#novelty yarn

[gaviicreates]

Bingo Roll 2 - heaviest weight yarn

Bingo Here When I made this roll, I mentioned I thought it might actually be worsted, which would've been a totally lame challenge. But pretty quickly, I realized I did have some slightly larger yarns around.

I just wound two of them! I have a brand new swift and ball winder and had just worked up cakes for two gorgeous hanks of Aran weight hand-dyed's from Hedgehog Fibres. And as happy as I was to have something to actually make this challenge something a bit different, I'd planned to use this yarn for a knitted project. The fun of Hedgehog Fibre is the lovely bursts of color, but I had one of those colorways that I knew would be better served in smaller knit stitches. And as I was debating if knit would fill this crochet challenge, I found another skein. Just one outlier skein that was listed in a heavier weight than the Aran.

To my absolute HORROR it was this that I had on hand:

Let's talk about Peacock. Take a look near my fingers where I've pulled out one strand for a better view of what this looks like outside the skein.

If you like novelty yarns, this one may very well be for you. For me, I make doilies. I like cotton and stitch definition and fine threads. I like to be precise about where my stitches are going. Peacock is a Bulky 5 weight that comes in 100g skeins of 65m or 71 yards. It is 100% polyester and the label recommends a size K 7mm crochet hook.

The reason I had it in my stash was because it was part of Hobbii's 2022 Holiday Mystery Boxes. Otherwise, this is not a yarn I would own.

It was fluffy and soft as is the promoted appeal, but being all synthetic, I was surprised I actually did find my hands itching after trying to work with it. I I tend not to be that sensitive, so maybe it was just translating into itching while I was struggling with stitches.

You can't see where you are putting your hook. At all.

In the end to fill the challenge, I started playing with the most basic of single crochets and worked up a thin, skinny scarf for the fall. It's not the most inspiring use for a novelty yarn, but as this was so out of my wheelhouse, even just getting a flow of stitches felt like a success.

Use Heaviest Weight Yarn in Stash✔️

but I started a doily right after this in protest

[tj-crochets]

So I went by Joanns to get some replacement rotary cutter blades, and I'm sort of growing my hair out for the first time in years*, and apparently slightly longer hair knocks a couple of years off my perceived age? The lady who worked at Joanns was super nice but also made sure to tell me to be super extra careful, because rotary cutter blades are very, very sharp. She also tried to redirect me from my replacement blades (the largest of the three sizes) to a pretty pastel purple rotary cutter that has the smallest blade size lol *for years my haircut has been super short, like between one and three inches depending on how long since I cut it, standing straight up on the top of my head. Now that I've finally let it grow long enough it can't stand straight up, it's almost trying to be curly?? Not succeeding especially well, but it's very messy and floofy and I am loving it lol

[mossydice]

Yarn doodle!! nos on the "hi doggy" side of the bat-thing spectrum :]

[grub-s]

we did some silly stuff on plying day, enjoy my first ever attempt at bouclé

[exculis]

i wanna go cake this yarn up but also it looks so pretty like this i wanna savor it a little longer...

[goodlucksock]

Did you hear about the nun who got addicted to knitting? She said that needles were habit forming.

Knitting socks available at GoodLuckSock.com

[moondirti]

sorry to the soft simon lovers but i am fixating on the idea of him being too abrasive for greater society. no, hear me out. he can't be normal after what he’s been through. after what he's done.

cw: dead dove. sadism. inferred sexism and stalking. punitive harassment. idk guys he's gross. 18+ MDNI

he's just a little too odd, grim, ugly, cruel, rude. he stares too long and makes jokes that strike the wrong chord in most. he's into things that are not as sexual as they are humiliating to his partners, and can not be satisfied by any relationship his therapist would deem as healthy. even physically, he's torn in all the wrong places. his scars aren’t rugged but almost painful to look at. his hands are huge and calloused and 60 grit sandpaper against soft skin. his nose is crooked. his hair is shorn short. he has a mean smile, watery eyes.

the one thing keeping him from being completely ostracised is the flag on his arm, the one he fights for. but it's like putting a tarp over some horrible, disfigured mess – you can still see the general shape of it underneath. most shrug it off as fine, go figure. you teach a soldier to kill and they cope by being killers. it's funny because simon's issues began way before he enlisted – he spoors it back to conception, when his father gave him a part of himself that can never be scoured clean. the military is just where he resides to conceal the stink of miasma he'll never rid of. piss over piss. putting a reason to the barbarity.

for a while, it's enough. he sticks to the corners. for all his sadism, he's not keen on subjecting the general public to his complications. he's smart enough to separate good from what makes him feel good. he only interacts with others like him – price, mostly, who's better at playing pretend but has issues that bury their roots just as deep. or maybe he's able to see simon for what he really is, and the novelty of not having to bite his tongue is enough to form a gossamer bridge of friendship. he sleeps with masochists who don't know what's good for them, all of them men (though it never pays when they're into what he's inflicting). in between missions, he'll disappear to his shitty apartment that he pays for in cash and drink himself to oblivion as he scrolls through a deprecating XXX site.

