#knitting: successful but drowning in yarn

[pearl-kite]

rug hooking, hnggg

[hyperfixatinglove]

Summary: P finds Ender knitting

Soft clack of knitting needles bought the grey haired puppet into the dimly lit corner of the first floor of lavishly decorated hotel Krat. His puppet friend, Ender, was sitting on the silk chair near a small table with dimply lit lamp. The colorful, vibrant yarn caught P's eye and he slowly tilted his head to the side, like curious confused puppy. Ender was softly humming the song echoing around the hotel from the gramophone.

Zir muttered a greeting, without glancing his way. The mainly non-fighting puppet had learned quickly to identify P's beating mechanical heart and the sounds of his Legion arms to tell where he roamed.

''I'm knitting.'' They answered his unspoken question before P had to bother to vocalize it. Ender knew he wasn't the most outspoken puppet and neither were they, besides his staring always had a reason, most often inquiry about things he didn't understand. He lifted his head, the grey hair moving along with him.

P repeated the word, barely above a whisper, so close to drowning to the music and echoes of others.

''I was made to do fine little things like these. Guess I was maid before my ego awakened.'' Ender started to explain, the knitting needles clanking along with their work. ''Knitting is for old ladies or housewives, making socks and sweaters for their loved ones. So Antonia told me.''

The fighter puppet nodded, in a way that was unique only to him, three times in quick succession, his fluffy hair bouncing in time with the tiny fast nods. He moved closer, both his hands outstretched towards Ender, his eyes twinkled with curiosity and affection.

Zirs eyes finally divert from their work, to look P in the eye. The sound of wood hitting wood stopped. The song continued echoing between them filling the silence between two puppets. His stare was always intense, filled with words and emotions not conveyed nor discovered. Ender's own was in turn of patience, affection amusement. Being alive longer, if only by mere days more, had meaning of them understanding a little more of the world around them both.

''Who am I making this for? You, of course.'' The sitting puppet answered, in a whisper o fragile if given form it would be ethereal. The bright red yarn in their work continued to be made into what zir shaped into being.

Cold touch to their wrist stopped the work resumed. Puppet eyes met. Silence grew. Ender's eyebrows furrowed.

''What you want P?''

Question zir so often asked him, a if they truly cared, the only entity around him to do so. Others merely either asked him favors or ordered him around, with Sophia being the only other one to offer him direct sympathy. Their way of communication, between the two, was almost always in whispers or low tones, as if they were afraid of someone overhearing.

Geppetto's puppet nod towards the tiny start of Ender's knitting hobby. Slowly zirs expression morphed by the realization and understanding.

''It's sweater. Longer sleeve than what you wear now. Antonia told sweaters are warm. Krat is cold, or so she said. I want you to be warm.''

Mention of the new concept P's head tilted again to the side. Them both being puppets they had no idea of warmth or coldness. Both however knew you didn't make up things from ground up and gift it to someone without it being a great sign of care and affection. The unsaid implication of Ender's action lingered between them, in the silence, the glances and the stares, the body language of the two puppets.

the male puppet bowed like a gentleman eyes staring into Ender's soul. He slowly straightened into his full but short stature. Silently he pointed at the other puppet then slowly moving his finger to point at the the small decorated box sitting in the table besides the knitting puppet. It was adored with painted roses, its porcelain giving it elegant but fragile existence. Ender's eyes studied the beautiful but small thing, useless to a puppet like the sweater they were making. But humans insisted when giving gifts, thought was that mattered.

''You will give me a gift?''

Seeing his intentions understood, P lowered his finger and relaxed. The quick three nods and short, barely visible lift of the corner of his mouth confirmed the shorter puppet's pondering.

The smile that appeared on the other puppet's face made strange things happen in P, ones he couldn't explain. He felt his ticking heart tick faster, his thoughts came to halt, his eyes transfixed to the gorgeous smile in front of him. Awkwardly he shifted his weight between his legs, his Legion arm fingers twitched. These occurrences were becoming more frequent the longer he knew Ender. His father was reluctant to explain this phenomena and Eugenie merely giggled when asked. Antonia was no help either and Venigni too inexperienced by his own words.

The soft clicking of the knitting needles resumed and the object of P's wonder and confusion had begun to hum again.

Silently, the puppet left the hotel to find something to give them.

[dirtypuzzle]

So I'm going to add onto what @dr-dendritic-trees said because I think there's also a couple of other components to it.

I crochet and knit primarily, and I've been slowly learning to sew, spin, embroider, and nalbind to various degrees of success. I absolutely love working with goofy or hard to source fibers, and I especially would enjoy processing my own fiber. The big drawback, beyond just money, is time.

Now, I like that about raw material processing. A huge chunk of the reason I went down the fiber arts rabbit hole in the first place is because I'd been crocheting/knitting, and one day I went okay but how do I make the yarn to make my sweater? And then I went how do they process the wool used to spin? When I learned to bake the first time, I had a similar thought process: what do I do if I don't have [X modern kitchen appliance]? How did people used to do it? The time it takes to do things with one less step "already done" so to speak makes me appreciate our own history as humans and the labor involved in these things, etc etc.

But even though this is an aspect I find enjoyable, that doesn't mean I have any extra time on my hands to do it. Now that I plan not to be moving around a whole lot, I'm excited to plant flax, but it's a huge time commitment throughout the process. I'd love to mess with milkweed, particularly because I know for a fact this area should get more monarch butterflies than it does, but man. I've got everything lined up, I just don't have the time.

A lot of the people that go down this rabbit hole also do it in other fields, too. Personally, maintaining a food garden and hoping to start a permaculture sort of set-up is on my Big List for next year. I have way more access to resources than where I used to live, so I can get ahold of more raw materials (mostly unprocessed wool and alpaca) without going to Timbuktu. I've been teaching myself how to work on cars because Machines Are Cool, and I still have to swap Windows for Linux before Windows 10 becomes unsupported. Which says nothing for my academic projects, creative fiction, TBR/TBW lists, or everyday regular maintenance.

At the very least, if you got to the point that you'd like to try spinning nettle or dogbane, you're probably not in the normie territory of all your other hobbies, either. It splits your time, and add onto that the economy of this sort of thing, it becomes really rare. I want to spin non-traditional fibers, but I'd never in my life have the time/money to do it for work (although I have been very tempted lmfao - it's transphobic to me personally that going into agriculture is so non-feasible and every Big Ag fuckwad can drown in the Maumee).

I think if someone wanted to make something like this semi-viable, you'd have to subsidize it by also selling more widely marketable stuff, too, like say you had a variety of sheep and processed your own wools, and the other natural fiber stuff is on the side to the people that are interested and can pay the money for it.

There is a lot of information out there about weaving, crocheting and knitting, but relatively little about spinning.

Which is a shame, since spinning is really where the "resource provided by the earth" tangibly becomes "object with a use."

Aspects of spinning, such as the amount of twist and the length of the fibers, are impactful upon the thread or yarn created, but lots of fiber crafters don't get to directly play with those variables...

