#spun woolen

[sonnentausnest]

Corriedale 2-ply, 14 wpi, spun woolen

[ezekiellsplayground]

Some miscellaneous handspun skeins, completed either on spindles or my e-spinner (electric wheel). The alpaca & alpaca/polwarth skeins are destined to be entered into the Royal 2025 under the spindle spun & lace weight categories respectively. Some of the other skeins are destined as gifts to crafting family & friends.

Miwak was made by #wormsandbones, design by #mokobuns

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [4]

series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines w.c: 4.2k tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol

You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.

Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.

A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.

“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”

He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.

Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.

“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.

A little like dried blood.

“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.” 

He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”

The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.

“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.

“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”

You nod.

As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.

Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.

Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.

But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.

Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you. 

Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.

Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.

“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.

You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing. 

“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”

 “Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.

It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.

The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them. 

You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.

“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.

“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.

“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”

You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force. 

There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.

“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.

The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.

“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”

The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.

“How are ye, Kari?” 

“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly. 

You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament. 

But still, you admire Kari. 

“And you?” her eyes soften.

“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.

“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.

Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.

They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.

It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.

Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.

He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.

“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.

Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.

“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks. 

“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”

“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.

“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.

“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”

You pause.

“A hunt?”

Johnny nods. 

“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”

Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.

“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.

There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent. 

A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.

You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.

That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.

Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening. 

They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless. 

Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent. 

Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green. 

You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.

You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.

Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.

“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”

“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.

“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.

“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.

Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.

“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”

He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.

An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.

The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in. 

But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.

That would make you the other side of the coin. 

The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.

You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat. 

Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.

An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.

It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?

Hadn't you willed this?

Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.

And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.

They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.

You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving? 

Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you. 

No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.

The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.

You wanted to live, you think. Even then.

A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.

The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.

Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.

What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.

“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.

You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?

“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”

When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.

Provocative.

“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”

He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.

“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”

And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.

“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.

“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.

“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”

“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.

Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.

“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue. 

“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.

He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.

“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.

You’re wet.

“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.

Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.

Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.

“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”

And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.

He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.

“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”

He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–

He stops. 

You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.

“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.

He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.

“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”

You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.

Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.

When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.

Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.

God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?

“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.

And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.

All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy. 

Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.

The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.

“One more,” he grunts.

“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.

You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender. 

Boneless.

You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.

You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.

Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.

“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.

Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.

Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator. 

What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.

Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.

Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.

You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.

You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.

You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.

Dawn breaks.

[itsabouttimex2]

How Can We Use Y/N?

So I’ve been watching Delicious in Dungeon, and… thinking about Beastman!Y/N. Or, rather- how the party consumes them.

Maybe outright eating them is off-limits, because, you know, Y/N is still a person, and cannibalism tends to bring about some pretty nasty stuff. Marcille is hard on that stance. She’s opened up to a lot of different foods, sure, that’s true- but she’s not eating a person! The potential for diseases and sickness is too high, no matter how you prepare the food, after all.

But eating isn’t the only way for someone or something to be consumed! Time is consumed! Energy is consumed! Labor is consumed! Products are consumed!

So what can we make out of Y/N?

Maybe you’ve been fused with the soul of something like a Firefly Squid, shifting your flesh to bear a pleasing bioluminescence- and if sometimes a tentacle falls off or is chopped clean in combat? Well, Laios doesn’t really see the issue in skinning the rubbery tendril to make glow-in-the-dark hilt wraps and canteens… even if his friends think that it’s a little gross.

Or maybe you’re some form of Cervidae, bearing a soft, short pelt and a pair of antlers to boot, which means… you’ll end up shedding at the end of the year, and the team now has a fresh set to utilize! The keratin is good for carving, especially if you’re making arrowheads or figurines. If nothing creative comes to mind, they’re at least good for trading to orcs or kobolds.

But I’d like to think that you’re a cute little Valais Blacknose, who hasn’t quite learned to trim your own fur, so it’s up to the Touden Party to take up the shears and chop those woolen locks! Chilchuck is a little estranged from his family, admittedly, but he’s still a father of three, and has learned a bit about haircare in the process. Expect lots of reminders to “hold still, dammit!” and maybe a few “oh, shit”s along the way, but the Half-Foot will get you fixed up.

Once he’s trimmed you into a presentably adorable little lamb, it’s finally possible to walk around without tripping over your own fluff, and see without a collage of thick headbands pinned in place to hold back a storm of woolen locks… and the team is left with several pounds of fluffy wool.

And team Touden does not waste resources- especially if those supplies are coming from their precious little Y/N!

So the team scrambles to find a way to use all of the floof, each one taking a portion to use in some way, at least.

Laios knows that winding his cooking ware with spun wool will only make them harder to clean, especially if blood or fat soak into the threads, and he really doesn’t want to waste such a soft part of his dear Y/N by having to throw them out over something like a minor spill… which also rules out his sword’s grip, because, again, wool holds nasty fluids really well. Probably he’ll settle for something extremely practical that can be used many times over, like a pair of socks or gloves. It’s not impossible for the monster enthusiast to keep a handful of unprocessed fluff in his pocket, just so he has something to grab and squish during stressful or boring trips… or so he can “prove” to nearby parties/“friends” how soft you are. (Shuro and Kabru are on the receiving end of more than a few rants.)

Ever practical, Senshi probably makes cheesecloth from your threads, albeit over the course of several days spent knitting the yarn together. If he doesn’t have that sort of time, or maybe just not the motivation, he’ll bind himself up a washcloth or two- perfect for sopping up cooking spills, or scrubbing the inside of a pan. And, now that you can actually see without constantly peeling pounds of fluff from your eyes, expect to given more tasks during cooking. Anything to keep you close and safe. It’s also very probable that he’ll have you on a “Beastman-friendly” diet comprised heavily of leafy meals and chopped veggies. Maybe he’ll even scrounge up some hay, or cut and bind up some grass to have on hand for you as a snack. He won’t even consider this strange- to Senshi, it’s just the proper way to take care of someone that he obsesses over the safety of cares for.

Happy to have “monster” supplies that she doesn’t have to eat, Marcille binds a few of the finer threads into a set of little ribbon for her hair. I also imagine that she’d be primarily responsible for taking caring if your hair after the cut, so she’ll make a few extra in order to style yours like she styles hers. If there’s plenty extra when everyone else is done taking their share, the elf girl just might make herself a little plushy version of you to sleep with… and one of Falin, too.

Divorced father of three, deft of hand Chilchuck has learned his way around a needle… mostly. It’s not above him to maybe weave something nice up for his daughters, like matching bracelets. He’ll want six in total, one for him and his ex, three for his daughters, and one for you- just so everyone in the “family” has a common thread to bind them. A particularly young Y/N will most likely be adopted by the Tims family at the end of their journey, providing a safe and happy (if viciously protective and smothering) space for them to grow. His daughters receive letters every now and then, each one waiting anxiously to meet the individual who is; unbeknownst to them, being propositioned as a brand new family member. Even his ex is mildly excited at the thought of someone brand new to raise, given that all her daughters are grown and moving on in the world. Maybe it’s what they need to get back together… or maybe that’s just the possessiveness talking.