if he gets inebriated enough, he'll open up tinder and swipe through the birds advertising themselves, as if he were the holy arbitrator of what's attractive. safe because he made it so that no one would match with him; his profile is blank. no bio, no age. Riley as his first name and a picture of a shutterstock german shepherd because having one photo was a requirement.

the lifestyle probably exacerbates his problems.

maybe that's why he reaches a point of no return when he gets a text late one night. he doesn't give his number to anyone, so the only app it could be from–

your dog's cute. what's his name?

it's to his sloshed astonishment that someone swiped right on him. not even him, but a barebones, dodgy profile he curated to keep everyone at arms length when he chooses to indulge in his destructive habits. you're cute too, suspiciously darling and a whole open book – five pictures, a colourful description and your city of residence. you cannot be short of options, certainly not enough to drive you to a point of desperation, so there's no mistaking what this is.

you're setting up a little pet project. something to bat at like a cat does a ball of yarn, with no intention to commit or ever see him in real life. perhaps you chose him because there’s nowhere to go but up. or because his disinterest seems glaringly obvious, and a simple risk assessment told you that you wouldn't suffer an obsessive stalker if you ever chose to ghost him.

unfortunately for you, that couldn't be further from the truth. that simple question is enough to push him over the edge.

he's tired of holding back.

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all my neighbors had a yard sale and I got an autoharp but I know absolutely nothing about autoharps, how to tune them, or how to play them. Do you have any advice?

[leafsbabe]

Sidney Crosby - cozy (SMUT)

Sid sneaking out of bed before dawn didn’t wake you. Neither did him getting ready or making his breakfast. In fact you were still asleep when he came back from training.

You looked cute, he could admit that. At some point you had rolled over onto his side and buried your face in his pillow, blankets piled high in your little nest.

He felt a little bad waking you from your slumber, but you couldn't spend all day sleeping. Sid spent a good while staring at the kitchen cupboard trying to figure out which one of your mugs he should pick before settling on a novelty one shaped like a pumpkin. The cat came running at the sound of the coffee machine, winding through his legs and yelling up at Sid. He opened another cupboard, one of the top ones you never reached for, and pulled out a suspiciously empty treat packet but for sneaking him a couple. 

By the time the complicated concoction you like to call coffee was done, he had curled up in his bed on the living room windowsill, watching fat raindrops roll down the glass. Sid looked at him before picking up the mugs — your fancy one and his plain one— and makig his way back to the bedroom.

He put the mugs down on his nightstand, opened a window to let the fresh air and the sound of rain in, and then slid back under the blankets with you. Sid could feel you cuddle up to him immediately. He didn't even need to do much. Petting your head one, two, three times was enough to have your blink awake, body contorting into a big stretch before you realize he was there. 

“Morning.” You mumbled before a yarn interrupted you. Cute.

“Close.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head where his hand had been. “It’s just after 10.”

“Oh.”

Not wanting to see you upset right after waking up he leaned over to grab your mug. “Coffee?”

That brought a smile to your face. “Yes, please.”You happily accepted the mug, bringing it up to your face straight away. “Thank you.”

Sid loved moments like these. The gloomy weather, a good cup of coffee, you.

“Do you just want to spend the day in bed?”

It wasn't often that he allowed himself the luxury of staying in bed all day but today just called for it. He had already spent the morning training so he wasn't completely lazy at least. 

“That sounds perfect.”

The two of you spent the rest of the morning just cuddling and talking and enjoying each other's company. For lunch you ventured out to the kitchen to grab food, then brought it over to the couch and ate while catching up on your shows.

Outside the rain picked up but inside the mood had settled. After lunch the two of you headed back to the bedroom. You both wanted to get some reading done but he couldn't help but watch your ass as you bent down to pick up the romance you were reading.At least he managed to adjust himself and pick up his own book before you climbed back in next to him.

Sid was in the middle of reading about an English regicide when you began pawing at his stomach, dangerously close to his dick. He lowered his book just enough so that he could look at you. “Can I help you?”

“Do you want to… I mean… I feel empty. And I wanted to know if you would…” 

Your hand dipped down to cup him through his sweatpants but Sid would have understood what you needed from him even without it.

“Need me to fill you up?”

“Please.”

He leaned away to put his book down, growing hard annoyingly fast. Your own book laid sprawled next to you, page down next to your sleep shorts.

You waited for him, melting into the bed the moment his full attention was on you. Sid wasn’t surprised to find you already wet when he touched you. The sighs and high little noises that left your mouth were so pretty until you decided to bite your lip to stop them from escaping. He didn't toy with you for long, thumbing at your folds for a moment then moving along to your clit. Sid didn't want to tease you when you had asked him to fill you, so he gave you one of his fingers as soon as he felt you were ready. A second followed soon after. By the time he had worked you up to the three he usually liked to prep you with, you didn't hold back your moans anymore.

“Ready?”

He tried his best not to feel smug when instead of answering him verbally you just nodded frantically and pulled him into a kiss. He indulged you for a moment but stopped when he felt like he was getting too worked up.