It is so strange how textile production is so utterly dominated by very few fibers, when so many are possible. Industry keeps coming up with new ways to transform bamboo or something into fibers, which is all well and good, but we have yet to run out of easily usable natural fibers that have worked for thousands of years.

Dogbane—Apocyonum cannabinum—was called "Indian hemp" because it was used by Native Americans for ropes, cords and textiles. It's incredibly strong, soft, and easy to collect large amounts of it. But hardly anybody uses it.

[doodlingstuff]

Andreil's Christmas Tradition

@allforthestickball asked on IG for Andreil's Christmas hc, so here's mine:

•They only do Christmas because the Foxes drag them. Neither had a reason to celebrate so far.

•So one winter break after graduation, every Fox goes out to visit their families.

•It's the first time Andrew and Neil live together and they don't have any reason to leave the house. They make good use of their time.

•After a while though, they both start feeling that something is missing. They have got used to celebrate despite all.

•Every store is closed, and they never thought of dinner, so they have to make do with whatever is in the pantry.

•Andrew surprises Neil once more with his cooking skills and after eating, he disappears somewhere inside their room.

•Neil thinks is a bad memory surging, so he stays in the kitchen, and thinks of ways to making Andrew happy, so he starts making Bee's hot cocoa secret recipe, which he despises, of course, but it's Andrew, and it's Christmas.

•Sometime after, Andrew gets into the kitchen, hands full of bags and a confused look only Neil can see.

•Neil offers the chocolate. Andrew thanks with a "455%". Total success.

•Then Andrew takes his handful of bags and motions Neil to follow to the living room.

•Andrew starts taking out fabric? And wooden rings? And colored threads? And yarns?

•"Staring" Andrew says, but it's more like Neil's jaw just got the floor because WTF???

•"Sit junkie. We're making presents for your stupid Foxes". Neil manages to sit without falling flat into his ass, still drown in disbelief.

•Andrew turns to be an excellent teacher for hand crafts, and Neil picks up the pace after some cursing.

•They spend the rest of the night embroidering and knitting all kinds of silly stuff while drinking hot cocoa.

•Andrew threatens the Foxes to look pleased with their presents or he will give them a painful death, but they are only as stunned as Neil for finding out this softness. Even Aaron. Although no one says a thing.

•That first year, Andrew and Neil gave each other crocheted armbands that they would only wear on their reunions with the Foxes.

•The Foxes loved so much their presents, that it became Andreil's Holiday Tradition to spend at least one night of December knitting, embroidering or trying whatever other hobby looked appealing to Andrew.

•Andrew and Neil never spend a lonely or boring Christmas break ever again.

[bipadme]

We Lie to Ourselves Most of All

pairing: female detective (leila) x mason

word count: 2521

warnings: contains a mild anxiety attack

description: Leila's incredibly skilled at lying to herself, but not so good at lying to Felix. But no matter what he says, her feelings for Mason are purely platonic. She's sure of it.

read on ao3 

Felix flips back onto the couch with a huff, his socked feet nearly kicking her hands. “You know, when you mentioned knitting socks for me I thought it would be…” he trailed off waving a hand vaguely in her direction. 

Leila snorts and rearranges her yarn so that Felix doesn’t end up hopelessly tangling it, “Less time consuming? More interesting to watch? If you're bored,” she teases, her eyes still glued on her knitting, “that’s what the junk food and movies are for. If you keep talking, you’re going to miss all the good parts.”

“The best part is sitting right next to me,” Felix counters with a charming grin. Leila can’t help but beam at him, glad for the company even if she’s partially convinced he’s only here to watch out for supernatural threats. She’s come to at least somewhat accept that Unit Bravo’s friendship comes with an even more fervent overprotectiveness than they’d started out with. But Felix’s bright cheer had a way of washing away the irritation she felt whenever Adam announced that she’d be having a guest that night.

She patiently lifts her knitting while he squirms and rearranges throw pillows until he’s in a more upright position, feet still firmly planted in her lap. When she puts it down again and starts to pick up where she left off, the silence makes her pause. She glances at him to find amber eyes that are bright in a way that makes her feel wary. The knitting is carefully set on the side table, she’s in no mood to drop stitches because Felix was up to… something.

“You know, it’s interesting…” He trails off too casually, and Leila tilts her head inquisitively. Logically, she understands he’s deliberately piquing her curiosity so that he has her full attention. But if anything, she’s learned it can be better to ride out whatever he has to say in her apartment, rather than wait for him to bring it up in front of the whole unit.

He drums his fingers on the back of her couch, “You know, you and Mason were kind of a surprise.”

Leila snorts inelegantly, “If by that you mean you’re surprised I got past his attitude, sure. But you know me,” she smiles sunnily, “I won him over with my sparkling personality and the way my ass looks in skinny jeans.”

Felix starts to cackle, and Leila joins him with a few giggles of her own. He settles down a moment later, wiping a stray tear from his eyes,”The group really is better with you around you know.”

He pauses and Leila suspects that he has more to say, and starts to feel an inkling of unease. But really, how serious can the conversation be? He never expressed a problem with them. Adam, on the other hand...

 “You’re like,” he gestures to all of her in a way Leila finds both funny and vaguely insulting, “You’re all sunshine and positivity, right?”

Um?

He rushes forward without waiting for an answer, leaning closer as he becomes more animated. “And you knit, and read all the time, so why aren’t you looking for someone like that?”

Leila blinks, “Someone who knits?”

The vampire rolls his eyes, “ No, someone who wants a relationship, the works!” He waggles his eyebrows, but it doesn’t make her smile for once. She’s too busy looking at his face, always so open, his eyes expectant. But this isn’t the open curiosity of a genuine question, it’s like he’s waiting for something in particular. But what? Does he think he knows what she’s about to say? Is there something he wants her to say? This conversation has taken an odd turn, and she feels like she’s walking on unfamiliar ground.

Where was this coming from?

Felix starts to squirm under her scrutiny, so she gentles her expression and counters him lightly, “I can’t want something casual?”

“Is that what you want?” He fires back almost immediately, eyes roving over her face with intent. Against her will, Leila’s heart begins to beat with a strange sort of anxiety. But what is there to be nervous about?

So she forces a teasing smile, “Are you asking about my intentions toward Mason?”

“No,” the joviality has faded from his expression entirely, “I want to know what you want.”

He looks almost worried, and a pang trembles right through her heart. Her hand rests gently on his ankle, squeezing it lightly with an affectionate smile, “Exactly what I said, something casual. He’s having fun, and I’m having quite a lot of fun.” 

His lips quirk into a small smile, “Yeah, you’re obviously desperate for fun. Sitting with me in your apartment, knitting on a Friday night.”

“Fuck off,” she protests half-heartedly, covering her face with her hands as Felix bursts into laughter at the rarely heard profanity. 

She giggles with him a little, and when their laughter stops she pauses, mulling over what she’s about to say. 

“I’m not exactly good at relaxing,” she gestures at her knitting and the clock that reads 2:30 AM. “So I’m not really good at sleeping, either. I overthink everything,” she says, smiling ruefully after Felix snorts in evident agreement.

