#the cardigans sample

[pink-ribbon]

Love me love me say that you love me, fool me fool me oh how you do me, kiss me kiss me say that you miss me tell me what I wanna hear, tell me you love me,, my heart is blind but i don’t care cause when I’m with you everything else disappears and every time I hold you near, I never wanna let you go

[heylenaa]

the yt tutorial guy: yall take breaks, knitting for 4 hours straight is not good for you

me on my first knitting experience: prob spent 6 hours crocheting today. 4 of them back to back just now. my wrists are yelling at me.

[andrewgarfieldslut]

(inspo: @dreaminginsteadofsleeping42)

[pseudowho]

It wasn't the first time Kento had bought you flowers.

Your week had started badly, and as weeks which start badly often do, had the audacity to get worse. And worse. And worse. Kento watched it with the mute horror of a husband who could do little to intervene in the particular nature of ills the universe had decided to throw at you.

Sat on the sofa on Friday evening, your week finally dragged (kicking and screaming) to a close. You slumped against the cushions, having drowned your misery in most of a bottle of wine, and you sniffled, hiccupping.

Kento approached you with gentle caution; not because he couldn't manage your anxious, ill-tempered sniping at him. But rather, because he did not want to provoke a snipeshot, just to see you add a gut-chewing guilt to your list of misery, too.

"I just--" You sniffed, rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of one of Kento's old cardigans, "--I just wanna...get back to normal. Have an easy weekend. Bake...bake some bread, or...or something..."

Kento chuckled, sitting opposite you, and pulling your foot onto his lap to stroke it. His voice rumbled, good-humoured.

"Bake some bread?"

You giggled, which bubbled into a sob, lubricated by your wine. You pressed your head into the back of the sofa, slowly falling asleep to the feeling of his fingertips rolling sweet massages up your legs.

You felt Kento shift, climbing closer to bracket over you. You felt his nose, his breath, nudging the side of your head as if a cat. Your face crumpled into a frown, grumbling.

"...Kento...stop..."

"Time for bed, beautiful." Kento whispered against your hairline. "Come on."

You resisted, a paltry effort. You felt Kento's arms slip behind your knees, around your back, lifting you with a grunt, to cradle against him. Walking you to the bedroom, he kicked the door open with one bare foot, and slipped you into bed.

You dipped in and out of sleep, to clattering noises coming from the bathroom.

"Open up." You obeyed, and giggled to feel a toothbrush begin to swish around your mouth. Floppy and useless because Kento allowed you to be, you finally fell into a fractious sleep, disturbed by the traumas of the week you had left burning in your wake.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You woke, reluctantly, to the muffled slam of the front door. You predicted the next sounds in your sleep-addled state, and heard them in perfect order: keys hung up. Shoes kicked off, placed into the shoe rack. Kento clearing his throat. A coat hanging, and footsteps past your bedroom.

You rolled, sloppy, shuffling out of bed with a yawn.

Approaching the kitchen, you noticed a wooden palette on the kitchen counter, and frowned. Inside, in neat rows, lay bag after bag of carefully colour coded...something. You blinked, bleary, and Kento smiled at you as if you were a painted beauty.

He approached you, trailing fingers through your scruffled hair with a hum. His hand dipped down to your fingers, grasping them and bringing their knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

"Good morning, lover."

"Kento, what's..." You gestured to the palette.

Kento was tying an apron behind his waist, flicking through a recipe book with carefully colour-coded notation stickers. He looked up to you, and to the palette, his eyebrows raising for a moment.

"I bought you flours."

"...flowers?"

"No. I bought you flours."

You blinked once, confused. You rolled a bag, turgid and heavy in your hand, and felt the softground shift of the contents within, and it clicked.

"...flours." You sniffled, welling up. "You bought me...flours. Flours, for..."

Kento's smile softened, turning the honey in his eyes to melted gold as he cupped your face, stroking one stray tear away with a swiping thumb. He whispered.

"Flours. For bread."

Kento reached behind himself, his eyes still on you, and a giggle chirped through you again as he lowered an apron loop over your head, reaching around in an embrace to tie it behind your back.

Hours later, sampling different hot breads, oozing with melted butter, a white sheet had draped over the week you left behind you. You left whitedust handprints on Kento's bottom. He sliced wheatsheafs into dough.

It wasn't the last time Kento bought you flours.

(bonus points to anyone who can guess the movie reference)

[wolfythewitch]

Cardigan sample came!!

[morningwitchy]

i considered keeping this a surprise for a bit longer but i was waaay too excited - cardigans are officially returning and will be available for capped presale in 5 new designs early november! (same presale round that the linen collection is going to have)

im extremely happy with how these have been developing - the 100% cotton yarn is much higher quality than the old cardigans/sweaters, and as a result they are incredibly soft and smooth.

and, since ive leveled up my embroidery design over the years, theyre going to be even more detailed than before! ill have photos as soon as the sampling stage is done, before the presale opens! <3

these will have a small-3xl size range, and will be priced around $170

[slushycoookie]

Roleplay Date ~ Miguel O'Hara x AFAB! Reader

Content: You and Miguel do some roleplay, mostly fluff, starts to get suggestive occasionally and near the end, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: Wanted to do a quick idea of you doing a role-play date with Miguel! Enjoy!

He should be here any minute now.

The time on your phone was your favorite thing to look at when you stepped into the bar. You tried to relax with a sip of your margarita, the slightly sour taste of apple dancing across your palate, but your mind kept wandering. How was this going to go? Would it be awkward? Or would it fail if someone tried to steal your man? You had a few other people try to talk to you while you sat but to your relief, disappeared when they saw you weren't that interested.

