hand, tore his gaze from his own valentine.

“Oh c’mon Mick, you don’t wanna help?” Ian asked, his voice goading and his eyebrows raised.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks.” He turned, walking over to open the fridge and grabbing a beer from the top shelf.

“C’mon, just one valentine. Franny can show you how to cut out a heart shape, right Fran?”

Franny nodded vigorously. “Yes, I know how!”

Mickey took a swig of his beer and sighed. “Jesus, fine.” He pulled a chair between Ian and Franny, slowly scraping it on the linoleum, and then perched on the edge uncomfortably. “Alright Franny, show me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, so the first thing that you have to do is pick which color is your favorite. What’s your favorite color?”

Mickey had taken another sip of his beer, and now he sputtered slightly. “I don’t know Franny, you pick for me.”

Franny’s face melted into a pout. “But you have to pick, Uncle Mickey, it’s your favorite color!”

Ian bit back a laugh, his eyes still bright and cheerful. “Yeah, Mick, c’mon. What is your favorite color? We’ve never gotten this deep in our relationship before.”

Mickey gulped again from his beer can and flipped Ian off in the process. “I don’t fucking know. Never thought about it before.”

Franny held the stack of construction paper up to Mickey. “Look! There’s red, and yellow, and blue, and purple, and green—”

Mickey cut her off. “Uh, give me a green one.”

Ian smirked. “Green?”

“Fuck you, it was the first color I thought of.” Of course, that wasn’t really true—if Mickey needed to have a favorite fucking color, it was obviously going to be green, like the green eyes that met his gaze every morning and were the last thing he saw before he went to sleep at night— even if he would never be caught dead admitting that sappy bullshit to Ian.

Ian looked like he was holding back a smile. “Right,” he mused. “Hey, Franny, pass me a blue paper? Cause y’know, that’s my favorite color.”

Mickey gently shoved Ian in the square of his chest. “You’re being fucking soft.”

Ian let a crooked smile burst onto his face. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Mickey leaned back in his chair, holding the piece of thick green paper in front of him appraisingly. “Okay Franny, what’s step two?”

Franny stretched her body across the table to reach for one of the strewn pairs of scissors. “Now, you fold the paper in half, and then you cut out the shape of half of a heart, like this.” She drew an example of the curved pattern on the backside of Mickey’s paper with the tip of her finger. “And then you unfold it and it’ll be a perfect shape!”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Mickey took the scissors from Franny’s grasp, and held them up to the paper. It was just a fucking half circle with a little indent at the top— this wasn’t going to be too difficult. Ian and Franny went back to being absorbed in crafting their valentines, while Mickey started to botch and slash at his piece of construction paper.

When he was finally satisfied he unfolded the shape, the outer shell of the paper falling away. It was… well, it was kind of a heart, with two slanted sides and a wonky top half. It looked more like a blob attached to an angle than anything else.

Ian looked up from where he was doodling on a glittery heart and snickered.

“That’s uh… that’s a good first try, Mick.”

Mickey slammed the piece of paper down onto the table. Fucking arts and crafts, he was never good at this shit even when he was little—he fingers were always too fumbling, too clumsy for him to make anything delicate and pristine. Ian’s hands should have been as ungainly as his, but instead they were quick and nimble, smoothly cutting perfectly-rounded circles and gluing neat lines of glitter.

Franny noticed that Mickey was done cutting his shape. “Good job Uncle Mickey! Now you just have to draw on it, and put on stickers and glitter.”

“Yeah Mickey, let’s see those artistic skills.”

Mickey aggressively flicked some flecks of glitter from the table in Ian’s direction, then picked up a crayon and gripped it with an iron fist. What the fuck was he supposed to draw? This was a valentine for kids at Franny’s school, the fuck did kids like anyways? He started to draw some sort of stick figure, but the arms were too long and the head was too small, so he tried to color over it and make some sort of tree or some shit…

As Mickey scratched at the paper, he looked over at noticed suddenly how content Ian looked—how blissed out and settled he was, just running a crayon over the colorful paper and shaking bits of glitter onto pools of glue. If Mickey was being honest, he hadn’t seen Ian this light and happy in a while; he’d had a hunch in his shoulders for months after the wedding and the pandemic and all the minimum-wage job bullshit, the shadows of expectation hanging over him and causing a deflated weariness in his gaze that was impossible to ignore. But right now, Ian looked like he was having as much fun as Franny was, practically vibrating with satisfaction as he put the finishing touches on his drawing and reaching to place his completed valentine in the growing pile.

Mickey snatched the paper out of Ian’s hand, slightly crumpling it around the edges. “Wait a second. How the fuck did you do that?”

The valentine was immaculate, the heart symmetrical and traced in a thin outline of glitter. In the center of the paper there was a perfect little cartoon of a dog in a top hat, with an air bubble that read “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Ian shrugged. “Watched a lot of cartoons when I was little. And I’ve always kind of liked to draw.”

Mickey shoved the valentine back in front of Ian. Goddamn perfect fucking husband who’s good at fucking everything. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, suddenly losing all motivation to play along.

Ian smirked, then reached to rest a hand on the back of Mickey’s neck. “Giving up already?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Gallagher.”

Ian’s smile just widened. “Here, how about I cut the fucking shapes and you glue stuff onto them. That’d still help me and Franny a lot, right?”

Franny nodded. “It’s okay Uncle Mickey, I was bad at cutting the shapes too at first.”

Mickey huffed. Okay, so maybe he was horrible at this shit, but the least he could do was suck it up for Franny’s sake. “Fine,” he muttered, and grabbed a glue stick and a bottle of glitter.

A few minutes passed and they settled into a comfortable silence, enveloped in the sound of the scissors gliding and Franny scribbling on paper.

Suddenly, Franny looked up as Mickey reached across the table to grab a pad of stickers.

“Hey Uncle Mickey, what do you and Uncle Ian do for Valentine’s Day?”

Mickey didn’t really know how to answer that question— he darted a glance over at Ian, trying to signal as much. Could you ruin the spirit of Valentine’s Day for kids in the same way you could fuck up Christmas? “Uh, nothing really.”

Ian chimed in. “We used to like Valentine’s Day when we were little like you Franny, but now that we’re big we don’t really celebrate it. Right Mick?”

“Yup.”

Franny’s brows were furrowed again, this time in contemplation. “But. You love each other, right?”

“Sure, Franny. But we don’t need a special day for us to remember that,” Ian explained.

Franny seemed appeased enough by that answer to resume her drawing. “You don’t give each other valentines or candy or anything?”

Mickey almost laughed. Of course he and Ian had never celebrated fucking Valentine’s Day; if he was being honest, he didn’t remember even really thinking about Valentine’s Day before now, other than it being a day when Mandy came home crying in middle school because the boy she liked didn’t ask her out, or buying all the half-priced chocolates in red and pink wrappers at the drugstore a week later with his brothers. With all the shit in his life the past few years, frilly fucking holidays like Valentine’s Day were just… not on Mickey’s radar.

But maybe— maybe this year was different. This year, for maybe the first time in his life, Mickey felt secure and steady in a way that he never had before, like the ground was solid beneath him and wasn’t going to cave in at any minute. He had a fucking husband that he loved—why couldn’t they celebrate Valentine’s Day like a normal goddamn couple? Ian didn’t seem to be too bothered that they both didn’t give a fuck about the holiday, which was all the more reason to catch him off guard. He kept pressing stickers down onto the construction paper, his mind starting to churn.

By the time they’d made the twenty-seven fucking valentines, Mickey had made up his mind; this year, he and Ian were going to celebrate Valentine’s Day.

part two here!

[bishiglomper]

After sissy found out she got her stimulus, I checked mine. I got it too. 👀 I've been able to keep most of my money. My family isnt good with money but they are good at paying it back..