Leila tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugs, “But being with Mason is simple. I don’t have to guess what he wants, because he’s already made it clear. It’s a relief, you know? To have things just out in the open, to want the same thing someone else wants and just be happy with where you are. We have fun,” her lips quirk into a small smile, “And for once I stop thinking and I get to just...be.”

The explanation feels wholly inadequate. But how is she supposed to describe the sheer, inexhaustible happiness of being with Mason, without Felix misinterpreting it as something else? If she talks about how they don’t even need to have sex, that the relief starts when he walks into the room and she starts gravitating toward him, he’ll think it’s more than it is. He'll think she's looking for something more, when she's not.

Better to keep that to herself.

“I don’t get that with anyone else,” she sighs.

Felix blinks slowly, and his hopeful expression has her feeling nervous, even when he visibly tries to tamp it down. “And that’s it? Fun and relief? Is that why you freaked when he was injured?”

“I would freak if any of you got injured!”

“But would you kiss it better? ” 

Leila scoffs, and tries to push his feet off her with no success, “Not with that attitude, I won’t!”

His voice is suddenly quieter, “Is he the first person you look for when you walk into a team meeting because you like having fun?”

He pauses, and her heart starts pounding again. He doesn’t make her wait long, “Is that why you avoid wearing perfume when you know you’re going to see him? Is that why you smile every time he looks at you?”

“He’s my friend,” she nearly croaks. She takes a moment to clear her throat, “I worry about him, like I would for any of you. I’m being considerate.”

“Right,” his eyebrows arch doubtfully, “because what you feel is so casual and light.” He almost looks worried, but the moment passes them by as an explosion in the long ignored movie makes them jump. 

With some shared giggles, they both settle once again. But now Felix’s words stick in her mind so stubbornly that it takes all her effort to push them aside. However, if anything she's gifted at throwing herself into everything else to escape. The odd conversation is forgotten a few days later after her concentrated effort to do so.

At least, that's what she tells herself.

********************

Nightmares always end the same way.

Leila’s eyes snap open, the nightmare less vivid than usual, but the emotions of it still thrumming underneath her skin. For a moment, when it’s only a slowly growing panic in the pit of her stomach, she feels cheated. She’s cheated of her post-afterglow calm and the quiet contentment of Mason’s warmth within arm’s reach. She has so little time to enjoy this before he slips out and back to the warehouse, and she was going to spend it having a goddamned panic attack.

She has the worst luck.

Luckily, Mason is still sleeping, his body curled around hers but just far enough that she has a chance of not waking him. Maybe... if she doesn’t get up and takes care to be as quiet as possible. Her heart picks up pace, and soon her hands begin to tremble. When the full body trembling starts just a moment later, she laces her fingers together and focuses on the far wall, where the moon has painted silhouettes of the plants on her windowsill.

Mason, for all of his superior senses, is still asleep.

Small blessings, she thinks, eyes still glued on the wall.

She presses her eyes shut and takes measured breaths. If she leaves the bed, he’ll definitely wake up. If  she stays and he sees her like this…

The dread only grows bigger and her heart pounds even harder. At this point the effort of staying perfectly still has rendered her breath shaky and uneven. Leila is so jittery that the warm hand that touches her shoulder makes her yelp.

“What happened?” Mason’s voice is gravelly with sleep, but still alert. Once he sees that she isn’t flinching away from his touch, he gently rolls her over to face him. Leila obliges and shifts so that she’s eye level with him. She starts to reach out and hesitates, fingers inches from his, so Mason  closes the gap and places one hand between hers. Even with that comforting touch, Mason is frowning and waiting for her answer.

“I had a nightmare,” she whispers. The sound of her heart feels like it's drowning her words out.

His gray eyes are narrowed slightly, but not angrily. He moves his free hand to cup her still shaking hands within both of his, and the steadiness of them makes her feel anchored and less like she’s about to shake to pieces. “Murphy?”

She gives him a one-shouldered shrug and grimaces, “Among other things. I’m getting used to it.” Leila nearly winces at her defensive tone, but Mason doesn’t respond. He only looks at her levelly, maybe thinking of the last time she’d woken up from a nightmare. Maybe thinking she was weak. Maybe thinking that he was better off--

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” he interrupts her thoughts with a sharp tone. He’s frowning now, and when he pulls his hands away the panic spikes, until his arm wraps around her to pull her tight to him. Her hands are now trapped between them and planted firmly on his chest, and her legs are tangled with his. His face is only inches from hers now, and his expression is...unknowable. She can’t quite place it, she only knows that it makes her chest ache with fondness. He reaches up to hold her chin ever so gently and to lightly trace a thumb over lips that are stuttering out uneven breaths.

“What do you need?”

The simple questions makes her tear up, and the fact that she knows he can sense her tears has her tearing up even more in pure shame, and that has her taking in a shuddering breath. She closes her eyes, determined that she will at least save her pride by keeping them from falling.

He asked you because he wants to help, the only functional part of her brain insists. So she gathers the words to tell him what she needs.

“Just stay with me like this? Please?” 

A beat passes in silence. He releases her chin to snake his arm around her and tuck her even more firmly into his chest. He cups his hand around the back of her neck, rubbing circles with his thumb behind her ear. In a strange role reversal, her lips are only inches from his neck. The scent of sandalwood surrounds her here, and it’s only now that she notices the thundering of her heart starting to slow.

That’s how they stay. Mason is silent, and the steady beat of his heart is soon matched by hers. For a moment, Leila is struck by the change. This feels… intimate. This feels like the kiss she’d given him after rescuing Sanja, like sitting on a rooftop with him in the middle of the night and having a real conversation.  Instead of the pure fucking shame she expects to feel after letting him see her like this she feels purely at peace. He holds her like she’s important to him in a way that means more than friendship and teamwork. 

Her throat tightens painfully at the thought. She knows it’s not true, and her heart hurts regardless. It’s fine though, what they have is what they both want. 

Yet the conversation she’d had with Felix rattles around in her skull so persistently that she can almost hear him ask, Is that what you want? Is this intimacy something she wants? Is she looking for more than Mason can give? Has she set herself up for disappointment yet again? Or has she learned her lesson by now? It’s the last thought that has her snapping out of her anxious thoughts.

So, of course, she ruins the moment.

“This is nice,” she forces her lips into a sly smile, “I never took you for someone who cuddles.”

Leila forcibly pushes the moment away and lets herself laugh at the disgruntled rumble in Mason’s chest as he protests, “We are not—“

He starts to pull away and she squeaks in protest, “Let me finish,” and scrambles to roll on top of him with a breathless laugh at the scowl on his face. What a grump , she thinks, all the while knowing he could push her away at any moment. Arms braced on either side, she reaches a hand up to his face and irons the lines out with a fingertip. The most shocking part is he lets her, his scowl dropping from his face and looking as if he’s in a trance.

He’s my friend, she thinks. Of that at least, she is sure. This sentimentality is platonic, it has to be, and she swears that’s what compels her to drop a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. When she pulls away, she’s still so close that her lips brush his with every word, “Thank you. For staying.”