You had no reason to be nervous. Couples go on role-play dates all the time. You read their ideas and their experiences. It should be fun.

Thirty minutes passed and you saw your husband.

You caught your breath at his change of appearance. A green cardigan, with the top button undone. His white pants contrasted in color but somehow worked well with his black suede loafers. Miguel looked good. You always knew he could be, but this was a little different. You tried not to gawk as you sipped your drink again, pretending the menu was more interesting than anyone else. He wasn't too far from your seat but you caught a whiff of his cologne, earthy with sharp hints of mint. It's one you've never smelled before.

Miguel ordered a rum and coke as you tried to decide what to eat. Maybe some sliders? Or there was a sampling platter you could try. But you also saw sushi on the menu.

“Hi.”

You perked up, heart banging in your chest as you turned to him. He was even better up close. And…did he change his hair? It was parted to the side, not slicked back like his usual style. Miguel usually changes his hair on special occasions. You tried to hold back admiring his brown curls shining in the dim light as you remembered he spoke to you.

“Hi.” A light smile appeared on your face.

“Do you come here often?”

You bit your lip, wondering if you two should have developed a script. But you wanted the interaction to be natural since it's the first time roleplaying like this. “No, I don’t. This is my first time.”

“Alone?” Miguel raised an eyebrow as you nodded, “Someone like you shouldn’t be alone on a night like this.”

Curious, you played with your straw by swirling it in your drink, “What's someone like me?”

“Gorgeous.”

He was eyeing your outfit. A simple black dress that gave much attention to your cleavage. Paired with small matching black heels. You weren't the type to wear this sort of thing but you wanted to try something new. And give your husband something to stare at.

Your poker face was impenetrable, despite wanting to forget everything and immediately go into the hotel room. “You're gonna have to do better than that.”

Miguel smirked before signaling to the bartender that he would pay for anything you wanted for the rest of the night. She gave you a look to make sure you agreed and you nodded. He motioned to the seat beside you and you invited him to stay.

“I’m Miguel.” You gave him yours and he said it as if he’s never said it before. A tingle shot through your spine. “May I ask why you decided to go to the bar tonight?”

“I wanted a drink.” You shrugged, “And I heard this hotel was nice.”

“It is.” He took a sip of his drink, eyes never far from yours.

“Oh? You’ve been here before?”

“Many times. I’ve always been satisfied with the service when I go here on business.”

You hum in delight, “So you’re a businessman?”

“Not quite.” He gives a soft chuckle, “I’m a scientist, that unfortunately has to go on business trips.”

You knew that part about him. He always hated going on trips because that meant he’d be away from you. “What do you specialize in?”

“Genetics.” You had to hold back in smiling hard, seeing his eyes light up at any mention of his work. The conversation was interrupted momentarily when the bartender asked what you wanted to eat. You and Miguel decided to share a sushi platter with an assortment of flavors each of you could try.

And your margarita was also gone, so you decided to get a daiquiri, wanting something a little bit sweeter to combat the sourness you had.

“So you’re a geneticist?” You asked, picking the conversation back up, “That’s fascinating. I’ve never met any geneticists. Especially ones as good-looking as you. Must be in your genes.”

A flash of your husband came out as Miguel’s eyes lowered at your terrible joke. Even you snorted at your words. “Funny. So I’m guessing your profession is a comedian.”

“No way.” You shook your head, “Not by a long shot.”

“Thank god.”

You gasped, pretending to be insulted while watching him hold back a laugh behind his straw. “Rude.”

“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t have high hopes in your career after that joke.”

The air was light and comfortable. Any semblance of nervousness you had previously faded away. That could've just been the alcohol though.

“So since you specialize in genetics, you know all the good stuff. Punnett squares, why people with blue eyes are rare, that sort of thing.”

Miguel nodded, “Usually we're able to find all of your genetic markings through your blood.”

“I'm not scared of getting my blood drawn.” You confidently say, “You think you'd find anything good in my genes?”

He hums in thought, moving closer to slide his hand up your bare forearm, placing his thumb between your arm and bicep. His touch was warm, almost burning your skin up. “Maybe. As long as you hold still.”

“Only if you're gentle.” You let out a low sigh. Your husband staring directly into your eyes, rubbing his thumb against your skin. You're so close to fast-forwarding this date and getting in his pants.

It was to your luck that the food came, causing you and him to part so you could dine in. Husband mode came back as he handed you the wasabi. Your lips curled, knowing he wasn't the biggest fan of it when he accidentally put a huge smear on his roll, eating it whole. You pictured his eyes tearing up and his face scrunching up was hilarious.

“You don't like wasabi?”

Miguel’s head shook with disdain, “Not a fan. It's too hot for my tastes.”

“That's because you put too much on there when you shouldn’t have-” You immediately shut your lips, trying to fix your words. “I mean, plenty of people put a lot on there. It’s a common mistake.”

He ignored your slip up, “Then can you show me how much is adequate for me?”

“Of course.” You took a little piece using your chopsticks, placing it on his sushi roll as if it were delicate. You watched as he ate the piece, shoulders lowered in satisfaction. “See, not that hot right?”

“Not at all.” He then asked about your job which you proceeded to describe as boring. Not as exciting as his geneticist one. While you did so, Miguel kept showing his husband side, making sure you had your fill. As he listened intently. The stranger façade started to fade as you two were starting to act like a married couple again. You’re sure anyone from a mile away could see it.

But you didn’t care. You were full, mind a little clouded from the alcohol and the night was winding down. The time on your phone was almost eleven at night.

Miguel slipped his black card to the bartender, paying for the meal and drinks. You gazed at his form, not believing that you were married to this man.

