#custom cotton bags

[coolindianjutebags-blog]

[gxbags]

High-Quality Custom Cotton Bags to Elevate Your Brand

Custom cotton bags are the perfect blend of style and sustainability! At GX Bags, our high-quality, eco-friendly solutions make it easy to promote your brand while reducing waste. Whether for grocery shopping, gym essentials, or office accessories, our custom designs enhance your brand's visibility and commitment to the planet. Discover the versatile charm of our custom cotton bags today with GX Bags. For more information, visit us at: https://www.gxbags.com/custom-cotton-bags. 

[shoppingbagsworld]

Bag Supplier in Australia: Premium Custom Print Cotton Bags in Australia

When it comes to finding a reliable bag supplier in Perth that offers high-quality custom print cotton bags in Australia, businesses and individuals alike seek options that are sustainable, versatile, and affordable. Our collection of custom-designed cotton bags is tailored to meet diverse needs, ensuring functionality, durability, and style. Below, we explore why custom cotton bags are in demand and why we are your best partner for premium bag solutions in Perth and beyond. For a bag supplier in Perth please visit us.

Why Choose Custom Print Cotton Bags?

Sustainability at Its Core

Custom print cotton bags are an eco-friendly alternative to traditional plastic bags. Made from natural fibers, these bags are biodegradable and reduce environmental waste. Businesses are increasingly adopting cotton bags to align with green initiatives, showing their commitment to a sustainable future.

Versatile and Durable

Unlike single-use alternatives, cotton bags are reusable, making them ideal for shopping, gifting, or promotional purposes. Their sturdy construction ensures they can handle heavy loads, providing exceptional value over time.

Branding Opportunities

With custom printing options, cotton bags offer a blank canvas to showcase your brand. Whether it’s a logo, slogan, or creative design, these bags become a walking advertisement, helping businesses gain visibility and connect with their target audience.

Our Cotton Bag Range

Custom Print Options

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From compact tote bags to large shopping bags, we offer a variety of sizes to cater to different requirements. Our bags are perfect for retail stores, events, corporate giveaways, and personal use.

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Why We Are the Leading Bag Supplier in Perth

Commitment to Quality

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Applications of Custom Cotton Bags

Retail and Shopping

Cotton bags are a staple for retail businesses, offering customers a sustainable way to carry their purchases. With branded designs, they double as a marketing asset, spreading brand awareness.

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Businesses use custom print cotton bags at trade shows, product launches, and conferences. They serve as memorable giveaways, leaving a lasting impression on attendees.

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Custom bags make thoughtful corporate gifts, especially when paired with other branded items. They reflect a company’s commitment to sustainability while offering practical utility.

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Many individuals prefer cotton bags for their daily errands, gym gear, or as an accessory. Their stylish appearance and functionality make them a favorite choice.

Steps to Order Custom Cotton Bags

Choose Your BagBrowse our collection and select the size and style that fits your needs.

Design Your PrintShare your artwork or collaborate with our design team to create a standout print.

Place Your OrderSubmit your order details, including the quantity, and we’ll handle the rest.

Receive Your BagsSit back and relax as we deliver your custom cotton bags straight to your doorstep.

The Future of Eco-Friendly Bags in Perth

As awareness of environmental sustainability grows, the demand for reusable bags continues to rise. Cotton bags are not only a practical choice but also a reflection of changing consumer preferences. By choosing our custom print cotton bags, you contribute to a greener future while elevating your brand’s image.

For businesses, organizations, or individuals looking for Custom print cotton bags Australia, we offer a seamless solution that combines quality, affordability, and creativity. Join the movement towards sustainability and let your brand shine with our eco-friendly bag options.

Shopping Bags Australia offers eco-friendly, customizable bags in various styles and materials, ideal for promoting brands sustainably. Durable, stylish solutions for businesses and events.

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[tnecarrybag]

Custom cotton canvas bag

[uniqueartisanconnoisseur]

Looking Good While Traveling!

Whether flying, driving, riding on a train or bus, we all want to look while traveling! This can sometimes be difficult while on the road. Long travel times, wrinkled clothes and more. To get advice on how to stay fashionable on the road, I turned to some experts. Linda Spanberger, flight attendant for United Airlines, flies all over the world. Her opinion on fashion is spot on. “Fashion is a…

[restaurantmatchbooks]

Custom Imprinted | Logo Printed On Canvas Bag in New York

Custom Imprinted Canvas Bags

We provide a variety of cotton messenger bags and custom logo printed on canvas bags in New York. We offer quality custom imprinted canvas bags in New York

Looking for a unique and stylish way to promote your brand or business in the bustling city of New York? Look no further than custom imprinted canvas bags! These versatile and eco-friendly bags are the perfect promotional item to make a statement and stand out in a sea of competition.

Attracting attention in a city like New York can be a challenge, but with custom-imprinted canvas bags, you can turn heads wherever you go. Whether you're attending a trade show, networking event, or simply walking around the city, these bags will serve as a mobile advertisement for your brand. With your logo or custom design prominently displayed on the bag, you can increase brand visibility and create a lasting impression with potential customers.

In a city known for its fashion-forward trends and eco-conscious consumers, custom imprinted canvas bags are not only a stylish choice but also a sustainable one. Made from durable and eco-friendly materials, these bags are reusable and environmentally friendly, making them a popular choice among environmentally conscious consumers. By promoting your brand with custom imprinted canvas bags, you are not only showcasing your brand but also demonstrating your commitment to sustainability and responsible business practices.

When it comes to customization options, the possibilities are endless. Choose from a wide range of colors, styles, and sizes to create a customized bag that perfectly reflects your brand's identity. Whether you prefer a classic tote bag, a trendy backpack, or a stylish messenger bag, you can find the perfect canvas bag to suit your needs.

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In a city as diverse and dynamic as New York, standing out from the crowd is key to success. By investing in custom imprinted canvas bags, you can elevate your brand and make a lasting impression on potential customers. With their versatility, sustainability, and stylish design, these bags are the perfect choice for promoting your brand in a city that never sleeps.

Contact us today to learn more about our custom imprinted canvas bags and start promoting your brand in style!

[mirafilo]

[writersdrug]

Convincing bartender Simon to make one of those overly decorated and sweet cocktails or even add it to the menu because it’s cute and you know it’d do well on the gram and attract the ladies. He’d huff and puff but do it anyway

Like one of these with cotton candy, glitter, and sprinkles etc!: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/825988387943179970/

OMG wait I soooo want to try that-

The video ends, and Simon stares at the picture of the drink with a furrowed brow.