“On your side.” He ordered playfully, chuckling when you whined in response.

“Come on.” I’ll keep you full and you keep me warm.”

Figuring out a good position for you two didn't take long. Sid slid inside you slowly, making sure to be gentle as he filled you up. It would have been easier if you'd stop wriggling though. Once you found a comfortable position you picked your book back up and Sidney reached for his, trying not to move too much. This wasn't about getting off for the two of you. It was about comfort. About keeping an ache at bay.

You spent the next hour or so reading your own books, connected but dedicated to your separate literature. Sidney liked that he could do this for you, that you felt comfortable enough to ask for this. He also liked the feeling of your warmth surrounding him, the subconscious little squeezes around his length when something exciting was happening, the way you pushed on your lower stomach as if you could feel him even though he wasn't that big and you weren't that small.

He had asked you about it after your first few times, wanting to know what made you want it. It just feels nice, you had told him, warm and full and like I can just turn my brain off for a while.

Rain continued to pelt against the windows.

Sid knew you couldn’t wait much longer when you started to squirm and grind back against him. Cockwarming didn’t always lead to sex but sometimes it just wasn’t enough and you needed him to take care of you properly. But even though he could recognize your neediness he wouldn’t give you anything until you asked for it.

It took you twenty more minutes of sneakily trying to fuck yourself on his dick before you gave in.

“Sid. Please.” You whined, pressing your body back against his. “I need more. Need you.”

He didn’t give in immediately, instead putting his book down and taking a moment to just watch you desperately moving against him. He’d always give you what you asked for even when he liked to tease you.

It was easy for him to roll on top of you, forcing you to move with him until you laid on your stomach, pressed flat to the bed with him looking down on you. 

You gasped at the movement but that quickly turned into another whine when you realized he wasn’t moving. You couldn't even move back because his hips were holding yours in place. He was filling you, but not in the way you needed.

Finally he started to move, slowly pulling out before fucking back in roughly. A single strong thrust that had you clutching the sheets, waiting for more. 

He leaned down, his strong chest warm against your back through both of your shirts, and pressed a kiss against your shoulder blade.

“Please.” You begged again.

Sidney liked to tease but he wasn't cruel, if you wanted to be fucked he wouldn’t deny you that pleasure.

He started fucking you in earnest, building up a rhythm until the sounds of your bodies connecting started to rival those of the rainstorm outside.

Sid let you muffle your moans even though he preferred to hear them. The sight of you hugging a big pillow, clutching it to your chest and burying your sweet head in it to quiet yourself down, did things to him you would need to explore later.

Following the line of your body further down he could see himself fucking you. The way you enveloped him, your body moving whenever he thrusted into you. Sidney felt himself getting closer to an orgasm. Not wanting to come yet he slowed down his thrusts, choosing to focus on strength rather than speed. Your whole body moved on the bed every time he entered you, putting those glutes to good use.

He didn't realize how close you'd been until you tightened around him, screaming into your pillow as you came. Sid continued fucking you through your orgasm, shallow thrust and deep grinds to carry you through without overwhelming you; all while he was still chasing his own hight but not as frantic as he would have before.

He pulled out —slowly, carefully— after you stopped shaking, content to just jerk himself the rest of the way and come across your ass when you turned around beneath him.

You looked so beautiful, wrecked in the best way, with messy hair and the lines of the pillow pressed into your skin. Sid wanted to trace them but he held himself back.

“You don’t have to. You can… inside.” You smiled up at him wide eyed.

Sid groaned as he buried his cock in you and his head in the crook of your neck. It didn’t take him long to follow you over the edge. Fucking back in as deep as he could, he came, muffling his moans against your skin.

The two of you basked in the afterglow for a little while before Sid convinced himself to leave your warm bed and get a washcloth to clean you up. He had just returned to you when the first grumbling started in the distance.

By the time the rainstorm outside had turned into a full thunderstorm the two of you had gotten dressed again and were about to snuggle when you remembered something.

“Can you open the door so that Mav can get in if he gets scared?”

He loved his cat, he really did, but the allergy meds only went so far. The bedroom and his gym were the only off limit areas without cat hair everywhere.

“You know-”

You cut him off. “I know it’s not his first thunderstorm but what if he gets scared?”

It wasn’t a fight he would win.

Groaning, he got up, gathering his blanket and pillow before walking over to the door.

“What are you doing?”

“He can’t sleep in here with us.” It was a rule where Sid put his foot down. He quite liked being able to breathe, thank you very much. “But we can go out there with him.”

After he dumped his blanket on the couch, he returned, finding you in the same position he left you in.

“I can’t walk.” You gestured to your legs; they were no longer shaking but Sidney knew all too well what he could do to you.

Instead of responding verbally he just scooped you and your blanket up before making his way back to the living room. He dumped your comfy heap on the couch and got ready to settle in next to you when a tiny meow under his blanket caught his attention. Apparently Maverick had already gotten comfortable in his new hiding spot. 

Sid let him have it, sliding in next to you under your blanket instead. The three of you could just spend the rest of your bed day on the couch.