I want to keep the majority of it saved. Like for emergencies or big stuff. Like the car breaking or something. But it feels cushy enough I wanna splurge on Wish stuff again. Last time I kept it to like, $150 out of 1200. I bought so much hobby stuff I never would have considered asking for. This time around I could only think of about $50 worth of stuff I skipped over the first time. I even went through other wishlists to see if I'd been sitting on some long term wants 😖

I decided a lot of those were too big of a commitment for me not being into those particular hobbies atm though.. Like buying copics. Or special crochet hooks. Or replenishing my clay cache..

I kind of really want to try resin. But that shit is sooo much. And the materials to use with it. I have a teeny bottle of uv resin and a silicone mold of earring shapes I wanna play with. But I'm one of those people who hoard elixers until i know exactly when I need to use them and even then... Lmao. I can't bring myself to use up the bottle unless I know exactly what I'm making. So many possibilities.... 😶 If I could, I would get an assortment of all the colors, all sorts of filler materials, tools.. Sigh. Too much. Too big. 😅

I want a custom kigurumi too. But that's a few hundred dollars. Unfortunately sewing was one of the few hobbies that didnt agree with me.. (If anybody knows who can make me a kickass Decidueye kigurumi pattern tho hit me tf up 👀)

If I can't figure out any other special projects I'll see if mom or sissy wanted anything special. Maybe I'll get that new pokemon snap.

I dont have a bank, for reasons, so I have to withdraw my money before they charge the card it's on. I think I'll pick a gofundme or two before I pull it. 👀

[somediyprojects]

Peg Board Cross-Stitch Rose by Allison Murray

I was standing in Home Depot looking for a piece of precut plywood that was just right but I didn’t find it. But I DID find 2′ x 4′ piece of peg board. I grabbed it and started walking toward the back. Russell “What are you doing with that?” Me: “I’m going to have it cut.” Russell: “Why?” Me: “Because I’m going to make a huge-ass cross stitch out of it.” Russell: “…”

While the fellow was cutting my piece into two conveniently sizes 2′ x 2′ pieces of pegboard I felt like rubbing my hands together like an evil super villain or a  praying mantis because I felt like a genius. How crafty am I?!? As it turns out someone else published the idea before me!

I’d been working on my gigantic peg board cross stitch little by little and one evening when I was going through my Bloglovin’ feed (actually taking a break from stitching this massive thing on my bed) when I saw it. Someone else and already posted a gigantic peg board cross stitch tutorial on Design Sponge. I yelled “Russell I’ve been scooped!” to which he responded. “Okay.”

The one at Design Sponge (in case you didn’t click the link) uses the full 2×4 size to cross-stitch the family name in a single color and takes around 5 hours to complete. By comparison mine is half the size and took approximately 8-9 hours total using 7 colors of yarn. While they both are based on the same premise, they are totally different projects. If you dig this one, definitely check out the other.

For this project you will need:

2′ x 2′ square foot piece of pegboard (have a 2′ x 4′ board cut into two)

cross stitch pattern – I used this one from The Cheekiest Monkey of All

yarn in 4 colors for the petals

yarn in 2 colors for the leaves

yarn in a background color

black spray paint

oversized plastic needle (made specifically for yarn)

tape and/or hot glue gun

First you’ll need to find a pattern that will work with 23 stitches by 23 stitches. I tried working something up or finding a pattern online but I kept having a specific pattern in mind that I couldn’t find. At my wits end I started searching Pinterest where I found it. The reason nothing I worked out made me happy was because I had this absolutely perfect pattern burned into my brain. Since Mrs. F, aka the cheekiest monkey of all,  had the pattern online I decided I was destined to use her brilliance!

It was slightly too big so I took my ruler and marked out 23×23 making sure that I was able to keep the bulk of the pattern’s detail.

My peg board was originally white and that didn’t go with the color scheme in my mind. A cheap dollar can of black spray paint and I was all set to get to work.

In the pic above is a yarn needle. They sell them as plastic or metal and I have both. Be warned that pegboard this large is kind of awkward to work with. The metal needles are SHARP and trust me that you’re going to jab yourself a time or two. Go plastic. You can find them at hobby stores but I got 2 for $2 at Wal-Mart by the crochet and knitting needles.

To be good and visible you’re going to have to double it up. Simply string your yarn on the needle and tie a knot at the end. Each stitch will be made out of 2 strands rather than 1.

Alternatively you could purchase really thick yarn but I had a problem with that for 2 reasons. 1 – thick yarn is considerably more expensive for considerably less. 2 – there weren’t enough colors to accommodate my pattern well.

In the very beginning I just let the end of my yarn dangle while I was stitching but with changing colors frequently the excess started to get in the way. I began using tape to tack down the yarn hanging out at the beginning and end of each section.

Also because this is a timely undertaking, I would tape my pattern and needle onto the back of the board when I was done for the time to keep from losing them.

This is actually where I was when “I got scooped”. See how often the colors change? It seems like a pain in the neck but the end result is so fantastic that it’s worth it!

Now all of the tape on the back was well and good until it started raining for like 4 days straight. The humidity had tape falling off and winding up everywhere. As a result, I busted out my handy dandy hot glue gun and affixed the ends and snipped the edges. In the end it’s a lot cleaner, anyway.

Put an oversized picture hanger in the middle with a heck of a lot of hot glue.

And here is an up close of the action. It’s kind of like a Monet painting in that the closer you get, the harder it is to make out the image the xs make. Be sure that you have a space to hang or place this big boy where you have plenty of room between you and the hanging. I tested my cross stitch out in a smaller room (my office) and it was more difficult to make out and it was distracting.

And here it is hanging on my kitchen/dinette area wall! I purposefully placed it somewhere I can see it when eating at the table or sitting in “my spot” in the living room. I love, love love this sucker. Thanks again to the cheekiest monkey for creating a fascinating pattern and sharing it on her blog!

[writing-in-grey]

We Were Invincible

I met you my senior year of high school. You had turquoise hair and talked to me as if we’d been friends a lifetime. That first day, the day I met you, you told me we were going to the mall after school. The final bell rang and I got in your car, a Volkswagen Jetta older than we were, passed down to you from your sister, who had gotten bored of the plain white paint and spray-painted a Duck Hunt mural on the sides the way bumptious boys adorn their cars with flames. We drove with the windows down and the radio blasting, and even in your ancient Jetta we overtook every car we met.

I had never before walked into a building feeling like I owned the place, but that’s exactly what we did. We walked into the mall with our arms linked and our heads held up high, ready to take the place by storm. Seventeen years old with the world at our fingertips. We dressed up in lavish outfits, posing for each other and fitting room mirrors. We stuffed our toes into the highest heels we could find, strutting back and forth with our hands on our hips and drowning in raucous laughter. We even went into a photo booth, our arms draped around each other, making faces at the camera. When the mall closed, you drove me back to my house and parked in my driveway. The stars were out, and we lay on the hood of your car, talking until the wee hours of the morning.

That is what I think of when I remember you: high heels and photo strips and lying on your Duck Hunt car as we looked up at the stars. And, of course, that feeling – like nothing in the world could possibly touch us. Like we were invincible.

We became inseparable, you and I. At school, we were above the mass populace. We were smarter, we were more charming, we had our shit figured out. We were special. While the rest of the class continued to struggle with the assignment, we whispered and giggled in the back of the classroom, because we’d already finished. While the rest of the school had to each lunch in the cafeteria, we had special permission to eat in our advisor’s office, just us two. While everyone else got caught up in petty high school drama, we were off in our own little world, above it all.