They hang there for a moment, just breathing, afraid to break the moment. Then she feels fingertips trailing down her spine, and she squirms with a helpless shiver.

Mason smirks, and in a flash he flips them over, effectively pinning her. She smiles up at him as brilliantly as she can, completely content and happy. He huffs out a laugh and presses a kiss to her neck before whispering against her skin, “Why would I leave? I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

[sourwolfstories]

fluffy christmas sterek fics

hooked on (dangling by a yarn) by extantecstasy

One hundred days, ten scarves, one Christmas, and Stiles' dormant magic has to ruin everything.

All I Want for Christmas (Is You) by blindinglights

Derek meets Stiles in a department store while shopping for his family, after seeing a little girl crying for her Dad on the floor. They part ways and Derek doesn’t think he’ll see Stiles again. Beacon Hills may not be that big, but it still doesn’t mean he’ll ever run into Stiles, because that’s just not how Derek’s life works. Despite what Erica tries to tell him whenever she can, that sometimes fate can happen, Christmas miracles, whatever, it won’t.

(Or, the one where Stiles is a single dad, Derek falls for him, and Christmas ends up better than Derek expected.)

Secret Santa by rainbowninja167

Derek is already thoroughly sick of Christmas by the time Erica bullies him into dressing up as Santa for a holiday charity. It was only supposed to take a couple hours. Until some kid starts accosting him all over Beacon Hills, insisting that Derek is the real Santa.

That’ll Be $4.20 (But You Can Have My Heart For Free) by stilinski_wolf

Stiles is the barista at the coffee shop Derek frequents, and after they start talking via messages on Derek's coffee cups, Stiles gets the courage to tell Derek he likes him, and Derek asks him out.

Stiles' Christmas that year just got a whole lot better.

Glad Tidings by stilinskisparkles

“Eight people are going to be descending on our home in a mere matter of days, Derek.” Stiles grabs the pizza box, uses it to gesture at the pile of books and papers under the table, away and towards Derek’s sneaker collection. “You want them to think we live like this all the time?”

“We do live like this all the time,” Derek huffs, stretching lazily.

You put a Hallmark on my Heart by giantteenwolforgy

Stiles is funny and smart and kind and is also his daughter's teacher and his boss's son. On the list of people who are off-limits, Stiles has held the top spot for as long as Derek has known him.

Since Derek is Derek, Stiles also happens to rank number one on the list of people Derek is in love with. Seriously. His life is like a bad Hallmark movie.

I Just Want You For My Own (More Than You Could Ever Know) by yodasyoyo

“What is with that sweater, dude?”

Derek ducks his head to look at it, abashed. “Uh- Mrs Hernandez knitted it for me. It’s an early Christmas gift.” He smooths it down self-consciously.

Stiles cocks an eyebrow.

“What? She’s my neighbor and sometimes I-” Derek trails off. Stiles’ other eyebrow rises to join the first, and Derek sighs. “Sometimes I help her carry her groceries."

Of course he does. One day maybe Stiles will stop being in love with Derek Hale, but today is not that day.

Please Come Home for Christmas by littlefrog1025

Derek spends the Christmas season with Stiles, but the last time he checked they weren't married with kids...

It’s A Christmas Thing by SnackerJack

Okay, Stiles knows that he’s part of the pack. He does. He is. It just... doesn’t feel like it at the moment. But it’s Christmas, so he sucks it up and proceeds to drown his feelings in sugar cookies. Or, five times Stiles got kissed under the mistletoe, and one time where it actually mattered.

Layover by dr_girlfriend

Excerpt:

Big, serious brown eyes were staring right into his from only a few inches away. The child had clambered half over the arm of Derek’s chair to study him at close range, her little rosebud mouth pursed in concentration.

“Uh.” Derek couldn’t look away as the girl reached out one pudgy hand and patted him gently on the cheek. Her scent was soft and sweet and somehow a bit familiar, just enough to keep Derek from shying away. Derek didn’t know too much about kids but he guessed this one was probably three years old or so, head still oversized in proportion to the short limbs and round little belly.

She seemed fascinated with Derek’s beard, eyes widening further under incredibly thick lashes as she petted Derek’s cheek some more, smoothing down the short stubble. Finally she grinned widely. “Good wuff.”

Derek jerked upright, hands clenching on the edge of his seat. Did she just say?...

“CJ!” The child was suddenly gone, lifted up by a strong, tattooed forearm around her little potbelly. “You scared the he— heck out of me! What have I told you about wandering — Derek?”

i wish i had a river by thepsychicclam

Derek is the editor of a successful publishing firm, and is horrible to all his employees, including Stiles. On Christmas Eve night, he gets visited by three spirits and has to take a look at his life.

aka A Sterek Christmas Carol

Christmas Kisses by Dexterous_Sinistrous

Stiles loves Christmas; he always had and always will. He tries hard to bring Christmas cheer to all the students and their families. There is one student's parent, in particular, who he is trying to impress the most.

Letters to Santa, baking, and mistletoe kisses couldn't prepare Stiles for the Christmas party he knew he'd never forget.

Because Stiles' mom was right: Christmas kisses are a mighty powerful thing.

A Christmas Hale by Captain_Loki

His mouth began forming the word 'no' in a knee jerk reaction, but it died on his lips when he actually looked at Stiles. There was no pity in his face, no sense of moral obligation or charitable intent, he looked...earnest and nervous and so much the sixteen that he was. He realized with a jolt that had his stomach twisting into something that felt nothing like anger that Stiles wasn't asking for Derek's sake.

The boys spend Christmas together. There's copious amounts of sarcasm, some sharing of emotions and somewhere along the lines feelings develop.

The Twenty-Five Gifts of Stiles Stilinski by knw

Everyone knows Stiles only starts stockpiling gifts when he has it bad; now he's started getting gifts for Derek.

A Christmas Retail Story by rlnerdgirl

Derek likes to spend his downtime between book contracts doing something calming, relaxing, and just for him. Unfortunately, this holiday season his sister has other things in mind, which is how he finds himself working in the women's department at Macy's. He might, just a little bit (or maybe a lot), want to kill himself. Or Laura.

The one reprieve he gets is Stiles, the only customer who knows exactly what he wants each and every time he pops in, complete with item number and size. Derek may or may not be developing a crush on him. So it's too bad all Stiles buys are ridiculously expensive things that are, most likely, for his extremely lucky girlfriend.

You Got Us An Ornament by TheRealNightTempest

With the Pack out of town for Christmas and his dad and Melissa on the honeymoon they never had, Stiles plans to craft his way through the holidays to distract himself from being alone. When he realizes his plan isn't as fun by himself, Stiles turns to Derek Hale to help him out as the only other miserable guy left in Beacon Hills at Christmas.

Or the one where Stiles loves Pinterest and forces Derek to help him bake ten different cookies and break out his hot gluing skills. There might be heaping amounts of feels. You have been warned.