And for Izutsumi… she wants a new scarf. Not that she knows how to knit, or has any interest in learning, but still. The cat girl will scrounge up a hefty handful of wool and toss it into Marcille’s lap with a huff, demanding a properly knit scarf to add to her arsenal. And although she’s not exactly above whining or making threats to get her way, there’s no need- the mage is totally on board to have every member of the party decked out in the softest parts of their collective favorite member. So, Izutsumi gets her scarf, and then everyone finally has a part of Y/N to keep close and hold dear.

Not that anyone is going to start ignoring the real thing, unfortunately for you.

[serpentface]

So, what's the hat situation like in these societies? Are there ceremonial hats? Fashion hats?

In order to give this a detailed and specific answer with lots of examples and lore instead of just saying 'yeah', I'm just defaulting to the Wardi context. Here's a rundown on most of the headgear you've seen so far, and a few new ones.

The exact styles of each type of hat vary by tradition across the region, but there are basic commonalities across the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere.

Conical wide brimmed hats, mostly worn by women

The most common hat style is wide brimmed hats with projecting conical tips. Straw hats in this shape are worn unisex by laborers for sun protection, while decorative fabric based hats of this nature are an aspect of women's traditional dress, usually worn over a veil. Similar hats are sometimes (though less commonly) worn by men- it's a component of women's dress but not generally considered outright effeminate or inappropriate for men to wear.

The shape of the cone and width of the brim varies. The body of the hat is usually patterned, the cone may be wrapped with beads or ribbens, and the tip is often decorated with fur, feathers, or tassels. Some variants also include a built in veil lining the interior.

Men's decorative hats

The distinctly masculine style of decorative hat has no protective function (aside from securing some hairstyles) and is a small, flat topped cap. The northwestern style is unique in typically having a taller, projecting top, but most variants rest close to the scalp.

These hats are usually patterned, and often decorated with khaitsmane, feathers, fabric drapes, tassels, and beads.

Cold weather hats

The climate is overall hot, but does experience a winter in which daytime temperatures can occasionally drop below freezing. Warm headgear usually comes in the form of the headscarf/veil, but there are a few regionally distinct traditional styles of knit woolen cold weather hats.

---

There are a couple established hats that play into dances and festivals:

Dancer's hat

One traditional partnered dance is partly choreographed around the use of a flat topped wide brimmed hat, worn by the female dancer and flapped, tossed, and spun between the two partners. This has tassels around the brim (sometimes long enough to fully obstruct the vision) and brightly patterned concentric circles, curves, and spirals decorating both the interior and exterior, which create striking visual effects in tandem with the movement.

New year's festival dancer with his head bent downwards, displaying the visage of an evil spirit on the top of the hat

A costume worn by dancers at new years festivals includes another flat wide brimmed hat that doubles as a mask. It is strapped tightly around the head of the dancer, who changes between the form of a human and evil spirit by alternating between dancing upright and dancing with the head down. The top of the hat is decorated with grotesque, frightening faces (humans, skulls, predatory animals, monsters), and the dancer is nude under a costume of brightly colored ribbons.

This dance is a part of new years celebrations, and is performed in the towns and cities during the festivities. Its functions are partly apotropaic in nature- by taking the visage of an evil spirit, the dancers frighten off actual malicious spirits and bad luck that threaten to jinx a new year. Dancers will attempt to startle passerby by leaping forward and revealing the frightening face atop their hats (which benefits the 'victim' by scaring off their bad luck as well). Their public nudity (the ribbons don't consistently hide everything) is one of the instances in which a fully exposed body is socially acceptable, as a highly directed exposure of the actual phallus (rather than representations such as amulets) to utilize its protective apotropaic qualities.

In addition to these loftier protective goals, the dancers are a key part of the milieu of entertainment at the festivities. New year's festivals are characterized by a relaxation of some social norms and letting down one's guard, shedding the baggage of a previous year and welcoming in the new, and these dancers epitomize this atmosphere. People tend to find this tradition of being harmlessly startled to be quite fun, with the notable exception being most small children.

---

The other central component of everyday headgear is the veil:

Four styles of veils. Some styles are intermediaries between these, or combinations.

Veils are worn unisex for sun protection while laboring outdoors, and are an expected part of feminine public dress in general. They come in a variety of styles, both in the form of scarfs and fitted sheets with openings for the face and neck. Unisex veils typically fall into the 'protective' and 'hooped' styles, while the 'draped' and 'formal' styles are considered distinctly feminine. Women's veils are typically accompanied with headbands, which secure some styles in place and otherwise serve decorative functions. Most veils are worn loose, the tightly wrapped 'formal' style tends to be reserved for solemn occasions (funerals and certain religious rites) and is more spiritually protective to the wearer.

Conventions of feminine dress and behavior expect women and akoshos to wear veils when outdoors and in general public spaces. They are removed in semi-privacy (indoors with familiar company) and within the home. This is a standard of propriety and feminine behavior and is socially enforced, but not mandated. Similarly to not wearing braids, a woman/akoshos neglecting the public veil will often be interpreted as loose and sloppy, inappropriately masculinized, and/or impoverished or foreign.

Their chief functional purpose is sun protection rather than to cover the skin. By design, they will usually reveal parts of the hair and most of the neck (allowing for display of braids and jewelry). Veiling is not culturally framed as a form of modesty (modesty standards at their core only mandate the covering of genitals, and highly expect the public covering of breasts and buttocks). However, this practice (and the more skin-covering nature of conventional feminine dress in general) additionally seeks to protect the female body from the Gaze (both the evil eye in general, and the gaze of men, which is seen as more effective upon female metaphysical vulnerability).

This practice also has roots in an intense cultural focus on separation between the public and private familial sphere. A woman following standards of public dress (the veil and braided hair most significantly) effectively privileges her male relations (particularly the husband/father) who will typically be the only men that see her body in the private context (note that the private context overlaps with, but is not the same concept as, the sexual context). This delineation in public/private dress and behavior (which applies to men as well, though often in less visible, display based ways) reinforces the boundaries and privileged status of the familial sphere. Women not following clearly delineated public/private dress standards can be interpreted as disrespecting a husband or father's authority over his household and the sanctity of the family as a whole.

The standardized dress of Odonii priestesses includes a 'hooped' type veil (which is likened to the mane of a lion), and a headband tipped with sacred lionsmane (taken from the body of a sacrificed lion, whose corpse has become divine in this rite).

The Odomache wears an entirely unique form of veil that completely obscures the hair, neck, and most facial features (the rest of the body (with the exception of the hands and feet) is also covered). This has separate functions from other forms of veiling- the Odomache is a Face of God Itself incarnated into a human body, and her bodily integrity is tantamount to the integrity of the state, military, and God's connection to the world. She is completely secured from the Gaze, and her body is physically obscured to maintain a sense of separation from bodily humanity and disassociation with her former human identity. Under typical circumstances, only other Odonii (and some attendants) will ever see her face after she is fully incarnated.