[saffscrafting]

As a knitter from the early 2000s all I can say is

I’m sorry… I think we started it.

white chenille yarn is my enemy

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Hunter of Love.

Every decision made or not made branches off and creates new realities. There are a countless number of those realities.

Worlds of infinite choices—he will glimpse them all.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Rook dances through the darkness, unburdened and dauntless. Not a single step produces a sound—though if it had, the sound would no doubt be absorbed into the abyss. He glides effortlessly, a swan upon still water.

There is no road for his feet to follow, only a plane of darkness. Heels strike it, eliciting a clear clack-clack-clack, as if the floor is marble.

The walls—if they can be called that; there's nothing solid when he sticks his arms out to test the environment—are laden with full-body mirrors. They're mounted up upon nothing, floating in place, their reflective faces clean, clear, and free of cracks.

He is drawn to them, tugged along as if compelled by the red string of fate.

In each, he is presented with a novelty.

Familiar places and people, refracted and twisted into something new. Something beautiful.

An ethereal art gallery for his own amusement.

He turns his head, taps fingers along the frames of each realm in turn.

A Night Raven College with as many as fourteen dorms. A Night Raven College set upon a stage, scripts in the hands of every student. A Night Raven College of young women, not young men.

Jade with his hair styled up in a mohawk, a plethora of piercings studding his face. Kalim with a monkey upon his shoulder, sharing a platter of fruit. Young Epel in a pair of glasses, mouthing the lines to a play. Idia, smaller than even his younger brother, in an oversized sweater, playing on a mobile gaming console.

Rook imagines a great tree, its roots ever-growing, expanding deep, deep, deep into the soil and continuing still. Endless choices, endless possibilities.

C'est la vie—such is life.

He stops.

His hand now hovers over the glass casing of a tragedy.

Rook stares at a version of himself, collapsed beside a bottle of apple juice. Its caustic contents ooze out onto the ground, bubbling as it eats away at the floor.

The common man would be repulsed. Chilled to the bone. Frightened.

But Rook Hunt is not the common man.

"Comme c'est magnifique," he marvels. “Willingly consuming poison, wishing so desperately to believe that his queen was free of sin… Here lies a foolish dreamer in the aftermath, still having faith in his dear friend's integrity.”

Rook lingers, drinking in the details of the morbid work of art.

He does not move, does not breathe. Ignoring the bottle, it is as though he had been laid into a peaceful sleep. Lips arranged in a soft smile, long lashes cast over his cheeks.

A beautiful queen weeps for him, tears colored black as the night. His clothes are tattered, his crown tarnished. He is a flower of evil, stripped of his petals.

The next mirror, the mirror after—all horrific ends, varying shades of gruesome. Visions twisting, distorting.

A king dressed in roses slaying their victims, peasants who dares to defy their rule. A hyena dissolving into sand. Students trapped in constrictive tentacles, stripped of their talents.

Mindless drones lumbering around a seized castle. A reality dyed in ink, ruled by blue flames and Phantoms. And… a tangle of briar knitting over the world.

To him, they are just as lovely as the rest.

Heartbreaking, but lovely.

As that thought strikes him, the area ahead brightens. He spots color dotting the darkness.

They start as scribbles, clumsy trails of crayon left by a child's hand. Further along, the crayon gains dimension, turning into yarn threads. Eventually, they weave together to form a coherent path marked by cobblestones made of newspaper clippings.

It leads to a thicket unlike any he has ever seen.

Every glade of grass, every leaf and stem, is painted in a glistening coat of silver. The flowers are crystal, the fruit, plump jewels. The sky, a watercolor masterpiece of brilliant blues, white clouds dabbled on with an artist's sponge.

A tower rises in the distance, fine and thin like a needle. Its pointed roof pierces the heavens, and there is but one solitary window embedded in the structure.

Rook gasps, and a thousand or more reflected Rooks gasp too.

The leaves tinkle, a melody of wind chimes and bells. He feels as though they are beckoning to him, drawing him deeper and deeper into the forest.

His feet have a mind of their own; they start moving, as if bewitched by the majesty of the enchanted wood, by the mystery of the tower. Beads of dew upon the grass are left untouched as he swiftly passes.

A call reaches out from a place far, far away. It's not quite speech, but vocalizations resembling speech--someone grasping for the right words, the right feeling.

There is a haunting hollowness to the siren song. A longing so immense it makes tears spring to his eyes.

It must be seeking its other half, Rook realizes. A harmony for its melody, to form a duet.

But the longer he tries to focus on the sound, the more he tries to parse out its parts, the more confused he becomes. The voice is contradictory: familiar and yet unfamiliar, happy and yet sad.

His pace quickens, as does his heartbeat. It's an anomaly for him, for whom calmness comes easily.

I must go to them, he thinks, unsure of why. I must.

Is there a yet-to-be-discovered wonder on the other side? His queen, whom he has sworn his undying loyalty to, in danger? Is it from the strange tower? A stranger requesting his aid?

Curiosity thrums through him.

Hurry.

The tower seems to drift farther and farther away with each step. The voice, fainter.

Hurry...!!

Rook runs.