With a Little Christmas Magic by Ashabadash

AU: Stiles is jobless this Christmas and as a last resort, is stuck playing one of Santa’s elves at the mall. The job is a bust, and Stiles isn’t really in the Christmas mood, until he finds salvation in the Starbucks at the food court, not only in hiding from kids, but in one very sexy barista named Derek. ((Or: In Wich Stiles in an Elf and Derek is a Christmas Coffee Magician))

Last Christmas by Hepzheba

Last Christmas I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away.

The song is oddly fitting, Stiles thinks as he steps inside the Hale house and sees Derek talking to a dark girl. He's laughing and they're standing way too close to the mistletoe that hangs in the doorway. Derek is wearing a dorky sweater with a red-nosed reindeer. With a pang Stiles remembers last year's sweater with the Santa on it. He feels a churn of jealousy when the girl touches Derek's arm. Stiles has no right to be jealous though, Derek isn't his and never was. They had one (incredible, hot) make out session last year but that was it.

[musicalsandmayhemandmurderohmy]

Sprace - First Encounter Modern AU

Sorry I haven’t been posting a lot lately, summer has been pretty hectic (not with a social life unfortunately, but hey)! Anyway, I’m on holliers at the moment so here’s a little fic, that turned out way longer than I’d intended - any thoughts on Sarah and Spot being good friends? ~