After school, we’d spend hours at the mall. We’d have countless fitting room fashion shows, each trying to outdo the other. We’d search for the goofiest accessories we could find in the Dollar Store and model them for two-minute photo shoots. We’d race each other from one end of the mall to the other, weaving in and out of shoppers and ducking into alcoves to avoid mall security telling us off for running.

I don’t think I spent a single weekend at home the whole of my senior year. Friday nights we’d hole up in your bedroom, queue up some romantic comedy or other on your laptop, and paint each other’s nails. We even learned how to make fun patterns and designs. We’d stuff ourselves with ice cream piled high with syrup and whipped cream, stay up late, and sleep in later. 

Sometimes I’d have a change of clothes with me, but usually I’d just borrow something of yours when we finally did wake up on Saturdays. Then we’d head to Michaels and each find a craft project to work on, which we’d take back to your house and start in on with more romcoms playing in the background. That year I learned how to draw, how to paint, how to knit and crochet and cross-stitch and sew. We’d spend the whole day just crafting, half-watching movies we’d already seen or didn’t care about, and talking. Talking about anything and everything. About boys and school and all that drama we were so above. About our hopes and our dreams and our plans once we graduated.

Every other Saturday night, I’d help you dye your hair, which was ever-changing. We’d sit in your tiny bathroom in our underwear, covered in spilled color and trying hard not to choke on bleach fumes. Once I even let you dye my hair, but I picked a bad color and had to dye it back a couple days later. We got it right later, though, when I finally dared to try again.

The summer after we graduated was full of late-night adventures and sleepovers that regularly turned into two or three or even four nights in a row. Sometimes you’d text me at 10 or 11pm, asking if I wanted to spend the night. I will forever associate that summer with late-night drives down the deserted country roads between our houses, windows down, moonroof open, and music blasting.

The day you turned eighteen, I held your hand as you got your first tattoo: a purple butterfly on your wrist. Purple, our shared favorite color, the color of your walls and your bedsheets and half your wardrobe and, quite often, your hair. And a butterfly to symbolize your favorite quote: Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly. You had that quote painted on your purple walls, and butterflies littered your life. They hung on your walls, painted or drawn; they decorated several of your t-shirts, skirts, dresses, even your socks; they adorned your wall-calendar and the cover of your journal; they were on your pens and the stationary that you only used for the specialest of occasions (which meant, of course, that not a single sheet had yet been used); and then there was the silver butterfly ring that never left your finger, not even for a moment. And now you had a purple butterfly permanently on your wrist, forever your protector.

I drew you a butterfly card for that birthday – sketched in pencil and filled in with soft pastels, the blues and purples blended together with my fingertips – and you hung it in a place of prominence on your wall before we left for the tattoo parlor. Sometimes I wonder if it’s still on your wall, one college dorm room and three apartments later. Somehow I doubt the card survived when not even the tattoo managed that.

We stood in your driveway on a scorching hot day in the middle of August next to your Duck Hunt Jetta, packed to bursting with everything you’d need at college. You stepped so close to me our noses were barely two inches apart, took both of my hands in yours, and said, “What distance?” You were still laughing as you slid behind the wheel of your car, slammed the door, and pulled out of the drive. I waved until you turned the corner out of sight, and you stuck your arm out of the window and waved back the whole time. Once you were gone, I got into my own car, parked on the street and also packed to the brim, and set off myself. Yes it sucked that our colleges were states apart, but I knew we’d remain just as close despite the miles between us. Like you said, what distance?

College was nothing like high school. It was loud and fast and full, and I was so very small and lost without you. I tried to make friends, but it seemed like every time I opened my mouth to say hello, everyone in my general vicinity would simply vanish, like smoke on the wind. I texted you every time I felt like crying, which was all but constantly. I asked you how you were doing, but what I meant was, are you still here with me? Are you still there to be my lifeline now that I’m finally drowning? You texted back that things were great. You’d joined a theater club and everyone in it was just so nice. They were mostly upperclassmen who had been friends for years already, but within minutes you were one of them. You said that you had bonded with three of them in particular, two junior boys and a sophomore girl. The girl and one of the boys had been high school sweethearts; you were sure they were going to get married one day, and you’d just love it if you got to be Maid of Honor. A wish you were granted, years later.

I tried not to text you every time I needed reassurance. I tried to give you space to be happy at your new school with your new friends. I knew all of that was important, so I didn’t blame you for no longer having time for me. But I still clutched my phone so tightly I thought the casing would crack, just waiting for a text to come through. I was sure that once the chaos that was the first few months of college calmed down, once you’d had time to settle into a routine, then you���d have time for me again. I could wait. I might have been drowning, but I would become a champion at holding my breath.

I even found my own group of friends. It felt like months before I did, but it was only a week and a half. I say I found them, but really it was the other way ‘round. They adopted me, just as you had. And they were wonderful, truly. There were three of them, just as you’d found for yourself. Natalie and Amelia were roommates. It was Nat who approached me first. She said that sitting alone in the cafeteria was “unacceptable,” and I was to join her and Amelia immediately – if that was alright with me, of course. They invited me to their room that evening, and, on a whim, I asked if I could bring along my own roommate, Penelope, to whom I hadn’t said more than two words in the week and a half we’d been living together. I don’t know why she came with me when I asked her, but she did, and the four of us just… clicked.

That night, once Penny and I had gone back to our room, turned out the lights, and Penny’s breathing grew slow and even, I texted you about my newfound friends. I was so excited I thought I’d surely burst, and I knew you’d be excited for me, too. I told you everything, from how we met to what we’d done all evening, and how we had plans to hang out all weekend, too. My fingers were trembling with the exhilaration of it all as I typed, and my thumb missed the “send” button three times. I watched as the words moved from the message box to the big blue bubble, as the word beneath it changed from “sending” to “delivered” to “read.”

I told myself I wouldn’t text you until you texted me, but I always broke first. I’d have some amazing adventure with my friends, or I’d get riled up about an annoying classmate, or I’d just see something funny I thought might make you laugh, and I’d tell you about it. Sometimes you’d answer – something short, like “haha” or “sounds fun” or “ok” – but mostly you wouldn’t. 

I tried to forget about you. I tried to lose myself in my new friends, these people who actually wanted to spend time with me. We spent just about every waking moment together, the four of us, making all sorts of fantastic memories. But still what I remember most about that time with them was my hand on my phone, waiting for you to miss me. And sometimes, finally, I would start to let you go, but the moment my fingertips were about to let go was always the moment my phone would ring. You were like a drug I would finally detox from my system, right before someone slipped you back in my drink.

I don’t think I’d ever been as excited for a school vacation as I was for winter break at the end of that first semester. Nor as anxious. I shouldn’t have been, but I was desperate to see you again. I tried so hard not to be, but I was. I think I just wanted to regain that feeling that you gave me, that invincibility, that feeling that I was important. I don’t know why no one else has ever been able to give me that quite like you did. Maybe it’s just because you were the first. But whatever the reason, I was like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Or maybe more like a lost puppy trying to get home.

I texted you weeks before school let out asking when you’d be home and if you wanted to get together. I’d been home for nine days already when you texted me at 10:47pm: “Do you wanna sleep over?”

I left a note for my parents and jumped in the car. The car thermometer said it was twelve degrees outside, but I put the heat on full blast, rolled down all the windows, opened the moonroof, and cranked up the music as I sped my way down the dark, slush-covered roads. I was about halfway to your house when it started to snow, snowflakes falling through the moonroof and drifting in the windows, the few that weren’t blasted immediately back out by the heaters settling on my hair and my eyelashes, but melting before they could do much more.