The previous Odomache in everyday public vestment, with a two layer veil (one obscuring the head and face, the other draping over the chest in a decorative 'mane')

[milkweedman]

WARNING OP LOVES COCK THIS POST IS ABOUT COCK. ITS SO GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL ❤️ GOOD MORNING TO PENISES EVERYWHERE

I spun more of what's on the distaff--im starting to get a feel for how to draft from this. Decided to pull of a sample to see how it turned out--its quite worsted ! I dunno why but I was completely expecting a woolen yarn from this. Makes sense though, the fibers are pretty aligned the whole time.

Still a problem with tons of lumps and bumps though. The prep is the issue--I willowed it first and it wouldn't draft for shit, so I layered it onto a blending board after that and now it's much better, but still very inconsistent. Next I'll try processing on hand cards first. I wonder how wool is supposed to be processed for a distaff--surely not how I'm doing it ?

[guardevoir]

Fiber arts update!

First of all, I finally got that super fine silk/merino fiber off of my top-whorl spindle. Didn't feel like sacrificing my middle finger to a plying bracelet, so I took a very small notebook and some craft popsicle sticks, and, uh...

... yeah. But hey, it works!

Then plied it in a regular 2-ply:

(this is one of the very few photos that actually convey a sense of scale here. Despite the way it looks in most of these images, this is a very comfortably lace-weight 2-ply.)

All plied up:

(I also did this during DnD, hence the dice)

The finished yarn:

(it's tied with leftover bits of YarnArt Flowers, which is a 250g/1000m fingering-weight yarn I used for a shawl a while back)

I don't do laceweight very often because I rarely have a use for it and I don't like having to work cleanly enough for a good 2-ply, but this fiber and this spindle are a perfect combination. Really fun and satisfying spin, and a very pretty yarn if I may pat my own back for a bit.

Then, 50g of wheel-spun merino single:

This is just my standard woolen spin, nothing special; but I did get the full 50g done in an evening, which is kinda neat. Now I just gotta do the same thing three more times...

I've also been mucking around with my supported spindle some (more on that soon I hope) and spun up some cotton. Aggravating experience for the most part (though I'm getting used to the "supported spindle" thing at least), but it looks so goddamn nice when you butterfly it to wind it on...

[holidayinhell]

CWs: violence, noncon nudity, major character death, vampire Whumper, vampire/ineffective Caretaker, bloodbag whumpee

“Whumpee… don’t!”

Whumpee continued toward the vampire, ignoring his friend's protests.

“Shut up, Caretaker.” Whumper snapped over his shoulder. He shifted his attention to Whumpee, expression softening as he outstretched his arms to the young man.

Wearily, Whumpee took an uneasy step forward, curling into the tall man’s embrace.

“Sweet boy.” Whumper cooed, patting his captive's back delicately.

The vampire nestled his face into the crook of Whumpee’s neck. His favorite spot. 

He was being disarmingly gentle and Whumpee clung to every moment of tenderness with bated breath. The vampire planted small kisses on the bare flesh, goosebumps prickling to the surface of the skin. Whumper drew his captive in closer, tightening his grip until Whumpee’s breath escaped in ragged wheezes. 

Whumper relished the act, all too aware of Caretaker’s vigilant gaze from the corner of his eye. He savored every moment that he toyed with the man, drinking in the drumbeat of Whumpee’s racing heart beneath him and Caretaker’s intense, protective glare.

“Are you scared?” Whumper tucked the hair behind Whumpee’s ear. “Thought you were used to it by now.”

He nipped at Whumpee’s neck, eliciting a sharp gasp when his fangs nicked the surface. But the vampire didn’t clamp down like he normally would, instead he dug his teeth in deep enough for only a small ruby droplet to seep out.

He licked up the pearl of blood clinging to his lip. The vampire’s wicked emerald eyes flickered back to Caretaker, glinting with a hint of warning.

“Do me a favor, Whumpee.”

He smoothed the fabric over Whumpee’s shoulders, tracing the bones that protruded under his thick woolen sweater. 

Whumpee shifted nervously under Whumper’s heavy hands. “Okay.”

“Take this off.”

It was a command disguised as a suggestion. There was no point in fighting against it. 

Whumpee obediently lifted the shirt above his head with frail fingers, revealing his battered torso; a collection of green and blue bruises, a spattering of old and new. His skin stretched tightly over his sharp ribs, pulled taut like a drum. He was startlingly skinny, but Whumper didn’t remark on how emaciated he looked. 

Instead, the vampire bundled up the discarded shirt and hurled it into the corner of the room.

“Pants too. All of it.”

Whumpee’s hands fumbled to find the button of his jeans, dreading whatever came next. He didn't have to look up to sense Caretaker's silent, watchful gaze boring into his spine.

“Whumpee...” Caretaker murmured. His instincts urged him to intervene, but logic told him to bite his tongue.

The pants dropped to the floor, sagging around Whumpee’s ankles. Then he hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband, grimacing as he shimmied out of the garment. His hands rushed to cover himself. The underwear slid down his legs limply, and he stepped out of the puddle of fabric and kicked it aside.

“Good boy. Now put your hands down.” Whumper slapped Whumpee’s wrists with a powerful smack. “Stand in the middle of the room, right there. Under the light.”

Whumpee anxiously shifted into position, forcing his balled fists to remain at his hips. A bead of sweat fell to his collarbone despite the chill of the room.

“Give me a spin now, I want to see you. All of you.”

Hands clenched to the side, his cheeks burned in shame as he spun in a slow circle under the harsh fluorescent light. He could feel both vampires appraising every inch of his naked, battered body, like two butchers eyeing a prize cut of meat.

Whumper’s eyes roved over Whumpee’s flesh, searching intently for the mark he knew was hidden somewhere.

“Hmm. You’re very pale.” Whumper observed.

“He’s a living being,” Caretaker interjected. “He needs sunlight. And food.”

“I’ll tell you when to speak.” Whumper snapped, eyes narrowing at his charge.

Whumper had a soft spot for his protege, but the naive young vampire had a tendency to be unruly. Outspoken. Combative. While this intense nature might one day forge a formidable vampire, training him was a dismal task.

He had plenty of time to straighten Caretaker out. That could wait. Whumper focused his attention again on the gaunt figure shaking in front of him. “Give me your arm, sweet boy.”

Whumpee timidly outstretched his bare arm, mottled with thick, half-moon scars. He yelped when Whumper pressed his wrist to his mouth, this time plunging his sharp fangs deep into the tender flesh. Tension hung thick in the air.

“You taste vile.”

Whumper spat the mouthful onto the floor.

Whumpee instinctively pulled his bleeding arm to his chest, smearing himself with red.

“I--I do?” he stammered. His heart pounded in his ears.

“Why do you taste… like Caretaker?”

The question hung heavy in the air. 

“Please,” Whumpee whispered. The man crumbled instantly, his courage shattering like glass. Silent tears streamed down his face.

A powerful smack sent Whumpee crashing to the floor. 

“STOP!” Caretaker cried.

The back of Whumpee’s head slammed against the concrete with a sickening thud. For an agonizing moment, his vision went black. Groping blindly, his hands cradled his aching skull. 