“Do you have a ride home?” He asked. You knew he made arrangements to book a room at the hotel, but knowing him he’d wanted to make sure the date ended on a satisfying note.

“I’m looking at it.”

His eyes went wide at the flirtatious line for a moment. “Bold, are we?”

“Maybe.” Your playful smirk drew him closer as he leaned into your ear.

“You can ride me in our room.”

You two sped walk towards the elevator. Miguel’s finger repeatedly pressed the down button to make it go faster. Your body was hot, breathing speeding up as you couldn’t hold on much longer. You never knew how slow elevators were when its doors creaked open. The two of you rushed inside and once it was closed, were immediately on each other.

Hot breaths, messy kisses, and hands groping every single part of your bodies filled the space. The cold steel wall was felt on your back as Miguel trapped you, his hard body pressed against your own. He hiked up your leg to wrap around his waist while sucking on your neck. Creating a few marks on your skin.

The dings from the elevator going up were the only thing keeping you together. Otherwise, you were sure he was going to fuck you inside.

“Wait.” Miguel parted, his face stained from your lipstick, hair messy from the exchange. “Do you have your ring?”

You nodded, getting it from your purse. Before you could put it on, he did it for you, slipping it through your ring finger where it belonged. He grabbed his own from his pocket, before slipping it on.

“That’s better.”

Just in time, the elevator stopped on your floor. Miguel picked you up with ease and dashed to the room to continue where you left off.

[briorsims]

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Dearra Cardigan

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[innerfare]

Law Leaving - Part 2

Summary: Law isn't very good with words, but he needs you to know his heart is yours. Reader is a Heart Pirate and marine biologist. Features mutual pining and unrequited love. This thing I wrote here could be considered a prequel if you want to read it, and you can read Part 1 here and Part 1.5 here!

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

CW: SFW // None

Word Count: 1,685

———

Law found you in the lab hunched over some algae samples. You wore your white lab coat over a top he’d never seen you wear before, a snug cardigan with dark red, navy blue, and cream stripes. Your earrings were new, too, silver hoops instead of the pearl studs you normally wore. And you wore your hair in a high ponytail instead of a low bun. He recognized your skirt, at least, plain black and just a little too short. 

He cleared his throat. 

Absorbed by your work, you hadn’t noticed anyone enter. At the sound of a man clearing his throat, you looked up, only to find your captain leaning in the doorway. 

He was in rough shape, and even though you knew his injuries had all been treated, you wanted to take his clothes off and inspect him yourself, to fuss over his wounds like a worried girlfriend. But you weren’t his girlfriend, and you weren’t about to let him know how you had cried yourself to sleep in his absence. 

You’d greeted him when he’d returned but not spoken properly, and that was exactly how you planned to keep it. So, you looked back down at your algae samples. It occurred to you that not too long ago, Law would have been hunched over them with you. The thought made you press your lips together. You studied the samples even more closely, hoping your captain would take the hint and leave you be. 

“Y/n-ah.” 

That low voice of his almost melted you. You’d known you were down bad for him, but it wasn’t until he returned that you realized the extent of it, that you were inhaling extra deep when he passed by to catch his scent, were clinging particularly tight to every word he uttered. You had promised yourself you would keep it a secret, though, determined not to let him think you were the type to just wait around for him to come back when he up and left, to accept being left out of the loop, to be happily sidelined.  

“We agreed to talk,” he said. 

“Did we?” 

You wanted to leave, but he was blocking the narrow doorway with his broad body, and you knew you’d have to touch him if you wanted to push past. And you didn’t think you could touch him, not after everything. You didn’t think you could do anything but dissociate and hope he left before your emotions bubbled up to the surface. 

God, you hoped he wasn’t there for that. 

Law watched you like a hawk, hoping your face might betray some emotion and he could get a feel for where he stood. At long last, he had managed to get you alone, but he could tell you didn’t want it. He wanted to fix it but did nothing for fear he would only make things worse. 

“Y/n-ah,” he said your name again, relishing the fact that you were there to hear it. On the lonely nights he’d muttered it to himself, you hadn’t been there to answer. Now you were, but you didn’t, just stared down at your algae samples. 

“What?” 

“Talk to me.” 

“About what?” 

“When you told me you joined for me, did you mean that?” 

“Of course, I did.”

“Did you stay because of me, too? Or did you stay because of the crew?” 

“I stayed for both,” you admitted. 

“Would you have stayed only for me?” 

The question caught you off guard, and though you knew the answer- a resounding yes- you didn’t want to tell him that. You didn’t want to be the only one confessing. 

When you didn’t respond, Law pushed himself out of the doorway and walked toward you. Just as he reached you, you moved to go around him, trying to escape before you had the conversation you had promised. Before he could think twice, Law reached out and caught your hand in his. 

You gasped. 

He lifted your fingers, stopping to admire the shade of blue you had painted your nails, only to see them bare. It shocked him, and in his surprise, he realized how selfish he had been to think he could leave and return to find everything exactly as he left it. You weren’t a toy, after all, you were a person, one he cared for deeply. And he had left. Even if he’d had no choice, even if he’d refused to give you details because he was worried about you, he had left. 

“Y/a-ah.” 

“Stop saying my name, Law.” You didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t look anywhere on his person, just stared at the ground for fear you would look up and instantly forgive him for being a mysterious asshole. 

Law couldn’t stop himself. He pulled your hand to his lips, pressing his warm lips into your cold palm. To call it a kiss wasn’t quite right. It was more of an embrace, an offering, even, that he gave to you. His heart thudded in his chest, the fear of you rejecting that offering almost too much to bear. But he couldn’t live with the uncertainty any longer. 

Either you wanted him, or you didn’t, and that would be the end of it. 

