#spun woolen

[sonnentausnest]

Corriedale 2-ply, 14 wpi, spun woolen

[ezekiellsplayground]

Finally cleared off my craft desk of full spindles, and holy heck! I am doomed to some serious plying hell because I filled up a lot of spindles…and this isn’t even all the spindles I own now…

[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 ?

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[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.

[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.

[guardevoir]

Fiber arts update: I finally finished the accursed yarn for the goddamn weaving project!

(this also counts as 100 days of art, 35/100 on the grounds of fiber arts still being art. I think I deserve that after the annoyance this project put me through so far...)

The white stuff is 50/50 silk/polwarth, the blue stuff is 30/70 silk/merino, and the grey one is 20/20/60 yak hair/silk/polwarth.

The yak hair was lovely to work with, the merino was frankly just a bit boring, and the polwarth/silk was the actual bane of my entire existence for months. I will never manage to un-fuzz my room after the goddamn silk tornado that fiber let loose, and there were a bunch of little silk clumps in there that made the spinning experience just deeply un-fun. Ngl, I never enjoy spinning 50% silk blends, and I do not know why I keep doing it.

(it's silky and shiny and has so much drape, that's why)

Anyway, it's on my loom now:

I was so happy about how well the warping went, until I realized that I did it backwards and spent so very long fixing that. Worked out alright in the end, though.

top-down view (sideways, so I don't stretch your dash more than needed) for a better idea of the colors:

I wish the blue wasn't getting quite so overpowered by the relatively warm grey, but using more exciting colors would've meant using more boring fibers, and in the end I wanted to make it fancy more than I wanted to make it colorful.

I had a pretty difficult call to make with the white weft yarn; that's a 6-ply; I had planned for 4-ply worsted-spun warp and 3-ply woolen-ish weft to account for my habit of long-draw singles always coming out a bit chunkier, but the polwarth/silk didn't quite cooperate and the yarn was generally looking kind of wispy and sad, so I loosely cabled it... which made it chunkier than the other weft yarn, but I just decided to own it. It does add some sorely needed contrast and structure, I think.

[ezekiellsplayground]

Thought I’d share the very first spin I did on my new Daedalus wheel earlier this year. This fibre (called Tropical Paradise, which didn’t give me tropical vibes at all) I used as tribute to dial in my preferred settings for singles and plying. Thus the resulting yarn is very over spun, over plyed, and under plyed in places.

My mum happened to like the texture of it, so it’s been yeeted into her stash, because, gosh is this mega skein fugly.

[sonnentauscrafting]

Corriedale, spun woolen, two-ply. Knitting a tunic with it.

[trashpandacraft]

I have a question if you'd be willing to answer

I'm very much a beginner with spinning, but I recently decided to make my first project using my handspun yarn. I know it's wool, but I don't have any information on what type, as it was given all to me as gifts.

My issue is that it feels very sticky. Which I am assuming is because of the lanolin, and would be helped by washing it. I can't seem to find any resources on that though, so I was wondering if since you talk about it a lot if you could point me to any? Just normal washing in water (and soap?) seems like a recipe for felting.

I'm not sure how relevant this is to the washing process, but just in case it is I haven't plied any of this, mostly because it is already much more thick than I would like (definitely need to work on that!)

Thank you for everything! Your blog has been a huge help to me with figuring out what exactly I'm doing (or in many cases, what I'm doing wrong)

i'm gonna answer this, but i have to be honest that i've tried spinning without washing the fibre first, and i don't love it, so have very little experience with this specific thing. i'm going to give you my best guess, and then probably people who are more experienced with this than i am will tell us both why i'm wrong. (this is an invitation; i am comfortable being wrong.)

i'd wash it the first time the same way you do for washing fleece, which is going to sound scary, so before i go any further: felting needs heat, water, and agitation. you've gotta use water and heat to get the lanolin out, so all you can do here is control for agitation. don't manhandle the yarn in the water, don't run the water directly onto the yarn, don't go from hot to cold water, etc. it's honestly not that bad—once the yarn has been spun, it takes at least a little more effort to felt it. think about how heavily some people finish handspun yarns—shocking it, thwacking it, snapping it, etc. i (intentionally) fulled a singles skein a while back and went at it for several minutes with a (clean!!) toilet plunger in a bucket of hot water, and even after that, it's lightly fulled, not felted.

so to wash your yarn: soak it in water to get it fully wet, then toss it in a bath of hot (like 60c/140f) water and dish soap. dump the water after twenty minutes, and repeat until the water you're dumping is at least mostly clear, then do one more water change without soap for a rinse. i'd expect this will take several water changes—this blog post has great visuals of what it looks like as the lanolin washes away, and what kind of changes to look for in the water. you could follow their entire process, if you wanted, though it's more effort and maths than i find my situation necessitates.