Without warning, Whumper delivered a powerful kick into Whumpee’s chest, stamping the heel of his boot square against his sternum. The blow knocked the air out of the man’s lungs with a sharp, gasping whoosh, and sent him sprawling across the floor in a convulsing heap.

The vampire took hold of Whumpee’s ankle, hoisting his leg in the air. 

He spread the man apart, putting him on full display, exposing Whumpee’s soft, vulnerable genitals. Whumpee helplessly fumbled to cover himself.

“Put your fucking hands down.”

Sobbing, Whumpee drew his hands back.

A fresh wound revealed itself on the inside of his thigh.

It was a bite mark, deliberately hidden at Whumpee’s groin. The teeth marks didn’t match the others. The mark didn’t belong to Whumper. 

The vampire dropped the leg, sending Whumpee’s leg crashing into the concrete.

“Caretaker.” Whumper snarled.

“D-D-Don’t be mad.” Whumpee stuttered breathlessly, grime cutting into his elbows as he scrambled into a fetal position.

Whumper kicked the frail man again, this time square in the stomach, adding to the ever-growing collection of bruises on his torso. An anguished cry escaped Whumpee’s lips.

“Stop!” Caretaker implored. “He didn’t do anything!”

“You’ve been tasting him.” Whumper snarled.

 “You’ve been drinking from my bloodbag, and you thought you could hide it from me?” His voice grew sharper, edged with betrayal.

Caretaker froze, ears ringing with his friend’s quiet sobs.

“Y-Yes, I bit him.”

“You fucking imbecile.”

“But I--I didn’t drink from him! I would nev--!”

“He’s ruined.” Whumper dismissed, his voice a harsh, guttural growl. His blazing emerald eyes locked on Caretaker with searing intensity, full of unrestrained fury.

 “You tainted his blood with your putrid fucking venom.”

Whumper’s demeanor was radiating with a fury that raged so violently Caretaker could almost feel it buzzing in the air. He was at a loss. He had never seen his master so furious, and his mind raced to find the words that might tamper his wrath.

“I didn’t want to.”

The vampire spat at Caretaker’s shoes, trying to rid his palette of the astringent flavor.

“He was dying-- I had no choice.”

Caretaker side-stepped towards Whumpee protectively, keeping his eyes on his master as he traversed the room cautiously. A knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest.

“The venom is the only thing keeping him alive.” Caretaker tried. “He hasn’t had human food in weeks.”

“He tastes sour.”

Caretaker shook his head. “He just needs food! I’m sure his body will cycle it out. I barely gave him any. In two days, he’ll--”

“This is truly disappointing.” The vampire interrupted. “Even coming from you.” 

Caretaker blinked in disbelief. He’d done exactly what was asked of him, hadn’t he? Whumpee was still breathing, still human. Still alive. How else was a human supposed to survive for weeks without a single scrap of food?

His chest tightened, the gravity of the situation slowly sinking in. 

“Please,” Caretaker tried. 

His hair fell in his eyes as he bowed his head down in contrition, doubling over in the best display of submission he could manage. It was his last chance to diffuse the situation, to have a chance at helping his friend. 

“Forgive me, master.”

Caretaker peeked up at the vampire through his curtain of bangs, but the vampire didn’t budge.

“I crossed a line. It won’t happen again.” He added, “punish me as you see fit.”

“I will.”

Frowning, Whumper sighed deeply. Caretaker was a young vampire, still so naïve in the ways of the world. He wanted to give his protege the benefit of the doubt, but his blood was still boiling from this predicament. Caretaker wasn't getting off the hook that easily.

“So. You’ve developed feelings for poor little Whumpee, huh?”

Caretaker stiffened. Of course he had. But admitting something like that felt like a sure-fire way to get Whumpee killed.

“No. You told me to keep him alive so, I was… misguided, in my duty. I didn’t even think about it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Please, take it out on me. It's my fault” Caretaker tried. “Whumpee didn't do anything wrong.”

The vampire’s eyes bounced to Whumpee, folded into a fetal position on the floor. The skinny captive was huddled into a tight ball, arms hugging his knees tightly as he fought to steady his breath. He looked so fragile. So pathetic.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Caretaker. You can’t hide anything from me.”

Whumper seized a fistful of Whumpee’s hair, yanking him onto Caretaker’s shoes. 

“And you don’t put your fucking fangs on your master’s property. Ever.”

“Drain him.”

“No. Nono, no…” Whumpee anchored his arms around his friend’s shins. He clawed at the leg of Caretaker’s pants with wide, frantic eyes.

Caretaker blinked, stunned into silence.

“This is your punishment.” Whumper said sternly. “Kill him now.”

“NOOOO!” Whumpee shrieked, voice raw with terror. “Caretaker. H-h-help me. Help me please!!”

Caretaker couldn’t bear to look down at the boy quivering at his feet, eyes wide with desperate hope that his friend could somehow save him. All Caretaker ever wanted to do was to keep him alive, to keep him safe, and in the process he had condemned Whumpee to the very fate that he had so fiercely fought to prevent.

“I’m so sorry, Whumpee.” His heart shattered as he gently ran a hand through Whumpee’s soft, teddy brown hair.

With a cold, sinking dread, Caretaker knew that Whumpee’s fate was sealed. This was the only way Whumper would ever forgive him.

“I wanted you to be strong. I thought I was helping you.”

Caretaker dropped to his knees alongside Whumpee. Taking his face into both hands, he wiped the tears from his sunken cheeks, planting a sorrowful kiss on his forehead.

All hope shattered when Caretaker twisted Whumpee’s head to the side, stretching his neck long. 

“Oh god, god please--” he whispered in a soft, trembling murmur. “Don’t kill me, Caretaker!”

A hopeless sob ached at the back of Whumpee’s throat, but he swallowed against the urge to cry out. He sniffled powerlessly as Caretaker’s tongue swirled along a fresh spot at his neck.

“Be brave,” he hummed. Caretaker’s fangs plunged into Whumpee’s silky flesh. 

He didn’t realize how much his body craved it until he took his first sip. 

Oh fuck.

Whumpee’s pitiful pleas fell silent as Caretaker swallowed mouthfuls of his thick, spicy blood. The human’s heartbeat fluttered like a jackhammer, flooding Caretaker’s mouth with tangy ecstasy. His tongue eagerly lapped at the red that spilled onto the pale flesh.

Was this truly punishment? Before him was a veritable buffet, free for the taking.

Whumpee’s terrified heart beat so quickly that the vampire didn’t need to suck at the wound at all, the blood filled his mouth in time with Whumpee’s ragged pulse, which Caretaker eagerly drank down.

 

By the time Whumpee’s heart slowed, Caretaker had nearly forgotten that he was devouring his friend. Any concern for the human felt like a far off memory, even if he was the one person he’d ever managed to keep alive. Cold realization hit after his pulse slowed to a whisper, and then, nothing at all.

Caretaker gathered the cold, limp body into a half-hearted embrace. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

He wasn’t sure if the apology meant anything. He spent the last ten minutes sucking the life out of the human he once called his friend, and he enjoyed every fucking second of it. 

