#i was hoping this week could be a sewing week because i'm out of a few key art/DIY supplies

[atlasllm]

:s!

[thecassafrasstree]

Had a few folks interested in how I made the patches I posted for Solarpunk Aesthetic Week, so I thought I'd give y'all my step-by-step process for making hand-embroidered patches!

First, choose your fabric and draw on your design. You can use basically any fabric for this - for this project I'm using some felt I've had lying around in my stash for ages.

Next, choose your embroidery floss. For my patches I split my embroidery floss into two threads with 3 strands each, as pictured. You can use as many strands in your thread as you prefer, but for the main body of my patches I prefer 3 strands.

Next you're going to start filling your design using a back stitch.

First, put in a single stitch where you want your row to start.

Poke your needle up through the fabric 1 stitch-length away from your first stitch.

Poke your needle back down the same hole your last stitch went into so they line up end-to-end.

Repeat until you have a row of your desired length (usually the length of that colour section from one end to the other). Once you have your first row, you're going to do your next row slightly offset from your first row so that your stitches lay together in a brick pattern like this:

Make sure your rows of stitches are tight together, or you'll get gaps where the fabric shows through.

Rinse and repeat with rows of back stitch to fill in your patch design.

When you're almost to the end of your thread, poke your needle through to the back of the fabric and pull the thread under the back part of the stitching to tuck in the end. Don't worry if it looks messy - no one's gonna see the back anyway.

This next step is fully optional, but I think it makes the patch design really pop. Once your patch is filled in, you can use black embroidery floss to outline your design (or whatever colour you want to outline with - it's your patch, do what you want). I use the full thread (6 strands, not split) of embroidery floss to make a thicker outline.

I use the same back stitch I used to fill the piece to make an outline that adds some separation and detail. You could use most any 'outlining' stitch for this, but I just use back stitch because it's just easier for me to do.

Once you're finished embroidering your patch, it's time to cut it out!

Make sure to leave a little border around the edge to use for sewing your patch on your jacket/bag/blanket/whatever, and be careful not to accidentally cut through the stitches on the back of the patch.

If you have a sturdy enough fabric that isn't going to fray, you can just leave it like this. If not, I recommend using a whip stitch/satin stitch to seal in the exposed edges (I find that splitting your embroidery floss into 3-strand threads works best for this).

And then you're done! At this point you can put on iron-on backing if you want, or just sew it on whatever you wanna put it on. Making patches this way does take a long time, but I feel that the results are worth it.

Thanks for reading this tutorial! I hope it was helpful. If anyone makes patches using this method, I'd love to see them! 😁

[violetrainbow412-blog]

A fair payment [W. W.]

Willy Wonka x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

People who might be interested: @strugglingwriterwattpad @cattail5 [Timothée masterlist]

some minor Wonka spoilers I guess! If you like it, tell me in the comments, that will make me happy :)

“Can you mend it?” Willy asked, carefully holding his emerald green jacket that had the sleeve seam torn.

The boy had arrived a couple of weeks ago to turn the world of everyone present in the laundry upside down and, honestly, you were already beginning to enjoy his presence. You looked in the background at the blackboard that Noodle used at night to give him lessons in the hope that he would learn to read because, according to the girl's words, because of that he was almost eaten by a tiger. But in the man's words, what was important was the almost part. 

However, tonight he had asked you especially to go to his room, because he had a problem that he thought only you could solve.

“I think so, I just have to pass the needle a couple of times” you smiled.

Since your arrival Mrs. Scrubbit had used your sewing skills for her own benefit, because after all you had ended up in that mess trying to save a little to be able to buy the necessary materials to make a pretty dress that would be worth enough to advance in the business. Although, obviously, that had not been possible.

"Thank you! I'm afraid that's my only jacket."

“It will be ready in no time. I’ll just go to my room and come back, okay?” you said kindly, placing the garment in the boy's lap and earning a sweet smile from the aforementioned.

Just as Willy had his little briefcase for his chocolates, you had your own, full of threads, needles, and buttons, which you just had to grab from the floor to get everything you needed. When you arrived back you settled at the little table and he remained attentive to your every movement, pulling out a chair so he could observe what you were about to do.

“There was a boy on the ship who helped me with these things,” he began to tell you, keeping his curious nose on your shoulder “But I never thought about learning. You know, for when I had to be alone”

“Well, it's lucky you ended up here. We are a curious collection of workers,” you murmured ironically, referring to all the people gathered there against their will by the work of fate "What did you do on the ship?"

"Cook. Mostly sweet things, but I also know a couple of useful non-chocolate-related recipes. I was the chef,” he said, and you laughed at the exaggerated way he pronounced the last bit.

Willy began to tell you about some of the adventures he had had on the high seas and you listened attentively as the tip of the needle went in and out to join the fabric. It only took a few minutes to get his clothes looking like new, taking the liberty of repairing other places that also needed it.

“Put it on,” you asked, trying not to look at him too much when he did so or pay attention to the way the jacket fit him perfectly.

"It is perfect! You can't even tell it was torn, huh?” he said with emotion, feeling with his hands as much as he could. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“I insist,” the man murmured. His curly hair bounced across his cheeks as he sat next to you and he lifted his small briefcase off the floor, opening it to reveal all the little bottles of ingredients. “Your talent for mine. It's a fair exchange."

You had to admit that the chocolates you had eaten were a complete delicacy, but a part of you didn't want to get used to that luxury or you knew that when Willy was gone you would miss his sweetness. In the literal and figurative sense.

Locked in that laundry it was impossible to meet many people your age and Noodle was your greatest company, as if he were a little sister to you. But now that he was there, there was a certain happiness in chatting with him, much more now that his ingenious mind had devised a way to get you out of there even if it was just for a few hours to see the light of day and get coins from the sale of the chocolates to free you of the enormous debt to Mrs. Scrubbit.

“What flavor do you want to try today? Do you want me to add some unicorn skin glitter? Rays of sunlight from a twilight on the seashore? Tears of an African crocodile?”

“Just give me something you think I need,” you replied softly.

Willy thought about it for a moment, because it wasn't the kind of answer he would have expected. What was he supposed to give you that night? A little hope? Happiness? Nostalgia? It was difficult to decide.

Through his bright eyes you watched him reflect and just a second later his hands began to work. You noticed there was a hint of mischief in his smile as he poured milk, chocolate, and the contents of a couple of jars into the processor, glancing at you from the corner of his eye from time to time.

“What are you going to do when we get out of here?” he asked suddenly, not neglecting the tasks.

“Working in a sewing workshop, I guess.”

“Why don't you open your own fashion house?” Willy suggested carefreely, as if it were a very easy thing to do, “You are a great dressmaker.”

“And you are a great dreamer”

“It's my best quality,” he exclaimed, almost offended. You waited a moment before answering.

“I just don't think it's that simple. It requires effort, time, and a lot of money…”

“We will have everything,” he interrupted you, with that optimism that characterized him. Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and one of his hands traveled to take yours. “When I open my factory, we will all be able to fulfill our dreams. And you are going to have a fashion house, I promise you.”

“You make a lot of promises,” you responded, blushing.

“And he planned to fulfill them all. I always do it"

Maybe there was something about the softness of his grip on your hand or perhaps the sparkle in his eyes that made you look away out of sheer nervousness. He seemed to be good and innocent, to the point that he probably didn't even realize how close he was to you or how inappropriate the position would be if Noodle ever walked in.

A tap interrupted your moment and then he abruptly pulled away, excited to show you the product he had just made. It was a pretty circular candy that was bright pink and seemed to be emanating smoke from the inside.

"What's that?"

“You'll have to try it to find out,” he murmured, as he extended the treat in your direction.

You had to admit that you were somewhat curious to discover what the man was offering you, so you took it between your fingers carefully, and even under his watchful gaze you took a bite.

At first it tasted like ordinary chocolate, but then it took on a strange tone, which made you feel a certain warmth in your chest that spread to your cheeks. It was a most pleasant feeling, like bubbly joy combined with the embarrassment of a hug.

You thought for a moment about what flavor that could be, without any success, until after a few seconds you realized that it wasn’t a flavor in itself, but a feeling, an experience... Was it love that Willy had given you?

“How does it taste?”

“Yummy,” you responded, covering your mouth so he wouldn’t see the wet chocolate on your tongue, but also to hide your smile “Delicious, actually. What does it contain?”

“A special and secret ingredient”

"Oh, come on! Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“I just want to know if I got it right,” he murmured and you frowned slightly, not understanding him “About what you asked for. Did I give you something you needed?”

You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling again, your cheeks feeling hot from the simple fact that he was looking at you. You thought that this could even be a love potion that you had consumed without thinking about it, just because he was the one who was offering it to you.

“We could say yes”

“We're even, then,” he exclaimed as he waved the sleeve of his jacket and you nodded in amusement, eating the rest of the chocolate he had made for you.

A yawn leaving your lips made you aware of how exhausted you were and although you didn't love the idea, you knew it was time to leave.

“It's late, I should go to sleep before we wake anyone up.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Willy said quickly, getting up from his seat to accompany you to the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Rest,” you said kindly, and, gathering courage, you leaned forward a little to say goodbye with a hug that he gladly returned.

As you walked down the hall to your shabby, damp room, you thought that it probably wouldn't have even taken a love potion to fall for the charms of the pleasant chocolatier. You just needed one of his smiles.

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter I

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Author's Note: Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic! This idea has lived in my mind rent free for weeks now, so I'm finally just going to do something about it.

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA in later chapters (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Next chapter ->

Y/n mourned her husband until the end of the funeral for propriety’s sake. Then, she had to start making plans. 

There were few opportunities for widows, and even fewer for those of illegitimate birth and in possession of inhospitable family members. But though her husband had been of the London variety with soft hands and grotesque manners, she knew the cost of labor. Hard work was a familiar, necessary friend. Perhaps she was lucky her husband had never divorced her from her harsh upbringing — never made her a stranger to toil. 

 Her husband was a week in the grave when an opportunity finally came her way. She was perched on her stoop, loaf of bread clutched beneath her arm, and scarf flying into her mouth as she fought to keep the newspaper flat enough to read. 

Simon Riley.

It was a simple, sensible name, printed in plain text and crammed in the bottom right corner of the second page. It was a cheap ad, and because space was so expensive, all the lines were written one after another. Sentences forced to lay side by side like coffins in a pauper’s grave. 

Simon Riley. 33 years old. Grave keeper by trade.  In need of a wife. Never married. 18 shillings/week.  Contact Father Hughes. Chilham, Kent. 

There was an additional line asking for a photo or description of appearance, age, and a handful of other pertinent information, but she skipped over it hastily. It mattered not what she could offer this man, only what he could offer her. Safety. Food. A roof over her head. A chance to escape her pitiful existence in London. She could give him whatever else he wanted. She had no other choice. 

She’d investigated every page of the paper for five days now for a position or a household that might take her. She was bastard-born and though she could read and write well enough, no self-respecting family would hire her as a governess. She could cook and clean and sew and mend and do whatever the factories required of her, but those were skills easily found in women. Desperation — that too was easily found in women. But unlike many other women, she had no husband who might make the task of finding work easier. Her deceased husband had stolen what little else might make her appealing to an established man. 

But… a grave keeper? He might just be lonely enough to take her. And a second marriage could save her. 

It could be better. She realized with a shock of hope, holding the paper flat against her heart. It has to be better. 

That evening she carefully cut away the advert with a pair of kitchen scissors, keeping it pressed between two scraps of fabric in the seam of her waist to keep the ink from smudging, and threw the rest of the paper in the fire. She watched as the edges of the print caught, words quickly swallowed up by fire as the paper curled in itself and flickered into dust. 

Micklethwaite’s Photography was a bustle of activity on the Saturday afternoon she went. Wheeled out to the south corner of Bunson St, its pitch black curtains stared out at the penny shop across the street like a pair of pupils. Faint camera flashes from within gave the impression that the cart was winking at passerby as they bustled between shoppes carrying groceries and freshly pressed shirts from the tailor’s. 

Y/n stood fourth in line and anxiously stared at her reflection in the dusty glass display where a small mirror had been set up beside rows of sample tintypes. The eyes that stared back at her were bright and glassy, and it took many moments for her to truly recognize herself. Her husband, being the kind of religious man that he was, had covered the mirrors in the house, declaring that only God should look upon her and see her soul. Now that he was dead and she was free to stare as she pleased, she realized how solemn she looked. How frightened. 

She smoothed her hair for the fifteenth time and adjusted the frilly collar of her most handsome dress. There were two men in front of her, both dressed in their Sunday best as they combed through their neat beards with their fingers. They discussed business, pointing with some interest at the paper ads covering the brick wall of the butchers a few storefronts over, paper peeling away from the wall. 

They only regarded her once, tipping their heads in slight, empathetic bows as they noticed her black dressing gown. These were gentlemen, and they would give a widow her due course… in public of course. Private matters were private matters. Little did they know she was already planning her second marriage. Or maybe they did know. She imagined their phantom judgement so fiercely it became real, until she was wringing her fingers beneath her shawl. But they moved quickly inside the photographer’s studio, and left shortly after with tintypes in hand. 

Then it was her turn. 

She slipped behind the curtain, stifling a cough as dust shimmered in the artificial light. Developing chemicals leant a sharp, acrid smell to the air, burning her sensitive nose. A plain grey curtain lined the back wall, held up by nails hastily hammered into the wood. Cramped along the sides were bins of discarded tintypes and strange liquids swishing in glass bottles as the photographer hurried over from where he’d been bent over a tray of solution. 

Brown, flash blown eyes and a tobacco-stained smile greeted her, nestled beneath a rather impressive mustache. “What brings you in?” He asked, ignoring her obvious mourning clothes as she carefully folded her shawl and removed her hat. 

The question jarred her, but a lie spilled out her lips with surprising ease. “My husband recently passed, and it was his wish that a picture of mine be laid with him.” 

Richard Hall had made no such request. He was already buried. And if he knew his widow was engaging in as indulgent an activity as having her picture taken he would have asked the good Lord to send him back to earth. That or he would have asked the devil to climb out of hell for an evening.

The photographer only nodded in understanding. Widows and widowers were a dime a dozen as far as he was concerned. 

He had her sit before the wall, slipped behind the camera, and snapped a photo before Y/n was truly ready.

“Wait!” She called out as he busied himself with dunking the photo in one of the many chemical baths laid out beside him. She twitched her nose at the sharp smell. “Can we… Can we do that again?” She stammered, “I wasn’t ready. And my husband—” 

“I charge by the tintype. I’m afraid it will cost you extra.” 

“I can pay.” She responded a touch too quickly. 

He nodded once more and she took the few precious moments she was afforded to try lifting her eyes and her cheeks a little more. She stretched her neck, overcoming an innate urge to curl up into nothing. She wanted to look gracious. Kind. Lovely. The kind of woman a certain grave keeper might be enamored with. 

In the end she left the photographer disappointed with the two tintypes hidden in the folds of her skirts. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Had she thought the camera would capture some feature she wasn’t aware of? Create a beauty out of thin air where there were only sad eyes and a shrunken face? She’d entered the booth knowing the years had not been kind to her, but she’d hoped… 

She took the remainder of the pin money her son-in-law had given her for the day’s outing and paid the postage on her letter to Mr. Simon Riley. She tried to keep things brief and straightforward, for the cost of every sheaf of paper ate away at her meager allowance, but she couldn’t help the small personal details that ended up in the final letter. 

Y/n Hall of London, though originally born of Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, where the weather is no better or worse than anywhere else. 25 years of age. Can sew, knit, cook, clean, read, and sing (passably). Would enjoy gardening if given the chance. Of small upbringing. Quiet and of respectable countenance.

She’d struggled with the last line for hours. Tossing and turning in bed all night as she wondered at the lie that might become trapped on paper. But in the early hours of the morning, before she took leave of her house with pin money and letter in hand, she’d padded over to her vanity and written the last line of her letter to Simon Riley. 

Never married. 

Next chapter ->

[aspenmissing]

Oooookay okay okay. I will never be over those accidental babies but I come in with a new request!

I'm thinking something along the lines of a super creative reader; a fiber artist and seamstress making clothes and quilts and anything that can be made with a sewing machine. I'm a sucker for pining (like, SUCH a sucker for pining), but instances of pre-relationships where she's made something for the one(s) she's secretly pining for (and is definitely a little shy about it).

I'd like to see with just about all the guys from Arcane and JayVik (your other writing is slowly turning me into a Silco fan, too.)

ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

10364 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀʜʜ ʏᴀʀɴ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ �� ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ! (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ;)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Y/N sat in the quiet of her room, the soft hum of the sewing machine her only company as the late evening light streamed through the window. Her fingers moved nimbly, guiding the fabric through the machine, her mind lost in the rhythm of creation. She loved this; the flow of creativity, the way each stitch brought something new to life. It was her escape, a refuge where she could shut out the world and pour her heart into the things she made.

Today, however, her thoughts were far from the quilt she was piecing together. They kept drifting back to Jayce.

She had always admired him from a distance, Jayce being the best friend of her late mother’s brother—her only family. A brilliant inventor, a man who could charm anyone with a smile, his aura of intelligence and quiet confidence often drew others to him, but Y/N had always found herself fascinated not just by his mind but by the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed to those he cared about. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in—Y/N included. And she had tried, for months, to ignore the fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, but that never worked. The feelings only grew stronger. He never seemed to notice her the way she wished he would, always lost in his inventions and work, but she found her own way to show her affection through little, quiet gestures. She didn’t need him to know. She just needed to feel close to him.

=

It had been weeks since she'd secretly altered his academy uniform. The buttons on the jacket had been loose and misaligned, a small detail that bothered her every time she saw him in it. He was always so engrossed in his work, often absent-minded, that she knew he’d never notice the small imperfections. Without him knowing, she’d carefully fixed them, stitching each button with precision and care, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. She even added a small decorative patch inside the sleeve, something no one would ever see, just because she knew that if he ever did, it would make him smile.

But he hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, too consumed by his genius to care about such small things.

Y/N let out a deep, frustrated sigh, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe she should just tell him. The thought of confessing her feelings made her heart race, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. What if it ruined everything? What if it ruined their easy camaraderie, their friendship?

She sighed again and glanced at the quilt she was working on, but her mind refused to settle. The patchwork of colours, the simple joy of creating, felt like a distant memory as her thoughts turned once again to him.

Meanwhile, across town, Jayce sat in his cluttered workshop, deep in thought. The plans for his latest invention were sprawled across the desk in front of him, an amalgamation of ideas and blueprints that he hoped would take his research to the next level. But his mind kept wandering. To Y/N.

It had become almost impossible to ignore her presence lately, and not just because she was constantly in his orbit, helping with errands or offering encouragement in quiet moments. No, it was the way she made him feel that had started to occupy his thoughts. How her creativity seemed to weave light into everything she touched. How she was always so thoughtful, so dedicated. Whether she was sewing a piece of clothing or making quilts, her focus and artistry were awe-inspiring. Even when she wasn’t directly around, he would think of her in the quiet moments—her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of something she loved.

Then there was that one moment when he had caught a glimpse of the patch inside his academy jacket sleeve. It was small—almost hidden—but it had made him pause. Someone had taken the time to fix his uniform without his asking. A simple gesture, one that made him smile. But he hadn’t been able to figure out who had done it. Whoever it was hadn’t mentioned it, and Jayce hadn’t thought to ask, dismissing it as a small thing. But it lingered in his mind. The patch, the care, the mystery of it.

=

That night, after a particularly long day filled with setbacks in his work, Jayce found himself walking past her door, drawn by the familiar hum of the sewing machine. He knocked lightly, hesitant, before stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tired smile softening the exhaustion on his face.