which is to say that i'm sure that they're objectively correct, especially if you're working with very greasy fleece and/or hard water, but i have neither, and have chosen to go with the 'blurp some dish soap into hot water' method, which has worked fine for my admittedly very low-key uses.

so that's my best guess for how you'd wash it. i think the next question is probably when you'd wash it, and my vote for that one is going to be after you've plied it.

i have two big reasons for it. first, if there's enough twist in the yarn to ply, i think you're going to have a tangly mess of woolen spaghetti if you wash it without plying first. i'm sure that someone will suggest that you could wind the spun yarn onto some sort of Contraption that would keep it under tension and wash it like that, but: it sounds like such a monstrous pain in the ass that while you could pay me to do it, you would need to pay me an amount of money that has at least three digits in it.

the other reason is that washing will help set the twist, but my feeling is that you want the twist active for plying. i've plied yarn that i'd, uh, 'rested', we'll call it, for six-plus months between spinning and plying, and it plies...ok? not great, though, and i found it harder to get a balanced yarn. i'm guessing that washing will give similar results—yarn that's just a little more resistant to plying than it should be, and requires more management to get it to ply nicely. i don't think that it'll totally destroy your yarn or anything, but i do think that the finished yarn is likely to be less nice than it would otherwise be.

i feel like this is sort of a half-assed answer, for which i'm sorry—i'm not really my best or brightest self right now, but didn't want to let this sit.

i'm also sure that there are people here who've actually done this exact thing and can speak from experience rather than semi-educated guesses, so hopefully some of them will chime in.

[violettduchess]

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

[sentientcave]

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY LADS - For something a little different, have a taste of one of my original works *The Heart of the Ocean*. It's just a fun little treasure hunting fantasy novel, featuring pirates, and magic and princesses and elves and intrigue! And orcs!

Tycho ducked into an ally to catch his breath, listening for the tell-tale clatter of hob-nailed boots down the cities narrow cobblestone streets. It was quiet, a sign that he had lost his pursuers, for the moment at least.

He was too big to blend in with human crowds, forcing him to navigate his way from the castle on the hill to the safe house on Pine street through the narrow, winding back streets, where he was less likely to be seen by anyone who would turn him over to the Imps. Other criminals would be likely to turn a blind eye, as loathe to draw Imperial attention as Tycho was.

He kept going, walking rather than running now, although his long legs carried him along the streets at a brisk pace. The medallion in his boot was chafing slightly and he looked forward to kicking them off once he made it to Pine Street.

“Now gentlemen, I really do think you’ve made a mistake. If you go about your business you will not be harmed, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to play nice. Get out of my way.”

Tycho’s ears pricked forward at the voice spilling out from around a corner. A woman, nervous, if not fearful, despite her bold words. There were gangs in King's Head that ruled the streets, and they would be none too kind to a woman out on her own in the back alleys. Why wasn’t she out on the well-patrolled main streets? Didn’t she know any better?

Harsh laughter followed. “Big words from such a pretty little girl, hey lads? It’s sweet of her to think about our welfare.”

Tycho peered around the corner, contemplating the scene. A plump little woman stood with her back to the brick wall, with four men standing in a loose semi-circle around her. She held the strap of her satchel with both hands, her dark eyes wide and anxious. She dressed simply, dark trousers tucked into boots and a well-made blue tunic belted around her middle, a warm woolen cloak pinned around her shoulders. Her hair was braided, but curling hair had escaped all around her face, giving her a slightly disheveled air, and her cheeks were rosy-red from either anger or the cold weather.

“I’m not concerned about your welfare,” she snapped. “I’m warning you.”

Mist was collecting around her ankles, rolling in from the far end of the alley. The thugs laughed again, not paying any heed to the thick, static feel of magic in the air. Humans weren’t as well-attuned to it, unless they worked their own spells, and even the worst human mage could make better coin than what could be made robbing women in dark corners of the city.

She must have been a mage, but she held herself like a noble, shoulders back, spine straight and stiff, her chin raised. She was someone who did not like to have to repeat herself, and she was running out of patience. The mist climbed higher, around her knees now, thick and clinging like un-spun wool.

The leader of the men stepped closer, not touching her yet, clearly intending to intimidate with his size. She glared back, unimpressed even though he was nearly a foot taller than her, and heavyset with muscle. “Warn me again,” he said, laughing down at her nastily. “I like the sound of your voice.”

The fog swallowed them whole.