You wanted him. It was all you could think when he grabbed your hand, when his skin met yours, and when he brought it to his mouth, you melted. 

You knew in your heart that he could be as selfish as he wanted, could keep as many secrets from you, could leave as many times as he wanted, and you would still be there waiting because you were such a sucker for him. You were addicted to the smell of his soap, to the way his dark hair was all ruffled on the rare occasions he took off his hat, to the sight of his tattooed fingers holding yours. 

When you didn’t push him away, he turned your hand over. 

Your breathing faltered. You did your best to hide that fact. 

Law didn’t notice, too focused on steadying his own breathing. 

He kissed each of your knuckles, and when you still didn’t protest, he kissed the back of your hand. He worked his way up, pressing his lips tenderly into your wrist, stopping only when he reached the sleeve of your cardigan. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your skin, not meeting your eyes. “I should have told you before I left.” He kissed your wrist again. 

The way he had to bend down to kiss your wrist had you looking down at him, and the fact that he lowered himself to you was not at all lost on you. You felt a flicker of hope, thought perhaps he felt a certain way, but you weren’t about to let him leave anything unspoken, not after everything that had happened. 

You weren’t about to be the only sucker. 

“Told me what?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Y/n-ah.” 

“Don’t y/n-ah me, Law. You’re back and I’m still here, just like we agreed, but I won’t have a one-sided conversation.” You pulled away from him, and he let you, much to your disappointment. But you only made it a few steps before he spoke again. 

“Room.” 

You blinked in surprise, going deathly still. You waited for a few seconds, mind racing. You wondered what he could possibly be using his devil fruit power for in that moment. Surely he wouldn’t try to trap you there. When you turned to look at him again, what you saw made you gasp, your legs almost giving out. 

Law held his hand out, and in it, was his beating heart. 

“Law!” You thought something must have been horribly wrong for him to pull his own heart out of his body, but you were glued to the spot. 

“Take it,” he prodded. 

“What? I don’t-” 

“It’s yours.” 

You could see the strain on his face, could hear it in his deep voice, as if it pained him physically to be so vulnerable with you. You stared at the organ in his hand, his most vulnerable one, exposed and vulnerable for you. 

Emotion overwhelmed you, the hurt of being left behind, the fear of him never coming back, the love you’d realized you had inside you after he was gone. Tears picked at your eyes, and you willed them not to spill down your cheeks. 

“It’s been yours since the moment we met,” he told you, sounding as miserable as you had ever heard him. 

Completely speechless, you took a step forward, and with it, you saw his heart beat faster. You realized then that it had been beating fast the entire time, confessing all the things Law couldn’t seem to say. With a shaky breath, you reached out and accepted his heart. You held it in your hands like it might shatter at any moment. 

You pushed the organ back into his chest, but you didn’t pull away after. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him tight, your tears finally falling down your cheeks as you breathed him in. 

“I was so worried about you,” you cried against his neck. You knocked his hat off his head to tangle your fingers in his hair. 

“I was worried about you, too.” With that, he pressed a kiss into your neck. His kisses were not sloppy or feverish but instead communicated a deeper ache. He was like a starving man who could barely lift food to his mouth.

Finally, you gave him some reprieve. You lifted his chin and pressed your lips to his, the very same as those chaste kisses you had shared before but somehow more meaningful, more intimate. Your heart soared when he wrapped his arms around you, and it took all of your self control to pull away and look up at him. 

“You better not use this as an excuse to leave me behind again,” you told him. 

Something of a smile tugged on his lips. “The opposite.” With that, he kissed you again.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Walking on Sunshine 4

Sister series to Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

Warnings: non/dubcon, antisocial behaviour, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: God The Bounty Hunter x reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You have your muffin with tea. It’s a special treat for the night even if it remains confounding. With every bite, you can’t help but think of that man. His piercing blue eyes bore into your soul and his silence piques your curiosity. 

The question you can’t help but ask over and over is why you? Why is he leaving you muffins? And seemingly, why is he following you to the cafe?  

The question follows you to bed. Most nights, you’re tired enough to pass out just before ten, watching some crafting video or another. Often, you wake up to the idle screen of your laptop. Not that night, your sleep is splintered by the ghost of your waking hours. 

As you get ready for work, pulling on a loosely crocheted cardigan over a light blue plaid dress, you think of him. You try to place him. Is he new? You don't think you've seen him before. You aren’t exactly the most observant; apparently, he’d been following you and you didn’t notice. 

You put on a pair of socks with scalloped tops and some well-worn oxfords. You check your work bag to make sure everything’s inside and grab your travel mug of tea. It’s a new flavour from your sample pack; sweet pear. 

You take your usual route to work. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder as you do. You doubt he’d be hanging around that early. Besides, he’s not a stalker. He just wanted to give you the muffin. 

You yawn as you enter the office building and wait for the elevator. You blow over the lid of the thermos. The tea won’t be cool enough to drink until you get to your desk and untwist the cap. You have your routine. Your boring, repetitive routine. 

You near your desk as a few early comers settle in. The smell of coffee wafts in the air as you hear the single-serve machine grinding over the lazy clacking of keys. You put your thermos down and pause.

You look over your chair, turning it slowly as you examine the arm. This isn’t your chair. There’s a piece missing out of the arm rest, a chunk you can’t help but pick at but this arm is brand new, the whole seat is a different style. The wheels don’t squeak. 

You look around. Maybe the cleaners switched it up by accident. Hard to say who they would switch it with, you don’t exactly go around checking out chairs. You go around to examine your neighbours to see if it was a simple switch. Nope. 

You peer around and blow out through your lips. You don’t want to be accused of trying to acquire someone else’s chair. It looks new, almost like one of the ones from the managers’ offices. You really can’t be on the wrong side of the higher ups. You get by on your invisibility. The job is safe so you play it safe. 