Y/N looked up from her work, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. She quickly tried to hide the quilt she was piecing together, knowing that if he saw it, he’d ask about it. She hadn’t finished it yet, and it was still too personal for her to share. But Jayce had already noticed the burst of colour.

“What are you making?” he asked, his voice warm, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

Y/N chuckled nervously and shrugged casually, hoping her emotions weren’t as visible as she felt they were. “Oh, just a quilt,” she replied, her voice a little too nonchalant. “I like to keep my hands busy, you know?”

Jayce smiled, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to her. “You always make the most beautiful things. I don’t know how you do it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “It’s just a bit of practice,” she said, trying to downplay her skill. “You can make anything if you put your mind to it.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve always been so creative, Y/N. It’s not just the things you make, but how you bring everything to life. You inspire me more than you know.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. His words were unexpected, leaving her momentarily speechless. There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made her feel as though he might just be seeing her for the first time in the way she’d hoped. “I… I’m just making things for fun,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, hoping he couldn’t hear the longing that crept in.

Jayce, however, didn’t miss the way her fingers fidgeted with the fabric, nor did he miss the way her gaze dropped for a moment as if she were hiding something. His heart tightened in his chest. He had noticed the little things—her quiet glances, the way she would always be there with a thoughtful gesture or comment when he needed it most—but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly acknowledge the growing feelings inside him. He had convinced himself that it was just a fleeting thought, nothing more.

But standing in front of her now, feeling the electricity in the air, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Well, I just wanted to thank you, by the way,” Jayce said, shifting the weight in his posture as though he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her gaze still downcast. “Thank me? For what?”

“The jacket,” he said, lifting his sleeve slightly to show her the small patch inside. “I noticed it, and… I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to, but it’s a nice touch. You’ve always been so thoughtful, Y/N.”

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. He had noticed. She hadn’t expected him to, but the way he was looking at her now made her feel exposed. She didn’t know what to say, so she spoke quickly, desperately. “I… I just thought it needed fixing,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It was nothing.”

Jayce smiled, a tenderness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped lower, filled with sincerity. “It wasn’t nothing. It meant a lot to me. You’ve always been the one who makes everything a little bit better, just by being you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She looked up at him, her heart beating faster as the air around them felt heavier. The unspoken words between them seemed to hang like a thick fog, waiting to be broken.

“I…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I need to tell you something.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat at the vulnerability in her voice, and he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. “What is it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. Could she really say it? Could she expose her feelings after all this time? She inhaled deeply, steeling herself before speaking.

“I’ve been making these things for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “For a while now. Without you knowing. I’ve been trying to show you how much I care, in little ways, even if you don’t notice. But I didn’t know if you’d ever see it... or if you’d even care.”

Jayce reached out gently, his hand cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. “Y/N, I care. More than you could ever know. I think I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that for a long time.”

The words hung between them, a confession unspoken until now. Before Y/N could respond, Jayce closed the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. It was soft, tentative, but there was something undeniable in it—a recognition of the love they had both kept hidden for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads touched, and they shared a quiet laugh, realising that this had been what they had both wanted all along.

“I think I’ll need more of your little creations,” Jayce murmured against her lips, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask you to fix my clothes more often.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the weight of her secret finally lift. “Maybe you will, Jayce. Maybe you will.”

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

VIKTOR

Y/N’s fingers worked in a rhythm that had become second nature to her over the years—stitch, pull, knot, repeat. The sewing machine hummed steadily beneath her as the hours passed, unnoticed by her. The soft light in her workshop cast gentle shadows over the shelves of colourful threads, piles of fabric, and completed projects. Yet, among all the fabric she had touched in her life, this one felt different. Every strand, every stitch, felt like an expression of something more than just creativity—it was a piece of her heart woven into every seam.

Her mind had once again drifted back to Viktor. She found herself in a state of constant yearning for him, even if she tried to suppress it. After all, Viktor was brilliant and driven, a man consumed by his work. She had spent so many years working alongside him, but she’d never found the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, she focused on her creations, using her hands to express what her words could not.

The thought of Viktor was never far from her mind. She remembered the time, months ago, when she’d first noticed how his leg brace seemed to rub uncomfortably against his skin. Viktor, always so absorbed in his work, never seemed to notice the discomfort, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. So, without a word, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quietly, late at night, she had added some extra padding to his brace, making it a little softer. She didn’t tell him. She couldn’t bring herself to. But when he had worn it for the first time, she had caught him glancing at her with a look of surprise—and something more, something unspoken, that made her heart race. It wasn’t the most dramatic gesture, but it was hers, and that small act of care had meant everything to her.

=

Now, as she sat at her sewing machine, Y/N was working on something far more personal, something that she wasn’t sure Viktor would even notice—but it was something she needed to do for him. It had started out as a simple act of wanting to do something nice for him, but it had quickly turned into something far more complicated, the emotions woven into the fabric of every stitch.

She was making him a jacket—tailored to perfection, fitted to his form, with a deep, rich burgundy fabric that would complement the shade of his eyes. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the kind of material that could withstand long hours in his workshop while still offering him comfort. She added small, intricate details—a delicate embroidered pattern at the cuff, a hidden pocket inside the lining, just for him. The embroidery wasn’t loud or obvious. In fact, it was so subtle that it could only be appreciated by someone who took the time to look closely. Viktor would never be one to wear anything flamboyant, but she knew he would appreciate the effort, the quiet care put into it.

The jacket was far more than just a gift. It was her way of showing Viktor that she saw him—that she saw not only his brilliance, but also his quiet struggles. She noticed the way he winced sometimes as he moved, the tension in his body from working so tirelessly, his reliance on the cane to support him when his leg ached. This jacket, she hoped, would offer him not just warmth, but a sense of care—a small token of comfort.

As she stitched, Y/N couldn’t help but think of how Viktor would react. He was so focused on his work, so consumed by his inventions, that she often wondered if he even had the capacity to notice things like this. Would he even recognise the effort she had put into making him something so personal? Or would it be just another object to him, like all the others she’d made for people over the years—something useful, but not anything more?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts away. She was doing this because she wanted to, because he mattered to her. That was enough.

She finished the last stitch, running her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of her emotions within it. She only hoped that Viktor would recognise the love she had woven into every thread, even if he never said it aloud.

=

The steady rhythm of the machine was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, and there stood Viktor, framed in the doorway. His figure, so familiar, yet always startling to her in moments like this, stood with his usual intensity. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw something shift in them, something softer, but it was gone in an instant.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, melodic tone that always made her stomach twist. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to—” He faltered, his gaze flicking to the fabric she was working on, then to her. “I’ve been thinking about something. Perhaps you could offer me your thoughts.”

Y/N quickly hid the jacket under a pile of fabric, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Of course, Viktor. What’s troubling you?”

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room as he seemed to search for the right words. He always did this, Y/N noticed. His mind constantly shifted between ideas, a thousand thoughts racing at once. She loved how his mind worked, even if it sometimes meant he didn’t notice the little things. Or maybe, just maybe, he did notice—but was too focused on his work to say anything.

“I’ve been refining some of my calculations,” Viktor began, his tone slightly distracted as he shifted his weight, leaning on the cane that had become a constant companion. “But I feel like there’s something I’m overlooking. You’re the only one who always sees things others miss, Y/N. I could use your perspective.”

Her heart fluttered again, but she pushed aside the longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She nodded, focusing on the task at hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

=

As they moved to his desk, Viktor still seemed a little distracted, his brow furrowed in thought as he adjusted his grip on his cane, steadying himself. His eyes darted over his notes and calculations, his mind a whirlwind of equations and hypotheses. Y/N could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he leaned into his cane when he forgot to stand fully upright.

She loved these moments with him, even if they were fleeting, even if they didn’t change anything. Viktor was here, and that was enough.

Her thoughts, however, remained on the jacket she had made for him. Would he ever wear it? Would he ever realise that it was her way of saying all the things she couldn’t say out loud? Or would it simply be another creation in his ever-growing collection of inventions and projects?

But as she helped him with his calculations, something in the air shifted—a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable. Viktor’s hand brushed against hers, just for a second, and she could have sworn she felt the softest of sparks. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to see her, to see all the things she had longed to show him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would notice the jacket. And when he did, she would be waiting, her heart laid bare in every stitch, every thread, every moment of care she had woven into it.

=

Years had passed since that quiet, unspoken connection between Y/N and Viktor had begun. What had started as a secret longing, a quiet affection woven into the fabric of every stitch she made, had evolved into something deeper, something real. She still remembered the moments they shared, the hours spent together, working side by side, exchanging glances that held a thousand words. And now, as she stood at the altar, Viktor’s eyes locked on hers, everything that had once been unsaid, unspoken, was now there in the open, in the purest form of love.

The church was dimly lit, the gentle light of candles flickering along the pews, casting soft shadows over the gathered friends and family. But the world outside had all but faded into the background. There was only Viktor, standing at the front, dressed in the jacket she had made for him all those years ago.

The deep burgundy fabric, so soft yet durable, still held the same warmth, the same careful stitches she had woven into it. It seemed to almost glow under the light of the candles, every small detail—every tiny embroidered pattern at the cuff—still as beautiful as the day she had made it. It was almost as though the jacket had waited for this moment too, holding all the years of their journey together. Viktor had worn it countless times in the years that followed, but today, it felt different. It wasn’t just an article of clothing; it was a symbol—a symbol of how far they had come, how much they had endured together. And now, on their wedding day, it was more than ever, a reminder of the quiet care she had put into it, all those years ago.

As Y/N walked toward him, her heart seemed to beat in time with the soft rustling of her gown. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but one constant remained: Viktor, the man who had quietly become the centre of her world. The jacket—his jacket—was there, a reminder of the early days when she had hidden her love for him in the softest of gestures.

Viktor’s gaze softened as she approached, and for the first time, there was no question in his eyes. He had seen it all, all that she had ever wanted to say. His eyes swept over her with the same quiet reverence that she had once felt when sewing that jacket. The jacket she had made for him, not knowing how the years would unfold, not knowing that it would one day be worn on this day—their wedding day.

When she reached him, Viktor took her hands gently, his gaze not leaving hers. "You still remember," he murmured, his voice a quiet reflection of the emotions swirling between them.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching as she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course I remember. I remember everything."

He looked down at the jacket, then back at her, his eyes soft with affection. "It’s never left me, you know. I’ve worn it more times than I can count, but today... today it feels different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to wear it today, to wear the love you put into every stitch, to wear you as we stand here."

There were so many things left unsaid between them, but in that moment, words didn’t seem necessary. The past, the present, the quiet yearning from years ago—it was all woven into the fabric of that jacket. It was in every thread, every stitch, every moment they had shared since then.

=

The officiant spoke, but Y/N's attention was entirely on Viktor, the man who had quietly stolen her heart all those years ago. As they exchanged their vows, as they promised to stand by one another through everything life had to offer, she saw it—the weight of all their shared moments reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He was wearing the jacket, yes, but more than that, he was wearing her heart, and she his.

When the ceremony came to its close and they were finally pronounced husband and wife, Viktor’s hand slipped into hers with the same tenderness she had always known, the same tenderness that had always been there, quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And as they walked down the aisle together, Viktor’s jacket—her jacket—glowed with a quiet brilliance, just as it had all those years ago, when she had stitched it with the hope that one day, he might see her love for him, in all its subtlety, in all its care.

Now, here they were, standing side by side, not just as two people who had fallen in love, but as two hearts intertwined, with all the years of longing, of creation, of care, wrapped around them like the jacket that Viktor wore so proudly. The jacket was more than just fabric. It was the fabric of their love story, woven with patience, with hope, with trust, and now with the joy of a future they would share together.

And when Viktor looked at her, his gaze as steady as it had always been, she knew one thing for certain—he had finally understood all along.

JAYVIK

The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over Piltover’s skyline. Inside her modest studio, tucked away from the noise of the city, Y/N worked with a needle and thread. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was like a familiar lullaby as she focused intently on the quilt she was creating. Each stitch was deliberate, each fabric chosen with care. Her craft was a reflection of her soul, a blend of artistry and precision, and though she had countless patients in the medical ward, this was her sanctuary. A place where she could pour her heart into every thread, even if it was a thread she couldn’t yet share.

Y/N hummed quietly to herself, her fingers deftly guiding the fabric through the machine. She had always loved the process of creation—the way a simple piece of cloth could transform into something beautiful with just a little time and patience. Yet, lately, her thoughts often drifted to Viktor and Jayce, both of whom had become so important to her in different ways. She wished she could say something, but the fear of ruining what she had with both of them kept her quiet.

Her mind wandered to the first time she had made something for Viktor. It had been a late evening when she’d been working on a jacket for him, stitching together fine, rich fabric with delicate precision. She’d hesitated before gifting it, worried it might come off as too personal, yet the soft hum of the machine had given her the courage. The quiet moment when Viktor opened the small bundle of fabric had stayed with her. His eyes softened in appreciation, and for a brief moment, she’d seen a flicker of something more—a connection that made her heart race, but one she didn’t dare name. He had simply thanked her, and in his gratitude, she had swallowed down the emotions that swirled within her.

She smiled at the memory but felt the familiar ache in her chest. The quiet pining for Viktor had always been there, simmering under the surface. He was brilliant, driven, and had a kindness about him that she admired deeply. But despite their moments of closeness, it always felt like there was an invisible wall between them. She never quite knew how to cross it. But she cherished the glances, the brief exchanges of words that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t quite control.

Then there was Jayce.

Oh, Jayce. The brilliant, exuberant force of nature who filled every room with energy. The man who had always looked out for her like a protective older brother, but she had come to realise that there was something more to his affection. He teased her relentlessly, always with that smile that never seemed to fade. Yet, she could see it—how deeply he cared. He had been there for her in countless ways, just as Viktor had, but in a different light. She remembered making him a vest once, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. The intricate patterns she stitched into the fabric had reflected the boldness of his personality. He had grinned like a child on his birthday when she handed it to him, his eyes bright with that warmth that made her heart skip a beat.

The pining had started there too, subtle and slow, like the weaving of threads in a tapestry. She had tried to dismiss it, thinking that perhaps, like Viktor, Jayce only saw her as a friend. The small acts of kindness they showed, the gentle teasing and shared moments, all remained unspoken. She kept her feelings buried deep, hoping they’d never notice. But how could they not, when every thread she wove into her creations was a secret declaration of affection?

=

But tonight, she was finished. She had just completed the last stitch of a new project—a quilt she had been working on for days. It wasn’t as intricate as some of her other creations, but it was personal. The colours were soft, the patterns intertwined—much like her thoughts of Viktor and Jayce. She had chosen the fabrics carefully, pouring into it a quiet wish that maybe one day, they would realise how much she cared. Would they ever see her as more than just their confidante? More than just the woman who made their clothes, their comfort?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Y/N?" came Viktor’s low, warm voice. "Are you still working?"

She smiled, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. She opened it to find Viktor standing there, his cane resting beside him, his sharp eyes flicking to the quilt in her hands before meeting her gaze. She noted the concern that clouded his expression.

"You’ve been working late again," he said, his voice laced with both concern and tenderness. "You really should rest. You’ve done enough for one night."

Y/N laughed softly, a playful glint in her eye despite the weight of her emotions. "I know, Viktor. But I just needed to finish this. It’s been on my mind all week."

Viktor’s eyes softened, his features betraying the faintest sign of worry. He stepped inside, glancing around the studio with an appreciation she always found comforting. His attention quickly shifted back to her, the quilt she had just finished catching his eye.

"You always put so much into your work," he said quietly, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the fabric. His touch lingered, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the closeness. "It’s beautiful."

Her heart skipped, and she fought to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

There was a brief silence, thick with the unsaid things neither of them spoke. Viktor’s gaze lingered on her, an unreadable expression on his face. And for a moment, Y/N thought she might drown in the weight of his attention.

=

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Jayce strode in, his usual confident gait betraying a tenderness in his eyes when they landed on her. The corners of his lips tugged up into a mischievous grin, but it softened as soon as he caught sight of the quilt.

"Did you finish it?" he asked, his voice light, though there was something more behind it. "I hope you’re not going to try to keep it from us."

Y/N laughed again, more freely this time. "No, it’s for both of you."

Jayce’s grin softened further as he moved closer, his gaze playful, but with an edge of something deeper—something Y/N tried not to read into. "You really do spoil us, don’t you?"

Her heart fluttered, but she held her composure, a small smile curling at her lips. "It’s just a small thing. Nothing too special."

Viktor stepped forward, his expression serious yet gentle. "To us, Y/N, everything you make is special." His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and it made her breath hitch.

Her chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Was this the moment? Would they finally see her for what she was—not just the woman who made their clothes, but the woman who had quietly loved them both for so long?

"I’m glad you like it," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between them felt charged, thick with the unsaid things that hung like delicate threads in the space between them.

Jayce’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, she could feel the tenderness he tried to hide behind his usual bravado. The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a spark through her that almost made her dizzy. "We love it. We love you, Y/N," he said softly, his words wrapping around her heart like a comforting embrace.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Jayce, and then back to her. There was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity. "Jayce is right," he agreed, his voice low and steady. "You’re important to us. More than you realise."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. They were so close now, standing in her small studio, the distance between them vanishing with every word they spoke. The connection she’d felt for so long was suddenly undeniable, woven through with every glance, every touch. She could feel it—a thread that pulled them all together.

And then, as if in unison, both Viktor and Jayce reached out, their hands brushing against hers in the same instant. The touch was soft, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her veins. It was a spark—quiet, but undeniable.

"Maybe it’s time we talk," Viktor said, his voice steady, yet there was a softness there that made her chest ache with longing. He stepped closer, his hand lingering near hers.

Jayce’s thumb brushed over her hand, sending a thrill through her that left her breathless. "We’ve been wanting to, for a while now," he added, his voice sincere.

Y/N’s heart soared, the quiet ache of unspoken affection finally breaking free. The thread of their shared feelings, woven so carefully through time, finally began to unravel, drawing them closer. It was a beginning—a slow, tender start. And for the first time, Y/N let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—her pining might finally be returned.

=

The soft hum of a crackling fire filled the cosy living room as Y/N sat comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked beneath a thick, woven blanket. The evening light bathed the room in a golden hue, and the warmth of their shared home wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

Her hands worked deftly, needle and thread gliding through the fabric of one of Jayce’s suits, mending a small tear along the seam. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the well-worn material, recalling how many times she had stitched up something for him—whether it was his suits or Viktor’s jackets, she had always taken care of the two men she loved. And now, as her gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, she knew she’d soon be caring for someone new.

Her pregnancy had been a dream so far, and despite the weight she carried, she had never felt more at peace. Viktor and Jayce had been doting beyond words, tending to her every need, often to an almost comical degree. But she loved them for it—loved them for everything they were and all they would become.

Just as she finished the final stitch, the sound of the front door opening caught her attention. She glanced up, amusement flickering in her eyes as she heard the telltale murmurs of her lovers, their voices hushed yet brimming with excitement.

Then, they appeared.

Jayce and Viktor stepped into the living room, their smiles wide and unmistakably mischievous. The sight of them—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lithe and sharp-eyed—filled her heart with warmth. They were up to something. She could see it plain as day.

Her brow arched in suspicion as she set the suit aside. “Alright,” she drawled, resting a hand on her belly, “what did you two do?”

Viktor smirked as he walked over to her, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor before he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her. Jayce, ever the dramatic one, sat on the coffee table directly in front of her, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. In his hands, he held a small bundle of fabric.