***** Sarah started as the first fat raindrops hit her forehead. She’d been in an almost trance-like state since this morning, equally eagerly awaiting and dreading the next week. This was going to be the longest she’d spent away from Katherine since they’d moved in together, and, as childishly clingy as it might sound, she hated being apart from her girlfriend any longer than she had to be. Thanksgiving with the family had become an almost sacred tradition among the Jacobs, especially since Esther and Mayer had moved out to Long Island after they’d retired. It was time for their children to grow up, they’d joked, and stop visiting them every day just because they couldn’t cook or do laundry themselves. Still, they were always happy to see Sarah and Davey return to the nest, especially now that Les was always touring with his show; the years of auditions had finally paid off - Lesley Jacobs, thirteen, was in the middle of a successful tour of North America as Billy Elliott - the Billy Elliott, he’d exclaimed when he found out. Rummaging through her pockets, Sarah fished out her phone to check her messages. Hi sis, running late - allow half hour. See you soon x. She bit her lip, wondering how much longer the worse of the rain would hold off. Above her, the sky showed little mercy, dark storm clouds hanging low over the skyscrapers and spires. Okay, ring me when you get here - finding shelter. Hope you’re not texting while driving. Say hi to Schrödinger dinger for me x she replied, wrestling her umbrella into some sort of adequate shelter, before hoisting her bag onto her back and setting off in search of a shop. Her mind wandering as she walked, she considered ringing her girlfriend to check in. Usually, Katherine would be coming with her to Jacobs gatherings - she’d often confided in Sarah and Davey that their family felt more like hers than her own - but her parents had summoned her to entertain their guests with them over the holiday season. Katherine had been livid when she’d gotten off the phone to them. “I don’t see the point of dragging me out there to drink stupid cocktails and talk about stupid things like overpriced hair salons and celebrity chefs with stupid people who have too much money and walk around throwing ingratiating smiles at people who have equally opposite ratios of sense to money, while they all secretly cannot stand to be around each other! Honestly, if this were any other century, they’d have married me off to a Russian noble to secure a trading agreement - as it is, they’re trying to set me up with Bill this Thanksgiving - he warned me that his parents are in on it too - as if I wasn’t a flaming lesbian!“ She’d ranted endlessly to Sarah that morning as they’d packed away her heels and dresses - a far cry from her usual uniform of denim and flannel. “You’ll be comfy and enjoying yourself out in Long Island, and I’ll be trussed up like a turkey, guzzling champagne, trying not to slap someone silly and missing you the whole time in Fort Pullitzer”, she’d joked, pulling Sarah in for a kiss. No, Sarah decided, better to ring Kat later, when pints of cheap champagne had softened her mood and Bill had distracted her from the deepening irritation she felt every time she had to mingle with her parents’ friends and their children - people who Katherine had grown up with, who had known her all their lives - as they liked to remind her. Sarah had met them once, when Katherine’s parents had thrown an elegant dinner party for her twenty first birthday. It had proved to be one of the most uncomfortable nights of her life - she had never encountered a group so possessive of another human being, explaining to Sarah how they’d been in Katherine’s class “All the way since kindergarten”, before asking disinterestedly how long Sarah and her had been friends. Sarah’s only salvation when Kat had been whisked away from her by Mr. and Mrs. Pullitzer had been Bill, a sharply dressed boy with an angelic face and a rainbow pin on his lapel. He’d seemed at once apart from everyone else there, a different kind to the rest of them. “The pin is my version of idiot repellent here”, he’d remarked dryly, snatching her another glass of champagne. “Keeps the straights from hitting on me. Welcome to the Media Magnates Homo Club Inc. You’re our third member so far.” Sarah chuckled as she recalled their conversation - Katherine was in safe hands. An ambulance surged past, dousing Sarah with icy water. With a sharp hiss, she quickened her pace, deafened completely by the insistent thrumming of rain on her umbrella. “Hey!” The shout stopped her in her tracks. A shortish boy lounged in a doorway surrounded by knick knacks and ornaments, his face screwed up in concentration as he struggled to light the cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes stared out at her from underneath the peak of his hat, dark and alert. His task completed successfully, he clamped the cigarette between his teeth and set about slowly rolling a large urn through the open doorway. “Well don’t just stand there!” he exclaimed. “Help me haul this shit in - you’ll drown out there!” Sarah looked around the shop in awe. She’d have been never guessed a treasure trove like this lay beyond the somewhat rundown exterior. Wandering down the aisle, she gazed, transfixed, at the strange objects she found. Without thinking, her fingers brushed the face of an elegant porcelain doll, its red hair coiffed and curled around its face. “Ahem!” Sarah snatched her fingers away as though she’d been burnt. The source of the noise sat in the very back of the shop, particularly obscured by a large glass case that had been commandeered and used as a counter. Shrouded in colourful shawls, her bony fingers effortlessly knitting with a variety of coloured yarns, sat a wizened old lady. With her piercing eyes and hunched shoulders, there was something almost bird-like about her. “Look, not touch antiques! ”, she pronounced, her lips vanishing into a small pucker as she scowled severely. “Lighten up, Mama Maria - she got caught in the rain, helped me bring in the stock.” Sarah jumped as a heavy hand landed. “Antonio Higgins”, the boy said proudly, offering her his hand. “To friends and so to you, Racetrack. And this”, he declared, “esteemed lady, superb grandmother, proud great-grandmother, and dignified proprietor of Valenti Antiques, is Mama Maria, all the way from Sienna, Italy.” Mrs Valenti laid down her knitting and shuffled over to them. “Ignore my grandson”, she chuckled, reaching up to cuff him playfully on the ear. “You’ve been smoking those dirty things again, haven’t you?” she scolded. “Always puffing, always reeking - when you are my age, then you can start!” “But Mama! They was Coronas!” he protested, planting a kiss on her cheek. Sarah covered her mouth “Silly boy! You have forgotten your manners, to introduce our guest!” Mrs Valenti turned to Sarah expectantly. “Oh!” Sarah exclaimed, not expecting to be drawn into the conversation. “I’m Sarah - Sarah Jacobs”, she stuttered, offering her hand to Mrs Valenti. Taking Sarah by surprise, she clasped Sarah’s hand with both of her own. Her bird-like eyes swept Sarah up and down, resting on her face. A slow smile spread across her face. Racetrack laughed loudly at Sarah’s shock when Mrs Valenti grasped her by the shoulders and planted a light kiss on each cheek. “Mama, not everyone is as Italian as you!” he laughed. “Oh, hush boy! You Americanos have none of the etiquette! Our guest Sarah is soaked, she will freeze in the November here!” Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she marched into the back of the shop, shawls fluttering. Race laughed nervously. “So, that’s my grandma anyway, she’s everyone’s madre. Five minutes and she’ll be back with a tray of tea and a list of questions for asking. Oh also, would you like to change? If you don’t have your own I can fetch you something of my sister’s?” Sarah tapped her bag. “I have my stuff with me… Where can I change?” Race showed Sarah down the passage into the back room. “This is the only room there’s space to turn around in - there’s no light in here though so the door usually stays open…. Don’t worry, I won’t look”, he joked, his back to the her. Feeling slightly self conscious, Sarah began to change out of her wet clothes. “What brings you to this lonely corner of Manhattan?” “My parents live out on Long Island…. Davey was meant to pick me up for Thanksgiving, last I heard from him he was running a bit late”. “Family, huh? Can’t get rid of them when you’re near, can’t get enough of them when you’re far… Life! Is Davey your boyfriend?” A peal of laughter escaped Sarah’s lips. “Davey? Nooo, no! Davey is my brother!” “Oh!” Sarah could hear the sheepishness in his voice. “So, Davey, he’s late for you?” he questioned, recovering swiftly. “Last I heard from him”, she paused to pull on her jeans, “he was half an hour away.” “How long ago was that?” “That was about… Twenty minutes ago now”, she replied, checking her phone as she emerged. Frowning, she stopped in the doorway. You’d say hello to Schrödinger but not me? Displeased. -_- Race watched a smile flashed across her face as her thumbs tapped out a quick message. “Davey onto you?” he asked nonchalantly. “No, I think he’s bringing someone though… Probably why he’s late.” Sarah shut off her phone and smiled at Race. “Could I borrow a plastic bag?” Race bent and rummaged in the drawers of an old fashioned writing desk. Above it, mounted on the wall, was a large collection of old photographs. Many were of a large family, taken over the course of many years as if to immortalise each year of their lives. There were newspaper clippings in Italian and English, photos of a man, smiling for the camera, standing at the desk before her, a cuckoo clock lying open before him. In the centre was a large picture of two Italian-looking men on either side of a young woman - Sarah supposed it must be Mrs Valenti - in front of the shop, taken during brighter times. Feeling as though she was prying into someone else’s life, Sarah directed her attention back to the desk. It looked like a work bench for repairs - a box of tiny cogs and levers nestled in the corner, surrounded by various bits and pieces of watches, clocks, and music boxes, as well as several small screws and washers. On the centre of the desk sat an ancient looking typewriter. Sarah leaned forward, inspecting it more closely. The letters K. PLUMBER were printed on the side. Squinting, Sarah could just about make out “The World” etched in a delicate, curling script below that. Katherine had often expressed