"Looks like somethin' you'd see at a bridal shower." He comments, handing you back your phone.

"Doesn' it?" You say with a smile, shoving your phone into your back pocket. You lean your arms over the bar and poke his side. "Come oooonnnnnn, Simon - imagine how many sales you'd make on something like that! People would love it."

"Imagine the money I'd lose, havin' t' buy bags of candy floss..." he grumbles, hiding his smirk behind his mask when you groan dramatically.

"You could do it as a promotional thing...? Like- ladies' night... in October?"

He snorts. "'Ladies' Night in October', hmm? N' what are ladies celebratin'?"

"Ok, fine- forget Ladies' Night. What about something for Halloween?"

"Like wot?" He grunts, grabbing a glass from the stack and pouring out one of the taps.

"I dunno... something fun, but practical - Oh! You could- like a Moscow Mule, but just serve it in a different glass and use edible glitter!"

Simon quirks his brow as he slides the beer glass to a customer. "Edible glitter?" He asks, wiping his hands on his rag. "Didn't know there was such a thing."

You nod quickly, your eyes full of excitement. "Yeah! God, I could pick up a bunch from the baker's supply down a few blocks. You could call it 'Witches' Brew.'"

He turns it over for a moment - in his opinion, it's ridiculous. He runs a pub, not a college bar. He would have scoffed at the idea of someone else had brought it up - but, it's you bringing it up, and that's a completely different story. You have such a brilliant gleam in your eye that melts his heart. He can't say no to you, especially after making you cry last week. He's still carrying out his penance for that.

"You think it'd sell?"

"Oh, for sure! I can make an insta post about it to get some attention."

He clicks his tongue, turning to the POS and seemingly uninterested by it. "Fine - if you spend anythin' promotin' it, let Price know. He'll reimburse ya."

You let out a triumphant whoop and slide of the barstool. He lets out a huff as you trot back to your tables, a noticeable pep in your step. He chances through the window on the kitchen door to see if his food is ready - what he's met with is Johnny's face, staring through the warming counter as he stands at the stove, a smug grin resting on his lips.

Simon can practically hear the cook's thoughts. Whipped bastard.

You had left without saying goodbye that night. You waited by the counter, rocking eagerly on your toes as Simon grabbed your tips from the night before out of the safe. As soon as he handed them to you, you snatched them and ran out the door. He was a bit irked by that, standing there with a stubborn frown as you pranced out of the restaurant - maybe you're still not back to being cheeky and chipper yet after last week. He can live with that... for now.

However, not twenty minutes later, you come stumbling back in with a paper bag in hand and a smile on your face, panting like you'd just run a marathon. Simon's anxieties quell at the sight of you.

"Got it!" You say breathlessly, walking to the edge of the bar and dropping the bag onto it. Simon folds his arms over his chest as you reach in and pull out a small bottle of glitter. You hand It to him and he takes it, holding it up to the dim light above.

"You can eat this shit?" He asks, brows furrowed.

"Mhmm!" You chirp, settling into a barstool. "Now, bartender - I'll have a Moscow Mule."

He sets the glitter down and grabs a clear glass, working on gathering the ingredients. "Ya only call me that when you want something."

"I'm calling you what you are." You respond, watching as he skillfully mixes everything together, pouring vodka from the jigger between two fingers, tossing in lime juice and topping it off with ginger beer. As shameful as it is to admit, you're kinda attracted to the skill he presents.

"Should be callin' me boss." He says, topping the drink off with a straw.

You slide off your stool and chuckle. "Yeah, you'd be into something kinky like that."

Simon has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the thought of you - nope. He won't even entertain the idea. He simply steps back a bit as you wedge yourself behind the bar (yes, he actually forces himself to give you enough room - he doesn't need you feeling hiw aroused he is).

You grab a bottle of the glitter and dash some into the drink. After swirling it with the straw, the liquid becomes iridescent with purple shimmer that billows about the glass. You look up at him with a satisfied smile.

"Witches' Brew." You announce, holding the drink out to him.

You look happy - an observation that makes Simon smile, even if he wasn't the one to cause your happiness. He lifts his mask, grabs one of the straws and plugs it, before bringing it to his mouth and sampling the drink.

"Tastes like a mule."

"But it looks like a potion, right?"

"'S this glitter goin' to be in my gut whenever I get autopsied?"

You laugh, grabbing the glass and leaving Simon behind the bar. "That would be a cute party trick." You call over your shoulder.

Simon watches you, arms folded over his chest and his eyes curious. You set the drink on the opposite end of the bar, pulling your phone from your pocket and pointing the camera to the glass. You grimace; your arm reaches over the bar to grab the rag lying over the faucet, and quickly wipe down the bartop. He huffs, grabbing his phone from the register and pulling up his group text with Soap and Price.

Ghost: got ourselves a marketing team.

He looks back up at you - you're hunched over, taking picture after picture of the drink. You twirl the straw in the liquid every few seconds, kicking up the glitter and making it reflect the low lighting of the bar.

Hus phone buzzes.

Price: ??

Ghost: she's making a drink for october and promoting it in social media

Soap: clever girl

Soap: what drink?

Ghost: moscow mule, but in a clear glass and with some edible glitter shit. it's pretty neat.

Soap: picture?

Price: Promoting? Will this cost me anything?

Simon chuckles. He pulls up the camera on his phone and aims it at you-

Except you're in a different position. You're perched so nicely on a barstool, holding your phone at arm's length and your drink in the other hand. You're smiling up at your camera, nose scrunched as you pose for a selfie. Your hair is down, your back is arched, and - did you tug your neckline down? You most certainly did. You're breasts weren't that pronounced before.

Without thinking, Simon takes a photo. The shutter clicks loudly: you look at him, as do the three patrons sitting at the bar.

Fuck. He panicks, clearing his throat and lowering his phone. "Jus' showin' the lads what you're up to." He says, but you can see the tension in his shoulders as he quickly sends the picture to the chat and puts his phone in his pocket.

You smirk - whether it was truly just for Price and Soap, or if it was for himself, you felt a little flattered that you'd caught him in the act. You hoped for the latter.

Simon exhales heavily and rests his palms on the counter. His face burns beneath his mask as he tries to calm his racing heart. Fuck- was that weird? Course it fuckin' was. Goddamn creep.

His phone buzzes again. He sighs and pulls it into his hand.

Price: Cute thing, isn't she?

Simon immediately frowns, any previous shame now replaced with a fire in his chest.

"Fuckin' wot?"