“We made something for you,” Jayce said, his voice tinged with pride. He turned the fabric over, revealing a tiny onesie—albeit, one that was crudely stitched together, the seams uneven, and the buttons slightly misaligned. It was far from perfect, but the love and effort put into it made it the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out, her fingers brushing over the soft material. “You two… made this?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

“Hand-stitched and everything,” Jayce grinned. “Well, mostly hand-stitched. Viktor got impatient with me and took over halfway through.”

“I would not call it ‘impatience,’” Viktor said with a smirk, his fingers ghosting over Y/N’s hand as she held the onesie. “I simply could not watch him continue to butcher the stitches any longer.”

Y/N let out a laugh, shaking her head as she turned the tiny garment in her hands. It was a little rough around the edges, but it was made with so much care and devotion that she couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, holding it close to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

Jayce leaned forward, resting a warm hand on her knee. “We wanted to do something special,” he said softly. “You’ve always taken care of us—always stitching up our clothes, making sure we’re looked after. We figured it was time we tried to make something for you… for them.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested over Y/N’s belly, his touch featherlight yet full of love. “We wanted to give our child something from us,” he murmured. “Something made with our hands. A beginning.”

Y/N sniffled, brushing away a stray tear as she looked between the two men who had become her world. Her heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer love she held for them.

“You two are going to be the most incredible fathers,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Jayce beamed, his fingers tightening around hers. “And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “are going to be the most incredible mother.”

Viktor pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We are a family. That is all that matters.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their love settle deep within her bones. In that quiet, precious moment, with their hands entwined and the tiny onesie cradled against her chest, she knew without a doubt—this was happiness. This was home.

VANDER

The steady hum of the sewing machine filled the dimly lit backroom of The Last Drop, the rhythmic whirring blending with the faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The scent of old wood, ale, and candle smoke mingled with the faint traces of fabric dye and thread wax, a smell that had become comfortingly familiar to Y/N. Her small workstation was cluttered but organised, bolts of fabric stacked neatly to one side, a basket of unfinished mending beside it. Spools of thread, needles, and small scraps of cloth lay scattered across the table, evidence of the late nights she spent here.

Her fingers moved with practised ease, guiding the needle through worn fabric, repairing yet another tear in Vi’s jacket. The girl was rough with her clothes—climbing, fighting, running through Zaun’s underbelly without a care. But Y/N never complained, never hesitated to patch up every tear and stitch every rip. Because Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—they were family in every way that mattered.

“You spoil them, you know.”

The familiar voice pulled her from her focus, low and gruff but tinged with something warmer than mere amusement.

Y/N didn’t have to look up to know it was Vander. The scent of ale and leather, the way his deep voice carried with a certain weight—it was unmistakable.

“They’re kids,” she replied without pause, finishing off the stitch with a deft flick of her wrist. “They tear their clothes faster than I can fix them, but they don’t have many to begin with. Least I can do is keep ‘em from falling apart at the seams.”

Vander exhaled a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway, watching her work. His broad frame nearly filled the entire space, his presence as steady and unwavering as the bar he protected.

“They adore you for it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Powder won’t let that rabbit out of her sight.”

That made Y/N smile, a small, fond expression that softened her features. She had made that stuffed rabbit from scraps of fabric, carefully stitching it together after seeing Powder clutching a threadbare piece of cloth as if it were a proper toy. It was a simple thing, but the way Powder had beamed when she received it—holding it tight like it was the most precious thing in the world—had been worth every stitch.

“She needed something to hold onto,” Y/N murmured, setting Vi’s jacket aside and reaching for another garment in need of mending. “Something that’s just hers.”

Vander was quiet for a moment, watching her hands work, the glow of the candlelight casting a golden hue over her skin. She was always doing this—fixing things, putting care into every thread, every patch. Not just for the kids. For everyone.

“And what about you?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence as she glanced up at him. “Still wearin’ that scarf I made you?”

Vander scoffed, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around the fabric. The scarf had been a gift from her last winter, something she had pressed into his hands with a quiet “Zaun gets cold, you know,” as if she wasn’t completely aware of how stubborn he was about taking care of himself. It was a simple thing—nothing extravagant—but she had chosen the fabric carefully, making sure it was thick enough to keep out the Zaun chill.

He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“Best scarf I’ve ever owned,” he admitted, voice quieter now, the words carrying more weight than he likely intended.

Their eyes met, a brief but lingering moment stretched between them. She could read him better than most, could see past the gruff exterior, past the strong front he put up for everyone else. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something in the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edges of the scarf, something in the way he stood just a little closer than necessary.

He pushed off the wall with a small shake of his head, as if breaking whatever spell had settled between them. “You should charge more for your work.”

Y/N only laughed, shaking her head. “And have half of Zaun freezing or running around with holes in their trousers? Not likely.”

Vander huffed, muttering something under his breath about her being ‘too damn kind for her own good.’ But there was no real heat behind it. He wouldn’t change her for anything.

She watched as he walked back towards the bar, the blue of her scarf still wrapped around his neck, the candlelight catching in his silvering hair.

She didn’t miss the way his eyes softened as he looked at her before turning away, the unspoken words hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Not yet. But maybe someday.

=

The following days passed in a steady rhythm, much like the quiet whir of her sewing machine. She continued her work, fixing torn garments, mending stuffed animals, and occasionally stitching together something entirely new. The bar bustled with its usual energy—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter or the distant hum of tension from the undercity’s unrest. And through it all, Vander was a constant presence.

He found excuses to stop by her small corner in the backroom. Bringing her a drink she hadn’t asked for, leaning against the doorway with a watchful gaze as she worked, making small talk about the latest scuffle at the bar or how Claggor had managed to tear a hole straight through the knee of his trousers again. He never lingered too long, never said too much—but his presence was always there, warm and steady, like the faint glow of candlelight on a cold night.

One evening, as she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece on a worn-out coat, she heard heavy footsteps approach. The familiar weight of his presence settled in the doorway before he stepped inside.

She looked up just in time to see Vander set something on the table beside her—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” he said simply.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, setting down her needle. She wiped her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the cloth, revealing a thick roll of high-quality fabric. It was unlike anything she could find in Zaun, sturdy and warm, likely bartered from Piltover’s markets. The kind of material that would hold against the bitter Zaun chill, something made to last.

“Vander, this is—”

“Figured you might need it,” he interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it, as if unsure how she’d take the gift. “For…whatever it is you’re always makin’. Consider it a thank you.”

She looked up at him then, her chest tightening slightly at the rare hint of hesitation in his voice. He wasn’t a man of grand gestures, wasn’t one to put emotions into words easily. But this—this was something.

Her fingers ran over the fabric, feeling the softness beneath her touch. The edges were neatly folded, carefully bundled together, as if he’d handled it with more care than he’d admit.

“I’ll make something good with it,” she murmured, voice softer now.

His lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that was gone too quickly but left warmth in its wake. “I know you will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of something unspoken settling between them. The candlelight flickered against the walls, stretching shadows long and soft. She could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, the quiet understanding neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, as if realising he had lingered too long, Vander exhaled and took a step back, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late workin’,” he said over his shoulder, voice gruff but tinged with something gentler.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her sitting there with warmth blooming in her chest, the weight of his quiet kindness settling over her like a well-loved quilt.

She traced the fabric with her fingertips, thoughtful. Vander wasn’t a man of words, but he had his own way of showing things—small gestures, quiet care. It had always been there, between them, stitched into every moment they shared.

Maybe someday wasn’t so far away after all.

SILCO

The first time Silco truly noticed her, it was not because of her appearance or her sharp wit. It wasn’t even the way she carried herself, though that too intrigued him. No, it was because of the rip in his coat.

It wasn’t the first time his clothes had seen damage; as a man in his position, a leader with enemies at every turn, he had grown used to the wear and tear. The fight in the Lanes had been a typical skirmish—fists, knives, and threats exchanged over petty rivalries. He’d never imagined it would result in a tear down the side of his long, dark coat. He had barely noticed it in the chaos, but when he returned to the Underbelly, the jagged tear caught his eye.

At first, he considered simply tossing the coat aside, but something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the way the fabric seemed to reflect the disarray in his mind after the conflict. His thoughts, much like his coat, felt torn and frayed at the edges. But then she appeared.

She was standing there at the entrance to his office, as though she had known he’d be there. There was something about her, something predatory in the way she stepped forward, almost as if she had been watching him for some time. Her sharp eyes assessed him immediately, but not with the usual wariness he was accustomed to. No, she took in the coat, the tear, and then—without waiting for permission—she moved to inspect the damage.

He had intended to wave her off, to brush aside the need for anything resembling care. But her presence was immediate, commanding, even without a word. The way she touched the fabric, her fingers sliding along the tear, tracing its path like a careful examination of a wound. She seemed to read the damage, as though she knew exactly how to fix it, where to pull, where to stitch.

“Leave it with me,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused, though he saw no mockery in her eyes. She said it with an assurance that left no room for argument. She already knew he would relent. And, to his own surprise, he did.

=

Silco wasn’t a man given to sentiment. His empire was built on dominance, control, and cruelty. He had no time for kindness, for softness. Yet here she was, standing before him, offering to repair a coat that, in his mind, held little value beyond its utility. But somehow, her words, her confidence, made him trust her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

She wasn’t from the grime and muck of the underbelly like most people in Zaun. She didn’t have the hardened edge that the typical denizens of the Lanes wore like a badge of honour. Instead, she had settled into the city like a delicate thread woven into an old tapestry—soft yet resilient, unfurling and unraveling at the same time. She had a sort of quiet grace about her, a sense of purpose that was both subtle and undeniable.

A seamstress. A maker of things. A woman whose hands were stained with ink and dyes, a patchwork of colours permanently imprinted into her skin from years of working with fabrics of every kind. She was a stranger to the underworld, and yet she had an undeniable place in it. The children of Zaun adored her. Her humble shop was always filled with the noise of their laughter, their cries for attention, their hands pulling at her skirts, eager to see what she was making next. They were drawn to her in a way they never were to anyone else—especially Powder, the youngest, whose fascination with Y/N’s work bordered on obsession.

And in a way, Silco found it curious. The children, so often abandoned and ignored by the world, had found solace in her presence, a warmth that he could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, he never doubted that she was something special.

After she mended his coat, a task that seemed so simple, so mundane, he found himself inspecting it more than he’d like to admit. He ran his fingers over the stitches, feeling the tightness of them, the precision in every movement. She had taken a coat that was merely a tool and turned it into something more—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to see what others might overlook.

When she returned it to him, there were no formalities. She didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t expect anything. She simply said, “Good as new,” and watched him closely, waiting to see his reaction. It was not the typical response she’d receive from others, and she seemed to know it. He nodded. That was all. But he could feel it, a certain unspoken understanding between them. The coat, now mended, was a marker of something unspoken—something subtle and deliberate.

=

And then there was the waistcoat.

It appeared one evening, folded neatly in brown paper and left at The Last Drop without a word, no explanation, no card. He found it tucked away in the corner of the bar, a surprise that didn’t fit with the usual chaos of his life. He unwrapped it carefully, the fine fabric smooth under his fingers. It was a deep charcoal, dark but with an intricate emerald design embroidered along the edges—a delicate touch, but one that spoke volumes. The kind of thing he never would have chosen himself, yet it felt... right. It was understated, quiet in its elegance, but unmistakably hers.

That night, after a particularly grueling day spent managing Piltover’s politicians and the constant friction with the people of Zaun, he wore it. He didn’t think about it much at first, just slipped it on as if it were any other garment. But when he looked in the mirror, something tugged at him. It wasn’t just a waistcoat. It was something more—a symbol of her care, of her quiet, unnoticed influence on his life.

They did not have the kind of relationship marked by loud declarations or gestures. No, their bond was built in quiet moments. In the soft rhythm of her sewing shears cutting through fabric. In the weight of the threads, carefully pulled through delicate fabric. In the way her eyes always seemed to search him, studying him like the seamstress she was, looking for the places where the seams might have frayed, where the edges might have come apart.

=

One night, he found himself standing at the threshold of her shop, unannounced, a place he rarely visited without a purpose. But that evening, there was no agenda, no business to be conducted. He simply wanted to see her, to observe her in her element. She was sitting at her workbench, the dim glow of a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she stitched together a new garment—one of her many projects, one of her endless creations.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her hands as they worked with unshaken precision. The needle passed through the fabric again and again, a rhythmic dance that felt hypnotic.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, his voice low but breaking the silence.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. “A coat. For a friend.”

“A lucky friend,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet humour.

She didn’t answer, only hummed as she threaded her needle again. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Just care.”

And for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something deeper. She cared. He could see it in her hands, in the steady way she worked. She didn’t do it for accolades, didn’t do it for recognition. She did it because she cared.

The thought unsettled him. She wasn’t like others, who cowered beneath his power or avoided his gaze. No, she studied him, watched him, as if she could see beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Silco had made his name as a man of power, a man who controlled the shadows, a man whose empire was built on fear and ambition. He had forged himself from the broken pieces of the world around him. But when she looked at him, when she saw him as she did, he wasn’t Silco the tyrant or Silco the visionary. For a brief moment, he was simply Silco, a man who had a tattered coat and a waistcoat stitched with care.

=

Weeks passed in a haze of strained negotiations, political manoeuvring, and the steady grind of maintaining his hold over Zaun. Silco didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on much outside of his empire, but there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when his thoughts wandered back to her. The way she had touched his coat, the subtle care in every stitch, the way she never flinched under his gaze. There was something there, something fragile yet strong, like an ember flickering in the dark.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Silco found himself walking toward her shop again. He had no particular reason to be there. His coat was still intact, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes repaired. But something in the back of his mind told him he should check on her, to see if she was still as steady, as unwavering as she had been the last time he’d seen her.

As he approached her shop, the dim light spilling from beneath the door caught his attention. The flicker of the lanterns inside, the soft hum of activity—it was a rhythm he had come to recognise, one that spoke to the quiet dedication she had for her craft. It was late, later than usual. Silco hesitated for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, considering whether to enter or not.

But then he heard it—the harsh rasp of voices, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle inside. His instincts kicked in, and he pushed the door open without a second thought.

=

Inside, the scene before him unfolded in a quick, brutal flash. Two men—rough, unkempt, with the stench of desperation hanging over them—had cornered her. One of them was holding a knife, its blade glinting ominously under the light of the lamp. The other was gesturing wildly at the shelves, clearly trying to intimidate her into handing over whatever they could steal.

Her back was to the door, and for a moment, Silco saw her—saw her not as the gentle seamstress who had repaired his coat, but as someone who had lived in the same world as him, someone who had faced her own battles. Her posture was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to bend to their will.

"Just give us the damn money, lady," the one with the knife spat, his voice low and rough. "We’re not here to play games."

Silco’s mind moved quickly, calculating the best way to deal with this. He didn’t care about the petty theft. What bothered him was the way they were treating her—as if she were just another victim to be taken advantage of. As if she were weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

Without a word, he stepped forward, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. The sound was enough to catch the attention of the men, who turned just as he moved closer. The one with the knife sneered at him, recognising the man who had brought Zaun to its knees.

"Who the hell are you?" the first man growled, his voice a mixture of surprise and aggression.

Silco didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment, allowing the tension to build. He wasn’t worried about them. The men were nothing more than irritants to him, mere distractions in a world full of dangers.

"You’re in the wrong place," Silco finally said, his voice low and measured, his gaze cold and unyielding.

The men exchanged wary glances. The one with the knife hesitated, but the second man, more desperate, growled. "You don’t scare us. We’ve got a knife. What’s it to you?"

Silco’s lips twitched, amused by their audacity. The tension in the room thickened, but Silco’s presence alone was enough to shift the balance.

The man with the knife stepped forward, brandishing the blade in an unsteady hand. "You want to make something of it, then? I’ll carve you up, just like I’m gonna carve her up if she doesn’t listen."

Silco’s gaze never wavered. He was calm, cold, the eye of the storm. There was no fear in him, only a sense of inevitability. Without a word, he reached for the concealed knife tucked in his belt. The men barely had time to register the movement before he had it in his hand, its cold steel glinting in the lantern light.

"Put the knife down," Silco said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife itself.

The second man, realising the situation had shifted, took a step back, his face contorted in confusion. But the first man—still gripped by his own desperation and pride—didn’t relent. He raised the blade, aiming to strike.

Silco stepped forward, his movements swift and fluid. His knife flicked in the air, and the man with the blade froze, his hand trembling.

"Now," Silco’s voice rang out like thunder.

The man’s resolve broke, and with a muttered curse, he dropped the knife to the floor. His hands raised in surrender, and the second man, seeing the fight drain out of his ally, backed away as well.

Silco didn’t need to say more. He watched as they stumbled towards the door, muttering under their breath, eager to escape the presence of the one man in Zaun they feared.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Silco turned back to her. He noticed the damage immediately—the rip along the seam of his coat where one of the men had caught it in the scuffle. A small tear, but enough to catch his eye.

Before he could brush it off, she was already moving toward him. Her gaze was focused, and without a word, she was inspecting the tear. The flickering lanterns cast a soft glow on her features, her expression filled with concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric.

"You’re going to want to get that fixed," she said, her tone both calm and concerned. "Let me—"

"I’m fine," Silco interrupted, his voice terse, though he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the care in her words. "It’s just a small tear."

She barely looked up, already beginning to gather her tools. "It’s a shame," she muttered, her hands moving quickly to pull a needle and thread from her kit. "The fabric’s too nice to let it go to waste."

Silco raised an eyebrow at her, bemused by her reaction. Most people would have been intimidated, maybe even scared, at the thought of trying to repair the coat of someone like him. But here she was, entirely unfazed, focused on restoring something that was clearly important to him.

"I’m not sure you understand, this coat isn’t just a coat," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It’s… important."

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with that same steady intensity. "I understand," she said simply, before returning to the task at hand. "I’ll make sure it’s good as new. It’ll be even better once I’ve finished."

Her certainty was palpable, and it settled over him like a weight. Silco felt something stir within him—something unfamiliar and quiet. He hadn’t expected to be here, hadn’t planned on staying this long. Yet, in this quiet moment, with her focused on repairing his coat, he realised he didn’t mind at all.

Maybe this was where he belonged, at least for now. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to stay a little longer.

[mentally-unstable-hottie13]

Hii! Soo i saw a moodboard and fell in love with the vive

you think you could do a one shot about being Henrys innocent girlfriend

Thats the mood board, but instead of Patrick could u do a Henry one plss🙏🙏

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Thank you so much for the ask! Sorry it took so long I hope I did it justice. I also re did the mood board to make it a cover. Hope you like it .

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Henry x innocent! Reader!

Content warnings: mention of sex, suggestive material, underage smoking, theft, language. Misogynistic language.(Not from Henry)

(NO ACTUAL SEXUAL ACTS HAPPEN IN THIS STORY. ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18 IN THEIR SENIOR YEAR)

A/N: I'm kinda back! Yay! | didn't add smut to this because I didn't know if any of y'all would be willing to read that so l thought it would be best to ask here. Leave a comment if yes! All my story's will continue plus I have a new man I plan on writing for! Hope you like it!

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You lived in Derry for a few years when you were younger but your father had gotten a promotion at his job that required your family to move to a whole new state. Now after 10 years, here you are. You had to move back because of your grandmothers worsening condition. You loved Granny. She was your best friend.

After moving back you have been spending all of your time at granny’s house. She’d teach you to sew, cook, she’d ask you to read to her as she lay in her recliner chair. It’s almost like you lived at her house and not with your parents. Don’t get me wrong you love your parents, they just understood how much granny meant.