how much she’d love to own a typewriter - she’d feel like a true journalist. And Sarah didn’t have her Christmas present yet… “Now, Sarah, some tea? You will want to warm up after outside”, Mrs Valenti called, padding down the stairs at the far end of the passage, accompanied by the sound of clinking. Race emerged and handed Sarah a bag, rushing to take the tray from his grandmother. “Antonio, grazie mille ”, she murmured, following him out to the counter. Sarah hovered, unsure of whether to sit, until Race pulled out one of the two stools and offered it to her. “So, Sarah”, she began. Sarah noticed that she pronounced it Zara , emphasising the consonants. “What brings you here?” Sarah sipped at her tea, spellbound by this seemingly unstoppable old lady. Time had seemed to fly since she’d first sat down, just listening to Mrs Valenti. “I came here in the forties, when there was nothing left for us back home, back in Italia. The place was full of foreigners, escaping the war, the poverty in Europe”, she’d explained, a hint sadness in her voice. “When we came here, we had nothing but us, us and our skills. My husband was - I don’t know the words - he made clocks, before the war. But then…” she spread her hands, a gesture that expressed more than any words could. “We opened this shop when we came here, you know. My husband and his brother and I, they did dealing, buying, I kept books, kept tidy, organised, they talked - their English, far better.” She shook her head sadly. “This used to be famous once. There were people, all day, when it was three of us…. But time takes, and now, only me. Antonio is all I have left.” Sarah smiled at the older woman as her grandson wrapped his arm around her protectively. The two of them were fiercely protective of each other, that much was clear. Without warning, her phone broke the silence, buzzing urgently. Sarah cursed softly. “I’m sorry, my brother -” Maria nodded. “You enjoy Thanksgiving, Sarah”, she smiled. Stepping slightly away, Sarah answered. “Heyyy, whereabouts are you kiddo?” Davey yelled, Schrödinger barking in the background. “Hey Davey", she murmured, wincing slightly. She’d forgotten how loud her brother and his dog could be. “I’m in an antique shop - Valenti’s - down the street. Come in to it, I think you’ll like it in here”. Davey’s words were drowned out by a howl from the back seat. “ SHUT UP FOR A SEC - yeah I’ll be right over - I’ve got a surprise for you though”, he said smugly. “It’s why Schrödinger won’t shut up”. A light jingle heralded Davey’s arrival, followed by a low whistle. Sarah looked around sharply - she knew that whistle anywhere. “David Jacobs, thanks for looking after my sister”, Davey said, shaking hands with Race and Maria. “This is Sean Conlon.” Sarah sidled over to Spot while Davey chatted easily with Maria. “You coming with us to Thanksgiving?” she asked hopefully. He was sporting a new bruise, flourishing just under his jaw. Sarah was under no illusions as to who’d given it to him. “Yeah, he said under his breathe. My old man ain’t been too loving lately”, he spat. Sarah had seen for herself what Mr Conlon was capable of - it was usually her or Davey bandaging him up. The two of them stood side by side, watching Davey converse with Mrs Valenti. He had that laid back charm that made old ladies smile and remark what a nice boy he was as soon as he turned it on. “Hey Spot, did I hear you’ve been harassing my pooch?“ Sarah muttered, seeking to change the subject. Spot knew what she was doing - it was a favourite Jacobs tactic - but he appreciated it nonetheless. “Your “pooch”, as you call him, is well able to look after himself - the only person being harassed in that car was me “, he retorted. Sarah grinned impishly. “Aw, was the great king of Brooklyn defeated by a dog and his toy cat?” Spot’s arm shot around her shoulders, pulling her close enough to ruffle her hair - about the most physical he got with anyone. “You watch out, Sarah Jacobs - I don’t fight girls, but for you I can make an exception!” Spot released her, just in time to see Race’s eyes on the two of them. There was something in his eyes that made Spot uneasy. Longing? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt suddenly protective of Sarah. No puppy-eyed Italian mama’s boy lays a finger on her, he thought, glaring at Race. Race’s heart sank when Spot’s eyes met his. He hadn’t meant to stare - there was something familiar about the other boy, he’d seen him before, but his glare didn’t encourage familiarity. Great, now he thinks I was ogling his girlfriend. He started when Maria tapped him on the back of the hand. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself, Tony?” He looked around, seemingly lost in thought. “Oh - I’m Antonio - Tony - Higgins”, he flustered, shaking hands with Davey. Spot looked at him long and hard before accepting his handshake, his glare never losing its intensity. Up close, it was even more uncomfortable - Race felt as though he were a butterfly, pinned firmly down. Sarah noted with interest that he’d lost all his previous charm and swagger - this was a different Racetrack than the one she’d helped to move stock earlier. “Mama, I forgot to take in the urn”, Race mumbled, like a child begging to be excused. Mrs Valenti beckoned subtly for him to go, then turned her attention back to her guests. David, she had decided, was absolutely lovely - the same manners as his sister, well groomed, a natural conversationalist. She was not so sure about the other boy though - he was no relation of theirs, that she could tell - where they were neat and well turned out, he was casual to the point of untidiness - a large flannel shirt billowed around him, and his hair hung untidily around his face. He had none of their calm aura either - his fingers tapped and fiddled constantly, as if of their own accord. His eyes darted constantly around the shop - not in the way a thief’s would, but a fugitives, as if he was memorising his surroundings with a view to escape. Mrs Valenti saw something in those eyes that awakened a deep sense of unease within her - there was something wild about that hungry, haunted look that she had not seen in many years. She had seen eyes like those, hundreds of them, back home - in the faces of the men who’d returned from the war, their minds forever marked by the terrible things they had seen. No, he could not possibly be family - a friend perhaps? Boyfriend of Sarah? She shook her head slightly. A shame, she decided, when there were plenty nice, straightforward boys like her Antonio. Spot waited until Mrs Valenti was engrossed in conversation with Sarah and Davey before slipping quietly out of the shop. He found Race outside, holding a cigarette with trembling hands. Wordlessly, he pulled out one of his own. The two boys leaned against opposite sides of the doorway, both staring resolutely ahead. Spot took a deep pull, deciding what to do next. “Well Tony”, he drawled. “You and your grandmother seem real close.” * “I guess”, Race shrugged. “I’ve seen you at Sheepeshead”, Spot said suddenly. “You go there every Saturday. You bet whatever money you have with you. You win some, you lose some, but you always make sure to have as much when you leave as when you came in. You walk home alone, in rain you take the Subway. Isn’t that right, Race?” Race nodded, his eyes wide with fear. “I know you, Race”, Spot continued. “I know where to find you. You might know me, you might think you know me, you might recognise me from somewhere - I don’t care. As long a you know that if you ever touch that girl in there, you will never set foot in Brooklyn again. If you lay so much as a finger on her, if you flirt with her, if you LOOK at her the wrong way, Spot Conlon will find out. And God help you when I do”. Race looked at him, aghast. If this was Spot’s reaction to the thought that Race might fancy Sarah, just imagine if he found out…… “Listen, I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea back there”, he stuttered. “But I’m… I wasn’t thinking of Sarah that way.” Spot raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Well it sure looked like that to me”. Race took a shaky pull of his cigarette. “I’m not into girls much… I mean they’re nice but…. Not my thing, I guess. I’m sorry if you thought I was trying to move in on your girlfriend”, he finished lamely, bracing himself. Boys like Spot didn’t, in his experience, take well to his sexuality. He turned slowly, not sure what to expect. Spot stared at him in disbelief, cigarette suspended halfway to his mouth. “You thought… Sarah and I were together?” Race shrugged miserably. “Well yeah. When you came in, putting your arm around her, it looked-” He broke off, silenced by a loud laugh from Spot. “No man, you’ve got it all wrong - Sarah’s - oh wow - Sarah’s like a sister to me!” Spot snorted. “Plus, she’s - she has a girlfriend”. Race blinked in surprise. “You’ve never had feelings for her?” Spot stared at him incredulously. “Look, Racetrack, I swing the other way. Violently. I’m gay as hell!” Spot laughed at Race’s stunned expression. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” Mrs Valenti looked up in surprise as Race and Spot reentered together. “Sean, I didn’t notice you leave!” she exclaimed. “That’s alright, I was just helping Racetrack with the urn”, Spot replied mildly. Mrs Valenti nodded, pleasantly surprised. She turned back to Sarah. “I’m afraid the typewriter is, right now, unworking. Tony has tried to fix, but, no good. It is old, hard to know”. Sarah nodded. “That’s alright, Mrs Valenti”, she smiled, trying to hide her disappointment. Davey looked at his sister, then at Spot. “Sp- Sean is good at that kind of thing”, he blurted. Spot looked at him, then nodded. “My grandad was good at fixing things… I could try the typewriter, if you’ll let me”, he said slowly. Mrs Valenti took a moment to consider this. “I see no problem”, she said eventually. “Tony, are you happy to work with Sean?” Race’s heart leapt. “Sure, I’d be happy to���, he stammered, reddening. Race waved with Mrs Valenti from the doorway as the car pulled away from them, piled high with bags. He could just about see Spot in the back, almost obscured completely by a large, shaggy black dog. Race couldn't​ be certain, but he could have sworn Spot was grinning straight at him. His hand drifted down to his pocket, to the slip of paper that had been pressed into his hand as they’d all said goodbye. “Lovely girl, isn’t she?” Mrs Valenti piped up from Race’s shoulder. He mumbled incoherently, nodding slightly. It wasn’t Sarah’s number in his pocket.