Part of him wondered if there was an ounce of humanity left in him, or if he had finally completed the transformation into a full-blown blood sucking monster. Either way, he pulled away from the corpse feeling rejuvenated. For the first time since being turned, he felt strong.

With a shit-eating grin, Whumper gave his nod of approval.

“Find another.” The vampire reached for the handle of the huge steel door, propping it open for Caretaker to follow.

“And this time, keep your fangs off.”

((more Whump oneshots))

[angelbaby-fics]

Winter Wonderland

Pairing: Daddy!Lee Bodecker x Little!Reader

Word Count: 850

A/N: In my drafts, this was originally titled "Lee's Country Christmas", but I realized the fic itself doesn't actually have much to do with Christmas but rather winter... so I wanted to save the title for another one perhaps 🤔 hehe y'all know I'm always soft for that big soft sheriff daddy hehehe 💕

Lee made sure you were bundled up tight, ever the protective caregiver. He didn’t care about most people, not long ago he didn’t even care about himself, but he’d burn the world down just to keep you warm. You were practically immobilized by the amount of shirts and coats and stockings and scarves wrapped around you as you braced to face the snow. Your knees could hardly bend as you waddled out into the winter wonderland outside your shabby little home. Lee followed, leather sheriff’s jacket zipped up to his chin, his cheeks flushed red in the cold. 

Normally, Lee would have no interest in even leaving his bed on a day like this. Before you, he’d have stayed in bed all afternoon, rousing only for a cup of coffee with a little kick in it to keep him warm. But how could he ever say no to your big eyes and excited voice when you woke up to the snowfall outside? Even though he’d tried to pull the covers up over his head as you bounced on the mattress next to him, Lee found your smile even warmer than his bed, now the outdoors didn't seem so cold. 

When you plopped onto your bottom down in the middle of the yard, Lee got worried. He ran over to you, flailing in the snow, but as he got closer he found what he’d thought were distressed cries were in fact giggles of joy. You were making a snow angel, or at least trying to, as your excitement got the better of you and it turned into more of a snow-mess. He still praised your hard work, to Sheriff Bodecker it was the prettiest angel he’d ever seen. You were his little angel, after all.

Lee had opted not to make a snow angel, deciding he’d rather keep his clothes dry. Not on your watch! Didn’t he know you couldn’t have a proper snow day without a snowball fight? You waited until his back was turned, a rare opportunity since gazing at his babydoll was a favorite pastime of the sheriff’s. A bright red cardinal perched on the bare branches of the big oak tree, and Lee couldn’t take his eyes away as it preened its crimson feathers. That’s when you got him. 

The snowball smacked against Lee’s back and exploded into a burst of white. The sudden disruption nearly knocked him off his feet and sent flecks of ice down his collar. Scowling, he whipped around, ready to tell off whatever neighborhood menace was trying to start war, but his expression softened when he saw you giggling behind mittened hands. Shaking his head, he bent down to scoop up a ball of softly packed retaliation. Careful not to hurt you, even the slightest bit, even on accident, he chased you through the yard until he was close enough to splat the snowball right on your little woolen hat. Then, he picked you up and spun you around, his eyes not leaving yours as he set you back down in the snow. The tip of his nose was bright red.

“Angel, I’m gonna go inside and work on supper. You wanna play for a few more minutes?”

You nodded eagerly and went to busy yourself in an extra snowy patch of yard while Lee headed inside. He could still see you through the kitchen window as he turned the stove on under a saucepan. He didn’t consider himself a particularly smart man, but he knew that winter days went perfectly with hot soup. It wasn’t much, a couple cans of store-bought chicken noodle on the stove, but he added extra salt and a pinch of paprika, and when he ladeled it into two bowls, he put a sprig of rosemary on top to make it more special. He set the table, a big bowl and spoon for him and little ones for you, then opened the front door to call you back in. 

Lee caught you as you barrelled through the doorway, saving the house from a barrage of wet footprints. He freed you from your coats as you pulled yourself out of your boots. Now in just your dry underclothes and stockings, your daddy picked you up and carried you over to your highchair at the dining table, strapping you in before he took his own seat. He fed you first, taking bites for himself while you drank from your bottle. After a long day of outdoor play, you were nearly falling asleep into your bowl by the time you had emptied it.

Big strong hands lifted you out of your highchair and carried you over to the couch. You struggled to keep your eyes open while Lee settled himself into the sofa, before he pulled you into his lap and wrapped a throw blanket around your shoulders. The soup had settled warmly in his tummy and you didn’t hesitate to make it your pillow. Lee’s hands traced shapes all across your back as you let yourself drift off into dreams of a winter wonderland.

[sunshine-and-her-ikevil-stuff]

24 days 'til Christmas - Prompt: Woolen clothes

Made for Ikemen Advent, hosted by @candied-boys and @queengiuliettafirstlady.

Wordcount: 400

Victor x reader, toothrotting fluff, no editing

“Victor, is this all for me?” You gasped as you gazed over the room covered with clothes as the maids brought in one last pile.

“Yes! I’ve noticed the castle getting colder and I couldn’t bear the thought of you shivering. You didn’t seem to have much winter clothes, so I bought everything I thought would look wonderful on you.” He smiled warmly like a fireplace on a cold day.

You hadn’t said anything or complained, but he still got you all of this. He was so attentive it made your heart melt.

You laughed with your hand over your heart as it swelled. “Honestly, you didn’t have to. It’s a little too much.”

“Nonsense! Nothing is too much for you, my dear. Ah, but if you need some more closet space just let me know. Just pick out your favorites. Ah, I'm so nice!”

You turned and stifled another laugh. The colors of all the different fabrics caught your eye. You slowly examined them. Taking hold of a woolen sweater. It felt so soft and warm. Your hands ran over all of them, taking in how nice they all felt.

You picked up a wool scarf and hat. You really liked these ones for some reason. You felt giddy like a kid again as you tried them on. It was impossible to keep the smile off your face and you nuzzled into the soft scarf.

You spun and looked at Victor who was beaming.

“My dear, you look splendiferous! Absolutely radiant! I can't wait to see you try the rest of them. I would love to watch.”

“Thank you, Victor.” You giggled as you grinned wide. “I just wish I had something to give back to you for everything you've given me.”

“No need. I did all of this because I wanted to. Your smile is enough for me.”

But you still wanted to give something. An idea flashed into your mind.

“I got a surprise for you. Close your eyes.”

“Oh! Okay.”

He closed his eyes. His face looked so beautiful and soft.

You knew it wasn't nearly enough to make up for everything he'd done for you, but… You smiled and leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Your lips made a soft sound as you parted. And his eyes fluttered open in brief surprise.

You simply smiled in response. He quickly recovered and returned it.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Of course.” On a whim, you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tight. “Thank you.”

His arms gently yet firmly wrapped around you. He stroked your back. “You're welcome.”

[onegirlatelier]

Floral vest | November, 2023

This vest is a Frankenstein of two patterns—the construction is from the Ophelia Slipover by Toshiyuki Shimada 嶋田俊之and the floral pattern from the Flower Yoke Pullover by Erika Tokai 東海えりか (@erika_tokai on Instagram). Both patterns are listed on Ravelry but only available in printed books.