You spin the chair. No squeaking, no creaking. The fabric looks as pristine as the rest of it. A seat should not cause so much concern. 

Your neighbour appears and drops their bag beside their desk. You glance over at their dark hair, barely getting a glimpse before they set off for their first coffee of the day. Dark roast. You can tell by the smell. As they strut away, either unaware or or deliberately ignoring your existence, you assume the latter, you stay standing, staring at the mysterious chair. 

“You don’t like it?” A gritty voice startles you as a figure appears from behind the next group of cubicles. 

It’s him. That man. He crosses his arms as he watches you. He wears a grey button up and corduroys a shade darker. His tie is skinny with a flat end. His square jaw is shadowed with stubble and his hair is unstyled but not messy, a short trim along his forehead. 

“It’s not mine,” you utter bluntly. 

“Expense report was approved. It’s yours,” he insists. 

“You?” You wonder. 

He gives a short nod and unfolds his arms, standing staunchly across from you. You look down then back at him. “Thanks, but, you didn’t have to.” 

“I did,” he counters. 

You don’t know what to make of him or his responses. Or the chair. You gulp and once more examine the cushy backrest, touching it, squeezing it’s firm but soft padding. 

“The muffin was goo--” you look up and he’s gone. What the heck? This is getting really strange. If it wasn’t for the very real chair in front of you, you might think he’s a ghost. 

Your cubicle neighbour returns and sets his cup down. You don’t miss the pointed way his eyes flick across you before he sits. He must think you’re talking to yourself. You do your best not to do that at work. If you can help it, you try not to make much noise as his sighs and grumbles keep you on edge. 

You shrug and roll the chair back. You sit. No squeak! Your neighbour doesn’t huff. You pull yourself smoothly towards the desk and boot up your computer. This is nice, but you’ll have to figure out who your kind benefactor is. You owe him a million thanks, and you have a million questions. 

[dreamsinombre]

Warming up & getting excited for Tour de Fleece next month ✨ with team Camp Wooligan

Another superbly skilled spinner kindly suggested I try out the Corriedale I have waiting in my fiber stash instead of diving back into commercially dyed merino and merino blends (I treasure the undyed fibers I have more and wanted to do them more justice), and I am SO glad I followed their wise advice as I practiced practicing on these little ~2oz samples. I immediately could see why they recommended the corrie and also why BFL is often recommended for beginners as well: I felt like I was doing something close to right.

I have one more sample to get to once I empty at least one of these bobbins, and then all that's left is trying to contain my excitement and hold back on spinning until Tour de Fleece officially starts!

And the final plied results from brushing off the heavy coat of rust off my spinning and doing some samples of the breeds I currently have.

Not anywhere near the weight I eventually want to be able to ply to, but a small step closer, and a small step closer toward consistent, as well. It was fascinating seeing how each wool gave me a different experience, and how much each of the plied yarns bloomed after a soak.

I really enjoyed my first foray into feeling and seeing the differences in working with different types of wool, and I've got a bunch more on the way to sample for Tour de Fleece next month.

🤎 Correidale, ~1.8oz, ~30y

🤍 Cheviot, ~2.1oz, ~32y

🩶 Bluefaced Leicester, ~2.1oz, ~31y

🧡 Shetland (broken top), ~2oz, ~43y

All fiber from Blue Moon Alpacas (shop | IG) and spun on my one and only Lendeum double treadle.

I also have been knitting a lot of cardigans and sweaters this past spring, and hopefully will muster the gumption to block them & weave in all their ends to take some photos to share.

[tapiocats]

I just finished this design, but sadly I won't have the time to order a sample before Halloween :<

So I was wondering... would any of you still be interested in a vampire-themed knitted cardigan after October 31st ? 🦇

Featuring lots of bats, stars, and a garlic flower ✨️

[persephoneflouwers]

I’m home.

It was a strange day and in some ways it was worse than yesterday.

I slept barely 4 hours, was awake at 4 am and just waited for my alarm to ring for 1 hour and 50 minutes staring at the dark ceiling.

I also slept in my sisters bed, because yesterday night when I read Louis’ post on IG I felt an intense chest pain, that I only felt the night my grandma died. I was scared and couldn’t sleep alone.

I went to work in a total black outfit, was there awfully early. I didn’t speak. My colleague didn’t speak because he’s apparently very good at the reading the room.

I couldn’t even bother to wear my scrubs. I kept my black clothes. My black trousers, my black loafers, my black socks, my black cardigan. I even kept down my black hair.

It simply was a black heart day.

I barely spoke, only to expose clinical cases to my tutor doctor.

I was running down a fever at some point, because I was hot and then cold and then my eyes burnd and my voice was cracked and I felt so much pain in my muscles, I wanted to just go home and lay down.

I almost forgot I had blood tests to check. I went there saying “my veins are difficult, just take this [showed my radial vein on my pulse], I dont want to waste your time*. He didn’t even hear me probably, I don’t know. What I know is he tried for another vein and failed.

I was looking at his earrings. They were semicircular rings with sharp endings. He was a cool middle age man. I should have said something, commented on how cool his earrings were. I didn’t.

I wore my FFP2 mask and kept sniffing my nose. I didn’t feel pain, I just wanted to go home.

He took my distal radial vein after all.

I thanked him and I said I’m sorry my veins are like this, I tried to bump them and even drank coffee to raise my blood pressure but it is that it is.

I went back to the doctors office. There were so many people, I was uncomfortable. I hated that I couldn’t be showing how upset I was.

I hated they asked me “total black today huh?” I didn’t want them to know about my emotional state.