[blackcoffeemedia]

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[coolindianjutebags-blog]

Cloth bag manufacturer in hyderabad with customisation and print. for more deetails contact us on 9666829906 or search in google as "indian jute bags, Hyderabad"

[alchemistc]

Donato spots it first - Tommy's been fidgeting with the just-too-short sleeves of his shirt for the past ten minutes, fingers curling into the ends of the arms, thumb sliding along the hem like maybe he could make them long enough to fully cover his wrists just by thinking really hard about it. It's stretched tight across his shoulders, the neck hole feels too high, biting into his skin, and Tommy is absolutely certain it's been hemmed in at the fucking waist, because he can barely keep the damn thing tucked into his pants.

(The cost of having those fucking magnificent gazelle legs is apparently torso space.)

"You shrink your shirt in the wash again, Kinard?"

Tommy's been begging their vendor to switch to a jersey blend for years because 100% cotton undershirts are a goddamn bitch and a half to maintain.

Tommy thinks about ignoring the question entirely. They've been razzing him for weeks about the way every single smile line in his face has been putting in overtime lately.

And then she gets a closer look at it. The merch is usually the same cross-department, but every once in a while some probie will get stuck with the task of ordering a few extras to have as backups around the station and they'll go a little too hard on customization. Like, for example, the one he'd picked off the top of his clean laundry basket without looking in his rush out the door this morning.

Lucy's eyes narrow. She reaches forward, pinches the 118 emblem blazing across the breadth of his shoulder, takes in the color and sturdiness of a shirt he definitely can't play off as being old enough to have been from his own time at the One Eighteen.

Donato grimaces so mockingly Tommy nearly warns her that her face'll get stuck like that. "Christ, Kinard, how fucking domestic are you two?"

(Three days off together after a week of getting by with random texts, their schedules nearly opposite, and when Evan had stared at his overnight bag on day two and realized he didn't have any spare undershirts he'd pouted up a storm about the fact that if he had to go back to his place it didn't make a lick of sense to turn right back around to Tommy's, so Tommy had just thrown Evan's dirty undershirt in with the rest of his own laundry. And then prompted Evan to throw all his other stuff in the wash too. Halfway across the city, Evan is definitely rolling too-long sleeves over his palm with the tips of his fingers and Tommy does not have time to think about how much he likes the idea of that )

"He doesn't even know my how I take my coffee," Tommy snipes, like that avoids the question, and across the locker room Johnson slams his locker shut with a snort.

"Because you've been using his increasingly more desperate attempts to figure it out as some weird intricate mating ritual for three months now."

"It's about --."

"--the journey, not the destination," they both interrupt, eyes rolling, and Tommy doesn't bother to try to hide the grin in his face.

"He just wants to get it right so bad."

Donato's face is unimpressed. "Ugh. Can you please stop being so smitten right in front of me? I'm gonna throw up."

Tommy leans in for the kill. "Your wife ever buy you flowers, Johnson? Because I've been trying to decide how much thought went into the arrangement he brought me on Saturday, and I figure -." He dodges the palm Johnson extends towards his face with a bark of bright laughter.

---

Evan 2:15 PM

Boyfriend privileges are a SCAM

Evan 2:15 PM

Why is YOUR NAME on the back of this shirt? There's no way that's standard

Evan 2:16 PM

Chimney's being homophobic

Evan 2:19 PM

Nvm Gerrard saw it and now I'm just sad he didn't actually have a heart attack about it

[shoppingbagsworld]

Customized jute bags Australia | Cotton bags Australia

Customized jute and cotton bags are eco-friendly, durable, and stylish alternatives to plastic. These reusable bags are highly versatile, making them perfect for daily use and branding opportunities. Jute bags offer strength and biodegradability, while cotton bags are lightweight and comfortable to carry. Both materials are ideal for customization, allowing businesses to promote their brand through logos and designs printed on the bags. By choosing customized jute and cotton bags, businesses can align with sustainability goals, reduce plastic waste, and boost brand visibility in a cost-effective manner while offering consumers a practical, reusable option.

[tuesdayiminlove]

imperfect for you

rockstar!eddie x fem!waitress!reader

summary: it's hard, in the early stages, to grasp who exactly it is you're dating, and if you're worth the time in the end. good thing he doesn't see anything else but you.

author's note: inspired by the ariana grande song. i can't listen to it without thinking of eddie. this is just a small blurb, but lmk if u wanna see more of them and maybe i'll turn this into a mini series :)

word count: 1.6k

Working the closing shift at the diner is a peaceful predicament. 

But one hand, a yawn escapes your lips as the clock ticks by abnormally slow, the large arrow pointing to the number eleven. You lean against the counter, organizing salt and pepper shakers in a deliberate rhythm—making sure not to disrupt the quiet peace you have made in your little bubble. 

On the other hand, it’s nice to watch the sun fall  from the steamy, glass windows from Carly’s Diner, the red and blue hues reflecting from the freshly wiped tabled that still remain sticky after being rubbed clean. When the customers thin out, it gives time for you to rest your feet and sigh in relief once the rush is over. The line cooks in the back even manage to sneak in a burger or two for you to munch on in between taking customers’ orders. 

Every once in a while, you look back out into the dark.

The parking lot is empty except for a few cars of the cooks, Sandra’s beat-up chevy, and Martin’s Bug (who is still nursing a coffee this late into the day). The clock may be ticking more towards the early hours of the day, but your mind persists in waiting for that one specific car to pull quietly into the lot.

You hear your last name get called quietly from the kitchen. You turn to see Jim staring at you. “You’re off the clock,” he adds gruffly, not giving you enough to answer before swinging the door to the kitchen shut to get back to his own work.

A sigh escapes your lips, either in relief or disappointment—you didn’t know. The clock had been ticking for hours, but it’s as if nothing has changed besides your energy levels. You throw one last glance toward the window, the rain tapping faintly against the glass, as if it might somehow bring him in. But the door stays shut, the place still, except for the quiet hum of the freezer full of cake slices and the low radio speakers, playing a song you've heard too many times tonight.

You make your way to the back of the diner, unbuttoning your cotton uniform as you pass through the kitchen, listening to the cooks all conversing over the broken fan (you thank god that you are rarely obligated to be in the back during shifts).

The locker filled with your things swings open. You toss your shirt inside, because you just washed it and didn’t see a need to bring it back home. You put on your hoodie and bring the ends to the tip of your fingertips, shivering at the cold.

“Goodnight, boys,” you call out to the rest of the cooks, they give you their own waves in return, soft smiles adorning their lips before they go back to arguing over the possibilities of installing an AC in Jim’s office (they’ve been discussing this for months—you think they should just bite the paycheck and do it already). You peek out of the window of the kitchen door to see if anyone else had walked in while you were changing.