My safe arrival, despite my less than cautious driving in already unsafe conditions, was just more proof that, with you, nothing could touch me. I let myself in when I got to your house, as I always had. I didn’t even need to use a flashlight as I crept my way through the unlit hallways, so well did I remember them from the innumerable times I’d done this before, and I avoided all of the squeaky stairs as I made my way up to your room; your parents never minded me coming over late, so long as I didn’t wake them. When I rounded the corner of the stairs, I saw light spilling out from around the edges of your door, just like always, and that familiar light filled me the way the spirit of God fills some. I slipped in your door and shut it softly behind me, and there everything was – the purple walls, the butterflies, my sleeping bag and pillow tucked in a corner of the room. And you. You were lying on your twin-size bed, engrossed in your phone.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” you said, without looking up.

“Your hair’s brown,” I said.

“Hang on, I’m talking to Elizabeth.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay, no problem.” I don’t think you heard me.

One minute. Two. Three. I took out my phone and started playing a game, just so I wouldn’t have to stand there like a stranger in your room.

“Heeeey, what’s up!” Twelve minutes, but you finally jumped up and hugged me.

“Your hair’s brown,” I said again.

“Yeah, I decided to go back to natural for a while.”

“It looks good,” I said. “Weird, but good. I don’t think I even knew what your natural hair color was,” I laughed.

“Oh no, this isn’t my natural color, just a natural color.”

“Oh.”

“I was so happy you asked me to hang out,” you said. “I was worried you’d forget about little old me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, you know, just with all the excitement of new people and places, who even has time to remember the little folk back home?” you laughed.

“I texted you a lot,” I said, “but I wasn’t sure if they went through a lot of the time.”

“I love how I don’t even have to reply but you still know I love getting your little updates.”

I swallowed, hard. “So, um,” I said, swallowing again. “Tell me about your friends at school.”

“Oh. My gosh. They are the best. Elizabeth and Benjamin just make the sweetest couple; they’re totally going to get married someday, but I told you that already, didn’t I? But even though they’ve been together longer, I still think me and Lucas are cuter–”

“Wait, you and Lucas are dating?”

“Um, yeah, where have you been?” you said, laughing again. “We’ve been dating for months. And, speaking of, guess who no longer has their V-card?” you asked, pointing at yourself with both hands. “I gave it to him after we’d been dating for a week. How. Great. Is sex?”

“So, did you just get home?”

“Oh no, I’ve been back for about a week and a half. It is so dull here; I can’t wait to go back to school. How did we survive here for so long?”

“It’s a mystery.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. All this boredom really takes it out of a girl, you know?”

“Right, yeah.”

“Sweet dreams, then,” you said as you turned off the lights.

I unrolled my sleeping bag in the dark, arranging it and the pillow in my usual spot. I crawled in and stared at the ceiling, not remotely tired. I was barely settled when the blackness of the ceiling vanished, replaced by the soft blue glow of the screen of your phone. Through the semi-darkness I could hear the tik-tik-tiking of you texting, a sound that was still ongoing when I finally fell asleep at quarter to four in the morning, and even then I heard it in my dreams.

I woke up before you – not a rare occurrence, but usually we were up within half an hour of each other. Then again, we usually fell asleep around the same time, too; lord only knows how long you continued to text your new and better friends after I fell asleep. I dressed in the dark – the morning light blocked out, as always, by your heavy curtains – and played around on my phone for about an hour, waiting for you to wake. When you didn’t, I grabbed a book off your shelf and made my way downstairs, where I helped myself to some frozen waffles. When I finished the waffles, I stayed seated at your kitchen table and read. It was an hour and a half before you came down, and maybe I imagined it but you almost looked surprised to see me.

Once you’d finished your breakfast, I followed you back to your room, unsure whether or not that is what I was supposed to do. 

“Close the door, would you?” you asked as I entered.

I stood by the closed door as you stripped out of your pajamas and rummaged around in your dresser.

“Do you want to go to Michaels today?” I finally asked as you were pulling a t-shirt over your head. It was deep blue and featured a stylized fox face.

“Listen, I’m so glad you came over,” you said, “because there’s something I wanted to give you.” You pawed through the jewelry box on your dresser for a moment or two, then turned around to face me, your hand outstretched, palm up.

Sitting in your palm was your butterfly ring. I hadn’t even noticed that you weren’t wearing it.

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” you said. “I want you to have something special to remember me by, even when we’re far apart.”

The warmth of your palm against the tips of my fingers was such a sharp contrast to the cold metal of the ring as my fingers wrapped around it, taking it from you. It was heavier than I thought it would be. I slipped it on, internally crowing that you had given this ring to me, not to Elizabeth, not to anyone else, but to me.

That was when I noticed your wrist.

“Hey, what happened to your tattoo?”

“Oh, laser removal. I’m really into foxes now. It’s this thing Lucas and I came up with, where I’m a fox and he’s a bear. It’s so cute. I’ve got, like, fox everything now. See?” you said, tugging at the hem of your fox-face t-shirt.

I glanced down at the butterfly ring adorning my finger – so meaningful just a few moments prior, now little more than a small hunk of metal.

I wore your butterfly ring every day for four months. I would fiddle with it every time I was tempted to keep my hand on my silent phone, waiting for a text that was never going to come. That ring was my methadone, keeping my hands busy to help me kick my addiction. It worked, and it didn’t. I stopped reaching for my phone so much, but the ring became an addiction in and of itself, worse even than its predecessor. That ring symbolized my entire relationship with you – the friend I remembered, who loved butterflies and hanging out with me; and the stranger you became, so willing to throw away everything you’d cherished as soon as you found something –someone – better. That ring was so bittersweet, and possessing it caused within me such intense and conflicting emotions that I could not give up. The highs I felt when I looked at that ring were beyond anything I’d ever known, and the lows were so devastating I thought I was surely going to die. But the thing is they all came at once, those highs and lows together, so that each felt like the other, and I came to associate pain with pleasure, pleasure with pain. I had hoped, initially, that the hurt associated with your ring would help me to let you go; if I wore a constant reminder of the pain you’d caused me, surely I wouldn’t still yearn for your affection. Instead, I grew only more attached to you, desperate for you to love me again, yet still gaining some sick satisfaction when you’d inevitably wound me further. Each scar you gave me became, in my mind, proof of your affection.

After four months of anguish, I took off the ring. I no longer understood a single emotion I had, and I had long ago gone mad with longing. I didn’t know how to fix myself, but I knew that this ring symbolized everything that was wrong inside my head. I was walking back to my dorm room after class when I did it. I was walking over a storm drain, and I stopped. Both feet on the grate. I started shifting my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet and back again just to savor the feeling of the something-then-nothing beneath my feet. I remember thinking maybe shifting my weight like this was like folding a piece of paper back and forth along the same crease, weakening it until it finally rips. Maybe if I shifted my weight back and forth and back and forth for long enough, the bars of the grate would weaken and then snap, and I’d fall right in and disappear forever.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just shifting my weight between my heels and the balls of my feet, the rest of my body swaying almost imperceptibly with each shift, waiting to fall into the eternal void that surely lay just beneath the storm drain. I do know that at some point I stopped. Stood perfectly still, so still I might not have even existed at all. Maybe the people walking all around me couldn’t even see me anymore; maybe I was invisible I was so still. I was so still that even my thoughts stopped. For just a moment or two, my mind was a perfect blank, and I took a breath as I stood there.

Then I raised your ring, still on my finger, to my eyes. I stared at it for nearly a minute, and then I took it off. I crouched down on the storm grate. I took the ring between my thumb and forefinger and held it over one of the gaps in the grate. Time seemed to stop as I held your ring over an abyss, threatening to lose it from this world forever. I think I might have cried then, but I honestly can’t say for sure. I wasn’t aware of any tears rolling down my cheeks, but when the wind blew, it felt wet against my face.

I couldn’t drop it.