The past few weeks at Derry high have been almost Hellish. People push you in the halls, this girl Greta and her friends are ruthless in their taunts and now there was him.

Henry Bowers. He apparently had been suspended the first 2 weeks you were in town. Now he was at school everyday, in almost every class. He always had his eyes on you. You wont lie, he scared you. In comparison to him you were much smaller, and not just in stature. Henry’s personality, energy and voice was big in comparison to your shy, calm, innocent one. He was the definition of fear. He looked at you like a wolf looked at a lamb. And that was the scariest part. All Henry ever did was look.

Until one day.

It stopped looking and did something.

You remember the day clearly, the day that set everything in motion. It was a warm day with wet air. It had rained the night prior and was overcast all day. You had an English quiz today. You never minded English class but on days with quizes you felt unshakable anxiety. You always read the material but what if?

Yep, you were one of those. You always knew the material, but felt like you would choke on a test. (You never have).

Just for the test the teacher decided to finally switch up seats. Yippie. Every person would now have a different table partner. You could almost see the murder in Henry’s eyes when she pointed to a desk and announced that you and Henry would be tablemates.

Double yippie.

The paper was placed before you and Henry and the hour timer started. Simple questions if you read the book. But like always, there was a hint of fear embeded in your skin. About 40 minutes in your absolutely anchient English teacher fell asleep. Seriously he was so old you don’t know if he was safe to dive himself home anymore.

Henry kicked your foot. Oh no.

You tried not to acknowledge his attempts at your attention. That didn’t last long. He finally annoyed you enough and got you to look at him. He slid over a small paper note.

“Help me out.”

Was all the almost illegible note said. The hadwriting was so bad it was almost endearing.

“With what?” You gently wrote back.

After a long minute of Henry writing in the note he slid it back.

He asked for only half the answers? Why not all of them? He also didn’t ask for any of the short response questions . Just the multiple choice ones.

You sighed and flipped the note over before writing out the answers.

“AACDBCCDA.”

You passed it back and silently slid it to Henry under the table. You really didn’t need to get in trouble because someone saw you helping this guy out. What if the teacher called your parents? What if Granny got mad? God that would be the end of the world for you. You hated upsetting your family. You always tried to do what you were told.

Henry takes the paper and unfolds it before quickly copying the answers and then shoving the note in his pocket, from there he writes a few words for the short response before drawing shit on his paper.

You finish up the test and get up to turn it in. Just as you start raising out of your chair Henry put his hand on your thigh. Startled by the contact you jump a little and look down at him. With a bored expression he hands you his paper. You sigh again before walking up to the teachers desk and walk back to your desk to gather your things. As you walk the bell for lunch rings and everyone leaves. Because of that little interaction with Henry you were the last one to turn in your paper and now you were the last one left in class. You didn’t mind. You sat alone for lunch. You could read your books when you were alone. Even the teacher had left.

You grab your bag and begin gathering your things to leave. By the time you are done the hallways appear empty. Just as you exit the room a sharp hand grabs your wrist. Startling you backwards, you turn to face your “attacker” only to come face to face…. With him.

Henry. You were all alone. With him.

You can’t deny that he was attractive. His bright blue eyes, muscles and long hair made you blush.

You’d never really looked at boys like this, not for any particular reason. They just never interested you. until today that is.

Henry leaned against the lockers with a vexed expression lain across his features. Why was he annoyed?

From his perspective the blush on your checks was ever-noticeable. You avoided his gaze but kept your eyes on him. Strange. He though.

“I need your answers for Mr. Clark’s math class. I know you have him the hour before me.” Henry stares

“W-what?” You ask absolutely bewildered that he’s demanding answers after you already helped him cheat. You already felt icky about helping him in the first place.

“You heard me. I need you to do the study guide and give me the answers. He allowed us a cheat sheet for the test based on the study guide but I don’t feel like doing the work. So. You are gonna help me. Got it?” It’s not a question, he’s telling you that you’ll help him. What a jerk.

After a moment of you not responding he snatches your phone from you. “Hey!” You lunge after your phone. He holds it above your head.

“Open it and go to your contacts. Now.” He hands you back the phone. He was scary, you knew the things he did to other kids who didn’t listen to him. Might as well listen.

You open your phone and open up contacts before handing it back to him. He types for a second before handing it back.

“Text me your address so I can come by after school. If you ghost me I’ll kick your ass into a pulp. Don’t test me.” And with that, Henry was gone.

What was this kids deal?

You messaged Henry the address to your Granny’s house after school. As you enter her house you call out for her.

“Gran?”

“I’m in here love!” She responds from the living room.

You walk to Granny and kneel beside her in her rocker.

“Hi love, what’s got you lookin all down today?” Gran wonders.

“A boy is coming over today to study, I wanted you to know.”

“Oh a boy you say? Why don’t you two work in your room? I won’t be a bother to you in there.”

“Are you sure Gran?”

“Positive.”

With a heavy sigh you go to your room. You decided clean up a little before Henry comes over. You liked your room here. Most of your material belongings were at home with your parents but Grans house had all your clothes and stuffed animals and blankets. The dusty blue walls made the room feel cozy. Your bed spread was a light pastel pink with little blue flowers all over it. Your lamp was in the shape of an old teapot and your stuffed animals that you didn’t regularly sleep with were placed in a “hammock” in a corner. Potted plants scattered your room. These little details made you feel so at home it was hard to describe.

A knock came from the front door snapping you out of your comfortable daze. You exit your room and walk to the front door. Before you even speak Henry pushes past you into the house. You sigh and shut the front door before showing him to your room and shutting the door behind you.

God this guy is a jerk…

He sits himself on your bedspread and you cringe at the thought of his dirt covered jeans on your bed. You see that he has nothing on him. You knew this wasn’t gonna be a regular study session but nothing? Not a pencil? Not even his own book?

Whatever.

You get yourself situated on the floor in front of your small table and get out your book and paper. You finished most of the study guide in your last few classes today. You just had a few more things to put down. When you were done you looked up to see Henry had lain fully back onto your bed. In his dirty farm clothes.

Don’t panic.

Sheets can be washed.

The mattress however bust be set aflame.

You tossed the pencil and cheat sheet up onto his lap before turning on the tv from where you sat. He stirred at the feeling of something touching him he steadied himself on his elbows to look at you, then the paper. He scoffed before retrieving a notecard from his pocket. He slid of the bed and sat next to you on the floor, leaning over the table as he wrote. You rolled your eyes and found a good show to watch.

Once he was done writing he looked up.

“What the fuck is this?” He asked gesturing to your tv.

“It’s my favorite show.” You shrug.

“This?” He asks confused, “no way this boring shit is your favorite.”

“Well it is, I usually watch it with Gran”

“Do you only really watch tv with her?” He asks weirdly.

“Pretty much.”

“Do you do everything with your gramma’?”

You just nod.

“That explains fucking everything!” He shouts and laughs loudly.

You try to throw your hands over his mouth. “SHHHH!! Not so loud! she doesn't like swearing!”

He laughs louder through your hands. Once he calms a little he grabs your wrists and removes your hands from his face.

“Fuck, that makes so much sense now.”

You look at him oddly. “What makes sense?”

“You” he gestures, “the old lady clothes, the knitting in class, the books, the no swearing, the way you talk. You are a clone of your grandma!” He laughs again.

Your cheeks turn pink with embarrassment.

No I'm not… I’m me, my grandma and I just spend a lot of time together that’s all….

“Just shut up Henry!” You snap.

….

“What did you just say to me, freak?” He levels you with a glare. You couldn’t find it in you to care.

“I said shut up! I’m helping you for tomorrow when I don’t have to! You have no idea what you are talking about so just shut up!”

He leans in closer to you with that angry look on his face.

You were in so much trouble. Would he hit you? Beat you? Yell at you? You’d heard stories of what he’d done to other kids that tried to stand up to him.

You close your eyes in fear of what’s to come. You’d never even raised your voice like that before. Of course the first time ever had to be at Henry Bowers. You wait for him to hit you, but instead you feel 2 hands grab at the side of your face before Henry smashed his lips to yours.

Your eyes snap open in shock. The kiss is rough and demanding but not awful. After a few seconds of initial shock you melt into it before Henry pulls off.

Your eyes flutter open to see Henry smirking with a flushed face. You assume the red on his cheeks is matching you.

“W-why would you do that?” You cover your face with your hands.

“Because I felt like it.” He deadpanned.

This made no freaking sense. Why would this guy do that?!?

“Yo” he starts again. “Relax. I’ve liked your look for a while, what do ya say you go with me for a while?”

WHAT WAS HE EVEN SAYING?????

“Pardon?….”

“I’m sayin go steady. Hang with me fer a while”

“Are you insane!?” You whisper yell. “You threaten to beat me up, swear in my house, make fun of me then kiss me???”

“And now I’m askin to go steady.” He confirms.

This kid was insane. What was even more insane was the fact that you were pondering it. Maybe it was the fact that he called you a clone of Granny. That implies you were like an old lady, uptight, boring, no fun. You could be fun.

“Why not?”

He looked a little surprised.

“Really?” He asked in a bored and skeptical tone.

“Yeah, why not?”

And from there you and Henry have been together for months.

Being with Henry has taught you things you never knew. He’s influenced you to do things you never would have done. Not that you are complaining.

He and his friends took you to the quarry today. You had never really seen boys your age undressed before… that was quite a strange feeling. You’d never really been undressed in front of boys before. The way Henry looked at you confused you. For about 30 minutes after you caught him staring he refused to get out of the water. Even when everyone else did.

One of Henry’s friends, you’d come to learn was Belch, brought a speaker to listen to music as you sat in the shaded rocks and watched the boys fool around in the water. You’d never listened to music like it before. Screaming, loud, sex and drug filled music. You’d be lying if you said you completely hated it.

Another thing you learned was how these boys speak. Once they all exited the water they began talking about a girl. Greta. The girl who was always mean to you. They called her things like a “slut” and “total bone material”. Not Henry of course. But they all talked and laughed about sex in such an unserious way. You wondered what that was like. To not be intimidated by sex.

You knew what sex was and the basic mechanics of it but absolutely nothing else. You were curious. You appeared to be the only senior in your school who was almost totally clueless. Others definitely were taking notice.

On the car ride back to your house the boys stopped at a corner store for snacks. You knew they stole. You told Henry your only rule was “don’t get me involved” and he never did. Although Henry was teaching you new and foreign things he tried to keep you out of the worst of it. Anything that gets you in trouble.

As he hopped back into the Trans Am that was uncomfortably full now that you tagged along, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and hit the box on his palm twice. He asked Patrick to light it and the smell of the burn filled your nostrils. Belch started the Trans Am and began driving. A little while after lighting the cigarette it was passed around until you were the only one who hadn’t had a puff. Patrick looked at you.

Oh no.

“C’mon babe, give it a try.” He said and practically waved the half gone thing in your face.

“Leave it, hockstetter.” Henry said firmly, turning in his seat to look at you with almost apologetic eyes.

“Oh come on Henry she’s a big girl, let her try.” Patrick laughed.

You look at Henry one more time. In the months you had spent together you’d heard his friends tease him about you. Of course you’d never tell him that. You heard them say you were too clean to be with a Bowers, that you were “so fucking boring it’s amazing Henry hasn’t boned someone else”.

You never wanted Henry to be ashamed of you, you didn’t want Henry to think you were boring.

You look at Patrick defiantly and snatch the cigarette from him before inhaling. Inhaling wasn’t the problem. It’s getting it out that caused some issues. On the exhale it tickled parts of your lungs you never want tickled and you coughed, sputtering. The boys laughed and as you got yourself composed you made eye contact with Henry who was still looking at you. He had a smile on his face, but his eyes said something different.

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After returning you and Henry to Gran’s house the boys sped off. You unlocked the door and went into the living room to sit with Granny for a bit while Henry went to your room. Gran wasn’t particularly fond of the Bowers but she liked that you were happy.

You sat and told Gran that you and Henry and a few friends (not including that you were the only girl) went to the quarry for a swim. She smiled weakly and asked you to help her to her room for a nap. Grab had a very specific sleep routine. Wake up at 4, two naps a day for about an hour and a half each then in bed by 8. She never slept without her mask or her earplugs. She was on the verge of being deaf but she swore any and all sounds while she was sleeping would overstimulate her. So she wore earplugs. Due to the earplugs alarms were rendered ineffective so in about an hour you would be waking her.

After getting Granny all settled you shut her door then went to find Henry in your room across the house.

Henry is sitting on your bed, not unusual but he looks upset (also not unusual but you don’t know why he’s upset).

“You ok baby?” You asked timidly while stepping closer.

“Why would you do that?” He asks angrily but not yelling.

“What?”

“Why the fuck did you take the cig from hockstetter?” He spits.

“I wanted to try it”

“Bullshit, you've never wanted to try anything like that.”

“It’s not bull it’s true!” You try to lie but it’s not getting you anywhere.

“Bull. Shit.” He repeats. “You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you get mad when we steal, you hate what I do every fucking day. So why the fuck did you do it?”

You stay silent and he huffs. He stands up and moves to leave.

“No!” You block his way.

“Move. ____” he says your name like he’s tired.

“No, I don't want you to go!” You admit.

“Then tell me why you took it from him!”

You look away, embarrassed.

“Because I don’t want you to be ashamed to be around me..”

He looks confused, which is pretty par for the course when it comes to Henry and feelings. “What?”

You try to breathe and explain. “I don’t do the things you do… I don’t do the things other girls that you guys hang out with do.”

“And what the fuck about it?” Henry snaps.

“I just-“

“No.” He cuts you off. “I’m not responsible for your insecurity. Don’t put that on me.”

“I wasn’t-“ you panic at his defensiveness but are cut off again.

“I ask if you wanna hang out with my friends because you are my girlfriend. You. Not that bitch Greta. Or Stacy, or Lana. You. I wanted you to be my girlfriend, if you are getting all insecure and shit that’s on you.”

“It’s not like that! I just don’t know the things everyone else seems to!” You try to explain.

“And!? I fucking chose you! You think I want a girl that knows everything!? A girl that thinks she’s better then me at everything?!

“No!”

“Then what the fuck is the problem?!”

“There is no problem henry. I’m just confused..”

“You’re confused? I’m confused!” He retorts. “I thought everything was fine!”

“It is!”

“Then what’s the problem!” He shouts again.

For once you are happy about Grans earplug habit.

“…I can’t do the things other girls do..”

“What?”

“I heard patrick say you had sex with Beverly and Greta”’

….

Silence. The scariest thing your boyfriend could do. Give you pure. Excruciating silence.

You start thinking of a way out. Try thinking of a way to backtrack. But nothing is coming to mind. Your heart sinks as you begin to think you royally messed up.

“I didn’t.”

…

“What?” You ask incredulously.

“I never had sex with either of them. Greta and I got pretty close to doing it a few times but I never did anything with Beverly.”

Your eyes must be wide with shock and self induced embarrassment horror.

“You don’t believe me?” He asks defensively.

“No no no I do”

“When I said I wanted to be your Boyfriend I meant it.” This sweet, almost domestic side of Henry was rare and always but you in a confused state, mostly because you knew it was only for you. “I don’t wanna fuck anyone else. I want to completely ruin you for anyone else, I wanna teach you things you never knew existed, I want you to go home to your parents one day with music that kills them of shock. I wanna teach you. Not anyone else.”

As crazy as those things may sound coming from someone you understood what he was trying to say. It was Henry’s way of saying if I was gonna learn he’d rather it be him. It was him acknowledging that you weren’t gonna be innocent forever, so why not learn it from him. What sounds even crazier is you think you loved the idea.

Henry took a step closer to you. He put his heavy calloused and bruised hands on your arms and kissed you roughly. Henry didn’t do soft. Never had and never will, and you loved it.

He led you to the bed while maintaining the kiss and once your knees hit the bed they bent and you fell to the bed. Henry continued kissing you, getting tougher as time went on. He began kissing you with his tongue, something he’d only ever done once before and you loved it. His hands slowly but firmly went up your blouse to touch the exposed skin. He brought his knee up between your legs and you gasped at the contact, having never felt it before. After a few seconds Henry broke the kiss and got off you.

Confused. You looked at him. He took off his shoes and grabbed the tv remote before holding you. Your heart swelled at the realization that he was trying to take it slow for you. Even if it left him uncomfortable. And trust me it was. Henry sat with a hard on for the entirety of the movie he put on while holding you.

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Please tell me if there was any mistakes so I can fix them ❤️☺️

[orbitariums]

( in the accent of a suburban blk girlie ) dhmu just thinking ab being art and patrick's joint pretty little thing and they're both like hah ! art/patrick could never score a girl like this, she's different from every woman ive ever met ( black as hell, boujie as hell, BUILT as hell ), he doesn't have it like me. and then all of a sudden they both find themselves at a mostly black club she frequents and posts ab on myspace a lot and they both find themselves giving her flirty, llustful looks across the dance floor at her, go to give eachother a 'hah you could never pull all that' look and realize they're both doing the same thing and then realizing that you could pull any little frat-esque, trust funded white boy you wanted and they LOCK TF IN on proving they could treat and fuck you best

- 🎹

all that | artrick + black reader

literally obsessed with this request piano anon ... thissss is universe-building and i LOVEEEE to cross cultures >:-) also, made this playlist to fit the vibe (tried to keep it 2006 themed but haddd to throw some cash cobain in there — his new album is also perfect to listen to for this)

contains: a FINE black GYAL, art + patrick feening they ain't never BEEN with a baddie, smut: fingering, oral (f! receiving), threesome i realize i could've made this a drabble but i'm a writer. so imma write. so i hope y'all fw this! word count: 7.7k and not proofread

It's giving Stanford era Art and Patrick — Art feels like he has dibs on you because he met you first and takes a few classes with you. Unlike Patrick, Art prides himself on being your friend — even though you've really only interacted through class projects, and Art hardly has the courage to talk to you outside of class.

You're different from anybody Art or Patrick have wanted in the past. Stanford opened up a door to a whole new world for them — a world outside of rich white girls who spent their summers in the Hamptons or elite tennis camps. and you were the key holder. you were hands-down the most stunning girl they'd ever seen. For Art, it was the Marley twists that reached your butt (a staple hairstyle of yours when you weren't rotating from lace fronts to sew-ins to natural), the way your brown eyes glimmered when a ray of sun shone over you through the window.

For Patrick it was your lips, thick and glossy or perfectly painted with a brown lip combo — gawking at you in the cafeteria when he visits and watching you reapply your lip gloss after you eat might be his favorite pastime.

Once, Patrick literally groaned, throwing his head back with a hand on his forehead when you bent over to pick up your lip liner, then readjusted your jeans and did that little jump trying to fit your ass properly back in the pants. Art couldn't even call him out on it because it took everything in him to hold back a whimper.

Your skin was supple and a rich brown, soft like a pillow they wanted to sink into. everything about you was something to admire — your laugh, the certainty in your voice whenever you spoke, your graceful yet assertive demeanor. You knew who you were, and that was something lacking from all the Sarahs and Kaylors and Brittanys they had been with. And, satisfying their basest desires, was your stallion body. tall, thick, and fit.

"She's so pretty," Art blinked slowly, the two of them watching you from a distance in the library as you gathered with a group of friends, standing around a table and giggling softly.

"Her ass is so fat. I've never seen anything like that shit before," Patrick murmured, his eyebrows furrowed as if he were concerned— really he was just incredulous.

A beat as Art swallowed hard, clenching his jaw. Ignoring the way his pants grew tighter. Patrick doing the same.

"Yeah," he exhaled after a moment of silence and low-eyed ogling from the two of them.