That’s when you see him.

Sitting on one of the barstools, jet black curls fanning the tops of his forehead closing in on his eyes. You used to be afraid of his smirk, unknowing of whether or not actual feelings laid under the surface of it. But now, you know for sure: under everything is a man who is looking at home.

“I can’t get a free coffee anymore, can I?” he says, gesturing to the hoodie and jeans that you adorn instead of the regular uniform.

You roll your eyes. “It’s too late for coffee,” you say softly, voice small and guarded. Instead of following his initial orders, you reach underneath the counter to pull out a chamomile tea bag, and a white mug. You feel eyes on you as you put a kettle of water on the stove, watching the water flow before it’ll begin to simmer. “I was worried you got held back,” you add. I was worried that I wouldn’t see you tonight. Your eyes flicker to him, but you quickly look away. I miss you. Our lives are too different, do you feel that sometimes? I get sad waiting.

You aren’t sure if Eddie can sense the tension the way you can. It’s hard to stomach that he was just out there, surrounded by people who adore him, living his life while you run around the diner taking orders, waiting for the day to end in hopes of seeing you. Maybe he was late because he didn’t want to show up tonight altogether. Those anxious thoughts are the things that swirl in your mind while you and Eddie coexist in the same universe, but completely different planets. For him to be here tonight feels like some cosmic rearrangement: planets moving out of orbit to ensure that you two are in the same place or not. You don’t know if that should be considered natural or not. 

As if sensing the energy from within you, he leans closer to the counter. “I would’ve come here if this place was completely locked up and you were the only one inside,” he jokes lightheartedly, but something stirs in your stomach at the truthfulness he holds in his tone. “Is that what goes on in that head of yours?”

The kettle whines, giving you an excuse not to answer. You shut off the stove and pour the steaming water into the mug, followed by the tea bag as you use a spoon to begin mixing the contents. You pull sugar from the side of the counter and count two teaspoons, exactly how you knew he liked it. “This’ll help you sleep tonight,” you say, putting it in front of him. “No more coffee past five.”

He smiles, eyes following yours in a desperate attempt to hold your gaze for as long as possible. He always does that; says he’s obsessed with your eyes. You recall the times once or twice where you stared deeply at yourself in the mirror to desperately see what he sees. Maybe his songwriting heart is writing prose upon prose as the seconds pass by, trying to capture a truth that cannot fully be put into words. You watch with a little smile as he takes the cup in between his lips. “Thank you, bug. C’mon,” he motions at the barstool beside him and you follow, leaving your way to the opposite of the counter and taking your spot beside him. He drinks quickly, taking your hand in between his as he takes big gulps as if trying to finish it all at once. “Let’s go, yeah?”

Keeping your hand in his, he stands up and begins walking to the exit, leaving you to trail behind faithfully. The bell above the door rings softly as you both step out of the diner. The cool night air bites at your skin and you find yourself edging closer to Eddie. He trades holding your hand to wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to catch some of his warmth. His footsteps are soft on the sidewalk, and your feet match him at a perfect pace, as if your minds moved in sync with each other. The planets are orbiting as they should.

He stops beside the passenger side car, hands in his pockets, and glances over at you. The neon from the diner’s sign glows faintly on his face, but his eyes are still all warm for you. He pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the car before opening the door for you.

“Ah–shit,” he mutters lowly, peering into his passenger seat. You peer in from behind him to see that his guitar is sat where he gestured you. You watch as he delicately takes the instrument, and lightly passes it off to the backseat. He wipes his hands dramatically, motioning at the now empty seat. “For you, bug.” You giggle. “Thanks.” 

Eddie’s car smells like a mix of vanilla and weed—a combined scent you’ve slowly come to associate with him and the comfort he carried. Who would’ve thought?

You see, dating Eddie is a peaceful predicament.

On one hand, you find it hard to believe that you have to share him with thousands of other people. His profession isn’t a topic of conversation you shy away from, but it isn’t every day you go into an in-depth conversation on how he spends most of his nights onstage, riffing on his guitar as his forehead catches a sweat from the velocity of his words spilling onto a microphone. You don’t talk about the crowd, the endless sea of people who show up to see him—just to watch, just to bask in the glow of his presence, while you get to experience it all for free.

Sometimes (if you were to ask Eddie, it’s more like all the time), you get anxious about how fast his life moves.Fast enough to match the rhythm of his mind, always racing ahead, always chasing the next thing. You, however, were all calculated and anxious, words only slipping after serious consideration.

But on the other hand, no one else holds your hand as they drive down the streetlight-filled roads to your apartment. No one else kisses each fingertip while you recount your draining day that is arguably less fast-paced than his, but he never interjects to say that. He never points out the insecurities she holds for being so different from him; mentally if not physically. Instead, he reassures you without a conversation needing to be had.

You lay your head against the passenger window and stare at his side profile, paying attention to the street though you know that his mind is elsewhere.

(You.) 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed. 

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge. 

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage. 

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

[kumkaniudaku]

Stay A While (2)

Summary: Terry and Treece are feeling the sparks again.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3,659

Part: 2 of ??

Warnings: None. This one's a safe for work slow burn. Enjoy.

Previous

Grocery shopping was Patrice's private pastime. She was the queen of her universe when she walked through aisles every Saturday morning. Every flash bargain and value-sized item bent to her will for a chance at making it to her humble abode and fulfilling its one purpose in life. Employees greeted her like royalty. Customers started conversations like old friends, always giving her the scoop on any sale they'd overheard in their neighborhood Facebook groups. She was happy. She was zen. She was in her element.

"Do you need this?" 

She was a woman dragging around a large man intent on breaking any modicum of concentration she had left.

Patrice stopped and looked over her shoulder at Terry, who held a bag of cotton candy grapes up in the air for her inspection. "No, TJ. Put it down." 

"Why? You like grapes." 

"Because we're getting grapes from the farmer's market. Now, put it back."

Her rebuke was sweet but stern. Having him as a way too familiar roommate was becoming easier as the days passed. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss the freedom to go for a walk, watch a movie on the couch, or even enjoy an intimate moment alone in her own house without a man looming somewhere in the very near background. 

He didn't allow her to travel alone, and she never had the energy to protest. 

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm a kid," he grumbled as he put the grapes back in their place.

"Then stop acting like one. I have a list. I know what I need." 

"I know what I need." He exaggerated his mimicry for maximum effect. 