Now, it is not my genius idea to piece these two together. I think it was first done by a fellow Chinese knitter and designer, who is XS KNITTING on RED and XS_KNITTING on Wechat. I have both pattern books but she did provide very detailed instructions on how to combine the two patterns for this vest. I mostly followed her notes – see modifications below.

Overview of the construction

Make a provisional cast on with a waste yarn.

Knit colourwork in the round from bottom up, ending at approx. underarm level. Decrease on the sides as instructed. You will later steek the fabric at the sides so the pattern includes the additional allowance for steeking.

Knit the front and back yoke sections flat, following the instructions for neck and shoulder shaping. (There is no armhole shaping in the yoke part.)

Sew together the front and back yoke parts, pick up stitches to make the neckband.

Reinforce the steek and cut. Pick up stitches from the steeked edges to make the side bands. Sew the bottom bit of the side bands together.

Pick up stitches to make the hem.

Needles

(all 80cm circulars)

Colourwork: 3.00mm

Yoke: 2.75mm

Neckband: 2.75mm, bind off with 2.5mm

Side bands: 2.5mm, bind off with 2.25mm

Hem: 2.75mm, bind off with 2.5mm

Yarn

Biches & Bûches Le Petit Lambswool 248m/50g, in white and light pink. This is a 2-ply woolen spun, slightly rustic but soft yarn. It softens even more after washing and blooms too, making an incredibly light but hearty fabric. I always thought it was produced in Europe since this is a French brand, but the Lambswool range is actually spun and dyed in Scotland. Hence it is a little less local than I thought (and their website doesn’t say where the wool material comes from), but I’m also happy to support Scottish mills that produce less chemically treated yarns in small batches.

Another nice thing is that each of my skeins/balls actually weighed 55g, so there was a little surplus than what I paid for.

Yardage

I took detailed measurements just in case you (or future me) are worried about having enough yarn, or thinking about doing differently coloured bands, etc.

As can be seen, the bands and hem take up quite a bit of yardage.

Modifications

Colourwork

I think I followed the instructions entirely for the colourwork.

Yoke

I knitted one more row at the bottom of the front and back yokes respectively, because I somehow started from the wrong side and the pattern started from the right side. The shoulder seams are done with Kitchener stitch instead of a three-needle bind-off. Therefore I think I had about 104 rows in the yoke instead of 100 in the pattern, which means I picked up 84 stitches instead of 80 for the side band at the yoke section.

First block and felting

After I finished the yoke, the colourwork looked rather uneven. Since the yarn I used was thinner than the Shetland yarn in the pattern and I knitted the colourwork loosely to match the instructed gauge, the fabric was also quite loose and not as supple as I wanted. The good thing is that the finished garment (using the required gauge) had quite a lot of positive ease for my body measurements. So I decided to shrink the garment slightly by hand-felting it.

To felt a wool garment, you need one or more of the following: high temperature, moisture, agitation, soap. Here’s what I did to felt it as gently as possible. The half-finished main body had no live stitches at this point so I just soaked it in icy cold water as how you would normally block a knitted garment, but without soap. Then I just use my hands to agitate the fabric until I felt that it had first evened out and then tightened up. Trust me, without hot water or soap you need quite a lot of agitation to felt a garment—not just swishing it around.

I’ve also seen people putting their work into a pillow case into the washing machine on a hot drying cycle and stopping every few minutes to check if it’s felted enough. I have no confidence in operating my washing machine but you can try.

The result was satisfactory enough for me to go ahead.

Neckband

Neckband was finished with a tubular bind off with two rows, i.e. one pair, of reinforcement (the ‘tubular’ bit’). To do this, you would first use a slightly smaller needle to switch the ribbing from 2*2 to 1*1 as you knit across (see Suzanne Bryant’s video). I used a needle one size smaller but I think I could’ve gone down two sizes, as the finished neckband feels a little too loose.

Side bands

I reinforced the fabric using the crochet method and then steeked it. Some people recommend the hook to be one size smaller than the knitting needles, but I used a 1.5mm and it worked well for me. It;s absolutely possible to steek with an even number of stitches (many tutorials say you can only do an odd number of stitches).

Using a 2.5mm circular I picked up stitch for stitch for the colourwork and 84 for 104 for the yoke. One stitch is added at either ends. There was no stitch decrease after picking up. I finished with Italian bind off which is another kind of invisible bind off like tubular bind off, just without the ‘tubular’ bit.

To do this: On the 15th row (wrong side), I knitted the first 35 sts (which were not bound off) using the 2.5mm needle in 2*2 ribbing. Then I switched to 2.25mm and switched the ribbing to 1*1 as I knitted across, and finished by knitting the last 35 sts using the 2.5mm needle again in 2*2 ribbing. On the 16th row (right side), I knitted the first 35sts in the 2.5mm needle and 2*2 ribbing as usual. Then I adjusted how I held the project so that I could pull the working yarn to the opposite side (front/back side) of the garment and start the sewn bind off from the wrong side.

It is absolutely not necessary to do all this. Some people make a very simple knitted bind off. This is purely because I want an invisible bid off and the ribbing pattern made it easier to do it this way. Also see illustration.

Then I Kitchener-stitched the 2*2 ribbing to make the side seam.

Hem

I took out the provisional cast on and transfer sts to a 2.75mm needle. My side bands were slightly wider than instructed so I picked up more side stitches for the hem too. 336 sts I think. I did 2*2 ribbing and finished with a tubular bind-off with four rows, i.e. two pairs, of reinforcement.

And that's it! I'm really pleased about this little vest and might make more in different colour schemes in future.

[balkanradfem]

I keep thinking everyone knows the exact same information as me, but since I'm about to make more posts about textiles and clothing, as I'm reading the book on them, I'm going to write down some basic information, just in case it's not very common, because a lot of this I only gathered recently. If I get something wrong please correct me in a kind way!

So where does the clothing come from, and how do we make it? During most of the history, textiles were made by women, from natural materials; flax, wool, cotton, silk, jute. Recently we started using more synthetic materials, like acrylic, polyester, nylon, spandex. If you want to make clothing from the natural materials, like wool or cotton, they first need to be processed, cleaned and combed, then spun into yarn, or thread. Spinning is the process where women manage to pull a thin part of the material and spin the fibres into one consistent, firm thread. It's super impressive to watch them do it and I have no idea how they manage to make it consistent, I've not yet tried to do it myself.

Once the thread is done, it can be made into a textile by knitting, crochet, or weaving. There are also other more complex, decorative methods, like tatting or lacing.

For knitting, you need two needles, or a special circular needle, or, there are also knitting machines, which you can use to make woolen fabric. For weaving, you need a loom. For crochet, you need a crochet hook. While knitting and weaving can be done by a machine, crochet can only be done by hand. Woven fabrics are firm, sturdy, durable, and not stretchy, while knit fabric is the most stretchy and soft. I'm not sure about crochet since I only have one crochet garment, but mine is very sturdy!