[oliviascanestextiles-blog]

Knit Introduction

Crochet

The next eight weeks comprise of being introduced to knit, stitch print and weave in two week intervals; the first two weeks for me I will be learning to to make knit and crochet samples by hand and using domestic knitting machines. We started by creating small crochet samples, mines based on the coloured drawings of my dried violet flowers. Having lots of experience in crochet I made a quick start and included stain stitches, crochet stitch and double crochet stitch. Whilst crocheting myself, I taught the left handed people around me how to crochet; I found this quite challenging but I noticed it helped me grow my confidence in talking technically about crocheting. To gain the most out of the crochet tutorial I taught myself how to do a treble crochet and incorporate that into one of my small samples. To treble crochet you count 5 chains from the working loop, you wrap the yarn twice around the hook before going into the stitch; then the crochet part is similar to a double crochet except you pull through an extra two loops. 

To develop my crochet samples, I weaved more thread in and out of them and joined them too some of my domestic machine knitting pieces. My skills so far in knit are quite strong but I wish to improve on hand knitting so I’m able to wildly experiment with the look of the knitting samples I make so they aren’t so traditional. 

Domestic knit machine day 1

Casting on

Stripes 

Tension multi yarns

Learning the ins and out of using the knit machine came with some difficulty. We learned how to cast on and create a knit sample to have texture; through varying tensions and having stripes of different colour or multi yarns, where two types of yarn were knitted together. The session have a slow start as I tried to get my head around how to do it the opposite way round, being left handed, but I soon got the hang of creating a simple knit sample. The most difficult part was making sure the yarn always stayed in the needles, occasionally I’d get a bit carried away when applying the claw weights and being able to simply run the feeder back and forth. As I developed my samples and included different tensions and colours, the float in the knits became the hardest struggle to fix. Floats are the pieces of yarn connecting one end of a colour stripe to its next stripe further up the knit. I found my floats kept getting caught amongst the feeder and breaking, which meant I had an open part of my knit that created an unravelling effect. On occasions I liked the outcome of a dropped stitch or unravelled section because it created a sense of character; and as these samples are based on the objects of my home, some being very old, the holed look in the knit complimented my old objects. Creating a colour menu for the knit was the most fun. I knew I wanted to include pink as it was my favourite colour and the colour of my two favourite tv characters, Piglet and Bagpuss. I combined the pink with white to crate the stripes of Bagpuss and then added purple baed on my dried flower drawings and green which contrasts the pink and purple and represent all the botanical paintings in my home. Even though the samples aren’t perfect, my colours and variation of tension that created large knitted holes, made my first ever work on a domestic knit machine very likeable.

Domestic knit day 2

Lace holes

Ladders

Hooking up

Multi yarns with transfer tool

E wrapping

In this domestic knit tutorial I was introduced to the transfer tool which allows me to create ladders, holes, distort fabric, make hems and  incorporate multiple yarns. At first the process of transferring the yarn from the needle and onto the transfer tool then coincidentally back onto the needle came with some trouble because it easily slides of the tool or misses the needle meaning you drop a stitch and leave a large ladder in your work that will continue to unravel. By working very slowly I managed to make lace holes well and moderately perfect ladders. I discovered that when you transfer yarn onto a needle that needle now has twice the amount of yarn so if my tension is very low it might cut the yarn and create holes; therefore I need to always check my tension before pulling the slider across when transferring. The multi yarn process with the transfer tool meant that every other needle was empty so an extra yarn of a different colour would be seen equally as the original bit of yarn. This process is preferred to threading up two yarns in one mast as this create irregular transfer of colours in the sample. I laid with the colours pink and orange in the transfer tool multi yarn technique because it allowed a subtle mix of two colours that compliment each other very well and replicate two objects in my box, (bagpuss and an 80s ready break milk bottle). The one restriction with adding yarns through the mast or with the transfer tool is the thickness of the yen allowed; thicker yarns get caught within the mechanisms, so to place thicker yarns in a knit sample you need to use a process called e-wrapping, where the yarns are wrapped round needles everything in an e shape motion. This also allows you to make shapes with the yarns. I created multiple triangles and squares in my samples, and is your machine is set to a large tension the e wrapping yarn is seem more though the sample. 

The final technique we were taught was hooking up, which again uses the transfer tool. The transfer tool would hook a hole in the yarn and hook it up to the needle so two sections of the sample are joined. This can make a wave effect, I personally didn’t like the wave/distorted look and preferred to make a waved hem that neatens the sample and adds character by turning the straight bottom of the sample into a waved one. 

My favourite technique using the transfer tool was make lace holes as it creates a  contrast between the knit texture and the emptiness of the hole.

Domestic knit day 3

Fringing

Casting off

Adding fringing into the samples allowed me to further add texture and hence be able to relate my knit work to my box of objects. My first attempt making fringing didn’t go to lan as I placed my pen (which is used to wrap the yarn around) was paced to close to the needles to the slider wasn’t able to knit the next line as the pen blocked its path. This led to making very long fringing so the pen wouldn’t obstruct the slider again. This technique is great but means the typical back side of the sample now becomes the front with the fringing being on the side facing you, but wasn’t a big problem as I usually prefer the back of the knit sample, particularly when e wrapping. With having all my samples slowly unravel, I was excited to learn how to cast off my samples, so I could create a fully complete knit piece. Again I found working slowly was the best way to get the hang of casting off, especially when on error could mean dropping a stitch and making a ladder all the way through the sample. With learning to cut off, I felt a lot more accomplished in using the domestic knit machine, as I finally knew the ending process, casting off gave me the same satisfaction of finishing a book.

Hand knitting and pom pom making 

We had another knit session without using machines which focused on making pomp poems and a hand knit sample. The pom pom activity went very well and I produced an array of varying sized pom poms with a colour scheme that echoes my domestic machine knit samples. I was unfamiliar to the process of using two circular cardboard discs to make the pom poms as I originally use my hands; this led to me making the first pom pom wrong because I jumped the gun thinking I knew how to make them, and left out the second disc which when wrapped around with yarn a piece of string can glide in between the two discs to tie the bundle of yarn together. From this mistake I learnt not to assume I know best and instead firmly listen to instructions first. My favourite pom poms where block coloured because they allowed the colours to be seen boldly in the pom pom whereas speckled pom poms, created by wrapping multiple coloured yarn around the disc at once, led to colours drowning amongst each other. I found displaying the pom poms on a white wall helped me decide which colours I needed more of and if any didn’t collaborate well. 

With a successful first activity I was in a positive mood until I tried to learn how to knit… I found this a very tricky task as I find it easiest to learn through watching people rather than reading instructions and looking at visuals (which is what. We were given). I luckily had someone to help me to start my knit but with time I kept dropping stitches and creating a bit of a mess. By practising and watching more tutorials I will improve my knit skills and hopefully be as confident in knit as I am in crochet. 

Domestic day 4 

Patchwork /joining

Cording

Incorporating unusual materials

The first technique taught on this day was a very simple one, cording. This is where a row is stitched, then the stitch going back is missed to join either. End of the knits together so a cube is created. It is a very simple process except having to remember to un-press the button that allows you to cord before re casting on. I found making cords to be very therapeutic with pulling the carriage repeatedly back and forth. With the cording sample, I then hooked it onto a knit sample to create a cascading effect. Patchwork is a favourite look of mine, with having made patchwork blankets in the past and the history of patchwork dating back to recycling and reusing fabrics, which is something I’m very passionate about. So learning how to patch together samples of knit that don’t particularly look astonishing on there own but collectively create a sample of character. What I like best about the patchwork technique is that all the small samples that went wrong and had no chance of looking great could be used to make a larger, interesting sample. The quirkiness of patchwork aesthetic draws me in even more. To make samples even more unique the technique of incorporating materials with the hook up technique also links to the patchwork technique as both work with reusing unwanted materials and samples. My most interesting samples included adding fabrics and patchworking samples. These techniques were a great way to finish off my knit tutorials as I developed a style in the knit that relates to my objects; making a quirky mess.