The building accelerates. The trees expand as if to fill in the space where the tower had fled.

Wildlife carved of glass watch, some racing with him. A deerling on limber, elegant legs, a rabbit bouncing as high as it can. Even the fish skip atop the river that runs concurrent with the forest trail, and a flock of birds soar upon their crystalline wings.

They trill, they coo, they sing.

His run becomes a sprint, and the sprint becomes a gallop. The call to adventure, loud and clear in his ears.

He is one with nature, and nature is one with him.

I must see for myself what lies at the ends of this world--and beyond it.

His spirit brims, burning with determination.

Chasing something he doesn’t know the true nature, the true face, of. For that... is the thrill of the hunt.

[homesweetgoodneighbor]

I hate chenille yarn. Y'all know it as that "blanket yarn" that's all the fucking rage right now.

Oh, it's soft and fuzzy and feels nice, but it's a fucking pain in the ass to work with. (Also tends to shed when washed, unless they fixed that issue.)

But, that's not the real reason I hate it.

I hate it because it's the new fucking trendy yarn, and it's turning off beginners from crochet left and right. All these tiktok and youtube jerks are like "use this 'blanket' yarn for fluffy amigurumi! it's easy!" and don't bother to tell them you have to use a super loose tension or you'll never get be able to close the loop in your magic ring because the yarn sticks to itself. They don't bother to say that it's so fluffy you can't see your stitches easily and that it's better to learn on worsted weight so you actually know what stitches you're making before moving to more advanced asshole yarn. They also don't mention it costs a fucking fortune!

I met a new lady in our Stitch and Bitch today who knew how to crochet blankets and scarves but who wanted help learning how to make plushes. And, of course, she pulled out this chenille. I tried to teach her on it, and after the third time cussing at it, I had her switch to some of my worsted weight, which she found MUCH easier to learn on. She told me at the end of Stitch that she had her confidence back, and it made me feel both simultaneously great and in need to go punch a tiktokker/mommy blogger.

It's the novelty yarn bullshit from 15 years ago all over again. I can't count the people who told me "I tried to learn crochet/knit, but I couldn't do it." only to find out they used some bizarro yarn that even I yell at, and I've been crocheting since I was a kid! (Looking at you Homespun.)

So, yeah, if you're having trouble learning and you're using something like chenille also known as "blanket yarn". Switch to worsted weight acrylic to learn and steer clear of "beginner" tutorials that use that fluffy shit. It will allow you to see what you're doing and where you need to put your hook. Not to mention it's a quarter of the price and you won't mind messing up on it.

[wickerwax]

QuinObi Week 2024 (25/10)

Day 5: Desert husbands / I missed you sex

soap feelings

There is a light on when he gets home.

Well, if he wants to get all technical about it, he snarks at the Obi in his brain, then there are many lights because the Temple is never fully asleep what with the many and varied species and their biological rhythms that it is home to.

But, as he slips in through one of the lower Shadow doors and drags his exhausted, slightly singed ass through the halls with only the bare minimum of polite nodding at those he passes, he is expecting his rooms to be dark. Empty.

He tries not to think the word lonely but he is a Jedi and self-awareness is part of the striving. Generally. He’s not sure who is even in-Temple right now – although of course, he’s looking forward to catching up with Aayla and seeing how her recent set of exams went. He can round her up for midmeal – since he’ll surely be sleeping through first – although if he wakes up somewhat earlier he might have luck swinging by the padawan dorms – she shouldn’t have started a new class cycle yet, and meditation and katas is generally earlier again...Force, he’s so tired. This is all tomorrow-Quin’s problem. Tonight’s Quin just needs to get into his rooms and not make too much of a mess falling into bed.

The plaque on his door is shined bright and lightly vandalised – Vosiferous sounds like a bastardisation of a Kenobi word, but the handwriting looks like Garen, and the glitter is very clearly Bant’s – little smiling mon calamari faces stuck grinning in all directions. It makes him smile as he keys open his door, braced for the empty to spill out.

Instead comes the quiet glow of the mini light just for the kitchen nook. It smells fresh and sweet inside.

He stops in the doorway. Checks the nameplate. Wonders if his friends have moved the nameplate to a different door just to fuck with him but. No, that’s his collection of sketches pinned to the wall, and his paints in their case on the shelf, and folded over the couch arm is the screaming yellow blanket that a much younger Kybuck Clan had presented him with, as proof of his honourary adoption into their creche clan. (Reeft had been the one to source the yarn and he’d picked it for Quin’s qukuuf and, as dressellians saw a slightly different light spectrum, resulted in the violently highlighter yellow. It was absolutely drenched with love and comfort and safety and it was still one of his most treasured possessions.)

Definitely his rooms then. The blanket was inviolable.

He steps inside, the door swishing quietly closed behind him. The light hums very faintly, warm and welcoming. He drops his bag next to the door.