The leader was the first to start swearing, and then there was the sound of bodies colliding, and the voices multiplied, accompanied by grunts and the sounds of bodies hitting each other. The woman appeared a moment later, backing out of the fog, an expression of deep concentration on her face. She bumped right into Tycho, and jumped, squeaking with surprise, and the fog disappeared in an instant, revealing the pile of fighting men, who froze in position, realizing that they were attacking each other rather than the slippery little mage.

She looked at Tycho, her eyes wide and wild, and then back at the others, who were beginning to recover from their own shock, and then back to Tycho again.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him. She could clearly take care of herself. He grabbed her hand, and started walking fast, pulling her along. “Come on,” he said urgently, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s get out of here.”

She had to run to keep up with him, with her much shorter legs, so he slowed once they had taken enough random twists and turns to lose their pursuers, if they had even bothered to follow. Tycho was fairly sure his appearance would have scared them off. He was head and shoulders taller than the biggest among them, and a Breskar*, and his people had a fearsome reputation all across the world.

Tycho let go of her hand and she staggered back a few steps, breathing hard. “Are you alright?” he asked, a bit worried that he had pushed her too hard.

“Oh, yes,” she huffed. “I’m just—” She pressed a hand to her ribs, tipping her head back to look up at him properly. “Goddess you’re big. The legs on you!” She waved her hand vaguely at his lower half, like she’d never seen anyone his size in her life. “I’m Coraline. Thanks for the help.”

“You didn’t need my help,” Tycho said warmly. “I surprised you out of your spell.”

Coraline smiled at him. It said thanks for saying so and I don’t believe you at the same time. “Well, it hardly matters now. They're gone. Or, we’re gone, rather. I have no idea where we are.” She looked up and around, frowning at the brick buildings that loomed up around them, blocking out the daylight and leaving them in gloom. Brighter daylight spilled across the end of their path, where it crossed a much wider, much busier street. People streamed past in both directions, not so much as glancing at the darker spaces between the tall, narrow buildings.

*Breskarians are a sort of half-orc tiefling type of guy. So you know. HOT.

[tomjamesavery]

The Rain on our Faces Read on: AO3 Ginny watched as raindrops collected into little streams, slowly flowing down the thin misty window. She had curled up in a large woolen blanket, a small rug spread out under her. Her back comfortably against the cold stone wall, she closed her eyes, listening to the dull noise of rain hitting the window. Minutes passed while she just sat there, taking in every little noise her dorm room gave off, the muffled cracks of old wooden support beams, the faint blowing of the wind as it rushed through stone and brick alike. Lavishing in the peace bestowed upon her for once, between all this suffering and chaos.

Her eyes flew open and she slowly moved her hands, clenching them tightly, feeling strong and at ease with herself. Pulling herself upright she slowly reached to grab the steaming cup of tea she had prepared for herself earlier, a well-rehearsed heating charm keeping it at the proper temperature. Bringing it up to her lips she took a long revitalizing sip, her cold lips tingling at the warmth of the cup. A sensation traveled through her body as she felt the hot liquid rekindling a burning flame inside her. She felt ready.

The cup was put back down and through newfound energy, Ginny jumped to her feet, sending the thick blanket flying off her knees in the process.

In one breath she stormed from the tower room, a clear goal in mind, as the door flew closed behind her, she had someone to find.

She rushed down the stairs and through the common room, not caring nor stopping for the many whispers and curious looks the other students threw at her. Her target clearly outlined in her mind.

Like a breezing gust of wind, she rushed through the castle, eventually leaving the old candle-lit hallways and stepping into the courtyard, the rain violently whipping at her face in greeting.

Drenched to the skin, yet not freezing, strong winds blowing back her hair, yet remaining firm in her tracks.

Ginny came to an abrupt halt, the grass so soaked water splashed under her feet, and she spotted him.

And he spotted her.

Soaring down, the broom landing on the muddy ground as he jumped off it, sprinting towards her.

And Ginny ran too.

Arms open they collided, and in deep embrace they remained, melting into each other, their clutches tight.

They spun and turned and tears fell between the pouring rain, yet not of sorrow, but of the greatest joy imaginable

No words needed as they spoke through their love, and Ginny cupped his face as she saw his heart through the eyes of shining emerald, wet black hair framing his beautiful face.

Yet no rain, no wind, and no frost remained as their lips gently touched, they were levitating, a connection stronger not to be found.

And her body glowed brightly as if drying up her wet skin, and kiss followed kiss, time slowing down, two stars in their own galaxy, drifting together. She was home, here, where she belonged, with whom she belonged, they could never be whole, not without each other.

And Ginny knew, neither fate nor eternity would keep them apart, they would be together at last.