Time began again and I stood up and ran back to my room as though the Devil himself were chasing me, your ring clutched tightly in my fist. I flew into my room and slammed the door behind me, still not daring to stop and breathe. I strode across the room to my dresser, and the jewelry box sitting atop it. I flung the box open and dug through the tangled heap of bracelets and necklaces I never wore that lay within. I dug until I reached the very bottom, and there I placed the ring. I piled the old bracelets and necklaces over it again, burying your ring quite thoroughly. That is where I kept it from then on, hidden at the bottom of my jewelry box. Never worn, nor even looked at, yet still not thrown away.

I no longer kept my hand on my phone while out with my friends, but I still texted you whenever no one else was looking.

With the approach of each school vacation, I always told myself that I wouldn’t ask you to hang out. And as soon as I was back in my childhood bedroom, I would always text you to ask if we could. Every yes was the same: me, desperate to remind you how we used to be; and you, dangling me along on a string, gracing me with your presence but never your attention.

After a couple years at school, we each moved out of the dorms and our parents’ houses, and into apartments near our respective schools. Once you moved out, your parents even sold your childhood home and retired to a town by the ocean. I thought surely this was it, the end of you and me. After all, we only ever saw each other when we both went home for breaks, and, with the sale of the house I knew almost better than my own, you would never again have cause to return to the sleepy little town in which we met. I was devastated, and oh so relieved.

But, for reasons I may never understand, you were not yet ready to cut that string on which you held me. Instead, you encouraged me to drive up to your apartment on breaks. I would blast my music for the three-hour drive and arrive exhausted. The three of us – you, me, and Lucas, with whom you now lived – would sit on your couch for hours as you played YouTube videos on your TV, and every time I opened my mouth you’d say, “Shh, you’re missing the video!” Then I’d crash on your couch and drive three hours back the next morning.

We soon graduated college and got Real Jobs™, but not much else changed. You still texted me just often enough to keep me hooked on you, and I would still drive three hours up to sit silently beside you and your boyfriend and then three hours back about once every two or three months, whenever you had time for me. For years, this is how it was, and I was never strong enough to change it.

Then, I met a man.

It was my first time trying a dating website, and he was the first person I talked to upon signing up. The only person I talked to, actually. I messaged him because I lived in New Hampshire and he lived in California and who could be safer to talk to as I eased my way into the online dating pool than a man who lived three thousand miles away?

Falling in love with him was faster and easier than anything I’d ever experienced. A month after we started talking, I flew to California to meet him in person. By the time I flew home four days later, I knew I would spend the rest of my life with him.

Nine months into our relationship, the lease on my apartment was up, my car was packed to the brim with all my worldly goods, and the love of my life was on a Boston-bound plane, preparing to be my co-pilot on a two-week road trip back to California and our first shared apartment. Here it was: the biggest adventure of my life thus far. All I had left to do was to say my goodbyes.

You said I had to see you before I left. Of course, I agreed. Luckily, your apartment wasn’t even out of the way; it was directly on the route we would already be driving. I told you when we’d be passing through your neck of the woods, date and time.

“I work Sundays,” you said. “Can’t you pick another day?”

“Don’t you get an hour lunch break, though?” I asked. “We can just get a quick bite to eat.”

“Saturdays are my day off,” you said. “Come up then!”

“But all our hotels are booked already. We can’t change them.”

“So just come see me on Saturday, go back and stay another night at your place, then start your trip on Sunday. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” I said, “is that we’re already going to be driving seven or eight hours a day, sometimes more, for two weeks straight. I can’t just add another six hours on top of that the day before, not when I’m already driving through that area anyway. Please,” I begged, “isn’t there any way we can make Sunday work?”

“I told you, I’m working.”

“Well then, you can come see me on Saturday. It’ll be fun; you never come to my place!”

“I would,” you said, “but I’m already driving down that way later that week. I’m getting a new tattoo! There’s a parlor that has great reviews just a couple towns over from where you are, actually. So I don’t want to do that many back-and-forth trips so soon after each other, you know? That’s just more driving than I think you realize.”

Saturday, the day before our trip was set to begin, you texted me: “So…?”

That was all you said. So much presumption in such a little word. The expectation that I’d move heaven and earth just to see you one last time before I moved.

I cried as I told you I would not. I told you I was sorry, that I wished I could see you before I left, but it just didn’t work out. You weren’t free when I was driving through, and you wouldn’t come see me, so it didn’t work out.

“I didn’t even know coming to see you was an option!” you said.

That conversation was so recent you barely would have had to scroll up to see it.

“I guess,” you said, “I’m just upset because I feel like I’m never going to see you again.”

It took me two days to respond to that message – two days for my fingers to stop shaking with anger, and with hurt, to be able to type. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” I said, “but let’s be real: I have never been a priority to you, and I am not going to put myself out now just to pretend to myself that I am.” I hit send, and my partner held me as I cried. I buried my face in his chest as I let out gut-wrenching sobs, and I felt his own tears fall into my hair as he bore witness to my grief.

When I finally sat up, wiping my puffy eyes on the backs of my hands, he asked me, “What do you want her to say back? How do you want this to go?”

“I don’t care,” I spat. “I don’t care what she says. I’m done with her, done with all of this. She’s never done anything to show me that I mattered to her, so I don’t care. I don’t care if she says she’s sorry or not; I’m just done.”

He squeezed my hand, not saying anything.

“No,” I said, “that’s not true.”

“Then, what do you want her to say?” he asked.

“Something,” I said.

My partner and I had an amazing road trip. We saw the New York City skyline from the George Washington bridge, and we explored Colonial Williamsburg. I met one of his childhood friends now living in Virginia, and he met one of my childhood friends now living in Pennsylvania. We explored the stunning botanical gardens in Atlanta, and a homeless man helped us change the flat tire we got as we tried to leave. We got caught in a sudden downpour as we walked the streets of New Orleans, as drenched the moment the rain started as we could possibly be. We drove through more ghost-towns than I could count, and we saw sun rise over the Grand Canyon. We stayed in 2-star hotels with comfy beds, free wifi, and free continental breakfasts, and we stayed in 5-star hotels with rock slabs for beds, $20/night wifi, and $15 plus 30% fees on room service. We played word-games to keep each other awake as we drove, napped in McDonald’s parking lots when that wasn’t enough. We drove through rain so thick we couldn’t see the taillights ahed of us, wind so strong it jostled the car, and skies bluer than I ever thought possible. And after two long yet incredible weeks, we finally pulled into the driveway that was ours-not-his, and parked.

“I guess that’s it then,” I said.

“Yup, home at last,” he said, knowing I wasn’t talking about the trip.

“Home at last,” I repeated.

“Still nothing?” he asked, glancing at my phone in my hands.

“Not a single word.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

“I didn’t want much,” I said. “I didn’t need her to apologize or say I was right. She could’ve yelled at me, called me names, told me she hated me, even. Because even if she got angry at me, you don’t get angry at people you don’t care about.”

He reached over and held my hand.

“She did the one thing she could’ve done to confirm what I said – that I don’t matter to her.”

“I know she meant a lot to you.”

I didn’t block your number from my phone, nor did I block you on social media (although I did remove you from my friends list). I don’t know why I didn’t block you. I think part of it is because I hoped you’d actually try to contact me someday. And I think part of it was because I knew you never would. And because sometimes, the only reasons I can remember for not messaging you are the two-hundred and sixty-one days and counting that you haven’t been blocked and have not said a single word to me. The truth is I miss you, and I’m not sure if that feeling will ever end. Because even though you were cruel to me for far longer than you were kind, still when I think of you it is of high heels and photo strips and lying on your Duck Hunt car as we looked up at the stars, back when we were invincible.