All of these methods were historically done by women; families were able to grow flax plants close to their homes, and women would then create linens, woven textiles made from processed flax, which was used to make sheets and clothing. Linen was specifically useful in keeping people clean, since it's very good at absorbing moisture. Used as an under-garment, it was capable of absorbing sweat, and protecting the outer layers, which were not washed. Experiments have shown that frequently changing into clean linen was more effective at keeping clean than showering and then putting on the same clothing back on.

Women's ability to create clothing was sadly exploited, and women were even banned to sell it commercially, or from competing at the commercial market, but their husbands were allowed to profit off of their craft.

In the USA, cotton was the most produced material, however for this too people were enslaved and exploited; cotton took human labour to grow, harvest and process, it also required a lot of water, and caused destruction of environment, because of the chemicals used in it's growth, and the unsustainability of monocrops.

Creating a piece of clothing out of textiles, or sewing, is a process that still cannot be completely automated; while you can use a sewing machine, you cannot make a machine that would produce a whole garment out of textiles. No mass-produced piece of clothing was sewn by a machine, it always has to be made by a human being. This is why a lot of the sewing labour is currently outsourced to third-world countries and companies use modern slavery in order to create fast fashion; there is no machine that can do it, so by the rules of capitalism, the companies are trying to get that labour as cheap as possible, often at the cost of human lives.

We didn't use to have as many garments as we do today, in the 18th century people would have two outfits, one for normal days of the week, and one for Sunday. The clothing they owned was usually made to fit them exactly, either by a female member of the family, or a seamstress, and these garments were made to last them for decades. As clothing became cheaper to buy than to make at home, and more of it became mass-produced, people started acquiring more of it, but also using it for lesser period of time. This would eventually grow into a bigger problem, due to the amount of chemicals and labour used to grow, process, dye and sew the garments, and the amount of waste we were starting to accumulate.

Introduction of synthetic materials, like acrylic, made the yarn and the textiles much cheaper, however it lacks the important properties natural materials have. Do you ever notice how synthetic garments sometimes continue smelling bad even after you wash them? That is because they'll absorb sweat, but become hydrophobic when wet, meaning they will take in your sweat, but refuse to let it go once they're in the water. This means that the longer you have them, the worst their stink becomes. This, of course, can be hidden by the generous use of scented fabric softener, but it won't exactly make the garment clean. This information I've learned recently, but it helped me identify what were the most synthetic pieces of clothing I had. Acrylic clothing had also proven to shed 1.5 more microplastics than any other polyester when put into the washing machine.

Having our clothing grown, processed, spun, woven/knit, and then sewn far out of sight, it's possible to lose the sight of where it came from, or how it's made. Only by trying to do it yourself, or learning closely about the process can one learn to appreciate what a monumental task it is, to create fabric, or a garment. Other than the synthetic textiles, of which I still know very little of, all of the natural clothing is a product of plants and animals, it takes land, farming, agriculture and water to grow the plants, raise the animals, and then labour to process and spin the fibres. It's also something people used to do in their gardens, inside of their homes, something that was normal for women to do, and to trade for anything else they needed, saving them from having to work for wages. Women making fabric was always to the benefit of everyone around them, while m*n taking over the industry and doing it commercially, ultimately brought slave labour to a lot of people, cheap and low quality garments to the select few, and money to the hands of the exploiters.

Being curious about clothing and what becomes of it, is a big benefit to the environment and the future of the earth! Knowing what the textile industry is doing, and how does it affect the planet, can be a great motivator to try and sew, or upcycle and mend clothing, or create garments. It's presented to us as something women were forced to do in the past, and it's connected to 'feminine hobbies', but in actuality, it is power to create something humans cannot do without. Women in the past used it's power too, whenever they could. And we are the only ones who ever used this power for good.

[ezekiellsplayground]

Completed 3ply skein sets. These are all destined to be garments of some description.

In order, we have Minus Morgul (Fossil Fibers), Red Panda (Felting Ewe), & Fantasy Forest (Fossil Fibers dyes Ents at War, Redwoods, & Hiccup).

Rupert was made by #homemadehorrors

[vosh-rakh]

As the Hortator’s daughter, Hla-eix could always tell when she was being watched. Even in her sleep.

Her eyes shot open to see the (former) living god of the Tribunal, Vivec, leaning over her bed. She would have started if this wasn’t a regular occurrence. Mother Ayem had told Hla-eix that he had insomnia, something to do with not being a god anymore. His once-split face – now just a slightly discolored grey on his right side – hung over hers, his eyes bulging out of their sockets like a bug’s, his restless lids sagging underneath. “Hla. Wake up.”

“Vivi,” said Hla-eix, rubbing sleep from her eyes, “you’ve already woken me up.”

“I want to show you something.” Vivec stood up, but his sharp stare lingered on Hla-eix as she slowly shifted up out of her Daedra-silk sheets.

“Is it another prank?” That was usually what he was up to at this time of night. “We can’t spike the flin with bug musk again, the cooks are being extra cautious because of last month –”

“No, no,” said Vivec, flashing one of his rare smiles, his teeth glittering like pearls under starlight. “I told you. I want to show you something special. Can you fly?“

“What? No!” Hla-eix frowned. “What makes you think I could?”

“I’ve seen you in the apothecary, looking very closely at the Rising Force potions.”

Hla-eix blushed under the pale grey scales on her cheeks. “So? Knowing what potions do doesn’t mean I can fly.”

“Well,” Vivec said, smirking toothlessly, “You’re in luck. I can fly.” He threw a bundle of clothes at Hla-eix. “Put that on. The air is cold outside, especially as high as we’re going.”

Hla-eix beamed like crescent Secunda as she caught the heavy Skyrim-imported woolen robe. She finished kicking off the sheets and pulled the robe over her Daedra-silk sleeping gown. “Where are we going?” she asked, her hands on her hips like a true adventurer.

“Up, naturally,” crooned Vivec, chiming his glassy laugh. “Where else?”

Hla-eix frowned. “You’re being coy.”

Vivec offered his hand. “As is my nature. You’ll see.”

Hla-eix took the hand, his fully-grey one, and he led her to the window of her bedroom. With a conjured gust of wind the twin panes blew open, allowing the cold air of Vivec City to trickle in. Vivec the Saint picked up his legs into his floating lotus position and hovered outside. “Sit in my lap, Hla. I’ll show you. It’s not far.”

Hla-eix wasn’t particularly afraid of heights, but her room was high up in the Hortator’s palace. With great care she climbed into Vivec’s lap and sat facing forward, her back against his chest, her sharp nails gripping his thighs. It was wise of Vivec to have her wear the robes, she thought: nights in Sun’s Dawn – Mama said it was Xeech in Jel – were frigid, especially this high up.

Vivec slowly spun them around away from the palace, looking down upon the rest of the city as it crawled along the sea towards Vvardenfell proper, canton by canton. She’d had little opportunity to explore them on her own; it was difficult to escape your minders when you were the Hortator’s daughter. But she had a knack for fading like a shadow, and had explored some of St. Olms, and once watched a brutal fight in the Arena before being caught and brought home. Mother Ayem had scolded her, as had Mama, but secretly Mama praised her sneakiness when Mother Ayem was out of earshot. “You’d make an excellent assassin, like me, one day,” she had said, and it had excited Hla-eix, despite the fact that she was grounded for a month.