"You see how that was childish?" 

"Whatever." 

Patrice ignored him in favor of browsing packages of beef for the best deal. If she didn't respond, maybe he would get the hint. And, for a few moments, he did. Terry took a break in conversation to scan the immediate area quietly. He noted each patron and their most important details before checking the exit and entry points at the front of the store. They weren't secure enough, but he could manage if the situation required evacuation.

A lack of action soon turned his attention back to Patrice, who still hadn't decided. He gave her a slow once over and smiled at how much focus she put into such a simple choice. Her brow remained furrowed in intense thought, transforming her into the ninth-grade Patrice he met during a chance encounter in the library. Truthfully, he didn't have much of an opinion either way. He just wanted to talk to her every second of the day, even if it meant being annoying. 

"Get that one." 

His sudden interruption startled Patrice out of her zone, adding a final straw to an already exhausted camel's back. Terry grinned in triumph as she closed her eyes for a calming breath. 

"Terry," she spoke, slow and measured to keep the peace. "Take the other half of this list and get out of my face. Don't come back until you find everything. I'll meet you at the register." 

She didn't give him much time to protest before she shoved a carefully torn half of paper into his chest and sent him on his way. He gave her a sarcastic salute, which she waved off without a second look. She needed a moment alone and didn't care if he came back with Fruity O's instead of Fruit Loops if that meant he would be out of her hair for more than 10 minutes. 

Terry found himself slowly meandering around the grocery store with a tiny basket in tow, exhausted by all the options on each aisle. If Patrice hadn't been so meticulous with her lists, he would've given up on the mission and gone back to home base with his tail tucked between his legs. 

After sourcing the perfect pint of Oreo ice cream as an apology for his behavior, Terry found himself drawn to the sound of laughter on the next aisle. Sure enough, Patrice was parked by the frozen vegetables and engaged with a man dressed in the store's colors with his eyes directed far too low to be looking at Patrice's face. 

Terry quickly reached her location, stopping behind Patrice to show her guest the full extent of his scowl. 

Patrice noticed how his once loose body language had gone stiff and sighed. She didn't need to investigate the problem. Only her human pitbull could make a man cower in fear like that. 

"Derrick, this is Terry. Terry, this is Derrick. He usually helps me get stuff to my car." 

"Ah, man. It's a good thing I'm here, right? We don't need you taking too many breaks from stocking. Mornin' rush can get crazy." 

"Terry," Patrice admonished with a harsh whisper and an elbow to his stomach. 

Terry remained steadfast, keeping his eyes on Derrick while taking one step closer. A taunting smile tugged on the right side of his mouth. He waited on any sign of fight from his unspoken adversary. 

Derrick stood in palpable discomfort, sizing up the outcomes if he decided to test his luck. Each mental scenario led him back to some instance of physical harm on his last shift of the week. He had plans for the weekend, none involving a trip to the emergency room.

Patrice stood between a rock and a hardheaded man, praying that the Lord would end her suffering.

"That's what I was about to say," Derrick answered before shifting his attention back to Patrice. "I think I oughta get going. See you around, Ms. Ellis?" 

"Same time next week." 

He nodded in half-hearted agreement and hurried out of dodge, with Terry keeping a watchful eye until he was safely around the corner. 

Patrice groaned with one hand, rubbing tight circles at her temple. "What in the hell was that about?" 

"He wouldn't even look you in the eye. If he can't look you in the eye when he's speaking, he can't protect you, and he doesn't respect you." 

"I'm not looking for his protection. I need this water loaded into my trunk every week when you aren't here!" 

"I'll never not be here. Problem solved."

His declaration was so sure, so matter of fact, that it left Patrice no room for retort. So she resorted to schoolyard antics. 

It was her turn to mock him with an exaggerated, deep voice. "Problem solved. Push the damn cart since you got so much energy." 

He obliged without protest and a proud, self-satisfied grin that Patrice couldn't see while she led the way to the register. An unexpected system error had halted all transactions, leaving them log jammed in a long line of restless customers. 

Together, they stood sharing light banter and running through weekend tasks, resembling any other couple making a store run to strangers observing them from the outside looking in. Former acquaintances, however, had no problem drawing attention to the pair from three spots back in line. 

"I know that ain't who I think it is." Both Patrice's and Terry's eyes darted up to find the source of the loud outburst, only to whisper 'fuck’ in tandem when they spotted Katrina Spivey waving her arms to grab their attention. "Hey, Terry Richmond!" 

Terry pretended to ignore being singled out by turning his back, earning a stifled laugh from Patrice. Katrina, not one to be deterred, used the moment to push past patrons in line until she reached her destination with a host of angry faces in her wake. 

"Well, if it ain't Mr. and Miss Homecoming in the flesh. You two finally stopped kidding around and got married?" 

"No," Terry answered without much explanation, his back still turned. Patrice reluctantly made up his slack. 

"What Terry meant to say was that we're not married. We're not together at all, actually. But he's here to visit me for a while." 

"What a blessing it is to have friends you can lean on when you need a helping hand."

"Amen."

An awkward tension settled into the conversation's lull, compounded by Terry's outright refusal to engage. Patrice was in deep water without a paddle and a co-captain who had already jumped ship.

Katrina wouldn't let the conversation end and take her newfound place in line. She continued to pry.

"Both of y'all look good! How long has it been since we last saw each other, huh? Gotta be since Terry's graduation send-off." 

Patrice feigned interest with a hollow smile. "Yeah, I think that was it. A looong time ago. All grown up now."

"And thank God for it! I remember how sad you looked all night because ol' Terry was moving away. Like a little crying puppy!" 

Katrina's laughter didn't quite reach Terry or Patrice, who bristled at mentioning one of the more contentious nights in their friendship. 

"Everybody's been a little young and dumb, right? Like when you and BJ got caught underneath the bleachers during state championships." 

Checkmate. A little reminder of her indiscretions had turned Katrina's condescending smile into a mean mug that could burn through anyone not equally as stubborn. 

Terry showed his approval with a light nudge against Patrice's arm. That was his girl. Sweet as pie but a tongue coated in venom when backed against the wall. He'd been on the receiving end on one too many occasions. It felt good to be on the winning side this time. 

Three seconds of a Western standoff had culminated in a gift sent via store intercom. 

"Apologies for the stoppage, folks. Our registers are back up and running. Thanks for your patience." 

Terry moved the cart to place items on the conveyor belt while Patrice waited for the conversation to resume.

Recovering from the sharp end of a verbal lashing, Katrina cleared her throat and grabbed hold of her cart in preparation to skip lines. 