I looked for patterns. Stripes, circles, matching colours in people’s clothes. It calmed me down.

I met crush guy too. It was awful, i didn’t match his energy at all. I asked him to leave me alone because it was a rough day. He texted me later to say they were worried. I didn’t want them to know how I am. They don’t understand.

I took an ABG sample on the cutest old man today. I asked him if I had hurt him and he smiled and said I was a delicate angel in his cute accent. I failed the test, by the way. I had to ask someone else to do it for me. I didn’t want to needle this person again.

I asked my colleague, probably the only one who knows what is going on, if she needed any help and she said yes. I helped her out with some clinical reports for the weekend.

Everything and everyone were so loud today. I wanted to play my day on mute. I didn’t listen to any music in my car on my way home. It was just silence.

There was a rainbow in the sky at 5ish. I said “hi liam” and it was heartwarming.

I love rainbows. They’re silent, innocent, light. I hope to see the rainbows again.

[mrreedmrread]

Blueberry Pie - F!Reader x Mr. Reed

Chapter 2/?

Female Reader is a 18 y.o. senior in high school and works at a bakery, Mr. Reed is a college professor. 18+. Religious discourse (Catholicism)/blasphemy. Loss of virginity. Dirty talk. Sexual touching, male and female. Oral sex, female receiving. Breeding and praise kinks. Mr. Reed POV this chapter.

He’s wearing his favorite cardigan the evening he meets you.

Well worn, a tad frayed—he really should get that hole mended before it gets any worse—but comfortable. Like the feel of the billfold in his rear pocket, stretched and creased from years of use, reshaped and molded to fit his body. Comfortable like the vintage car he drives, favoring an older model sedan over one of those hybrids everyone fusses over nowadays. Comfortable like the home he lives in—nothing flashy, nothing modern, but his own design. A feat of architecture he’s created with his own hands. The interior, at least; he supposes he must give credit where it’s due.

He’s wearing his favorite cardigan again, that patchwork of squares a reflection of the variety of the religions he’s sampled over the course of his adult life the next time he sees you, although this second meeting is quite accidental. Driving home in the pouring rain—extremely unusual for Utah, one of the driest regions of the US—he’d been entranced by the gentle thumps of the wipers across the windshield as they’d cut a swathe of clean glass for him to see through before the deluge above had stubbornly obscured it once again. Over and over, a cycle not unlike a beating heart. He might never have noticed you, walking home in the late afternoon, had you not turned your face, your fingers swiping at the moisture dousing your features.

He pumps the brakes a little more harshly than he normally does and the beige vehicle jerks to a halt at the shoulder of the road just as you do the same. Patting the dashboard as a kind of silent apology, he then leans over to crank down the passenger side window and you bend slightly, peering warily into the car to view the driver.

“Ah! Hello again! We met in the bakery, remember? Blueberry pie and tea? Need a lift?”

Your hair hangs in damp clumps, plastered in places against your face. Of course you’re going to accept the offer. You both know this. But he still asks, out of courtesy. Giving you a choice. A chance.

You tug on the chrome handle and hastily settle inside the car, tucking your backpack on the floor between your legs. He’s trying very hard not to look at those legs with their dark socks halting just below bare knees, the hem of your charcoal plaid skirt kissing the place where your thighs ended and those joints began.

You swipe at your face again, mumbling your gratitude before fumbling with the lap restraint. It’s always been a bit fussy, that buckle, so he leans over to assist you, his warm hands brushing your chill ones briefly until the metal pieces join with a satisfying click.

“You’re freezing. Here, put this on.” He begins unfastening the buttons of his sweater, ignoring your protest as he shrugs out of one sleeve and leans over the steering wheel to peel the rest of the garment off. You offer a weak smile before draping it around your shoulders. Of course it’s the wrong size, but that’s not the point. It’s dry and warm, still bearing his body heat. He doesn’t miss the way you bring the sleeve to your face as you adjust the clothing to try to subtly inhale the scent.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

“No worries. What are you doing walking in this weather?”

“I didn’t realize it was going to pour like this.”

“You don’t drive to school?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the weather. I like walking.”

The man flips the turn signal, casting a glance in the rearview mirror before easing back onto the road. “Why didn’t you call someone to give you a ride?”

“I don’t know. It’s not that far. I thought…” Your voice trails off weakly before you give him your address.

“Well, it’s brave of you, if not particularly clever,” he quips, hoping to see you smile, but your features are now stoic, your gaze fixed on the windshield. He rakes a hand through his hair, deciding on a different approach. “You know, it occurred to me that I never got your name the other day. Or properly introduced myself. I’m Mr. Reed.”

You mumble your name and he repeats it, trying out the sound with his mouth. “A lovely name. Pleasure to meet you.” Your eyes still refuse to meet his and he frowns. “Did something happen today? At school, or…?”

“No. Nothing happened.” You push your thumb through the hole in the sleeve, then retract it again.

“Right. Well, we’re nearly there.” Seeing the driveway devoid of cars, he pulls into it, shifting the gears into park. Your own must be in that garage directly ahead. Three bay doors. Quite spacious.

“Thank you for the ride.” You start to remove the cardigan he’s lent you but he halts you, lightly grasping your upper arm.

“Keep it for now. You can return it another time.”

“What if I don’t see you again?” Your eyes finally meet his. Your lashes are clumped together from the rain, clustering them into dense points.

“You’ll see me again.” His hand is still on your arm. He can feel you trembling, even though the interior of the car is toasty with the hot air circulating from the vents and he feels certain it’s not the solely the chill rain making you shiver. “Are your parents at home? Siblings?”

“No siblings. My parents are at work.” He watches the bob of your throat as you swallow hard.