Hla-eix looked out upon the cantons, even this late skittering with lanterns crawling along the streets like ants. She longed for the secrets of those ants’ lives, locked away inside their skulls. What did they do day-to-day? How did they make their livings? What did they know of Love?

Love was a mystery to Hla-eix. She had read a copy of the thirty-fifth lesson of Vivec, the sermon on Love, but understood little. So she went to the source and asked Vivec directly. He had merely laughed and said, “You are barely eleven years old. You’ll know more about love when you’re older.”

This did not satisfy Hla-eix. Derelayn was scarcely older than her, and she could never shut up about boys. But it almost bored Hla-eix to tears every time. The most interest Hla-eix had in boys was to fight them, to cut their egos down to size – especially those annoying Nord boys in Ebonheart, who thought they were so important because their fathers were always jostling for the Duke’s favor. Hla-eix didn’t have enough fingers to count the times she’d been sent back across the bay after going to the castle to visit Derelayn, but getting into fights instead. (Again, while Mother Ayem chastised her, Mama secretly praised her.)

A chill ran down the back of her robes’ collar, tickling her spine and shaking her from her reminiscing. Vivec had brought her close – but not too close – to a strange sight: a small floating boulder. “You brought me to see that meteor?” she asked. “What for? I see it almost every day.”

“I brought you to see my hubris,” Vivec said softly. “Baar Dau.”

“Your hubris?” asked Hla-eix, looking up at Vivec. 

“Oh. Hubris means –”

“I know what hubris means, Vivi,” Hla-eix said, reaching up to pinch his nose. “I mean, how is Baar Dau your hubris?”

Vivec sighed. “It’s a long story. A version of which I’ve written in my sermons. The truth is a little more mundane, but…the point is, I should have dealt with it sooner. I was too proud. It took your mother’s decisiveness to finally put Baar Dau to rest.”

Hla-eix looked down at the canton below. A throng of priests and ordinators and various government officials and foreign dignitaries were looking expectantly up at the floating boulder that once was Baar Dau. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to notice Vivec and Hla-eix floating in the sky nearby.

She could hear the people on the canton chanting something. It seemed like a countdown of sorts, and she was able to pick out Mama’s voice rather clearly in the cacophony. She scanned the front of the crowd and was able to pick out the gleam of Wraithguard on her right hand. Just as the count reached “one” – 

A loud boom – a flash of light. Hla-eix’s head jerked up to see that the boulder was no more, just a fireball shooting fragments in all directions…

…including at her. She screamed.

The shrapnel bounced harmlessly off the thin violet surface of a Shield. “Don’t worry, Hla,” said Vivec. “You were never in any danger.”

There was now nothing at all left of Baar Dau but small rocks plummeting into the sea and pitifully crumbling onto the canton a safe distance away from the crowd. But Hla-eix’s scream had drawn their attention, and she looked down to see her Mama, the Hortator, glaring up at her and Vivec, as the crowd murmured and pointed.

Ku-vastei marched up towards Vivec, ascending the sky like stair-steps, fists clenched at her sides. Finally she stood in the air in front of Vivec and Hla-eix, her hands on her hips.

“Good evening, Hortator,” said Vivec, a shy, boyish smile on his face.

“Vehk,” Mama said, her voice like ice. Hla-eix had never heard her call him that before. “What are you thinking, stealing my daughter from sleep, and putting her in harm’s way right next to an explosion? In public?” Her face was expressionless, but Hla-eix knew there was rage hidden behind her scales in the way her tail stiffened.

“Well, Ku-vastei, you see…” Vivec stumbled over his words. Very uncharacteristic of him, thought Hla-eix; he always had something to say to any situation. “I just thought she would like to see –”

“He wanted to show me his ‘hubris,’” Hla-eix said. “I’m not sure what he meant, but it seemed important to him.”

Vivec flashed a guarish smile at Ku-vastei, hoping Hla-eix’s simple explanation would suffice.

Mama said nothing for a long time. Then she looked down at Hla-eix and said, “‘Hubris,’ huh? Damn dangerous foolishness, more like. And it’s no longer a problem. No thanks to him.” She suddenly hefted Hla-eix up and over her shoulder; Hla-eix yelped at the swift movement. “Go to bed, Vehk. And let my daughter get her rest. She’s a growing child, and needs it.”

“Yes,” Vivec said, nodding furiously. “Apologies, Hortator. Won’t happen again.” With a crack of the air, he was gone.

[stromuprisahat]

Jon ran down the stairs, a smile on his face and Robb’s letter in his hand. “My brother is going to live,” he told the guards. They exchanged a look. He ran back to the common hall, where he found Tyrion Lannister just finishing his meal. He grabbed the little man under the arms, hoisted him up in the air, and spun him around in a circle. “Bran is going to live!” he whooped. Lannister looked startled. Jon put him down and thrust the paper into his hands. “Here, read it,” he said. Others were gathering around and looking at him curiously. Jon noticed Grenn a few feet away. A thick woolen bandage was wrapped around one hand. He looked anxious and uncomfortable, not menacing at all. Jon went to him. Grenn edged backward and put up his hands. “Stay away from me now, you bastard.” Jon smiled at him. “I’m sorry about your wrist. Robb used the same move on me once, only with a wooden blade. It hurt like seven hells, but yours must be worse. Look, if you want, I can show you how to defend that.” Alliser Thorne overheard him. “Lord Snow wants to take my place now.” He sneered. “I’d have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs.” “I’ll take that wager, Ser Alliser,” Jon said. “I’d love to see Ghost juggle.”

A Game of Thrones- Chapter 19 (George R. R. Martin)

[paladinkit]

okay so my wheel is empty and I need to pick my next spinning project, but I keep dithering. thoughts?

self-indulgent option #1 - "honey dipped berries" art batt - a little over four ounces of merino, silk, viscose, firestar, and angelina. not totally set on a plan but likely going to make a big fluffy single and then maybe thread ply?

self-indulgent option #2 - "seaswirl" combed top, four ounces of Shetland and silk. absolutely no plans just vibes.

gift progress #1 - "momfluff" combed top, a custom blend of Rambouillet, cashmere, silk, and bamboo. fine worsted singles forever. need to have a sweater quantity of this done by the end of the year.

gift progress #2 - "dadfluff" combed top, a custom blend of moorit Shetland, bamboo, and tweed blend. fine woolen singles forever. need to have a sweater quantity of this done by the end of the year.

skill building #1 - "cool socks" combed top, superwash merino & nylon blend. trying to grind my skills at hand spun sock yarns.

skill building #2 - "hot socks" combed top, superwash merino & nylon blend. trying to grind my skills at hand spun sock yarns.

store work - "maritime forest" polwarth silk blend that got all the silk stuck together in dyeing. I want to see if turning it into rolags makes it more spinnable, or if this whole batch of custom top is unusable as a fiber base for dyeing and can only be spun well undyed (which would mean pulling it from shop stash.)

setting the poll to minimum of one day but I'll probably look at results and decide within the next three or four hours. thanks in advance for helping me with my dithering!