"Well, I don't wanna hold y'all too much longer. If y'all don't think you're too good to mingle with us Francis High Hornets anymore, Corey's throwing a little Juneteenth gathering at his daddy's pool hall. This is my personal invite for the both of you."

"We were already invited. Maybe we'll make an appearance." 

"That'd be grand." 

"I bet it would."

Nice nasty smiles passed between the two foes until Katrina was off to harass some other unsuspecting patron. 

Patrice tried to let go of her frustration with an angry huff before turning to catch up with Terry, who was casually moving groceries from the bagging station to the shopping basket. He waited a moment before acknowledging the obvious. 

"You over it now, or do I need to iron a shirt for tonight?" 

"I'm over it," Patrice answered plainly. She calmly handed over payment for the day's groceries and smiled ever so sweetly to bid the cashier farewell. To an outsider, she'd returned to her zen state without much effort. Terry was no outsider and kept a cautious eye on her as they loaded bags into the trunk and got settled in the front seat of her SUV. 

"You sure you're good," he asked as he backed out of their parking space. 

"I'm sure, TJ," she answered with almost too much enthusiasm. Terry started a mental countdown for the other shoe to drop. "I'll iron the shirt. You need to shave." 

--------

The final verdict? A plain white T-shirt. 

An hour of searching, choosing, rejecting, and choosing again led them to a plain, crisp white tee. Patrice said it went better with her yellow wrap dress, which she chose because her girlfriends were all in dresses, and she wanted to match the occasion. It all sounded like made-up bullshit to Terry. Still, he accepted being treated like a Ken Doll because it meant that his Barbie would agree to a two-hour hard stop at the festivities. 

He'd already started his stopwatch when they pulled up on a busy street in front of an even busier hole in the wall.

The smell of fresh grease greeted them upon crossing the threshold from outside into Mister C's Bar and Lounge. Fried fish, French fries, and wings in any flavor you could ask for sat in the service window, waiting for their delivery to any one of the patrons packed from wall to cinderblock wall. Terry inhaled deeply and let his scowl drop for one second to fantasize about a bite of Corey Sr.'s signature catfish and fries basket. 

Next came the familiar mix of sweat and weed near the dancefloor as bodies intertwined to some GloRilla song neither of them recognized. Thick traffic in the center of the room paused Patrice on her path to the pool tables, locking her between Terry and a crowd that wouldn't budge. 

"Excuse me!" she shouted over a swell of crowd reaction to a new song. "I need to get by!" 

No response. Not even a look back as she used a hand to create space between her and a group of men debating nonsense. Before she could try again, Terry used one hand to push her forward and his voice to clear the way. 

"Yo, step out of the way. We need to get through." Direct and to the point. He left no room for misinterpretation, and his baritone's boom left no confusion about who was calling the shots. Patrice watched with her lips slightly parted in awe. 

The first reaction to his demand was the embers of confrontation. Each member of the group sized Terry up, noticing his heavy scowl and size in comparison to their own. Then, they realized that this wasn't a winning game. 

The flashiest of the group nodded, though disdain at the mere suggestion that he was in the way kept his mouth in a tight frown. "Yeah, you good, OG. My fault." 

Another light push propelled Patrice forward as Terry maintained with each man until they had passed. 

Once they were out of the mix and nearing their destination, he advised, "Stay close." Patrice nodded her compliance, shocking Terry into a slight smile in appreciation for her obedience. 

Sparks of electricity shot between them but had no time to turn into a total current before Corey called out to them. 

"Treece! Terry! We over here!" 

Surrounded by familiar faces from Francis Edward's Class of 2010, Corey welcomed them with open arms and his ever-present 100-watt smile. At a slight 5'6", 150 on his best day, he'd always been larger than his frame would suggest. Loud and flamboyant had always been the name of his game, earning him anything he set his sights on.

It didn't take long for the trio and Corey's wife, June, to fall into familiar habits and friendly jabs at one another as they took their seats in a makeshift VIP section by the pool tables. The Three-Headed Monster was their moniker in high school, and they moved like a military force. Terry was the enforcer, while Corey and Patrice served as judge and prosecutor. If you had an issue with one, you had an issue with all three. 

"Your security is lax. Who trained them?" Terry pointed out during a dead spot in conversation. 

Corey followed his eyeline to the two young men standing at the door and back. "My boy at the sheriff's office. What you see?" 

"They look soft. It wouldn't take much to overpower them and get in for some drama. You only have one exit. Somebody breeches this place, and you're on the hook for a tragedy. Plus, the one on the left is scared. He'll be the first to leave if things get hot. Watch him."

"Impressive," June remarked, smiling at Patrice, who subtly playfully waved her off.

"Hm." Corey took a long pull from his cigar, taking in the information before responding." You here for a minute, T? I got some connections over at Liberty if you looking to get back in the swing of things." 

"Contract?" 

"Whatever you need, man. You know I'm good for it."

Terry looked over at Patrice for some indication that she believed in Corey, and she returned with a subtle nod and encouraging smile. June looked between them and then at her husband before clearing her throat. 

"It looks like Kel and his boy are back on the pool table. You know he still owes you a game from when he cheated last week." 

"Hell yeah," Corey agreed as he turned in his seat to get a look at his enemy. "Aye, T, you trynna make $100 real quick?" 

"It's either that or you gotta come dance with me," Patrice challenged. "This rum and pineapple got me feeling a little loose." 

She wasn't lying. A taste of alcohol in her system was starting to make her want to explore parts of the Patrice she thought she left at North Carolina A&T. Every heart-rattling thump of Megan Thee Stallion's latest and greatest had her thinking about reminding everyone in the room that she could move with the best of them. 

Her little grind in her seat made Terry show teeth in a small grin before he stood to his full height and looked down at her. His eyes were hooded and dreamy from some combination of exhaustion and a contact high, reintroducing that spark from before.

"Don't go too far. I'll be back with your money in a little bit." 

Patrice's tongue felt too heavy to respond coherently past a punch-drunk nod. June watched her watch him make his way down the platform and into the crowd until both men were out of earshot. 

She whistled and shook her head. "That's a good-looking man, ain't he?" 

"Who? Corey? He alright. He's like a slightly more attractive Taye Diggs." 

"First off, ouch," June laughed. "Second, I was talking about Terry. He was cute in high school, but I'll be damned if that second puberty didn't take him to a whole 'nother level." 

"Don't tell him that. His head is big enough."

"You know you wrong for that." If the music weren't so loud, everyone in the building would've heard the pair guffawing over Patrice's petty insult. 