On the little half bench is the large novelty tankard that made its way home with them after his Knighting, a ridiculous home for a thick spill of bright rhoden flowers on their woody stalks. They smell like green things and nectar and the first time he realised he wanted to hold Obi’s hand and reflexively started talking about anything else and, well, the rhoden bush was there. He walked away with a strong need to meditate for several hours after having inadvertently convinced Obi-Wan that he had very strong opinions and preferences in flowers. Quin guessed that now he did after having one of his favourite people gift them to him so many times.

He breathes in the scent of the rhodens and closes his eyes and can’t fight the lightness that enters his chest.

He isn’t sure what option takes him out at the knees more: Obi-Wan keeping flowers freshly in his rooms just in case, or if he had felt a premonition of his return and made sure it would be a pleasant one.

Deciding to process that when he isn’t running on stim shots and caf, he crosses to the ‘fresher and has the slowest quick clean-up ever. He doesn’t have to move fast so there’s no pressure and therefore he moves like tree sap through ditching his clothes into the hamper to take to the laundry chute later, checks for any damage he might have missed – luckily not – and crawls into the shower to be clean.

His soap sliver has been replaced with a new bar in his usual scent and now Quinlan is having soap feelings because obviously he picked it up barehanded in the kriffing shower and there’s a flash of Obi-Wan and comfort-home safe – peace radiating off it even more than Temple-made soaps usually do – and now he’s crying in the shower, y’know, just a little bit, in a calm and measured Jedi sort of way because he’s loved, he’s so loved-

Quinlan?

Oh, and now he’s woken up the catalyst of his little breakdown.

The sleepy presence gets clearer as Obi-Wan becomes more alert, so Quin only has a moment to stabilise his breathing and press surprise-affection at him while carefully shielding off the rest of the mess. Obi-Wan pauses and then glows back pleasure-affection and that edge of alarmed alertness drops away.

Quin lets the bond go quiet again. He shuffles the rest of the way through getting clean and dry basking in the echo he’d gotten from the soap, and ambles into his bedroom for a clean sleep tunic to find that the sheets are laundry fresh and turned down already.

He stops and stares. There’s a couple of hydropacks on the little table next to the bed where he usually keeps his ‘comm. The sleep tunic he was about to look for is neatly folded on his pillow.

He’s fairly sure it’s going to be soap all over again in here. Worse, probably, since the fibres hold impressions better than something as soft and squashy as soap.

He’s going to sleep so well.

The tunic is like being wrapped in a hug and he almost slides right into bed before he remembers the lights. He doesn’t honestly trust his fine control at this level of tired, and last time he’d risked it for that biscuit he’d broken his heating element somehow, so he drags himself back out to flip them off and sniff his flowers one last time.

There’s a very quiet tap, tap at his door.

Quin can’t deny the sudden speeding of his heart. He carefully makes his way over and keys the door open-

Obi-Wan’s sleepy face is the best homecoming. He’s heavy-eyed and his hair is kind of a mess and he has pillow marks on his cheek and forehead. He’s wearing a sleep tunic that used to be Quinlan’s because it’s way too fucking broad in the shoulders, and he walked here from his rooms in the middle of the night -read: way too early in the kriffing morning – despite being only half-conscious it looks like - for him.

He also, upon the door opening, beams at him and what else can Quin do, really, except swoop him up and into his arms and his rooms?

Obi clearly approves, if the way he winds his arms around Quin’s shoulders and snuggles in is any indication. Quinlan clings a little tighter and tucks his face into Obi’s neck and inhales the soap-and-skin scent of him. He gets a shiver for his trouble, a tremble and a tiny intake of breath and a slightly raspy, “Missed you, Quin.”

“Yeah.” His voice shakes just a bit, “Yeah, I’m getting that feeling. I missed you too, babe.”

And he’s tired, he’s so tired, but he has Obi-Wan all sleep-warm and soft in his arms and when he nuzzles closer Obi shivers again and angles his head away to give him more room, and he’s maybe not that tired, actually. He gets to sleep in tomorrow anyway.

Affection and attraction and interest are uncoiling in the Force between them, weaving through all the missed you and long mission and glad you’re home and same same same same. It’s overwhelming in the best way, much like the way that Obi-Wan is mouthing at his collarbone, and twitching under Quin’s hands as he strokes down his sides, his back, his hips.

“What woke me up?” Obi-Wan asks breathlessly, running his nails down Quin’s arm and dragging his tunic up. “The blanket? The conservator filled with your favourites?”

“Considering I didn’t know you’d gotten to either of those, no.” Quinlan pants, ditching his shirt before tugging him closer and toppling both of them onto the couch. “It was the kriffing soap.”

His entirely too devious lover lights up and then proceeds to kiss him so deeply that his brain leaks out of his ears. Worth it, he thinks, dizzy and lustdrunk, and trying very hard to remove Obi-Wan’s tunic. Worth all of it to come home to this.

“Bant and Garen helped with the blanket,” Obi-Wan tells him far too cheerfully for the blown-out pupils and expression of absolute focus aimed at him, “And, yes, very worth it. You’re projecting, my dear.”

“Good thing it’s on the other arm then or we’d be confusing their very nice contribution with all our sex vibes.”

“You’re too good for sex vibes now? Quin, what a terrible mission this must have been!”