It was weeks of that — just gawking at you and getting themselves worked up thinking about you. At that point, there was more sexual tension between Art and Patrick than either of the two lusting boys had managed to work up with you. Tashi found their fantasizing aggravating and berated them for not just going up to you and talking to you — secretly, Art and Patrick praised the fact that Tashi has a girlfriend, otherwise she'd be competition too.

Art practically fainted when he saw you in the hallway talking to Patrick— Patrick leaning against the wall with his hand just above his head, towering over you with the confidence of a sly dog. He could just make out the murmurs of your conversation, the warm ringing of your laugh, Patrick's flirtatious chuckling overlapping just a few seconds later. He was laying it on thick, and Art felt like he might go into cardiac arrest with how angry he was.

Art strode up to the two of you with determination, slowing down once he gets closer so he doesn't come off as defensive as he felt. He gave Patrick an icy, tight-lipped grin that made Patrick smirk ever-so-slightly, his eyes wandering to some spot just above Art's head.

"Pat," Art bleated. He turned to you, his eyes softening along with his brain and everything else in his body except his dick. He smiled gently, locking eyes with you. "YN. It's nice to see you. I'm Art, by the way."

You shook your head and chuckled, one of your braids drifting over your shoulder. You pushed it back, and Art and Patrick went numb at the simple maneuver. You bit down softly on your bottom lip, grinning bemusedly,

"I know who you are. We did like two chem projects together, don't you remember?"

"Yeah, remember?" Patrick echoed, glancing over smugly at Art, who was too enamored by you to side-eye Patrick in return.

"Yeah. Yeah of course I remember. You were the backbone of our projects," Art trailed off into a genuine laugh, one full of appreciation.

"Well, I am pre-med, so," a slight laugh bubbled up in your throat and it was so attractive and confident, Art couldn't help but grin at you dazedly.

"Smart girl," Patrick inserted himself, catching your eye as soon as you turned your head to him again.

You didn't miss the way he held eye contact, the way he was so comfortable giving you a name to hold on to, like it was something he was used to doing with you. There's some sort of intimacy to a nickname like that, suggesting something provocative yet impossible to name. You're well aware of the fact that they're both attracted to you — you couldn't possibly miss them staring at you even when you knew they thought they were being discreet.

Seeing them now, up close and personal, finally actually talking to you instead of checking you out and avoiding eye contact, you saw their strategies, their archetypes. Art, the charming and unassuming rabbit — assumed timid by most but smart and eventually crafty — and Patrick, the rakish, bold fox, unabashed in his cunning and willing to show out. Both types that you'd seen before, but not quite in this form. And both intrigued you deeply. You, the snake. Letting them have their glory in this game now, but plotting just how you would leer over them soon enough, evaluating your prey.

"Gotta be. I only get one chance," you replied to Patrick's comment.

You could tell he was used to having girls stuck, and you weren't that type. But with you, their eagerness and need to prove themselves was strong right away.

You could tell they were trying to figure out what to say. You figured they were used to girls giggling and blushing over them. Maybe they expected a thank you, complete with hair twirling and bashfulness, like you didn't already know you were smart, fine, and everything in between.

"Mkay," you hummed, smiling precociously up at them. "I'm gonna hit the library, got a bio exam next week. I'll see you both later?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you'll see us," Art assured you immediately, on top of Patrick drawling,

"We'll be on the lookout."

You chuckled, giving them one last look over your lashes before you turned around. You could feel their eyes on you as they left, tracking all the way down to your hips which swayed as you walked.

They watched you like that all the way out the double doors, in a trance. When the door finally closed, Art swiveled on his feet and jabbed Patrick in the shoulder, walking off dramatically. Patrick caught up to him quickly.

"What the fuck? What's that for?" he whined.

"What the hell man, you can't just talk to her," Art frowned.

Patrick paused, staring at Art like he was a middle schooler,

"I just did. Besides, it's not like you were talking to her anyway, I did us both a favor."

Art knew he was being petulant but he couldn't himself — he didn't mind admiring you with Patrick, but sharing you was a whole 'nother thing. He wasn't ready to admit that the thought turned him on, and the attraction was still fresh enough that he was possessive. Maybe the doors would open once he knew he could get you.

"Yeah, well I was gonna."

"Ha!" Patrick barked out a cold laugh. "Like that'd get you anywhere."

"Fuck does that mean?" Art scoffed, glaring at his best friend and lamenting the luscious mop of overgrown dark curls brushing against his forehead.

Patrick tapped the underbrim of Art's red hat, which Art quickly readjusted,

"Look at you. You're dressed like a skinny white cuck. You don't even know what to do with all that." Patrick was growing more and more defensive and loud by the minute. He shook his head and glared off into the distance like he was thinking of just how he'd handle "all that," then continued. "She wants a big dog."

Art actually laughed — he genuinely doubled over laughing, and Patrick marched along while Art was cackling a few feet behind. He caught up to Patrick, red in the face,

"And you're a big dog? You're a rich white Jew from Rochester, New York."

Patrick smirked, like he knew something Art didn't — but when does he not know everything before Art has even gotten a hint? Or at least, he pretends to know everything. Art wasn't sure if it was too late to come out from under Patrick's wing, it's all he knew.

"Exactly," Patrick responded quietly.

Art, miffed but trying not to show it, switched the trajectory of the conversation and shook his head. He offered the first reality check ever since this little crush had formed,

"Don't sound too sure of yourself. I don't think either of us are her type."

"C'mon Art, don't be racist. You think she only likes black guys?"

Art was ruffled— he retorted,

"I didn't say that!"

"Whatever, I got her Myspace. I'll give it to you so you can stalk her but don't actually follow her like a creep. You're welcome, dumbass. You can thank me for bringing you a step forward from jerking your tiny little dick while you think of her alone in your dorm room."

How the fuck did he get her Myspace?

| | |

Patrick was back again by next week, fooling around on the computer while Art laid back on his bed and bounced a tennis ball against the ceiling.

"Oh shit," Patrick muttered to himself, a toothpick wiggling in the corner of his mouth. Art perked up, sitting up on his elbows.

"What?"

"Come look," Patrick waved Art over.

On the computer screen was your Myspace, which you just updated few minutes ago.

[ YN ] Can't wait to hit up Nebula later tonight!

"What's Nebula?" Art asked, his voice quiet and curious as he squinted at the glowing screen.

Patrick wordlessly pulled up another tab and typed up Nebula. It was a club a few miles north of campus. It had no description but a bunch of pictures. It was different from what they were used to — frat parties consisting of fist bumping and neon necklaces, a sea of white crashed against the floor and someone shotgunning a can of Budweiser. Instead, they're looking at photos of a nightclub with flashy lights and graffiti decor, and not a single hint of white — at least, not in any of the pictures. But it looks busy, and as far as they can tell, it actually looks fun.

Patrick and Art scanned the page of images meticulously, it was like their brains were reconfiguring. After some time, they both speak at once:

"Should we go?"

"We're fucking going."

The boys spent the next few hours getting ready. Or at least, Art did. Patrick didn't have a change of clothes, so he was going as he was — untucked Ralph polo, khaki shorts and all. Art on the other hand, showered and rotated through multiple outfits. By his third shirt, Patrick was fatigued,

"What are you doing?"

Art held up a white t-shirt to the mirror and angled it against his body,

"I don't wanna show up looking like an asshole. Look at you, what are you wearing?"

"There's nothing wrong with it," Patrick griped, though he did a double take at himself behind Art in the mirror.

"Did you not see how everyone was dressed in the pictures? We're gonna look like idiots if we show up like a bunch of tennis douchebags," Art retorted, finally deciding on a white shirt and ripped blue jeans.

"We are tennis douchebags," Patrick said to himself. "Got a pair of black jeans I can wear?"

Art smirked wordlessly, throwing a pair over to Patrick.

The club is packed, to say the least. But it's huge. The bouncer took a long, hard look at the two boys before graciously deciding to let them in. They did look painfully out of place — the club seemed not to have a white person in sight for miles. They were tokens here, not oblivious to the curious looks and outright glares. Chingy's Right Thurr was blasting from the club speakers, booming over the sound of Air Force 1s and chunky heels scuffling across the floor. Art and Patrick stood in the front, taking in the view of the dance floor like a pair of birds overlooking the sea from the shore.

"What if she's not even here?" Art muttered.

"She's here dude, trust me. No way she's staying in on a Friday night after exams and this is clearly the place to go," Patrick shouted over the music. The two silently scanned over the crowd, desperate to pick her out in a sea of people. Then, Patrick laid eyes on her. He jabbed Art's side, who immediately snapped his vision to focus on you, so far away on the dance floor, unaware of their presence.

You were in a tight-fitting short pink dress that hugged every inch of your body — it seemed like it was made for you. Your tits sat pretty and your ass jiggled with even the slightest move. Your brown skin glinted under the flashing lights, and reflections shimmered off of your golden bracelets. You were with a group of friends, laughing and rolling your body to the beat, hips swaying with the motion of water. Patrick and Art were absolutely stuck, staring at you with dry mouths.

"Fuck," Art mouthed, and Patrick found his lips pulled beneath his teeth.

You didn't have a care in the world. You weren't drunk, but you had a few drinks in you and the bass was thudding against your eardrums just right. And you knew you looked good. Everything felt right — but the last thing you expected to see when you turned your head was two white boys, especially not two white boys who you knew. They seemed to realize that they were caught once you made eye contact with them, squinting at first in confusion.

Then, you saw it, the lustful look in both of their eyes. Patrick was unabashedly checking you out — you were sure he was doing it before, but now it was like he wanted you to know. And Art had this look in his eyes, so deep and watchful that you could tell he was simply drinking you in. Arms tucked over his chest, his tongue swiping slowly over his lip.

You giggled, returning their gazes with a subtly flirtatious cock of your head, and a bemused grin. Patrick smiled and nodded, and Art cocked his head in unison with you. Like he was playing. And you liked this game. You turned to your friends for just a moment and quickly excused yourself, then turned back to face the two boys, glancing towards the bar.

You didn't wait for them, just started slowly sauntering over, knowing they would follow you.

Once you broke their gaze, they turned to each other, smirking. On the one hand, they knew they had an in. But they were challenging each other too, with a competitive spark in their eyes that said, "you wish."

They rushed over to the bar, practically skidding across the bar and even bumping into each other. They got there just seconds before you did, still catching their breaths by the time you got close enough. Before you could even open your mouth, both of them were panting. In unison, they spouted,

"Hey—"

"Hi."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

They glared at each other, and you laughed, shaking your head. They were practically brothers, the way they were so in sync with each other and seemed to bounce off of one another. It was fun analyzing their characters, and even more fun because they were trust fund babies without a care in the world, and you couldn't be any more different. But one thing was for certain — you could get anything from them.

"That's y'all's favorite question, isn't it?" you grinned up at them slowly, batting your lashes.

They both laughed weakly, not used to being called out so bluntly. They were so set on having you, but now that you were in front of them, it was clear you made the rules. The way you assessed them both silently, letting your eyes observe the both of them from head to toe, slowly but surely, they had no choice but to stand at your feet.

"How about this," you started, and they perked up like dogs, hanging on to your every word. "Whoever guesses my drink of choice can buy me a drink."

"Sex on the beach," Patrick blurted, mainly because he was thinking about sex.

"Vodka cran?" Art offered hesitantly.

You squint at them, shaking your head.

"Cognac, neat."

Patrick snorted, and you looked over at him with a curious grin. He explained himself,

"Sorry, it's just... that's dark liquor."

"Duh. I don't waste my money on watered down cocktails." A pause. "So...?"

They fought to get drinks, but ultimately, Art was the one who flagged the bartender down first. You told them that you should talk somewhere a bit more quiet, and led them to a couch beneath the stairs, where the music was slightly muffled. You knew that their eyes were on you as you were walking, you could tell by the way they went silent while behind you.

You sat between them on the couch, one leg over the other. Both their mouths went dry over the sight of your thigh pooling and expanding as you placed it on top of your other one. Your brown skin contrasted deliciously with the pink fabric of your dress.

You sipped your drink and leaned back just a bit against the couch. Basking in their intent eye contact.

"So," you smirked.

"So..." Patrick grinned at you, unafraid to show all his teeth.

You glance between the two of them,

"It's your first time here, isn't it?"

"Whaaat?" Patrick feigned offense, shaking his head and waving his hand. He sips his drink, leaning back just a bit to align his body more with yours. "Psshh, no, we come here all the time."

"Really?" you challenged him, and he just nodded silently with that fucking smirk on his face, his eyes boring into yours with an impish sparkle. "'Cuz I come here all the time, and I haven't seen you two before. Like, ever."

"Guess you weren't looking for us hard enough," in comes Art, quiet as ever but still so strikingly present — it's impossible to forget him, the way he sneaks up on you every time with some suggestive comment or smart remark.

You turned your head towards him now, your smile growing bigger by the minute, thoroughly enthralled by this delicious dialogue.

"Oh, I should be looking for you two?'' you raised your chin up, humored.

"Nah, but I mean... you might find something you like," Patrick replied, coolly as ever, never looking away from you even when you weren't looking at him. It was how you found yourself face to face with him when you turned your head away from Art.

"Yeah? And what's that?" you mastered your most innocent voice possible, rubbing your glossy lips together. Patrick's eyes lowered down to your lips, and he let them stay there for a while before he spoke again,

"You gonna let us find out what you like?"

No smirk this time, accompanied by unshaken eye contact. It got your heart jumping, but you played it cool, chuckling and sipping your drink,

"Y'all play too much."

"Who says we're playing?" Art interjected then, and you're met with a charming, slow-appearing smile.

“Messy. You usually have the same taste in girls?"

"I mean, yeah, we do," the boys glanced at each other and nodded good-naturedly as if assessing the question together before providing you with an answer. "But you're just... better," Art replied, and Patrick nodded.

"Better? Better how?"

"I mean... you're incredibly sexy," Patrick said as if it were self-explanatory.

"Yeah? Tell me more," you bared your teeth in a slick-mouthed smile, leaning your chin on your hand and blinking softly up at Patrick. You turned your head slowly when Art spoke.

"Your lips. They look soft," he licked his lips when you looked at him. It was like he was a completely different entity now, shrouded by the thick cloud of desire he had for you. His voice had dropped an octave lower and his lids seemed heavier. He took a sip of Cognac and leaned back just a tad.

"Got a pretty voice," you turned this time to Patrick, whose lips were turning up in a slow smile, his teeth glinting in the dark club.

"Beautiful eyes," now Art — you knew you had them right around your finger but they were proving to be more than you'd bargained for — you wondered how often they moved like this to a girl, together.

"Your body's absolutely insane," Patrick divulged.

"Personality takes the cake, too," Art chimes in.

By the time they'd finished, it felt like they were inches closer to you, encasing you in their body heat. And they had inched closer to you, the both of them cocking their head in your direction, studying your face. It all felt so practiced, yet natural. They knew just what they were doing, and that's why you didn't move a muscle. But you'd be lying if you said it didn't have an effect on you.

You didn't reply, you just sat back and slowly swallowed down the rest of your drink. All eyes were on you, the boys both leaning back against the couch and just admiring you. You set the glass down on the table in front of you and got up to stand, wiggling your dress down to readjust it.

"Let's dance."

That's how you found yourself sandwiched between Art and Patrick while a song by Miguel played. Your breaths, hot and smelling of liquor, floated against each other, bodies pressed into yours. Patrick was behind you with his hands on your waist, towering over you and looking down at you in awe. He kept it respectful, but you could feel him against your ass, poking through his ripped black jeans. Art was in front of you, your arms around his neck, just inches of space between all of you. The club was dark bar for a strobe light rotating across your faces periodically, so you could hardly see the desire in their eyes, but you could feel it. You swayed your hips to the rhythm of the song and let your head fall back against Patrick's shoulder, swaying your whole body now. Art was pressed into you, his face dipping into your neck. He nearly whimpered— you smelled like caramelized vanilla and a hint of coconut oil. He imagined you lathering your damp body in creams and oils after getting out of the shower, and had to fight an erection from forming directly against you. Meanwhile, Patrick was already half-hard.

All they felt was bliss — Patrick had more of a sense of certainty that the night would end up somewhat like this, but Art doubted they'd even be able to find you. You could sense the way they held back, waiting for you to shut it down or take it an inch further. You paused when you felt your cellphone vibrate in your purse. You pulled away gracefully from Art and Patrick, who stood there dumbly waiting for you to pull them back in. You grinned when you read the text from your friends, who knew of your whereabouts, telling you to pull up to Alicia's apartment for afters, and "bring your little white boys."

You let the boys usher you out of the club, Art with his hand on your waist trailing behind you, and Patrick taking your hand as he pushed through the crowd and out the door.

"You smell amazing," Art mentioned the minute the fresh air hit you, re-surging the scent that drove him near ballistic in the club.

You giggled at Art's sudden outburst, and the genuine admiration in his tone,

"Thank you, babe. Now, are y'all good to drive?"

| | |

Alicia's apartment was huge — her dad paid for everything, to say the least. The moment you walked in, Alicia, Nessa and Tiana crowded around you, squealing and ooh-ing and aah-ing over Patrick and Art.

"This your lil shit right here? Go head, then YN," Tiana stuck her tongue out raucously and you shook your head, laughing.

Before you knew it, you were pouring shots of Hennessy down each other's throats, playing a vicious game of Uno, and blasting Me & U by Cassie. Art and Patrick had some settling in to do at first, since they weren't used to being around mostly black girls — the most fun they knew how to have at parties was fist-bumping to dubstep. But they fit right in, and your friends had no trouble making them feel welcome. As the night went on, you lost some of that mysterious enigma, but it didn't make them want you any less.

Art nearly melted beneath you when you stood up above him and poured Ciroc down his throat, holding his chin up with your fresh French tips. Patrick was next, putting on a brave face, unwavering against the screeches and pointing from your friends. He made sure to keep eye contact with you, swallowing boisterously with an "ahh!" sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You grinned and took a swig yourself, then ran to your friends to dance with them, swaying your hips and shaking your ass in a way they hadn't seen just yet. It was like they weren't even there, it was just about you and your friends now.

"Fuck, man," Patrick blinked slow, standing beside Art just feet away from you.

Art ran his hands through his hair, in disbelief at the way your ass moved in your dress,

"I'm gonna be honest, Pat. I don't think either of us could handle that."

For the first time, Patrick nodded, wordlessly agreeing.

It didn't take long for your friends to disperse about the apartment, most of them heading out to the balcony to smoke. You decided to stay behind inside ("For your guests, right?" Nessa had snickered, smirking over at Art and Patrick).

"Are you bored to death yet? You're the only two dudes here," you sauntered over to the two boys, who were leaning against the kitchen counter. All three of you were just a bit more than tipsy, eyes bleared over and heat fanned against your cheeks, drifting about in that pleasantly warm dreamscape.

"Bored? You just baby birded both of us with Ciroc," Art guffawed, and you cocked your head to the side, looking up at him with those low, drunk eyes,

"Yeah, you want more?"

"I want whatever you have to give me," Art replied with quickness, simply entranced by your eyes and that sweet voice. You chuckled, shaking your head.

A smattering of shrieking sounded from outside on the balcony. You scoffed, swiping a joint that Alicia had rolled from off the kitchen table. You started walking down the hall, back faced to them as you said,

"They're so loud. Let's go somewhere quieter."

Art and Patrick both gave each other a glance— they weren't sure if the night would ever actually come to this, but still they didn't quite know what to expect. All they knew was that whether or not either of them could "pull" you, you were the one in charge. Your hips swung more freely from side to side as you walked loosened by the Henny and Ciroc concoctions of the night. Art and Patrick's eyes were like pendulums following your hips.