[dailypokemoncrochet]

The pattern designers make sense to me. Create thing, have fun, sell pattern. Repeat.

(In retrospect after having written out this post, this could've been two posts because talks about 2 very related but distinct things and I am verbose but also it's already written out so here are the thoughts smacked together) (Additional retrospective note that you should take all of this with a grain of salt. I am personally biased to see the negative in things, and this is a negative post, and also I'm just one person and this is my biased opinion.)

Begin actual response: Oh actually that is something that also does not make sense to me, now that I have kind of done it.

Yes, it makes sense in theory. You're probably already making some kinds of notes as you go, you just sell the notes, it's like passive income, royalties of some kind.

BUT, I fucking hate writing out my patterns. Maybe it's different for other people, but for me writing out the patterns is a distinct, separate process from creating the actual thing. Yes, I am already taking notes as I go, but they are written for me specifically to understand. I don't need to preface anything with a description, I don't need to explain my shorthand, I don't need to write a walkthrough for any parts that intuitively come to me. But those are all things that I think a good sellable pattern has.

Specifically for crocheting, you ask anyone what they think makes a good pattern and you get common responses like pictures, step-by-step instructions with pictures and explanations, information about kinds of yarn and hooks and gauge. Reformatting my own notes into a workable pattern takes so much more effort on my part. Even with my own templates I use for ease and consistency, I still have to rewrite and reorganize things. I have to explain where/how to attach things. I type it and section it out so it's more legible. It's a lot of work that I really don't enjoy. And people are out there doing all that AND MORE, for a dollar. Not even the full dollar because taxes.

I put some of my pattern notes (I'm even hesitant to call them patterns outright because they're like the bare minimum acceptable of what I would be okay buying) on Patreon because I thought it would get more people to subscribe. I can honestly say that it's pulled 2 people, one of whom actually commented saying that the patterns are a big part of why they joined in the first place, the other occasionally leaves a like on those posts. If not for that, I would've stopped offering the patterns at all. I hate making them in the first place for such little return, but actual real people like them, and I appreciate them, so I'll continue for now.

But yeah, making patterns is a lot of unseen work. It takes me a good hour to write up one of my bare patterns, I can't imagine how long for others to write up those really nice, detailed, pictures included, walkthrough patterns. And then they can reasonably sell it for $1 or $2, apparently $5 is high unless it's a really good pattern. And that's not even guaranteeing that people will actually buy them. There's no upfront reward for it. Maybe you get extremely lucky and 50 people buy your $1 pattern that you took an hour to make (but factor in tax, and website hosting fees (I hear etsy has gotten increasingly hostile over the years) and you're getting, what, 20 cents back?). And that's still not livable.

And I don't know how people can be doing craft things on Instagram for a living. I don't know how people can side hustle crocheting and other handmade goods when that entails not just making the thing, but also setting up the photo shoots, taking the pictures, posting on social media, monitoring whatever website, listing items to sell, packaging things up, mailing them off, emails and inquiries. That's like 5 jobs right there. I get tired just making things. I make one thing a day, I snap a photo, I post it, with a blurb sometimes. That's already tiring to me. How are small time crafters doing any of this for money and living on it. What.

[tj-crochets]

Pattern is on Ravlelry! https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/mini-cthulhu-2 The pattern is for sale for $2, but I’m thinking for every follower giveaway I do from here on out I’ll have you all vote on which of my paid patterns you want and share a coupon code for a specific pattern so you can get it for free (if that’s an option on Ravelry. If not, I’ll just share the pattern for free)

I swear I posted mini Cthulhu last year, but I went to pull the pictures off tumblr to use in the typed up pattern and I couldn’t find them, so here’s mini Cthulhu! The pattern will be up soon

[tiedtogetherwithadagger]

Soft Derek, Warm Stiles, No One is a Little Ball of Fur

Hey guys! I was planning on posting this on my birthday (yesterday) but ran out of time to finish it. So here it is today! I really hope you guys like it. Please leave positive/constructive feedback. Happy birthday/Memorial Day to everyone! <3

Also on AO3

When Stiles got his job at Espress Hangar, the new space-themed café, the pack was immediately on board.

“Oh thank God!” Erica pulls him into a suffocating hug. “I had their Strawberry Starship drink the other day and I think I’m addicted, but they’re like five dollars a cup. Thanks, Stiles.”

“Um, what? Why are you thanking me?” Stiles asks warily.

Scott comes out from behind him with one of his tooth-rottingly sweet smiles and replies, “For all the free drinks you’ll give us,” like it’s obvious. Stiles frowns.

The thing is, it is kind of obvious. Stiles was planning on sneaking a few drinks for them here and there when they came to visit him. But now that they expect him to, he’s starting to reconsider.

“Guys, come on, this is Stiles’ job. You can’t take advantage of him like that,” interrupts Derek. Stiles grins at him and, you know what, maybe he will save a drink for him.

“But where’s the fun in that?” Jackson smirks.

If Stiles has any say in it, Jackson is going on the Do Not Serve list at the first opportunity.

***

After Stiles’ third morning rush that day, he can finally breathe during the lull that follows. He’s survived his first week at Espress Hangar, a feat much larger than he originally thought. Turns out waking up for work every morning at four o’clock is not as easy as staying up until four o’clock on Wikipedia.

Stiles is wiping down the counters and humming California Gurls to himself when the bell above the door chimes and Derek walks in. The next notes of the song get stuck in his throat and he freezes. Stiles shouldn’t be surprised, really. The rest of the pack have already been by to visit him, even Jackson. Of course, Scott was the only person Stiles ended up giving a free drink to, much to their disappointment.

Derek swaggers up to the counter Stiles is stationed behind, because that’s the only way Derek apparently knows how to walk. He’s wearing a maroon knitted sweater today that looks unfairly cozy. Stiles slaps his own hand down from reaching out and touching the fabric because that would be weird. Although slapping yourself might be weirder. Oh well.

“Hey,” says Derek wryly. A small smirk is tugging at his lips from witnessing Stiles’ hand malfunction. Stiles sighs at Derek’s voice. It’s soft and small, a low rumble of a voice Stiles has been hearing more and more when he talks with Derek.

“Hey,” Stiles says back, his own grin a little dopey. Yeah, Stiles has tried getting rid of his crush on Derek, multiple times, but after three years of cringing and stuttering, he’s come to terms that whatever he feels for Derek is here to stay.

Danny coughs behind Stiles and, oh yeah, he doesn’t work here alone. Oops. Derek ducks his head to hide his smile and Stiles feels a blush work its into his cheeks.

“What can we do for you today?” asks Danny. Stiles glares at him because that’s his job. Granted, he wasn’t doing it but…semantics.

Derek glances at Stiles again before murmuring, “Strawberry smoothie, please.”

“What?” Danny leans closer to Derek to hear him better but Stiles is already putting the order into his register.

“He said strawberry smoothie. You wanted that large, right big guy?” Derek nods minutely. “Did you want to add anything to that? Espresso shot? Any extra flavors? Bubbles? Fruit?”

Derek considers the list of syrup flavors on the board behind Stiles and Danny. Stiles takes the opportunity to take in his alpha. There are bruises under his eyes, but they seem lighter than the last time Stiles saw Derek. The last few weeks has had him more tired than usual. Though, Stiles supposes, having a coven of vampires trying to take over his territory probably isn’t the most relaxing environment.

“Um. Could I have bananas and lavender bubbles added to it?” At first he looks a bit sheepish when he asks, the tips of his ears turning slightly red. He quickly covers it up by sending a glare Stiles’ way, like he’s expecting to be laughed at. As much as Stiles loves to irritate Derek, it’s no fun if Derek can actually be hurt by it.