“That-” Quin pulls him back down against his chest, nuzzling at his jaw, “-is absolutely not what I said. You are a demon.”

Obi-Wan is losing the fight to keep his eyes open – Quin knows all his soft spots and lays siege accordingly. “I am the definition of a delight- ah, darling, yes-”

It’s so much, Quin thinks muzzily as they twist to lie sideways, legs tangled and mouths hungry and hands knowing exactly where to touch, it’s so much to know you like this, to hold you.

It is so much to crawl through misery in the hopes of helping and get to come back to you.

Obi-Wan moans and his presence goes all brilliant, “Projecting, Quin.”

Quinlan knows. He tightens his grip on both of them and lets that wave of wonder-joy- so loved wash over and through them and everything is bright bright bright in time with his hand – their hands -

They unspool together, Force presences knit loose and comfortable and sprawling as much as they are in the crude matter on his couch.

Obi-Wan stirs first. He lifts his head enough to squint sleepily at Quinlan. “Welcome home,” he says, and it would be teasingly dry if his voice were less wrecked. Mostly, he sounds like he’s just had a staggering orgasm. Which, Quin is pleased to say, he has.

He gets a raised eyebrow for the incredibly smug expression he can feel on his face but the eyebrow of doom isn’t nearly as effective when he can’t keep his eyes fully open and also hasn’t stopped smiling. “I feel fairly welcomed.”

“Fairly?” Obi says, and he manages to sound unimpressed. He’s still smiling though.

“Fairly,” Quin agrees, “I might need another round to be sure.”

Ah, there’s the bitchy expression he loves so much. “Darling, I’m not sure you can even walk to bed now.”

“If you really wanted to welcome me home-” he wheezes and breaks off at the jab to his gut. “Peace! Force, Obes, so violent. I just got home!”

He gets an eyeroll and a very gentle kiss for his shit-stirring, which isn’t exactly good strategy to convince him not to shit-stir, Obi-Wan. Obi rolls off him in search of a clean cloth – which nails him in the face a moment later, so he found them – and reappears with the judgemental eyebrow back in play.

He is positively harassed off the couch (with a hand up and an arm around his waist) and bullied into bed (snuggled against Obi-Wan’s back) and behaves entirely the whole time (narrowly misses an elbow to the chest for making a “well, come!” pun).

He buries his face into Obi-Wan’s hair and takes a moment to memorise how it feels to lie here and hold him close and safe with the promise of getting to wake up to him for once. Obi soothes a hand over the arm around his waist when he tenses and then goes lax again.

He snuggles closer. “Missed you.”

Obi-Wan is quiet, and for a moment Quinlan thinks he’s already drifted off. Then, Obi links their hands together and lifts them to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of his hand. “Missed you too.” he murmurs as Quin goes over all shivery from the feelings pressed gently into his skin. And he thought the soap was bad. Good. A lot. “Woke up today and knew you were coming home and needed to make sure you knew. You were missed.”

“You were missed.” Quin mumbles back as he loses track of further words. Obi-Wan is too safe and too comfortable and close – the exhaustion rears its head again and this time there is nothing to even try and pull him away from sleep. He’s home and has his partner in his arms and nothing to do for now but to rest. He settles, curling close, and sleeps.

Out in the main room, the kitchen light glows warmly.

@quinobiweek

[affreca]

A couple of weeks I took a few spinning classes from my local store with a visiting teacher, Heavenly Bresser. While I consider myself a fairly experienced spinner I like to take as many classes as come past with good teachers because I don't know what I don't know. Two of the classes were about choices to get different looks with colors. I ended up using this beautiful braid in jewel tones that has been haunting my stash class exercises.

The first class focused on analyzing the colors in the braid and playing with that. We were provided various fibers we could add in (by combo drafting). For ease, I chain plied all the samples. In order the skeins are - spun straight, combo drafted with same fiber, combo drafted with grey BFL, combo drafted with orange merino (to complete color triad), combo drafted with mostly blue sari silk and drafted over white mohair yarn.

I was surprised how much I like the addition of orange. I can't say I love it, but I didn't dislike it as much as I expected. The drafting over mohair is a really neat novelty yarn. I might have to do a small project with a loopy yarn like that. Either a hat or scarf.

The Sunday class was fractals. I've done fractals before, but usually with more analogous colors. The skeins (from left to right) are 2 ply fractal, chain ply (from previous class), and 3 ply. I feel like the 3 ply ended up less speckly, because of the number of times that 2 plies ended up the same color.

[kitsumidori]

An assortment of Borderlands headcanons that I have saved up and I'm on when I'm going to ramble about these, but I'm doing it now. LET'S GOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tina would sometimes crochet whenever she fidgets, these would result in cute little yarn plushies that she would give to her friends.

Despite being one of the smarter vault hunters, Maya has shown to be a little dense at times (like one time she asked Lilith if she has extra closet space for her books, Lilith only responded with the most deadpanned face ever imagined while Maya was waiting for an answer) You can blame the monks for that.