You turned into the guest bedroom, plopping down onto the bed.

"Close the door," you gestured to Art. Heart pounding, he closed it behind him.

Art and Patrick stood stupidly in front of you. You shook your head at them, laughing quietly,

"Are y'all gonna sit?"

They might as well have tripped over themselves zooming to sit next to you on the bed, one on either side of you. You had the whole world in your hands. It was silent bar for the muffled R&B music from outside. For boys who were so flirtatious, they were awfully quiet now. You shifted to place your legs underneath you, sitting on your knees, your dress riding up your thighs just so. If they looked behind you, they'd see your ass poking out a bit too.

"So. Who's idea was it, hmm?" you hummed. "I mean, you must've wanted to come find me. I'm impressed."

You lit the joint, pressing it to your lips.

"Saw your Myspace post. Thought we'd keep you company," Patrick admitted, coolly as ever, though you saw the bulge forming in his jeans, saw the way his eyes drifted down to your lips around the joint.

You tossed your head back to exhale, giggling up at the ceiling and covering your mouth with your hand.

"You thought you'd keep me company. Y'all are too good."

You passed the joint over to Art, who took a drag and exhaled while keeping it perched in the corner of his mouth, voice half-muffled as he continued,

"We just wanted to make sure you weren't lonely, that's all."

"Yeah," Patrick took the joint from Art, doing the same. "Since you don't have a boyfriend or anything."

This time, Patrick lifted the joint up to your lips for you. You leaned into it, slowly wrapping your lips around it and sucking for just a second longer than you usually would, never breaking eye contact while Patrick's smirk grew wider and wider with each passing second. You blew the smoke out and it fanned against his face.

"And how would you two know if I don't have a boyfriend?"

Art sniffed, humored, as you passed the joint to him. It was starting to hit now — a haze rose up just so slightly in the air. You relaxed into it, feeling emboldened.

"Don't think we'd be here if you did," Art shot back.

You snaked forward, taking the joint from Art's lips and putting it to your own. He let out a sharp breath at the casual dominance such an action exuded. Your face was just inches away from his— you didn't know if it was the weed, or how turned on you were after exercising the utmost self-control for the better part of the night, but you noticed that his eyes had such a gleaming strike of blue in them.

"Think you got me, is that it?" you questioned, so close to Art that if you inched any further, your nose would brush against his. He swallowed, unsure of whether he should be turned on or scared, but either way, his pants were getting tighter. Your voice was so tantalizingly quiet as if you were sharing a secret just for him and Patrick. You huffed out a humored breath. "I'm not gonna fuck you, you know."

The way you were looking at him begged to differ. You felt the strap of your dress slide down ever so gently over your left shoulder. Before you could push it up, Patrick's hand, strong and firm, was grazing against your shoulder, pushing your dress strap up. You let your gaze on Art linger for just a moment longer before you turned to Patrick, smirking. You handed him the joint, which had gone out. He placed it on the bed beside him. You were leaning in, an unmistakably seductive twinkle in your eyes as you got even closer to Patrick, murmuring under your breath,

"'M not gonna fuck you either."

“Not gonna fuck me?” Patrick smirked, looking from your hazey eyes to your lips. You pressed your lips into his, letting your eyes flutter closed as you hummed your response into his mouth,

“Mm-mm.”

A slight breath escaped Patrick, keeping his mouth open so you could slip your tongue against his. Patrick kissed you hard and slow, his hands immediately wrapping around your back as you lifted your leg over his lap and straddled him. You could feel how much he’d been wanting this by the way his tongue curved effortlessly against yours and his grip on your hips got stronger. He kissed the way he talked. Rough and hard, but with effortless ease, like he knew exactly what you liked. Maybe it was his confidence that made the kiss so good, his lips locked in perfectly with yours. You reached behind, pulling Art in as you simultaneously pushed Patrick down so his back was against the mattress. 

You pulled away from Patrick and in one fluid motion turned your head to kiss him, letting your hand wrap against his neck and run up through his hair. Patrick, who was watching from the pillow, groaned and let his head fall against the pillow. Art kissed you needily, but gentler than Patrick. He kissed you like he was parched and your lips were a fountain of water found in a barren land— like he needed to explore more. As you kissed Art, you felt Patrick’s hands kneading your ass, and you moaned — which made them both moan. It took everything in Patrick not to just lift your dress over your ass. But you must have been reading his mind because you wiggled your dress over your ass so it was finally exposed. 

“That’s it,” Patrick groaned in approval, his hands finding new purchase against your bare skin, squeezing your ass with a tender grip.

Your kiss with Art grew sloppier, spit threatening to spill out from the side of your mouth as Art pressed himself against you. You let your hand wander down to his black jeans and gripped the hard bulge that was poking out, running your hand up and down it. Patrick, not one to be left behind, took the liberty of lifting your dress a little higher so he could see the black, lacy panties you wore. He let out a low whistle, his firm on your hips grew firmer, keeping them in place as he ground his up into you, rolling up directly against your clit through your underwear. You gasped when you felt how big Patrick was, pulling away from Art to look down at the sight of Patrick’s hips snapping slowly into you. 

“Fuck,” you moaned, tilting your head gently to the side so Art could press his lips against your neck. 

Patrick chuckled, but he was unable to hold back the groan that lodged in his throat. He could feel your clit pulsing through your underwear. 

“Take it off, baby,” you gestured down to Art, who scrambled to take your dress off, throwing it carelessly to the side once it was over your head. Both the boys nearly busted on the spot, because instead of being greeted with a black, lacy bra, your tits simply tumbled out of your dress, perfectly plump and brown and sitting pretty. 

“Oh my god,” Patrick groaned at the sight of your tits above him. He sat up immediately, attaching his mouth immediately to your tits. Art, a whimpering mess by this point, followed quickly, his lips wrapping around your stiff, brown nipple. They both sucked on your tits lasciviously, reserving one for each of them. The lewd sounds of their tongues sucking your plush skin as their hands fondled and squeezed you filled the room. Art was gentle, shifting from reaching a hand underneath your tit and cupping you softly to circling a gentle finger around your nipple. Patrick was more direct, grabbing you with closed hands. 

If you weren’t so turned on, you would honestly giggle at the sight— these two boys who’d been fiending for you for so long, showing you just how long they’d been waiting for this very thing. It was a wonder — the school’s prestigious tennis players who attended every frat party and had enough money to be set for life (Patrick at least), reduced to a melting puddle beneath you. At your beck and call, your mercy, even as the grind of Patrick’s dick against your clit made you soak through the panties. 

You looked down at them with a cunning smile playing on your lips, cupping both their chins softly,

“You’ve been wanting this real bad, haven’t you?”

Two pairs of needy, blissed-out eyes looked up at you immediately, their heads nodding insistently as they moaned around your nipples. You chuckled, your laugh ringing like bells in their ears. You tasted so divine and they hadn’t even tasted you where it really counts. Art decides he wants to get a head start. You felt his hand, his fingers long and spindly, travel down your body, past your soft stomach and down your thigh, until it looped back up to the waistband of your panties. He toyed with the waistband of your panties, pulling at the stretchy fabric until he let it snap against your waist. 

He pulled away, his lips warm and wet against your ear as he whispered,

“Can I?” 

You bit down on your lip and nodded, gazing at him as he let his hand travel back down until it crept into your panties, never breaking eye contact even as he dipped two fingers against your soaked slit. You trembled at his touch and he smirked, cocking his head gently as he brought his fingers to his lips, tasting you on his fingers.

“She tastes so good, Pat, you gotta try,” Art said, leaning down — Patrick, dazed, lifted his head and looked up at Art with glazed-over eyes.

You watched, rendered speechless for the first time that night as Art dipped his fingers back just slightly against you again, and placed them at Patrick’s wanting lips. Patrick sucked the taste of you off Art’s fingers like it was nothing, like he’d done it before and would do it a thousand times more. The sight of him, lifting his head up to meet Art’s fingers, made you stir above him. 

“Fuck, she’s perfect,” Patrick practically moaned, his lips hovering at Art’s fingers. He wasn’t even looking at you, still holding Art’s gaze as he dipped his hand into your panties and prodded at your slit, the pad of his finger tapping against all the arousal that’s gathered there, making wet sounds like fat raindrops collecting in a puddle. “She’s so wet already, shit.” He held Art’s gaze for a moment longer before he turned to you. 

“Can we taste you?” Art asked, his voice soft and lilted. 

You lifted yourself off of Patrick’s lap and kneeled between the two of them, taking their shirts off one by one. Art went to take off his cap, You embraced Art in a kiss first, then Patrick, until it was lost on you which was which— it was all a blur, mouths sloppily entangled and meeting in the middle, kissing each other all at once and you were certain Art and Patrick’s lips met more than a few times. Somewhere in the middle, they had pushed you back against the mattress. You whined as their lips suctioned against your body, down down down until they stopped between your thighs.

You couldn’t see whose lips were on you first, but you were sure it was Patrick, the way he dove right in without hesitation and started sucking expertly at your clit. You cried out, your back arching slightly off the bed at the sudden jolt of pleasure from the contact. You saw Patrick’s tuft of black curls right in between your thighs, and Art’s golden-orange locks just beside him, placing chaste kisses on your inner thighs, his hand massaging the plush skin there too. 

Patrick moaned from in between your legs, sending vibrations through your core and up your chest. You relaxed into his touch, pushing his head in and burying your fingers in his curls. He made sure to drag his tongue along every inch of you, pointing it into your slit and thrusting it into you, and flattening his whole tongue against you as he gave kitten licks to your pussy.

His grecian nose poked deliciously against your clit and he used it to his advantage, bobbing his head up and down each time you moaned at the point of contact. He sucked your clit gently with his lips, toyed at your slit with his finger and glanced up at you to gauge your reaction. The moan that fell from your lips as you locked eyes with him from between your legs was almost pornographic, and enough for him to slide one thick finger inside of you. 

You were writhing above him and Art, moaning ever so softly. Your tits were splayed perfectly against your chest and your face was constantly contorted in the sweetest expressions. They’d both imagined you like this, mouth open and eyes rolling back into your head, trapped in bliss. Then another finger, fucking into you deep and slow as he continued lapping up all your arousal, all while Art kissed your thighs with increasing hunger, his once soft kisses becoming wet and crazed. 

“Fuck,” Patrick pulled away, his mouth and chin glistening wet with spit and your arousal. “Art, taste her pussy. Want you to feel what I did to her.”

Art whimpered and assumed position immediately. 

“Wait,” you said, shifting and turning yourself around so you were on your knees, your pussy pulsing right in front of Art’s face while Patrick pulled down his shorts and boxers, wrapping a hand around his shaft and starting to tug slowly, groaning under his breath. Meanwhile, Art’s eyebrows rose up so far he thought they’d get stuck there, his mouth dropping slightly at the sight of your pussy throbbing around nothing, your folds dripping with a mixture of your own arousal and Patrick’s spit. 

You placed your head on the pillow, craning your neck to look back at the two boys. You liked the juxtaposition that was happening — the two of them in full control of your pleasure, while you were granting them the only thing they’d been thinking of for weeks now.

“Oh fuck,” Art whispered to himself, and Patrick chuckled darkly, squeezing the base of his cock. 

You wouldn’t admit it, but their faces in this moment were seared in your mind permanently – Art’s gaze of pure amazement, and Patrick’s wicked smirk snaking across his entire face, glaring down at your pussy. It was enough to make a shiver run down your spine, how readily they consumed you — the feeling of being wanted wasn’t new to you, but with them, it was just… different.  

“Her pussy looks so pretty after it’s been ate, doesn’t it?” Patrick noted to Art, who nodded with a broken whimper before shoving his face into your pussy, his button nose dancing against your clit as he put his tongue to work. 

“Fuck,” you moaned, your head dropping down against the pillow. Art might have been gentler, but that did not mean worse by any means.

If anything, he was passionate, noting every slight movement and sound you made and following in your stead. His tongue lappd against your clit, pleasure climbing up your spine. The new angle had you struggling to keep your legs up, but Patrick was sure to keep you in check.

“This is what you wanted right?” he proclaimed, one hand on your thigh to hold you steady, the other still stroking his cock, a bit faster now. A guttural moan surged from your throat as you nodded weakly. “Yeah? So take it. Take Art’s tongue in your pussy, fuck.”

Patrick looked down, his mouth hanging open as he watched the way Art slurped away. He detached his lips only to slide a finger in, kissing you gently as he fucked his finger into you, slow and deep and relishing the way you stretched over his finger. 

“So fucking warm,” he muttered, talking to your pussy like you and him were the only two in the room. He slipped another finger inside you, which made you cry out, pussy throbbing around his fingers. “There you go, squeeze my fingers.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, delirious. Art was rutting against the bed now, chasing his high along with you, and Patrick’s hand was working overtime on his cock, spreaidng the precum leaking from his tip along the shaft. His hand reached up to smack your ass, groaning at the way it reveberated beneath his touch. 

“You’re so fucking hot, oh my god.”

Inadvertently, you started to catch the rhythm of Art’s fingers, throwing your hips back against his fingers and his face. The sight of your ass practically covering Art’s face was almost too much for Patrick to handle — he actually glanced away for a second, hoping he could hold off on his swift-approaching orgasm. 

“Yeah, fuck back onto my face, I want you to use me,” Art moaned, muffled by your thighs wrapped around his head. 

You weren’t sure when it all happened, you just knew that you were moaning both their names as you’re sent over the edge, Patrick and Art deftly following — Patrick in his hands, Art in his jeans, hips stuttering against the bed. You squeezed around Art's fingers as you dripped down onto the bed, soaking Art's tongue and chin. It took a while for all of you to gain some semblance of reality, pushing past the haze of pleasure and smoke and bitter alcohol that you were floating in. 

“Did you come in your jeans?” Patrick’s voice cut through the foggy silence, and Art slapped his chest. 

“Shut up, look what you did to the sheets.”

You were lying on your back, gazing up at the two boys with a sated grin, resting your hands on your stomach. 

“Aren’t you glad we found you?” Patrick teased. 

You didn’t have to answer, he already knew.

i think i’m gonna have a part two for this you guys have no idea how much i was debating whether or not they should fuck in this but i feel like reader is the type to make them wait…  plus it would've actually been a novel if i added that and i wanted to get this out cuz i don't wanna keep y'all waiting!! so when they fuck they'll fuck NYASTY.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hi Nicholas, hope you're keeping well and having a good week! I have a question about trousers that I was hoping either you or one of your wonderful followers might be able to shed some light on.

I'm a fairly thick-thighed trans masc and am perpetually wearing holes in my trousers at the top of the inner thighs. I know that's a problem for a lot of people, but I was wondering if it's an issue that's exacerbated by lower quality fabrics or is just a fact of thick-thighed life.

The reason I thought of you was because I was thinking about how vintage clothing is often higher quality than today's fast fashion, and wondered if vintage trousers stand up to this kind of wear and tear a bit better. Or is it a matter of fit?

I also wondered if you or any of your followers know if there are any sewing/construction techniques that could help make trousers that are less prone to this issue. I've heard a lot of ways to repair the holes that appear, but no suggestions on how to make trousers that aren't going to be as at risk of getting those holes in the first place.

Thanks for your time, and for being such a (remarkably handsome!) inspiration 💖

Hello and thank you! I am going to throw this question up for other folks to weigh in on.

In my experience, lower quality fabrics, like those with spandex in the mix, contribute greatly to how quickly clothing wears out. Most modern jeans, for example, are anywhere from 2% or more spandex. And even that 2% does a LOT to ruin the longevity of a garment.

There are repair/reinforcement methods, such as patching and sashiko, but again, leaving that open to folks experienced with them on how well they actually extend the garment's lifespan wrt this kind of wear.

Also, folks feel free to drop brand and other recommendations. Let's say both jeans and trousers, ideally masc style. Thanks, gang!

[fibernati]

The crochet hook case is finally here!!!

This is my very first crochet project. I made it using two different yarns: Barroco nº 4 (the grey one) and Duna (the green one), both by a Brazilian brand called Círculo. Using the 3.0mm hook. And, it took me about 3~4 days to finish. [you can find the project diary here and here]

At the end of the project, I gave up on making two more pockets and made just one. The one without a closure. The fourth one was supposed to go above the bigger pocket, but I thought it wasn't necessary because I don't have that many things to store.

I sewed the hook holder based on the size of my hooks, but they hadn't arrived yet when I crocheted this part, so I ended up following the original measurement and then I regretted it, because as you can see below, there's a piece left over that's no use, it's simply a raised flap. Besides, if you look at the photo above, you'll see that I sewed it on crooked. Everything here is crooked, that okay.

I also gave up on making a pendant for the drawstring because I wanted a flower and I couldn't make one. I asked my mom, and she couldn't make the flower either, so in the end I said let it go, let's keep it simple and it's useful, it achieves the purpose to close the case so I'm fine with that.

Here you can see the things I wish I had done differently. The leftover tab, and the buttons.

These buttons were made from improvisation, because I still don't understand the concept of the magic circle, and they turned out okay, but I sewed them on in a way that, after a few days of closing and opening, made me realize that at some point they will fall off.

So, I'm going to need new bottons and honestly, I can just buy them?? I wish I had thought about it before.

Basically, this is my first project and I hope to use this case for a long time. Now, let's talk about the feelings about make it, the expectations, the frustations and also the tips and cumpliments!!!

Just showing you what I'm storing in each pocket. That one without closure it's empty for now.

As I said before, I started out thinking I was going to follow a tutorial, but I let the project take me and did what I thought would be best for my personal use and to match my personality.

It was a fun project to do, but I'm also very aware of what I would have liked to have done and what I actually did. Not that they are VERY far apart, but learning to crochet for just one week (two now!), I did the best I could with what I had and it's better than not having made anything at all.

During the whole process, the thing that bothered me most was that it turned out crooked. Everything was simply crooked and I didn't know how to fix it, I redid it and it was still crooked, so I gave up and left it crooked.

One tip I was given was to use stitch markers at the beginning and/or end of each row, because that would help me get everything straight. And I'm definitely going to use that for my next project. They also gave me color suggestions and a tutorial on how to make an easy flower. I'm going to try again, but I need to buy the suggested colors before I do that!!!

My friends encouraged me a lot while I was doing it, and every time I said it was crooked, they lied to me. Which was really nice of them, because I have ADHD and I don't know how to deal with frustration, so there were times when I wanted to give up because it didn't look the way it should be in my head.

The people who know how to crochet and have seen this case, both here on Tumblr or in real life, have been lovely to me. They know it has flaws and I know they know it has flaws, but the messages were all saying that yes, it's a bit wonky, but that with practice, I'll be able to make better things and even if it's not perfect now, I've done a good job and shouldn't be hard on myself!

It's cute, it's useful, it's my favorite colors and they match with me, so, yes I'm very proud of my crooked hook case. 10/10 🎉✨

[sexyandcringe]

Hopeless romantic

Part 2 ◇ Part 3 ◇ Part 4

Warnings: none, osamu feeling inferior to tsumu :(

Content: osamu x reader, Angst (to fluff in the next chapters), hurt/comfort

A/n: Osamu's POV! I swear i'm gonna continue the story-line in the next chap.!

All of his childhood, Osamu felt like he was divided in half because of his brother: half food, half clothes, and half affection from their parents. It was almost like people didn’t see him as his own person. To the world, they were “The Twins”, never just “Osamu” and just “Atsumu”.

Time changed, things changed, they each started to become their own person, dreaming of different futures and places to go to.