Once they contained themselves, June took a sip from her margarita and shifted in her seat to get closer to Patrice.

"He likes you still." Five plain words shook Patrice internally as she struggled to maintain a poker face. June continued. "I see the way he looks for your approval and damn near trips on himself to fulfill your every whim. You're all he talks about when he and Corey get on the phone." 

"They talk?" 

"From time to time. I think he needs a man's opinion sometimes, you know?" 

Patrice wrestled with the influx of information as June continued. 

"That man is mean as a snake. Always has been and always will be. But, you bring something out of him. Even if you can't always see it." 

"If that were the case, things would've been different for us back then." 

June shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe you're right where you're supposed to be. I know I can't make you do what you don't wanna do, but if what I say means anything, focus on today. Thirty-two-year-old Terry is so much more prepared to love you than eighteen-year-old Terry was." 

Punctuating her advice, June tapped Patrice's leg twice before taking a step away to refill their tray of food. 

Focus on today.

The words replayed in her mind repeatedly; even after their two hours were up, Terry had returned $100 richer, and they were back on the road to their quiet slice of the world. 

They rode together in content quiet, letting the Quiet Storm host talk while Terry tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. 

Randomly, he would glance in her direction, assuming she had lost the sleep battle to her old friend Bacardi. When he reached over to adjust the air vent on her side of the car, he was surprised when she mumbled a low "thank you." 

"My bad. I thought you were sleeping." 

"No. My head is swimming, though. Don't let me drink that much anymore." she laughed. 

He chuckled along with her but didn't agree to keep her from letting her hair down occasionally. In his eyes, seeing her relaxed and carefree was a gift to the world. 

The opening notes of Tevin Campbell's "I'm Ready" swirled around them, sounding like a secret message to Patrice as she focused on streetlights to keep the contents of her dinner inside her stomach. 

"Hey," she whispered before she could catch herself. Terry acknowledged her with a glance. "Do you think you're still scared?" 

"Of what?" 

"Of whatever kept you away for so long?"

He thought for a moment, wanting to make sure he was clear with his word. "No. I was never afraid of you. I was afraid of bringing you along for a ride I might not survive. That's not a threat anymore. So, no, I'm not scared anymore."

You know I'm ready

To love you

Forever 

Patrice reached across the center console until she reached Terry's hand to interlock her fingers with his. He gave her an appreciative squeeze without taking his eyes off the road. 

"I-I don't think I'm scared anymore either."

Her heart raced wildly behind her ribs, and Patrice was that if Terry pressed his wrist close enough to hers, he could feel her pulse accelerate. He didn't mind either way. Sweaty palms and trembling fingers would never be enough for him to let her go. Not again. 

As if she'd break if he moved too fast, Terry brought her hand to his lips slowly. One kiss. Another. Two more. And a final one for good measure. 

When he'd had his fill of her skin, he pressed the spot up against his cheek. He needed to feel and absorb her until they were one body. 

But, for tonight at least, this was enough.

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @oniccah @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse

[aloesarchives]

JJK Drabble #2

Tw/Warnings: Fem!Reader, Fluff, Fluff Brainrot, Domesticity, Family Man Toji, Usage of Wife and Mom, JJK Oc added

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

Reader: Female, Usage of Wife and Mom

AU: Modern/"Toji Lives" Au

(A/N): I'm back! Well, kinda of. Long story short, dealt w/college stuff and had a health scare that kept me away from writing. Also had a mini burnout too. More is explained here!

Thinking about Toji taking up crocheting and knitting because he saw how expensive yet cheaply made certain items like blankets are made. So he buys a simple set to try it out, following Youtube tutorials and watching videos for ideas. Once he masters the basics, Toji is LOCKED IN once again. Making full on hand-made blankets, scarves, hats, mittens/gloves, stuffed animals, covers/cases, bags, scrunchies, even damn rugs. Anything you ask him for, he’ll make it. This ends up being very practical to Toji because he saves so much money by just making them at home himself. It has to be the premium, natural, good quality type. Organic cotton, wool, cashmere, alpaca/llamas, silk, linen, mohair, bamboo, hemp, all of that. Tell him about polyester or something and he tells you to put that shit back. He buys the premium yarn nearby, locally, or gets them imported internationally. Gets every and any colors because he never wants to be limited when making his projects.

There was a throw blanket you wanted for the couch but it was expensive and the size was a lot smaller than you hoped. The next day, you come home to see Toji making it for you. The same color but better quality and inexpensive, and it was the size you wanted too. You were happy and amazed that he made it within a day. Living off your praise and approval, Toji just makes everything. Since he can’t get carpal tunnel or arthritis, his hands and wrists never get tired from working. Though, his posture does get bad and his back aches from being hunched over. The blanket in your bedroom with Toji? He made that shit with fucking love and care. He actually made multiple ones depending on the weather and season. 

Man has even made throw pillows, regular pillows, water bottle cases, table cloths, coasters, bags, cushions, and made your own curtains. I mentioned before that everything in your home was either made, customized, or renovated by Toji. This stays TRUE because almost all the pillows and blankets in the house are his creation. The blankets and pillows that cover Megumi and Tsumiki’s beds? All Toji. Both pillows and blankets match each other and are in respective colors for the two. Megumi has one at his dorm because it gets cold over there and he hates sleeping in the cold. 

If you are a stuffed animal fiend, like me, you ask Toji to make you any stuffed animal you want. Definitely make squishmallow dupes for you if you asked him. In your personal room/office, there’s a pile of stuffed animals in the corner from Toji that you pluck one from the pile and hold it while relaxing or walking around the house. The ones he loves to make are bees, dragons, whales, dolphins and dogs. And they’re so soft and huggable, you squeeze them all the time. Toji just grins to himself knowing the things he makes brings you and the kids happiness.

Toji “Anything my wife wants, my wife gets. No questions asked” Fushiguro

It’s normal for you to come home to see Toji crocheting/knitting away at something. You either find him in three places at home: the engawa in front of the courtyard and garden, the family room with the shoji doors open, or in his personal room/office. Mostly, he sits outside sitting on the engawa working away at something. It makes him work better, or so he says. Makes his own needles and hooks because of his big hands. Megumi still has his crocheted stuffed puppy when he was younger, still going strong even though it’s been worn down from love. Tsumiki has all the Sanrio characters knitted/crocheted as gifts from Toji.