Ironically despite being called “The Firehawk” Lilith has a mild phobia of birds (huge ones specifically) She’s ok with small ones like with Bloodwing and Little Talon, though she was taken off once she’d noticed Talon grew way bigger than Bloodwing did.

Hammerlock likes to collect novelty nick-nacks (tea/coffee cups, souvenirs from gift shops, those singing animatronic fish trophy's ECT) and has also dragged Wainwright down the rabbit hole into collecting little trinkets they’ll find while on holiday (One being a paperweight that looked like a eldritch squid god that he keeps on his desk)

Gaige having ADHD is something that everyone agrees with. But I like to add that while she can spend hours reading multi chapter fanfictions on the ECHOnet, she however can’t finish an actual book and would spend hours skimming the same two pages and getting a headache from it. However give her a comic book/graphic novel (something like The Bone series) literally anything with pictures and she can easily get though those in an afternoon.

During her recovery, Angel has taken to age regression to cope with what Jack did to her. Lilith and Gaige understand and would help with her coping.

Clay is definitely the type of guy that can’t be labeled (sexuality wise). But at the same time he’s not too picky on who or what he likes and is open to whatever.

Wainwright and Alistair would host the best house parties hands down, especially during the holiday seasons.

Example: On Bloody Harvest, The Jakobs Manor would become a haunted house attraction filled with all sorts of spooks and treats and during the summer season, the two would invite the Raiders for a big cookout/pool party.

Moze has Hirsutism (excess hair growth in unexpected areas of the body) though it is hardly noticeable because

1. It's usually around her chest and stomach which she would shave off (just because she's a soldier doesn't mean she has to give up personal care and it's really itchy)

And 2. She's been taking hormone medication so it does reduce it

However she'll have some days where she would forget to do either due to mental shutdowns.

Despite Outer Krieg's violent tendencies, he is no moron. He has a very strange patchwork of knowledge, it's anyone's guess what he knows about any given topic.

Tyreen has a deep fear of dating/romance, this mainly stems from the idea that it'll end up like with her mom and dad.

Maya has a very soft spot for children. She really hates the idea that adults would use and abuse one for their own personal gain (like what happened to her)

There have been some days when Maya would use her powers to do the most stupid and mundane things, like phaselocking and feeding herself a pizza because she's too lazy to use her hands.

Unknown to herself and everyone else, Maya has the ability to sense ghostly/supernatural presence. She gets a feeling like she's being watched at times.

Contrary to popular beliefs, the Handsome Jack and Typhon DeLeon vaultlander figures are nowhere near valuable. Ironically it's the Claptrap figure that's the most valuable and most rarest.

Typhons """"""fame"""""" has been dwindling ever since it's been reveled that he's nothing more than a gross deadbeat that took other people's credit, and newer generations of vault hunters see him as a poser

Maya has Astraphobia (fear of thunderstorms). This stems from when she was a kid back at Athenas, if a storm comes by the temple, she would hide and freeze up, praying for it to end. This trauma stems further with the fact that back then she didn't have anyone to go to for comfort.

While thunderstorms are very uncommon on Pandora (at least in the part's where the Raiders reside) when they do come, Krieg is right there to comfort her throughout the storm.

(more TBA later)

[qnewsau]

Tom Daley knitted his Olympic diving partner a ‘c**k sock’

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/tom-daley-knitted-his-olympic-diving-partner-a-ck-sock/

Tom Daley knitted his Olympic diving partner a ‘c**k sock’

In an interview on Tom Daley’s YouTube channel, which has resurfaced as a result of the pair’s silver medal- winning performance at the Paris Olympics, the diver and knitting enthusiast revealed that he made Noah Williams a “c**k sock”.

“It was your 21st birthday and we were in the middle of Budapest,” Daley said “and I was like, ‘What am I going to get him for his birthday? You know what, I’ve got yarn, I’ve got a crochet hook, and I’m gonna make him a c**k sock.’”

The 30-year-old then stated that he knew what size to make the sock because he goes by “the one-size-fits-most rule”.

“Are you surprised that I’ve actually worn it a few times?” Williams then asked his diving partner.

“No, I’m not,” Daley responded. “I think you actually posted a photo on your OnlyFans of you in your c–k sock. It’s nice that they’re used. Most of the time people use it as, like, a little novelty thing that never actually gets used. So, yeah, at least it’s used.”

Tom Daley has become a knitting enthusiast over the past few years, and even started his own seperate Instagram account to share his creations.

Earlier this week, he share a special Paris Olympics commemorative jumper that he had knitted before the games.

The jumper is in the shades of red, white, and blue to match both Tom’s UK flag and the Paris flag, with the intricate Eiffel Tower Paris 2024 logo across the front.

His initials “TD”  are on one sleeve and the number 5 on the other, to represent the diver’s fifth Olympics.

More on the Paris Olympics:

Olympic pole vaulter’s huge bulge costs him a medal in Paris

Retiring Aussie rugby star Sharni Smale wore her rainbow headgear at Olympics

Olympic opening ceremony drag queens sue after online abuse

Tom Daley busts big myth about his bed in Olympic Village

Olympian Robbie Manson makes more from OnlyFans than sport

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.