“Yeah buddy, of course.” Derek pays and Stiles gets started making the drink, glancing at Derek between each motion like he might disappear as soon as Stiles stops looking. 

Smoothies are Stiles’ favorite drink to make, mostly because they’re simple. He tries to find an opportunity to toss in the two semi-impressive bartending moves he learned online but they both require bottles and none of the ingredients used for smoothies are in bottles. Stiles sighs and resigns himself to pouring the lavender bubbles into Derek's cup with a wide flourish and winking at Derek where he's leaning uncomfortably against the wall, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

“So. How’s your 242 class?” Stiles shouts over the blender.

Derek gives him a pointed look like, You’re really trying to hold conversation right now? Which, fair, but this is Stiles so Derek shrugs and says, “Rrrrrrrvvv gnhhh gnhhhhhnahh.”

Nope. That was the blender.

“Sorry, what was that?” Stiles asks with a completely straight face (i.e. a smug grin stretched ear to ear) once the smoothie is blended.

Derek spares him a flat look in response. “I don’t think they understand the concept of a final that’s worth twenty percent of your grade. No one shows up to my review sessions.”

Stiles lets out a noise close to an indignant squeak. Why would no one want to spend time with Derek? Stiles has been making up excuses to be in the same room with him for years. Derek looks so genuinely perturbed that Stiles finds himself walking around the counter to place his hand on Derek’s shoulder. He releases a breath when Derek immediately relaxes under his hand and steps closer. His eyes close and he lets out a sigh, taking the comfort Stiles’ touch provides for a brief moment. When Derek opens his eyes again, he finds Stiles holding up his pink smoothie.

“Thanks.” Stiles expects Derek to leave when he takes the drink from him, but instead he turns around and surveys the room for a place to sit. He chooses a truly hideous granny chair in the corner. Far enough to be private yet close enough to keep an eye on Stiles. The chair is the only one that doesn’t fit the modern spaceship theme of the cafe. It's an oversized paisley-patterned granny chair with a crocheted blanket hanging over the back of it. Stiles thinks that it may have actually been left behind by the previous owners. Why the current owners kept it, he has no clue.

Danny was hired as one of the managers and works most of the shifts Stiles covers. Right now, he’s teaching Stiles how to make their Mocha Moon latte. Stiles is kind of making a mess out of it, and rogue sprays of foam keep hitting Danny in the eye. The guy is unbelievably patient, which is probably why he got the job, and only wipes the foam away before going back to his instructions.

Stiles has been smiling like an idiot the whole time, distracted each time Derek huffs a laugh at his book. His lips start hurting from the smile that’s stayed situated on his face since the moment Derek walked in, and Danny notices. He comes back from grabbing a towel to wipe up the mess on the counter.

“So… You and Derek, huh?” Danny’s apparently snuck up on Stiles while he was lost in his Derek-centered universe, because when he hears Danny’s voice in his ear he jumps a foot in the air.

“Would you– !” shouts Stiles, waving his hands around and making crazy eyes at his coworker. All it earns him is a raised eyebrow from Danny, which Stiles returns with an unimpressed look. Spending years conversing with Derek’s eyebrows kind of limits the effect any other pair of eyebrows​ has on him anymore. “No. There is no ‘Stiles and Derek’, we’re just Stiles and Derek. Okay? It’s not like that.”

Danny glances at where Derek is sitting in the corner and reading Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and back to where Stiles is trying and failing at not making googly eyes at Derek. “Yeah, you’re a regular pair of hetersexuals,” Danny deadpans.

Stiles’ ears burn and he resolutely does not look in Derek’s direction. Oh God, he’s probably heard the whole conversation. While Derek tries to give his pack their privacy, the cafe is small and Stiles hasn’t exactly mastered the art of whispering. A human could hear Stiles’ embarrassment. Great, Stiles thinks, now Derek is going to feel awkward being there and leave. He pouts for bit, thinking that he won’t be able to glance away from work to Derek whenever he wanted.

Thankfully, a small group of customers takes that moment to stream their way into the cafe and Stiles doesn’t have to think about it. He flicks his gaze towards Derek’s chair in the middle of the rush and releases a relieved sigh to see that the only movement Derek’s made is shifting his leg to rest on his other knee, leaning back in his chair. His eyes linger on Derek’s form, roving over his sleep rumpled hair – with just enough of a quiff that Stiles knows he styled it – to where he’s holding the Jane Austen novel. He’s tugged his sleeves down past his knuckles and Stiles realizes with a start that this is the sweater with thumbholes. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat because Derek is sitting there, in a plush chair fit for a grandmother, sipping from a pink smoothie, and reading Jane Austen with sweater paws. How is Stiles supposed to witness Derek so damn soft without making a fool of himself? Stiles is pretty sure a whimper escapes his throat.

“Ahem,” the customer in front of Stiles clears her throat. Danny glares at Stiles, who currently has his eyes glazed over and drooping where they’re fixed on Derek, and elbows Stiles out of the way. He takes the customer’s order, and her complaints, before making her drink too. Honestly, there’s no wonder why Danny is the manager.

It takes the next customer in line tossing straws at Stiles’ face for him to jolt out of his reverie. Stiles is pretty sure he hears Derek snort. He whips his head around looking for Danny and sees him busy already making four other drinks. Oops. “Yes, sorry, hi, what can I do for you?”

Derek stays for the rest of Stiles’ shift and when his smoothie runs out, Stiles makes him another before he has the chance to ask. Stiles keeps giving Derek skirting glances and every once in awhile Derek looks up and they just stare at each other. A small smile tugs at Derek’s lips each time he catches Stiles staring and it makes Stiles breath catch. Derek is going to be the end of him, he swears to God.

It’s close to closing time when Stiles comes over to where Derek is stationed, another smoothie in hand. Derek looks up from his copy of Pride and Prejudice and his face warms into a smile that lights up his eyes when he sees Stiles with another strawberry and lavender smoothie. Stiles hopes absently that Derek hasn’t gotten sick of them.

“Thanks,” says Derek. “What’s my bill so far?”

“Oh. Um, it’s on the house,” Stiles struggles out, face going red as he rubs at his neck.

“Stiles. I’ve had five of these. That’s probably three hours out of your paycheck.”

Yikes. Well when he puts it like that, Stiles wants to cringe. “It’s just two and a half, actually,” he mutters.

“Really, Stiles?” deadpans Derek. He’s doing that unimpressed eyebrow quirk that Stiles gets way too excited whenever he sees. “At least let me make it up to you.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, already formulating an innuendo before he bites it back. Instead, he asks haltingly, “What...were you thinking, exactly?”

“Dinner?” Derek asks. Stiles takes a startled breath and his eyes search Derek’s. His face is suddenly solemn, the quiet amusement there from before gone. He swallows.

“Ye – yeah. Sure.” Stiles might be nodding like a bobblehead but thankfully no one points it out. Except Danny.

“Stiles! Come on, man. We’re not done closing.” Danny has his arms crossed and Stiles can tell that he’s trying hard to look intimidating – and compared to Derek, who’s soft around the edges and smiles easily at Stiles, he totally is – and adds with a smirk, “It’s not like you won’t see him again.”

Derek and Stiles share a look before Derek lays a hand on Stiles’ knee.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he means right now or ever, but he knows he’s on board for either. His heart beats faster the longer he sits there looking into Derek’s eyes and Stiles knows he can hear it. Derek squeezes Stiles’ knee where his hand is still resting, “Friday?”

“Hm?”

“Dinner? Friday?” Of course Derek is only speaking in one-worded responses. Though Stiles is used to it, he still sighs and rolls his eyes at Derek. But then Derek’s words sink in and –

“Oh! Oh. Oh,” Stiles lets out a nervous laugh, “Right. Um, is this...like a – I mean, not to be presumptuous but is this like a, you know, um – “

“Date? I mean, I’d like it to be. If you...want it to be?”