Osamu always felt like he was the shadow to the light named Miya Atsumu, but he loved him dearly, so much that even today he half-expects to find Atsumu tangled up beneath the sheets of their childhood bunker bed, only to be greeted by the disappointing sight of his mirror, where his reflection gets blurred with the lines of his twin brother.

Osamu loved Atsumu but he didn’t want to hurt people like Atsumu often did; he told his brother that he was never going to become like him, so he became a little less selfish, less stubborn and less greedy.

With you, though, he is greedy. And he wants all of you.

He wants to hold you while you two watch some stupid anime called Haikyuu that you’re obsessed with, he wants to listen to you rambling about your day and your disdain for Alice, the insufferable colleague of yours; he wants to cook for you and feed you with his own hands and he wants to wait for you in your shared bed.

Osamu didn’t want a lot of things in his life, except his restaurant and his family, but since the day he saw you walk in with wet hair and drenched clothes, he started to want a lot more than he could afford, from the most mundane acts of waking up together to the intimacy of making love to you.

He is patient though, he lets your relationship grow steadily.

He thought that he would be happy with the leftover crumbles of affection that you gave him, but when you stopped coming to his shop, Osamu lost it completely. 

He was waiting for you around 7 PM like every Friday, he was feeling confident that day and wanted to suggest a casual outing to the neighbouring town's food fair.

(Nothing like a date, just a friendly hang out, he told himself).

His resolve wavered when you didn’t show up, not for one, not for two, but for three weeks in a row. He thought of all the possibilities as to why you didn’t come for so long, and he tried his best not to imagine the worst-case scenario. That can’t be. Nope.

On the third Friday of your absence, Osamu was crumbling. He closed the shop earlier than usual and went straight into the supermarket to get his guilty pleasure: the Butter Cookies.

His grandma always used to get them for him and unlike many other children, he never found sewing tools or anything of the sort in the box; his grandma knew that that kind of disappointment would be far too great for a six-year-old, food-enthusiast ‘Samu.

Well, grandma, that kind of disappointment is too great for a twenty-six-year-old ‘Samu too, because the guy was nearly panicking when he couldn’t find the boxes of Butter Cookies at their usual place. 

He was positive, though, because even after searching everywhere and not finding them, he didn’t lose hope. They will be available in another grocery store for sure. He got his priority straight and redirected his steps to another store across the town.

Luckily for him, the store was still open for another hour and it didn’t take him long to finally see his comfort food, in all its glory, staring at him from the shelf in the second aisle.

He was just about to go and pay for his box when he caught a glimpse of your silhouette, halting him in his tracks and confirming that it was, in fact, you.

Concern etches across his features as he looks at your tired and empty eyes, wondering if you have been taking care of yourself. Did you eat enough? Sleep enough?

The desire to call out to you is strong, leaving him no time to think before he is already approaching you, “That one will go bad in like 2 days.”

You look like a deer caught in headlights, doe eyes staring at him in what he wants to believe is awe.  You smile timidly before saying: “Hi Osamu, long time no see.” 

Yeah, long time no see, indeed. Osamu wants to be mad at you for making him so worried, for not coming to his shop, for not letting him know if you were doing okay, but he is just the owner of a restaurant and you’re just a regular client.

At least, you used to be a regular client. He can’t force you to like his company or his shop, no matter how much he wishes it.

Despite this, he can’t stop the bitter remark that slips past his lips,“Yeah, because someone hasn’t been coming to my restaurant lately.” you visibly wince, though he can’t seem to care enough.

You stutter some poor excuse as he inspects the other vegetables in the aisle, handing you one with a clean surface that will last at least five days, per Osamu’s calculations.

His hands touch yours and it makes him blush like a middle schooler.

You both talk about nothing and everything and in between the mundane banter and playful jabs, Osamu finds himself agreeing to a cooking lesson at your apartment.

And he couldn’t be happier.

Reblogs are really appreciated!

Tags: @lees-chaotic-brain @writingsofanomnivore @pressuredtreasure @k4sumis0u

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HC's: Letters Home

A/n: I'm really rolling with these BofB headcanons! hope you enjoy :)

Characters included: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, David Webster, Joe Liebgott

Dick Winters

Writes frequent, short letters

Meticulously dates his letters and includes a blurb about the weather. January 12th, 1945. It’s snowing outside, dark and cold. 

Starts each letter with My dear y/n 

Always asks how you are, even though he’s the one fighting a damn war

Follows up on every little question or story you include in your letters. How was the bake sale? Did you ever hear how Louise Graham’s brother is doing after taking that shrapnel to the shoulder? Hope you were able to get someone out to look at the washing machine.

Ends his letters with classic but sentimental sign-offs, like Affectionately yours and All my love

Makes sure not to include anything in his letters that would worry you. Doesn’t necessarily lie or fake being happy, but just gently side steps that. 

Although every once in a while you get a longer letter where Dick’s handwriting is a little messier. You know it’s from writing fast, you can almost feel the pressure behind the penmarks. He opens up more in those letters, talks about losing too many good men and sometimes will say things that just absolutely break your heart, like sometimes I wonder how all of this is really going to end for the men who are over here fighting. 

Even in these letters, Dick never says “I” or “Me”, always writes about the men and the boys. You know - and so does he - that he’s including himself in those boys.

His next letter he always makes sure to reassure you. And it’s genuine, you can tell. He’ll say something like I have to put some of these heavier thoughts somewhere, and there’s nowhere I trust more than with you. 

When he comes home, you find a stack of letters you wrote to him tied up in a neat bundle and stashed in an inside pocket of his Ike jacket that he sewed in especially for that purpose. You could tell by the flimsy, near-ripped creases and dirty paper that he’d read each one about a hundred times over. Buried in the middle of the stack was the picture you’d given him before he’d left for training. On the back, he’d written simply your name, the date the photo was taken, and a short instruction: in event of my death, please send all personal effects to with your home address. It made you sob but you never told him you found it.

GIF by mads-weasley

Lewis Nixon

Rarely writes. Actually drives you crazy with worry most of the time.

When he finally does, you can tell that he’s initially annoyed at having to put his thoughts down on paper. Letters start off with short, sarcastic sentences like nothing new here. Still fighting the war, in case you hadn’t heard. Enjoying German hospitality. 

But as the letters go on he relaxes into it and stops being so grouchy. 

Because he’s always grumpy at having to write (you should probably thank Dick for cajoling Lew into actually sitting down to write to you), he usually doesn’t write any sort of introduction or sweet address, just dives right into it.

His letters usually don’t say much, he just kind of rambles about how much he hates being away from you and how he can’t wait for the whole damn thing to be over. 

Sometimes he’ll write something so incredibly romantic it takes your breath away, like I’d fight a whole division of Panzers myself if I could just get one more sniff of your perfume. 

Those are the letters you save and reread to yourself over and over again when you’re waiting weeks for the next one.

Always signs off with something kind of sassy but also sweet?, like You know I love you or Keep our bed warm for me. 

Sometimes you feel like you can smell whiskey on the paper, which both worries you but also reminds you of Lew

When he finally gets home and you ask him about what he did with your letters, he kind of looks at you like you’ve gone crazy and says I read them of course, what else was I supposed to do with them? 

This hurts your feelings at first which of course he doesn’t understand, but after a few weeks you start to realize that he actually did read them and not only that he memorized their contents. Like he refers to your mother as “the Wicked Witch of Wichita” (something you called here after you wrote him a long rambling letter about how angry she made you at your sister’s bridal shower) and buys you a bouquet of daffodils because you wrote him a letter with a daffodil doodle in the margins of the page talking about the spring gardens. 

You realize that Lew shows his love in the little details, and it makes you appreciate him all the more.

GIF by beautifulguycollector

Ronald Speirs

Ron’s letters read like military bulletins. 

Doing well despite the cold. 1st sgt sick with pneumonia. Think of you often.

Writes predictably once per week. Never misses a letter. Ever. 

You always write him long, lengthy, romantic letters. Sometimes even a little raunchy, if you’ve had some wine. After one particularly *ahem* suggestive letter, you feel ridiculous and say so the next time you write.

In typical Ron fashion, you get a short, to-the-point reply, but it still puts a smile on your face and a blush on your cheeks: Loved your letter. Keep writing. 

Towards the end of the war, Ron starts a countdown to when he expects to be coming home. Two months now, maybe less. Home for the Fourth of July. 

Also signs off with R.S. Which makes you laugh, as if you could forget who was writing to you.

Whenever your girlfriends find a letter from Ron (you keep them all in a shoebox in your closet), they tease you and ask how you can possibly be in love with someone so stiff and formal. To which you can only chuckle to yourself, because you know it’s just that they don’t understand that Ron doesn’t tell you he loves you, he shows you. Writing a letter every single week. Updating you on everything going on, even short updates, because he wants you to know how he’s doing. That’s Ronald Speirs’ love language.

Maybe three weeks before Ron comes home, you start getting boxes of (stolen?) German silver at your door. At first it freaks you out and makes you feel slimy for having lavish riches from an enemy country, so you don’t unpack the boxes and you just stack them up in the back bedroom. When Ron gets home and sees the boxes unopened and shut away, he immediately asks you what’s wrong. You stammer out an explanation and without blinking an eye, Ron loads them into his truck and takes them to the dump. 

(Later you convince him that a better use of those would be to donate them to the local orphanage, so off he goes in his truck to get the boxes back out of the dump and bring them to shelter.)

One night when you’re lying awake, head on Ron’s chest, talking idly about things that don’t matter, he interrupts you to ask Can you guess which letter I kept? 

You instantly blush, thinking of that risque letter you wrote him when you were halfway through your second bottle of white wine. He shakes his head and pulls a letter out of his nightstand and hands it to you. You don’t recognize it immediately, although you do see that it’s too short to be one of the naughtier correspondences. 

It’s too dark to read, so you ask him which letter. He says it’s the one you wrote to me for my birthday. 

You don’t remember that one and you tell him as much, so you ask him why he kept that one instead of some of the others. He looks down at you with a serious look in his eyes, a little surprised that you can’t figure it out. Then he tells you: it’s the first time you wrote that you loved me. 

The next day, you sneak a peek at the letter and realize he’s right. You signed it, I love you Ron. 

From then on, you make sure to tell him that every night before he falls asleep.

Carwood Lipton

Formal, sweet letters. This man is a king of romancing by words.

Writes as often as he can, but you know that Lip needs peace and quiet for an entire evening to get one of those letters done (he probably definitely writes a draft or two before he gets it right). And let’s face it, Easy Company doesn’t have the luxury of many quiet evenings. 

Always, always, always starts his letters off with Dear (future) Mrs. Lipton, which you honestly think is hopelessly corny but it’s way too adorable to tell him so. And besides, you secretly love it.

He always reminisces about home in his letters. Tells you how much he misses the smell of your baking, the squeak of the front porch swing that you two would sit on and watch the sunset. 

He worries a lot about you and his family. He always asks you to look in on his mother if it’s not too much trouble. 

Lip doesn’t talk much about the war, in fact he hardly acknowledges it at all. And he never uses the term ‘war’ or ‘battle’. Instead, he says things like The boys over here are still committed to doing the job or Easy presses on.  

Lip’s letters get a little shorter and less soft after Bastogne. He starts including the names of the casualties in his company in the P.S. Even though you don’t know these men except by name - and some of them, not even that - you feel honored that he trusts you with their memories. 

Lip has saved your letters and all the pictures you sent to him - he loves pictures, and asks for an updated one of you almost every month - tucked in his foot locker and safely between the pages of his Bible so they don’t get creased or dirty. 

You also find that he’s kept stacks of letters from some of his men that died in the field. When you ask him what he plans to do with the letters, he gets a heartbreaking, far-off look in his eyes and says I reckon I’ll try to get them back to their families. 

You take on the burden of doing that, and you write to some of the families introducing yourself and introducing Lip and offering to forward them the letters.

All the replies you get back mention that their soldier talked about how good a leader and friend Lip was. Their replies bring tears to your eyes. For some reason, you don’t show the letters to Lip, although you do tell him about them. He never asks to read the letters, he just kisses you on your forehead and tells you that he’s never loved you more. 

Even after he’s home, he’ll still write you a letter from time to time, usually at Christmastime or for your birthday in the summer. His letters are always talking about his favorite memories with you, and there’s always a paragraph at the end where he talks about how in love with you he is. It’s borderline poetry and it makes you cry every single time.

GIF by balladofthe101st

Buck Compton

Basically just writes a list of questions for you to answer in every letter.

Wants to know everything about what’s going on at home. Especially sports teams.

Doesn’t write frequently, so sometimes it’s hard to feel like there’s a conversation happening. 

But he always includes sweet little notes about how much he’s thinking of you and how he’s counting down the days until he can hold you again, so you’re not complaining. 

Not the most poetic writer. Always says what he thinks and feels though. Completely honest and open. 

Does not tell you anything about the war. Basically ignores the entire thing. 

Sometimes you think about asking him about that, but you figure that he’s not talking about it for a reason, so you follow suit.

Calls you baby in his letters. 

Doesn’t actually say ‘I love you’ in his letters, although says everything else. Miss you baby. Dream about you all the time. When I get home, I’m putting a ring on your finger. 

One time he writes that he woke up last night out of a dream and swore I could taste you and it makes your toes curl.

You save that letter, tuck it in your underwear drawer. 

Signs his letters very simply: Buck. Sometimes he’ll put something in like until next time or I’ll write soon. But usually nothing super romantic or sentimental.

Doesn’t save your letters, but that really doesn’t bother you too much because all you wrote in them was basically just rambling details that Buck requested about your boring day-to-day. 

Buck’s always better in person than in writing - he’s a quality time and physical touch kind of guy - but you know that your letters were his only lifeline to normal during the war, and you’re just happy to have him back at all. 

He does surprise you one night when it’s really quiet in the house and you’re sitting on the couch together, each reading a book. He suddenly turns to you and says You know baby girl, your letters saved my sanity over there. It’s the most he’s really ever said about the war, but it’s enough, and you kiss him so he knows that you get it.  

GIF by balladofthe101st

David Webster

Unsurprisingly, Web is probably the best letter writer in all of Easy Company. 

He helps a lot of the other guys write letters home, especially if they’re trying to say something important. Web just has a knack for words unlike any other. 

He writes a lot of letters home, not just to you, but to the rest of his family, his siblings, some of his friends, and definitely his professors. 

So because you’re close with Web’s family, you do get to read a lot of his writing. 

His letters to you are different though. They’re darker and a little less polished. Sometimes, they frighten you a little bit. Web talks about things you’re not you really understand - like how pointless death is, how empty it makes him feel to see his friends get KIA, how he carries around guilt about surviving this long like an anchor. 

Refers to you exclusively in his letters by your first name, his writing is always serious and somber and drenched with heavy emotions, so pet names just really don’t fit the vibe.

He quotes poetry and literature quite a bit when he writes. It all feels a bit Gothic, but you’ve always known that Web has found clarity in the world through books, so you don’t begrudge him a little poetic license.

Signs his letters Yours in perpetuity, David K. Webster. 

Asks you to send books. Sometimes he asks for something specific, but other times he’s happy to get whatever you pick out for him. Your tastes are different from his; you prefer to choose shorter, gentle pieces about life in the British countryside or Western adventure novels. Web would prefer Wadsworth or Hemingway, but he figures it’s probably in his best interests to read things that don’t tackle dark themes. You always tuck a letter for him into the first few pages. 

He doesn’t save your letters, per se, although he does save every single book you send to him. When he gets home, he puts them all up on the bookshelf in his office. Even though they’re beat up and stained and not at all fitting with the rest of his collection, they’re front and center. 

Sometimes he takes a stab at sketching in his letters. He’s not bad, either. You try to encourage him to take lessons when he gets home, which he never does. He secretly loves how much you love his drawings though.

GIF by yourspeirs

Joe Liebgott

KING OF DIRTY LETTERS

You definitely like to re-read his letters… again and again…

Not every letter is a dirty one. But most are. Or at least have a dirty section in them. 

You don’t know how this man makes you feel wanted from halfway around the world, but somehow he does. Lord knows you love a lot about your Joey, but you didn’t realize how good he was with words until you found yourself practically stalking the mailman, hoping for another delivery from Joe.

Uses a lot of pet names in his letters. Baby girl, Doll, Princess are some of his favorites. Literally never calls you by your name.

Always signs off with Your Joey. 

Even when Joe is clearly in a dark place, his letters are saturated with how much he needs you and how he can’t stop thinking about all the ways he’s going to have you when he gets home. 

When your mother finds one of Joey’s letters to you, she throws an absolute shit fit and freaks out that you’re sleeping with someone before you’re married. It takes a long time for you to convince her that you haven’t slept with Joey yet, you’re just… really into dirty talking.

She kinda chills after that but still looks at you suspiciously every time you get a letter from him.

She never tells your dad though, which makes you think maybe she’s more supportive of your relationship with him than you realized.

After working up the courage, you write Joe a letter that is so sinful you actually doubt whether you should send it in the mail, it just feels so wrong.

When I say this man goes crazy for that letter, it is an understatement. He is out of his mind and immediately writes you a reply telling you so. Basically begs you for more.

Even though your letters back and forth with Joe are pretty raunchy, there’s also a sweetness to them. He’s always sure to mention that This ain’t just all talk, Doll. When you’re Mrs. Liebgott, you’re gonna see exactly what I’ve been writing about. Which you know is still pretty dirty, but hey, he’s basically proposing to you, right?

You are not the least bit surprised to know that he kept your naughtiest letters when he finally gets home.

But, Joseph Liebgott is a man of his word, and even though he is clearly dying to and you’re practically begging him to, he doesn’t make good on all those dirty promises until after you’re wearing his ring.

Much to your delight, you find that he is just as good with actions as he is with words.

[rathenarts]

@vole-mon-amour very kindly asked me last week if I had any tips for keeping cross stitch neat. (Thank you so much for the kind words!) I've realised I could write an essay on what I consider to be the best cross stitch techniques, but since I have ADHD it will take me a ridiculously long time to write said essay and then I'll get stuck on trying to figure out the best software to draw stitch diagrams and it just won't get done at all. >_> So instead I offer this short illustrated version with some tips that I've personally found work well for me. My illustration samples are worked on binca so it's easy to see, but the principles are the same on any fabric. So, here we go:

~~~

- I always separate my floss strands one by one and then lay the number I need back together. Pulling out two or three at once and then sewing with them like that adds a bunch of twist and tangling that makes the stitches look bumpy.

- I stop and untwist my thread regularly to get rid of any excess twist.

- Further to the above, I make sure that if I'm using two strands as is usually the case for cross stitch, they lie parallel to each other in each stitch. This is easy to do by gently separating and steering the strands with the edge of your nail as you pull the stitch through. The picture below shows the difference it can make (I used two colours so it's easy to see) - parallel on the right, pulled through without separating on the left:

- I make sure the second stitch of each cross points the same way each time; and if there are any half stitches, I point them the same way as the second stitch of the crosses, not the first stitch. So, as in the above picture, I've worked the upper-left/lower-right diagonal first, then the lower-left/upper right diagonal second; any half stitches would also be lower-left/upper-right. This gives the finished piece a nice consistent sheen, as the light hits all the stitches at the same angle.

- I try never to overlap or split one stitch with another, and to make sure each stitch is in not just the correct hole, but its corresponding corner of each hole. See below - I try to make sure each hole looks like the centre hole of the version on the right, not the one on the left:

This can require a bit of careful poking with the needle to get each stitch to come out on the correct side of the ones already in a hole, but I find it worth the effort.

- I always work each stitch as a single entity - I never do the Danish style where you do a row of half crosses and then come back to complete it, because I don't like the effect it has on the tension to have all the stitches on the back pulling the same way. I prefer to have a fairly even mix of stitch directions on the back - down, across, and diagonal. This also frees me to think about exactly which way and in which order I'm going to place my stitches, which makes the next tip easier:

- Wherever possible, when I'm choosing which of the two possible holes to come up and go down through for a given diagonal stitch, I will come up through the hole with the least stitches already in it, and go down through the one with the most stitches already in it. This tucks the existing stitches down neatly as I complete the new one, instead of pulling them up. If I absolutely have to come up through a hole that already had the other three stitches in it, sometimes I'll poke the needle back in a little from the front when the stitch is finished, just to nudge everything back down.