“A cup of tea would be perfect right now.”

“What?”

“Invite me inside. For tea.” He switches off the ignition.

“Oh. Um…do you want to come inside for tea?”

“A kind offer. Yes, I would.”

He follows you to the front porch, relaxing the shoulders he had hunched up, trying to keep the rain from dripping beneath his shirt collar. You unlock the front door and close it behind him, setting your book bag down while he wipes his loafers on the mat.

The interior of the home is typical middle class suburbia, furnished like so many of its ilk. He doesn’t care for it, his gaze immediately returning to what he does care to look at: namely, you.

“Tea,” he prompts again when you continue to stand there, as if rooted to the spot.

You flush and hurry down the hallway, ducking to the left into what he soon discovers is the kitchen. You fill a kettle—electric, of course—with water from the faucet and lift a pair of ceramic mugs from the cabinet near the sink. He steps closer, resting a hand on one shoulder, and you freeze midway through tearing the paper envelope of a tea bag open.

“Are you going to tell me now what’s upsetting you?”

“No,” you croak.

“Why not?” He brushes back some of the damp tendrils of hair hanging beside your cheek.

“It’s embarassing.”

“What is?”

“My parents will be home soon.”

Mr. Reed frowns. “Not likely. They work a nine to five, I’m willing to wager. Still a few hours away. You don’t need to lie,” he reprimands gently, now hooking his fingers beneath the loose collar of the cardigan draped over you and jerking it down sharply. It falls from your shoulders as you gasp, suddenly revealing your own saturated school blazer and blouse. He can see the outline of your brassiere—sensible white, but no less appealing—before he tosses his cardigan over the edge of the sink and rests a hand along your lower spine.

“I’m not…I’m not lying.”

“You’re not a good liar. As you shouldn’t be. Not a good, Catholic girl like yourself, hmmm?” He lets his fingers drag downward, following the dip of your back before abruptly dropping his hand. “Now tell me why you’re suddenly so reluctant to speak with me. You were quite verbose the other day. What’s changed?”

You shake your head, worrying your bottom lip. The power switch on the stainless steel kettle clicks off as a rush of steam releases from the spout.

“Should I hazard a guess? Would that be easier for you?” He moves to stand directly behind you, one hand now splayed over your abdomen, tugging you back against him while his lips find your ear. “Have you been giving our conversation some consideration, perhaps? Entertaining theories? Envisioning possibilities? Have I had that much of a profound influence? Or maybe it’s something much, much more fundamental. Primal. Awakening. Thoughts of sin,” he whispers, his lips nearly touching your skin.

“Mr. Reed,” you protest, your hand covering the one clasping you around your waist, but you cannot shift his grip.

“Is that why you can’t look me in the eye today?”

Another sharp breath inhaled. Bingo. Hit the nail on the head.

“You think I didn’t notice how you looked at me?”

“Mister…”

“Did you go home and touch yourself and think about me?”

A little moan of sound breaks from your lips. Every question finds its mark, burrowing deeper and deeper inside of you.

“Tell me. All of it. Every lewd scenario.”

“Mr. Reed, I can’t—”

“—You can and you will. Turn around and face me.”

He steps back, releasing you. You obey his command slowly, your eyes downcast until he tucks his fingers beneath your chin and lifts your face.

“Look at me.”

Your lashes lift gradually and he sees it: all the guilt and fear and shame and desire, shining hotly in those orbs.

“There it is,” he utters, the words tinged with a kind of satisfied, grudging admiration. He cradles your cheek and smooths a thumb across the wedge of your lower lip. Your breath stutters and he swallows that sound, his mouth finally crashing against yours.

Your body goes limp as he gathers you against him, pressing you back against the counter, one of the mugs tipping and landing with a loud smack as his tongue lances your lips and strokes along yours. Not your first kiss, no; he’d be naive to think otherwise. But he vows then and there to make you forget all the others that have come before this one.

Your fingers curl around the nape of his neck, toying with the edges of the graying mane that is quite overdue for a trim. The sounds you make are so sweet, those little whimpers and keens and whines that escape every now and again when they part for air, when they readjust as you learn the best way to fit lips and tongues together. He wants to fuck you on that counter he’s pinned you against, that counter that your parents make their morning coffee or tea on and pour breakfast cereal into bowls. And he will.

But not just yet.

“Show me your room,” he huffs against your lips, and your eyes widen slightly in surprise, but you acquiesce, leading him away from the kitchen once he’s granted you the space and freedom of movement to do so.

Your bedroom is stereotypical of many teenage girls your age, caught in that lingering realm between nostalgia for the past, as evidenced by the teddy bear centered on the bedspread, and the encroaching adulthood, on display in the poster of a male musician taped to the closet door, leather clad and pouting. Had that been a source for your little sessions before he’d come along? No matter. That was before.

Now, he has you.

He shoves at the pile of decorative pillows and the aforementioned plush, clearing space on the bed, gesturing for you to get on it. You sit on the edge, clearly nervous, watching him toe off his shoes.

“Get on the bed,” he commands, and you comply, hastily scrambling into place. His added weight makes the mattress springs creak as he joins you, propping himself up on one elbow while one hand moves over your body. “I’m not going to fuck you today. Not with my cock, anyway,” he murmurs, rewarded with another little flair of your dewy lashes. “But I am going to make you cum. And the name that you cry out isn’t going to be your Lord and Savior’s,” he growls, stealing another rough kiss while his hand dips below the hem of your skirt and lifts it. He slides his hand over the tops of your thighs, halting when he reaches the apex that joins them. “Open your legs for me.”