Tsumiki always wears her hair up in a ponytail, Toji makes her scrunchies in her favorite designs and colors. Her favorite cardigans and pullover sweaters that keep her warm during fall and winter were made by Toji because he wanted to try making outerwear. Luckily it worked in his favor. Tsumiki asked Toji if he could make her a tote bag because she needed a bag for outings. She comes home from school one day to see three of them in different sizes. She has those cute little flower keychains on her school bag and outing bags too because she asked Papa Toji for them. The massive white and blue circle rug in her room is from Toji.

Megumi’s winter scarf, earmuffs, and hat are made by Toji too. Megumi will never admit it out loud but he appreciates that Toji made it for him. They keep him and he doesn’t feel the wind chills nipping at his face. Megumi also appreciates his dad for making his stuffed animals. I’m projecting here but Toji made a set of plush stuffed animals after his shadows. His divine dogs, all of them. Megumi keeps them on his stuffed animal net in the top corner above his bed. Megumi wears a jacket and hoodie made by Toji all year round because of how versatile they are. In general, they’re Megumi’s favorite clothes to wear too.

Thinking about asking Toji to make a present for Nobara and Yuuji on their birthdays. You asked Nobara what her favorite color and style was while Yuuji said he wanted a new hoodie. Toji makes them pretty fast and the two are in love with their gifts. Nobara is wearing her bag EVERYWHERE, and I mean, EVERYWHERE she goes. Yuuji, like Megumi, ends up loving his hoodie that you always see him wear when he’s in casual clothes. Since Nanako and Mimiko grew up with Megumi and Tsumiki, one of Nanako’s cardigans and a pair of her socks are made by Toji while Mimiko only has a random plushie Toji made for her when she was younger because Suguru had to clean the other one.

Not me thinking about how Tsumiki, Megumi, and Mayumi(JJK OC) baby blankets are handmade by Toji himself with their own individual design and patterns. Megumi and Tsumiki’s are still in good condition even though they were lovingly used by the two throughout their whole life. Their baby hats, socks, and certain outfits were all made by him. He keeps them all in individual boxes to not lose them. Gets sentimental and nostalgic that you catch him staring as he holds the small clothes in his big hands. Reminiscing about Megumi and Tsumiki being babies and small children, now realizing that they are growing up before his eyes.

God, all of it is thoroughly well knitted and crocheted that people thought you bought it from a store. “No, actually my husband made it for me. Isn’t he skillful and amazing?” Your friends and co-workers lowkey ask you if Toji is willing to take commissions for them. They’ll pay for it obviously but they want good quality home-made items Toji makes which gives you an idea. You asked Toji if he considered making orders for other people besides his family. He did think about it but he said he would get overwhelmed when receiving orders and packing them up. You asked him if dealing with the orders and packaging them would help him change his mind. So you unintentionally set up a small business with Toji. His shop consists of blankets, bags and baskets of any kind, pot holders, rugs, coverings, and pillows. It runs where one week is for receiving orders, one month is for making them, and another month to send them out. Making a spreadsheet/list for Toji to show what he needs to make. Probably gets finished with all the orders in two weeks or something.

For some reason, Toji wears eye-glasses when he knits and crochets. You don’t know why but it makes him more handsome that your brain rots/short circuits every time you see him working away. He got you all flustered and down bad it’s insane(but absolutely valid). But you don’t understand why he would need them since he already has better vision and eye-sight than 99% of the population.

“Honey, since when do you need glasses?”

“I need it so I don’t strain my eyes when working on them?”

“Can you, like, squint? You already have 20/10 vision. You don’t need glasses when you have superhuman vision, Baby.”

“Doll, just because I have good eye-sight doesn’t mean my eyes aren’t as sensitive. My eyes are still bugged by light, shit hurts and gives me headaches. Anyway, can you pass me the blue yarn in front of ya?”

Megumi and Tsumiki always see you with their Toji. You’re chilling and minding your own business with their baby sister napping away while Toji is working away at a rug because he is bored. Even though he’s been doing this since they were young, the two still can’t get over how their dad can make a king-sized blanket(start to finish) in four hours. Or when they come home from school and see Toji finishing up on a big and long green dragon, turning to Megumi and Tsumiki asking them, “Do you two think your mom would like this?” Or they could be chilling then Toji asks them to try on the projects he finished to see how they look. Tsumiki and Megumi are his main critics, you are too but you aren’t bothered by certain details to criticize Toji’s projects so he leaves it to the kids.

Mayumi(JJK OC) is chilling by Toji as he’s working away, either sleeping away or playing with her stuffed animals close within sight. Being the three year old she is, she sometimes hides underneath the unfinished blankets and pops up from under to surprise Toji. Papa Toji gives his iconic DILF chuckle that has you  GEEKING and GIGGLING like a damn school girl when you get the chance to hear it every time. He just pats her head, calling her a little rascal or princess, then resumes.

I’m projecting once again but you know those cute crochet dolls? Like the ones with the big black eyes, big head, small body, and no mouth? Toji made those of the entire family. There’s one of himself in his iconic black compression shirt, white sweatpants, and kung fu slippers. He added a little scar too where his mouth would be. Then there is your’s, all pretty and pristine with your iconic outfit. Toji getting your colors and features down to the bone. Next is Megumi and Tsumiki, literal carbon copies of their real versions. Toji said Megumi’s hair was the hardest part to make lol. Then Mayumi’s doll is later added once she’s born. The mini Fushiguro Doll set sits on the top shelf of a pristine black display case, next to the tv, in the family room. 

He’s the type of guy you wouldn’t expect to be good at a skill like this then later found out he’s an absolute master and god among men. Toji doesn’t parade around craftsmanship because he knows how some guys have fragile egos. But he won’t shy away when people ask him about his work. Pulls out his phone to show people the things he made with two needles, one crochet hook, and a shit load of yarn.

Satoru, being the shitter he is, tries to tease and bully Toji about it. To which you reprimand and scold him for it. But Toji doesn’t care about dealing with his antics because it’s a practical skill and keeps him out of trouble. Then you remind Satoru that his winter scarf he always wears was made, the one you gifted him for his 18th birthday, was made by Toji at your request. Satoru never wore any scarf because he thought you made it for him. But for you to tell him Toji actually made it for him, Satoru shuts himself up and doesn’t shit on Toji anymore.

Toji loves it when his family uses/wears the things that he made. Usually wears a goofy smile or grin on his face to conceal his prideful yet satisfied self, knowing his creations are appreciated and loved by his family.

Tag List:

@luqueam @ploylulla @tqd4455 @wolywolymoley @captainbabybear @ravenswife

Tag List(@ w/ no links):

@szillx @g0th1xac1d @SleppyAnn @kneelarhmstrung