~~~

I do have more thoughts than these, but I'd need more diagrams and illustrations to explain things like my preferred stitch order and working patterns; if people want to see those (and can recommend any software that's good for drawing stitch diagrams!) I would be happy to give it a go but it would take me a while longer. Thank you for reading and I hope something here is helpful to you!

[the-universal-sun]

Is it okay if we got something about Dr Mittens needing a fix? I'm sure Dr Lee could help!

I hope head canons are okay for this!

Thank you so much for your ask, and I’m so sorry it took so long to get to it! I hope you’re still here! I had a lot of fun writing these headcanons out, I loved your idea, anon! I hope you’re staying safe and warm this winter! Drink some hot tea or hot cocoa! I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

As always, I’m open to helpful comments and critiques

Sending all of you all the love in the world!

XX

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

-The incident that injured Dr Mittens was probably during one of Little Ford’s safe for kids experiments, maybe some safety scissors hot handled wrong or the plush got drenched in some “lava” from a baking soda volcano. Either way, Ford’s immediately wailing and calling for Stanley

-He’s inconsolable and feeling incredibly guilty, Dr Mittens, his precious Lab Partner, is injured and he feels like it’s his fault, he won’t accept otherwise. He should have been more careful about his friend, ensured proper lab safety! (He’s not thinking about the incident with Stan at all) He’s weepy and hiccuping, cradling Dr Mittens in his arms as he explains the state of the injury to Stanley through his blubbering

-Stan knows that a small tear or some baking soda lava isn’t enough for permanently ruin or mess up the toy, but Ford’s feeling some really Big Emotions right now, and it’s his job as Ford’s Caregiver and Buddy to help him through it. So he’ll have both himself and Ford suit up in gloves and masks before he attends to Dr Mittens with Ford as his Co-Doctor

-Stan wanted to cal him “Sous-Doctor” at first but Ford insisted that wasn’t right, but neither could think of the term to describe Ford’s position in this operation, so Co-Doctor it was

-If the cat plush is stained from baking soda Lava, Stan will gently wipe him off and take off the lab coat and sweater to be machine washed and will gently clean the toy with fabric soap and a wet washcloth, being careful, at Ford’s urging not to submerge the toy in water

-Ford towel dries him off will his special cat hoodie towel, whispering teary apologies and promises never to hurt him again all the while. Soft kisses are peppered on the cats face, too

-If it’s a small tear of some sort, Stan let’s Ford hold Dr Mittens’ hand as be gently stuff and stuffing that fell out, after some general “anesthesia” first, just a mask over the plush cats face, and tries his best to steadily sew the tear back up

-The thread isn’t the color of Dr Mittens’ fur, which upsets Ford but Stan just insists it’s his scar, and every cool cat has one. Ford warms up to the idea because both him and his Buddy have scars, and they’re both super cool cats. Dr Mittens is just matchy matchy with them

-The “incision” gets thoroughly wrapped, Stan lets Ford do that while he holds him, and several kisses before Stan deems Dr Mittens’ surgery to be over and the plush to be on a steady road to recovery. He gives Ford instructions of how to care for Dr Mittens (no bathes or sharp objects around the toy for the foreseeable future) and orders Ford to give his friend 10 kisses a day to help the recovery

-His payment is a week of cuddles and no arguing during nap time. It’s a steep price, but this was a major operation here and Stan’s not running a charity

-Ford begrudgingly agrees, grateful for his Buddy’s help with fixing Dr Mittens, he only groans and whines a little when it comes to nap time for the next week. But no promises afterwards

-Ford does get lectured about lab safety from Stan, ironically, about how he should make sure both him and Dr Mittens are far enough away from any explosions that may happen, no matter if the chemicals aren’t deadly, and no more use of sharp objects with Stan’s supervision

-Ford wants to argue about that last one, but seeing the bandage around his Lab Partner’s arm or the still drying fur makes him agree, not wanting a repeat incident

-Stan knows Ford needs some comfort after this, so he burritos him in his weighted blanket and sits him in his lap, in Ford’s napping tent, rocking him and humming a scratchy tune to calm his Little Buddy’s anxieties about this. It works somewhat, Ford’s breathing and heart slowing down. He’ll still be upset for the rest of the day, but Stan’s glad he’s not crying

-During this, Ford will whisper “Thank you, Buddy” to Stan every 10 minutes or so, just so he knows how grateful he is. Stan whispers back “Of course, Bud” every time, not once getting annoyed from the repetition, he knows repeating stuff helps Ford calm down

-Ford doesn’t go anywhere without Dr Mittens in his grasp for the next week, when he’s feeling Big, too, to keep an eye on his Lab Partner and make sure he doesn’t get hurt again. Nobody says anything about it, they know he needs this

-Every experiment from now on has Dr Mittens observing notes at least 20 feet away and sometimes from another room, Ford isn’t going to have another incident on his hands. No siree

[arc852]

A Sewn Surprise

Summary: Grian and Joel try to teach themselves how to sew, in order to surprise Jimmy with some new clothes. But it isn't going well.

Word Count: 1716

AO3 Link

Yay! A new fic! I'm sorry it's been a couple of weeks but I'm finally writing again, so hopefully there will be more fics posted soon. Oh, and this is my first time writing Cleo, so hopefully she is in character!

I hope you guys enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 “Ow!”

 Grian looked over just in time to see Joel stick his finger in his mouth, a frustrated look on his face. “You okay?” Grian asked, though he was only half asking about the prick Joel got.

 “No, I’m not okay. This is stupid! What were we even thinking?” Joel put his head in his hands and let out a deep, frustrated sigh.

 “We were thinking it would be nice to make Jimmy some new clothes.” Grian said and then let out his own sigh, more defeated than frustrated. “But you’re right, this is going nowhere.”

 They had been at it for three days now, trying to learn and sew Jimmy some new clothes. Ever since he had moved in fully, it was easier to notice the fact that Jimmy only had two outfits. One regular and one specifically made for borrowing, apparently. Though, since Jimmy didn’t borrow anymore, he wore the other pair of clothes more often.

 Still though, only having two pairs of clothes was…kind of sad. It was impressive, for sure, that Jimmy had made the clothes himself but when they had asked him why he hadn’t made more, Jimmy had said he hadn’t had enough supplies. But then continued and reassured them he didn’t need much more than that anyway.

 Grian and Joel, however, begged to differ. So outside of their dorm, where Jimmy couldn’t overhear them, they talked about looking into getting Jimmy some new clothes. Of course, they knew they couldn’t just buy them, doll clothing was stiff and way bigger than Jimmy anyway. But maybe, they could make him some themselves.

 And that’s what led them here, in the sewing club's room. They had graciously allowed them to work on their little project and even use their supplies. But sitting down with a laptop open to a tutorial and trying to figure it all out was not working out for them.

 It had been three days, and they were nowhere close to even a single item of clothing.

 “It’s been days. Sooner or later, Jimmy is gonna get suspicious.” Joel said, lifting his head away from his hands. He stared at the mess of fabrics, needles, and threads and glared at them.

 “We might have to ditch the surprise part of all of this.” Grian suggested as he put his own needle and thread down. It was just so hard to make stitches that small, and that was with previous experience with sewing. For Grian and Joel, who had absolutely no experience, it was next to impossible.

 As they were stewing in their own defeat, someone walked into the room. Grian and Joel barely paid attention, people were walking in and out of here all the time after all. What did catch their attention though, was a sudden familiar voice. “What are you two doing here?”

 Grian and Joel looked up to be met with Cleo, a good friend of theirs. She was looking at them with a surprised look, which was fair. Neither of them had ever brought up wanting to sew before. This was also bad though because, well, what were they supposed to say? They were trying to make tiny clothes for their borrower friend Jimmy? Yeah, no, that would be bad.

 “We’re uh…trying to learn how to sew?” Grian said though it came off more as a question. Which only deepened Cleo’s confusion. 

 “Sew…what, exactly?” Cleo asked, looking over them and at the table to see the mess of tiny fabrics and even tinier stitches. Grian and Joel looked at each other, slightly panicking.

 “Uh, doll clothes!” Joel suddenly exclaimed, laughing nervously. “For Grian’s cousin!”

 Cleo blinked and looked between the two of them. She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “You two are making doll clothes for Grian’s cousin? Why not just buy them some?”

 “My cousin is…very particular about it?” Grian chimed in, going along with what Joel had said. Though, once again, his sentence came out more as a question.

 Cleo continued to look at the two of them, not seemingly convinced. Thankfully though, she changed the subject, walking along the table to its side and picking up one of the fabric pieces. “Well, this is definitely not where you should be starting if you’re just now trying to learn how to sew.”

 Joel sighed, once again putting his head in his hands. “Yeah, we’ve kind of figured that out already.”

 Cleo hummed, brushing her thumb against the fabric. “Do the two of you care if you're actually the ones to make them or were you just trying to do it yourselves because of your cousin’s ‘particular’ taste?” Cleo asked.

 Grian blinked, a bit surprised by the question. “Uh, well, I guess the second? We would have bought them if anyone made them.”

 Cleo nodded and put the piece of fabric down, moving her hands to rest on her hips. “Well, then the two of you are in luck. I happen to have an opening and I’m sure I can squeeze in making a few clothes for your cousin’s dolls.”

 Grian and Joel’s eyes widened and they both stood up in surprise. “Wait, seriously?” Grian asked.

 “Of course.” Cleo said with a smile. “Just leave it to me.”

  ***

   It was only a day later that Grian and Joel heard a knock at their door. Jimmy ducked behind the lamp on Joel’s nightstand as Grian stood up to answer the door. When he saw that it was Cleo, Joel joined him and they stepped outside for a moment. Cleo gave them a slightly confused look at not being invited in but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, presenting them with a neat handful of folded up outfits.

 “It was a bit tricky but I managed.” Cleo said as Grian took the clothes from her hands. There were three in total. Grian’s thumb brushed over the tiny jeans, in awe at how real they felt. Joel leaned in to try and get a good look himself.

 “Cleo, these are amazing.” Joel said, grabbing one of the shirts and studying it more closely. “It’s like you took regular clothes and shrunk them down.”

 Cleo chuckled. “Well, that is basically what you asked for.”

 Grian looked up and away from the tiny outfits in order to look at Cleo. “How much do we owe you?”

 “Aww, you two don’t owe me anything. Consider it a friend discount.” Cleo said. As Grian and Joel started to argue against not paying her, she held her hands up, stopping them. “I’m the one who offered, so I don’t want to be paid. This time. Now in the future if you happen to need any more outfits, then we’ll talk.” She said with a chuckle.

 Grian nodded. “Absolutely. We’ll definitely be coming back to you for some more.”

 Joel grinned. “Yeah, Jimmy is going to love these.”

 Cleo tilted her head, a smile still present. “Jimmy?”

 Both Grian and Joel froze and looked at each other. Joel looked a lot more panicked though and so Grian was the one who spoke. “My cousin! Jimmy, he’s my cousin.”

 “Hmm, right.” Cleo said, arms crossed with her smile never leaving. For some reason, she still didn’t seem fully convinced. But she moved along, which Grian and Joel sighed in relief at. “Well, I really do hope he likes them. Feel free to come to me if I need to make any adjustments.”

 “Thank you Cleo, really. You’re amazing.” Joel said, after having calmed down from his slip-up.

 “I know.” Cleo said and then turned and left, waving goodbye as she did so. Grian and Joel nodded at each other, grinning.

 “Ready to show Jimmy?” Grian asked.

 “Let’s do it.” Joel said as he handed the shirt he had picked up back to Grian. Grian put his hands together, covering the small outfits as they headed back inside.

 As they closed the door behind them, Jimmy popped his head around the lamp, only fully coming out once he realized it was just Grian and Joel coming back into the room. “Who was that?” Jimmy asked, looking behind them at the door.

 “Just our friend Cleo.” Grian answered. “She stopped by to drop something off.”

 Jimmy blinked in confusion, only because it didn’t appear as though either of them were holding anything. “What did she drop off?”

 Grian and Joel glanced at each other with a grin before Grian knelt down and moved his cupped hands in front of Jimmy. “We’ve got a surprise for you.” And that was all the warning Jimmy got before Grian opened his hand.

 Jimmy came closer and looked to see what Grian was holding, only for his eyes to widen in shock. Jimmy could barely believe it. He slowly reached down and grabbed a shirt, looking and rubbing at the texture. If possible, his eyes widened even more, realizing that not only were these tiny clothes the perfect size for him but they felt exactly like Grian and Joel’s clothes. Soft and comfortable and warm.

 “We tried making them ourselves at first.” Joel’s voice cut through and Jimmy looked up. “But learning to sew is harder than it looks. So then Cleo offered to make them.”

 “But don’t worry.” Grian chimed in before Jimmy could overthink anything. “She just thinks she was making custom doll clothes for my cousin.”

 Jimmy laughed at the same time he could feel some tears start to gather in his eyes. “Do you even have a cousin?” He asked as he wiped away the tears.

 Grian smiled softly. “No, but Cleo doesn’t know that.”

 Jimmy held the shirt close to him. This was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him. “Thank you. This is…this is amazing.”

 Joel’s smile was also soft as he reached down and gently brushed his fingertips over Jimmy’s back, cupping his hand around him but not grabbing him. Just offering comfort. “Of course. We wanted to do this for you. You deserve to have more than two pairs of clothes.”

 “Yeah. And we’re glad you like them.” Grian said.

 “I love them.” Jimmy corrected and then started looking at the other articles of clothing, feeling them and holding them up to himself. Grian and Joel just watched, happy their surprise had been a big hit.

[featherfangart]

Hi las!

I thought your vash cosplay was so neat at dokomi last year and I am planning to do one myself this year. I was wondering if you could tell me what kind of wig and where you got yours from (as you are also from europe). I have never used a wig without bangs that I couldn’t just put on as is, let alone styled one. I have no idea what to look out for or where to start and yours looks do nice both in form and color so I figured maybe you had me a tip?

It would just be blonde anyway since I’m doing the post july/jeneora rock under suit because packing myself in tons of leather, belts and eva during peak summer is a great idea greatly appreciate if you have any tips for me and thank you!

Hii!!

I'm SO SORRY It took me literal weeks to reply. I haven't been this busy in-- almost a year. BUT.

Thank you so much! Glad you like my Vash costume. n_n Alright THE WIG ✨

I got my wig from Ardawigs EU branch. I tried them once and their hair is a great quality, very easy and nice to style. Holds the shape like a rock.

They're super pricey, but I usually run on a lot of leftovers from other costumes (fabrics, materials), pants and base boots from thriftstores/vinted, try to save wherever else I can. And I usually only buy wigs once in a blue moon. I got burnt so many times buying cheap ebay wigs which often ended up in a trashbin, bc they were just SO low quality and there was nothing I could do with them.

Unfortunately, Arda EU is closed now and taking a look at their site, they don't plan to reopen any time soon. =/

Which... is very unfortunate, bc adding customs fee on top the wig itself being pricy + shipping + tax and everything. Blergh.

Most of my friends get wigs from Aliexpress now.

In any case - the US shop is here. I think I have Cady in Champagne.

So that is not very helpful...

What I can advise you on

You'll most probably need a FRONT LACE WIG (the type you see in the picture). Considering Vash's hair is styled back and up, you'll need a wig with a nice front, so the ribbon/band isn't showing once the hair/bangs are up. You can either get the hairline done by adding more hair to the front (basically you sew it on, hair by hair, time consuming, but much better looking) or you can cut the line so you like it (I do that). Here's a video on cutting the front lace and wearing the wig. I'm honestly not too satisfied with the front of my wig, but I have a personal problem with never being satisfied with my wigs in general. Ever.

For the SPIKES (and general styling) here's a video I used back when I first started spiking up my wigs (good lord, first Cloud Strife wig was five years ago). It covers literally all the techniques I use for styling. I'm not great at it, but It helped me get by. ❤️

And for the UNDERCUT (if you decided to do it later). Being the lazy ass I am, instead of sewing on half of the black wig like I SHOULD, since I have Trimax version, but... an undercut instead bc... I had a leftover piece of my 1,5 USD fur fabric from when I was making TriStamp wig earlier (see? saving where I can lol) and was like, heck, I can use this. Here's the video I used to figure out what the hell am I supposed to do.

I hope this helps at least a little bit. ❤️ I know my wig looks okay-ish from a distance, it's a gd mess up close. As my cosplayer friends say - you never look at the costumes too close. ❤️

[plenilune]

well. got horrible news and then worse news this week that my favourite aunt's incredible butch wife was a) diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder after a few months of sudden health problems b) then given three to six months as her condition worsened c) then died several days after being given at least three months. one of those things I have no idea how to process, because my aunt and her wife are deeply beloved but not part of my daily life -- we've always been the type of family who don't see each other for a year and a half and then pick up immediately like no time has passed. the real grief may not hit till I next see Amy and Cyn isn't there with her.

my aunt is the only other openly queer member of my extended family that I know of, so there's also... that feeling... as well as, now I have to deal with my messy, messy immediate family, who I do not want to deal with At All In Any Capacity, but must.

arrangements have not been made yet. I'm figuring out how to get out to the Philly area once I know anything more. just. god. what an evil fucking year. the last time I saw Cyn, at my grandmother's funeral (a much happier funeral occasion, as my grandmother died at 89 still fully in possession of her self, hobbies, memory, and interest in the world, so we were all gathered teary-eyed and laughing, sharing stories and hoping that's how we all get to go when it comes), she was relieved that I was also wearing a suit, so she wasn't the only female-in-the-family's-eyes person wearing one. her suits were incredible. she and Amy cut up the dance floor at my sister's wedding a few years ago, Cyn in her sharp blue suit and Amy in a fluffy little dress and platform heels with the rainbow of colours in her hair matching the flowers in her wife's buttonhole. they're in their fifties. they both have kids. they were so, so delighted by each other. they should have had so much time.

Corey and I and my middle sister and her husband and Amy's two kids (my age) were the only of Amy's family to come to her wedding. (her mother, my grandmother, wanted to come, but she was too frail to leave her care home. she told my sister when my sister visited how annoyed she was at all of her other four children, including my father, for politely making excuses not to be there.) Corey and I drove about twelve hours in a single day to get there, because we knew that was going to be the case. Cyn's family was all there, though, welcoming and funny and eccentric. the wedding was a masquerade ball. Cyn and Amy both wore gold velvet cloaks that Amy sewed for them, pinned with mallorn leaf pins.

I have a wine bottle from their wedding with their names on the label on the top of my bookshelf. it's full of dried yellow roses.

anyway I don't... know how to feel yet. Corey and I took a really beautiful late afternoon walk in the thick-clouded winter grey with the dog, pointing at architecture and at people's light displays. I'm working on some collage projects tomorrow. I have leftist book club on Wednesday. and something horrible has happened. my body has built up a resistance to something horrible happening. it doesn't remember how to feel it. if I feel it, the whole thing could come down and I could become insane. this happened a few winters ago. I don't remember large swaths of it.

they should have had so much time.