You’re trembling violently now, partly from fear and uncertainty, but partly from the overwhelming desire and anticipation, too, he thinks. His kisses grow more gentle as he lightly fondles your pussy through the crotch of your panties, pleased by their dampness.

“I’m going to try my best not to hurt you,” he promises, snaking his fingers beneath the waistband, eliciting another whimper. Your flesh is scorching hot and slick and he takes several moments to learn the lay of the land, as it were, tracing over your outer and inner labia, the hooded nub and the divot at the nether region, back and forth, up and down, side to side, now painting gentle circles over your clit while you squirm and writhe, one hand locking over his forearm. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmurs as he begins easing his middle finger into your canal. You wince and your nails dig into his skin but he ignores this, his thumb soothing your engorged pearl while he works back and forth, pumping in and out in short movements, inserting more of his digit in gradual increments. You’re getting wet again, your body surrendering to him.

“Has anyone ever eaten you out?” You shake your head and he smiles. “Then you’re in for a treat. Keep your legs bent.” He shifts positions, guiding your thighs up and back, better exposing your pussy to him. He begins with soft teasing kisses before properly introducing his tongue, stabbing inside of you, then flicking over your clit. He lets saliva pool in his mouth and then adds it to the natural arousal spilling from inside of you, coating your pink flesh until it’s soaked and slippery. By now you’re becoming restless, your breath panting, one hand tentatively reaching down to touch his head and that’s all the benediction he needs, his finger returning to its quest to defile you fully, thrusting inside to the knuckle and then joined by a partner. His fingers piston and scissor and curl inside of you, stretching you open while his lips and tongue worship your clit, blending and blurring pain and pleasure until at last the latter overtakes the former and you come undone, shattering in his mouth, your fingers tearing at his silver hair, your crotch grinding against his mouth and fingers, his name spilling from your lips.

He hums in amusement, teasing a few last little strokes against your oversensitized clit before he allows you a reprieve, climbing back up the bed to reclaim your mouth, to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

“As good as you’d imagined?”

You don’t answer, not with words, but he feels it in the way your fingers tighten on the collar of his shirt, your mouth eager against his.

“My turn,” he purrs, pressing your hand against the bulge in his trousers. “I’m going to make it easy for you this time.” In truth, it’s not going to take much to set him off. He certainly wouldn’t last with those pretty lips wrapped around his cock right now. As it is, the sight of your hands cautiously unzipping his pants is nearly enough to get him there. He grits his teeth when you shyly pull him out of his boxer briefs. “Fuck,” he curses, and your timid stroking immediately halts. “No, sweetheart. You were doing fine. It’s just…been awhile. You’re doing good, so good…” Your fingers wrap around the shaft once more and you begin pumping up and down. A healthy glob of precum leaks from the head and you smear that over his erection, heightening the sensation.

“Good girl,” he gasps, his face burrowing between your neck and shoulder. He feels you wriggle at this praise and he tucks that information away for later. Right now he just wants release, as blissful as this feels. “You’re going to make me cum, love. I can’t wait to put it inside of you. Fill you up. Breed you…” You moan and he recaptures your mouth and spills over your hand, several pulses of creamy fluid painting your fingers and spurting over your forearm.

He’s so, so tempted to wipe up that jizz and stuff it inside of your cunt, fingering you open and working his seed inside of your fertile womb. The thought is enough to send another weak wave of sperm from the tip of his cock.

Instead he flops back against the pillows and exhales, staring at the ceiling while his heart gradually stops pounding and his breathing returns to normal. His head tips to the side to regard you. “Had fun?” You nod solemnly and he grins crookedly. “You see? No lightning bolts. No wrath of God.”

Your eyes slide from his and he pushes himself into a sitting position. “Hey, now. What’s this? You’re not feeling remorse, are you?”

“No,” you mumble.

“Look at me,” he commands, the light humor leaving his voice. “You wanted this to happen. Choice. Yours. Mine. Bringing us to this moment.”

“I was…I was a virgin.”

He chuckles softly. “I’m aware. And you still are, in some sense of the term. What, is that what’s bothering you? You barely bled. No lasting harm done. Don’t expect me to believe you were,” he draws air quotes, “saving yourself for marriage?”

“No. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I’m not prepared for any of this. I’m not on birth control, for one thing.”

“That’s easily remedied, if that’s a concern for you.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Aren’t you concerned?”

“About fucking a girl forty years my junior and knocking her up? No. The idea is rather thrilling, actually.” He flashes another grin before he tucks himself back inside his underwear and refastens his fly, completely ignoring your flustered expression. “Lots of older gents become fathers later in life nowadays.”

You’ve wiped his cum off on your skirt, the milky stain lingering evidence of what’s transpired between you. He wonders if you do your own laundry. You’ll have to, now. “My parents would kill both of us.”

He scoffs at your declaration, unperturbed. “You are a grown woman, more than capable of making decisions about your own body. A very beautiful body, by the way,” he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes roving over the figure of you in your rumpled school uniform.

You shake your head and he lets the subject matter drop for now, following your gaze in the direction of the digital alarm clock on your nightstand. “They really will be home soon.”

The older man sighs mournfully. “Alright. I can take a hint. Although…” He leans towards you and kisses your mouth. “Surely we have time for one more round.”

“You can’t…guys can’t cum again that quickly,” you protest.

“Alas, that is true. But you have no such restrictions. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Mr. Reed’s face disappears between your thighs once again.

[wolfythewitch]

When do you think the illiad cardigans will be out 👀👀👀👀👀👀

The estimated delivery date for the samples is early February so if it looks good then maybe mid February?

[morningwitchy]

how can i not give you guys another teaser of the witchs garden sample? 🖤

100% cotton knit cardigans with embroidered details, sizes small-3xl will be available. presale details coming soon!