Stiles wheezes into what is meant to be an alluring smirk (but really ends up looking like a crazed grimace). His hands flail in the air like a maestro, quickly sifting through the stream of thoughts he’s attempting to translate into words. What he ends up with is, “Ye-sheyahh.”

If the bright smile on Derek’s face is anything to go by, he understands.

***

When Stiles gets to Derek’s loft Friday night, he pauses outside the front door. He knows Derek can probably smell him or hear his heartbeat or whatever it is werewolves do with their freaky senses, but he needs a moment.

This is a date. Stiles has a date with Derek. Derek and Stiles are having a date with each other. It still didn’t make sense to Stiles but far be it for him to question a miracle when it lands in his lap. This was just a big deal for them. After three years of dancing around each other, of denying their feelings, of keeping to their sides of the line, they were actually doing this. His head kept throwing these thoughts at him, and yet he wasn’t nervous.

This felt natural, almost normal. Stiles and Derek have always been on a different plane from the rest of the pack, had always been more tactile with each other. This? This was just finally putting a name to it.

Stiles is raising his fist to knock on the door (and not barging in, this was a formal occasion thank you very much) when the door in front of Stiles opens with a rush of air, like it’s been yanked, and Derek appears. Derek looks flushed and quickly swipes a hand through his hair. He’s wearing his favorite Henley, Stiles knows it’s Derek’s favorite because he once made the mistake to joke that all Henleys were the same (apparently they were not). Stiles notices with glee that Derek’s rolled his sleeves up to reveal the sinewy strength in his forearms.

“Hey,” Derek breathes out. “You’re early...and have groceries?”

“Yep!” Stiles hipchecks Derek out of the way to enter the apartment and carries the groceries over to the counter. “I thought I could help you make dinner. Unless,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands to the room at large. A frown tugs at his lips and he starts worrying that he somehow misread things.

“No, no, yeah, we can do that. I was thinking of making eggplant parmesan, but what were you thinking?” Derek asks.

“Ooooooooh,” Stiles licks his lips. “Oh dude that sounds way better than my rice pilaf.”

“I love your rice pilaf,” objects Derek. He looks like he’s ready to go to battle to defend Stiles’ honor or something. Stiles beams because it’s honestly way too adorable for him to bare. He steps toward him and ruffles Derek’s hair as he passes him in the kitchen.

“Both, then? Parm and pilaf?” Stiles drops his voice when he gets close to Derek, deep into his space, and looks at Derek with a slight glimmer in his eyes. “I mean, it’s got alliteration going for it.”

Derek nods, unable to break away from Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles puts Derek on chopping duty, which is honestly most of the work if he’s being honest, and prepares the sauce. Their workstations are next to each other and their arms brush against one another's every so often. Stiles relishes in every flutter of skin, when Derek’s coarse – Yet soft? Somehow? How does he do that? Stiles wonders – arm hair tickles his own. Derek turns to grab something from the fridge and when he does, his fingers leave a trail of shivers on Stiles’ hip.

It’s torture. Sweet, agonizing, wondrous torture. By the time their dinner is ready, Stiles is blessed with the image of Derek’s flushed face and a glimpse of his belly when Derek uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his brow. It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does, Stiles has seen Derek shirtless countless times when the pack trains together. But this is different, this is just for Stiles.

They spend dinner conversing over Batman and Superman (and their totally canonical love story). Stiles loses his breath each time he pulls a boisterous laugh out of Derek, and drops his fork to just gaze at him. Happy was a good look on Derek.

***

It feels like they’ve only just sat down when their plates are empty. Stiles glances at his watch to see that it’s actually been hours.

“I’ll get the dishes,” says Derek.

“I’ll help,” Stiles jumps out of his chair at the table and, together, he and Derek bring the plates to the sink. Stiles leans back on the counter and watches Derek scrub the dishes in soapy water, mesmerized by his burly arms and soft hands and nimble fingers.

Before Stiles knows what he’s doing, he has Derek caged between his arms against the kitchen sink. His breath comes out strained and each pull from his lungs presses his chest to Derek’s back. Derek stills his movements in the sink and steps infinitesimally back into Stiles’ embrace.

“Stiles,” he breathes.

Stiles takes the last step forward to press their bodies fully together. He wraps his arms around Derek’s midsection to hold him tight, taking deep breaths of pine, rain, and something inexplicably Derek.

Derek is usually relaxed around Stiles. A smile is always quick to appear at his lips and his eyes become heavy-lidded in what can only be called tranquility. But Stiles has never seen Derek quite like this. It’s like all the tension that’s wound its way deep into his bones has suddenly melted, leaving Stiles to catch what little of Derek’s weight that remains.

They stand like that for a while, long enough for Stiles to lose track of the minutes. Derek’s head lay nestled back into the crook between Stiles’ shoulder and neck. Stiles might think that he’s fallen asleep if not for the sporadic deep inhales of Stiles’ scent and the flutters of his fingertips where they lay on Stiles’ hips.

Stiles shifts his head just enough to press his lips to Derek’s neck, just under his ear.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Come here,” says Stiles. Derek huffs a laugh.

“Stiles, I don’t know how much further ‘here’ I could be.” Which, point taken.

Except Stiles never gives up that easily. Instead, he groans in mild frustration and turns Derek around himself. He’s basically manhandling him, but Derek only smirks and lets him.

“There,” says Stiles. They’re standing chest to chest now, faces mere inches away from each other. Stiles is sure he’s cross-eyed when he looks into Derek’s eyes, but he can’t seem to pull away.

“Hi,” Derek says softly. His eyes hold a gentle spark and Stiles’ lips tug up to mirror the fond smile grazing Derek’s face.

“Hi,” he says back. Their noses are touching and Stiles just wants to feel Derek’s face against his own. Not even a kiss, he just wants to feel Derek’s stubbled cheek resting right beside his own. God, he’s a sap.

Derek leans forward a sliver more and when he speaks next, their lips brush together and Stiles breathes in Derek’s exhale. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?”

And he does. Stiles takes Derek’s jaw firmly between his palms and kisses him. It starts out chaste. After all, even though they’ve been on the edge of something for years, this is still Derek, and like hell Stiles was going to mess this up by going too fast.

Derek relaxes into the touch, a whoosh of breath from his nostrils tickling the corner of Stiles’ lips. He tilts his head to the side and leaves his neck vulnerable to Stiles. Stiles chokes back the swell of emotion the movement causes in him, because he knows that Derek is trusting him with his most sensitive part. Where all his instincts cry for shields and armor, Derek is showing his weakness. Stiles moves his hand to wrap around Derek’s neck protectively. He wasn’t going to let that trust be misplaced.

Derek trusts Stiles, believes in Stiles, and for the first time in years, he feels safe.

[small-fairy-child]

Hello everybody! Some of you may know that I'm struggling a lot right now, I'm facing eviction and homelessness, my food stamps have gone way down, and I need gas money to get to and from class. I lost to my job due to cutbacks and where I live it's really hard for a young person to find work. However being the person I am I hate asking for handouts or donations or any sort of help with out giving anything in return, so I'm trying to sell most of things (I'll have to get rid of it if we lose the house anyways) as well as some of my handmade things that I've sewn/knitted/crocheted, including my hand woven bracelets. If you can help me at all, a quarter, a dollar or two, I'll send you a bracelet, and if you want a different color or pattern then just ask and I'll oblige! I hate doing this because I hate asking for help but I don't have a lot of other options currently. If you can't help then please reblog and signal boost. Message me for my PayPal and to give me your address and let me know if you'd like to see anything else I've made, thank you for the support and I love all you guys 💗