#woolen spinning

[thecozycuttlefish]

I'm very excited about the progress I've made this week! My granny square blanket is halfway done!

Come check out The Cuttle Corner!

[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…

[sonnentausnest]

Corriedale 2-ply, 14 wpi, spun woolen

[obstinatecondolement]

I don't know if this is a crocheter thing or an autistic thing or a secret third thing, but I am hopelessly biased towards worsted spun yarns over woolen spun yarns. When people talk about how beautiful and lofty and soft woolen yarns are and then scew up their faces to talk about how "tightly twisted" worsted yarns are I'm like... yeah. That's what makes worsted yarn fucking rock. It's so compressed and even and smooth. As all things should be. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[ellecdc]

I absolutely love love love your writing! I have a request if you’re up for it?

Can you write a possessive/ jealous wolfstar x reader. Reader is always wearing baggy clothes so when shes wearing a tight dress that hugs her curvy body for yule ball and the boys in school wont stop staring at her got remus and sirius very jealous?

thank you baby! and thank you for your request. it’s not a whole lot of jealousy, but this is my take on it; hope you like it!! 🫶

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader who looks so good in a ballgown CW: no smut but mention of dicks/horniness, catcalling

There were some things that not many people knew but Remus did.

One thing not many people knew was that Sirius – in all his cool bravado – was the most sensitive person Remus knew. Sirius would cry during any and every movie, he once cried when he saw a baby chipmunk because it was ‘way too small, what the fuck?’, and those closest to Sirius knew that one must watch their tone lest the long-haired boy believe you were mad at him.

Another thing that not many people knew but Remus did was how fucking hot you were. And that’s not to say people didn’t know you were beautiful – your beauty was undeniable. 

But Remus (and Sirius) knew a secret.

Under the Hogwarts uniform? Under the boxy dress shirt, plaid pleated skirt, and woolen jumpers and cardigans, was one banging body. 

What helped keep this fact to be widely unknown was that when not in your uniform, you could usually be found in Sirius’ quidditch jersey, or Remus’ jumpers, or your own loosely fitting clothes. Your style was simple and understated, usually consisting of loose-fitting shirts and jeans or corduroys. Comfy, cozy, nondescript. It also helped that Sirius’ style was nearly the complete opposite – loud, demanding, and bold - so people spent most of their time ogling him. 

It seemed, however, that this secret would be revealed to all of Hogwarts tonight. 

“Holy shit.” Peter muttered under his breath as the Marauder’s stood dressed in their best awaiting their dates for the ball. You and Lily traipsed down the stairs in your heels and dresses whilst Peter was bombarded with various whacks to his arms and an ‘oi!’ or two from James, Sirius, and Remus.

But Peter was right, you looked fucking stunning. You were wearing a beautiful satin gown, the fabric spilling sinfully over your body like water and cascading to your ankles. Your shape and figure were further accentuated by the way the lights refracted off the shiny material, leaving nothing to the imagination. He was surprised to see how thin the straps were; there had to be some magic holding the gown to your body, surely.

Remus felt conflicted; he both wanted to throw you over his shoulder and rush back up to the dorms to ravish you and parade you around shouting ‘look at what this poor, scarred werewolf managed to pull!’.

There was one issue.

Sirius.

“What is she wearing!?” He whispered shouted to Remus.

“Pads, don’t upset her.” He murmured into his boyfriend’s ear. “Don’t make her feel self-conscious.”

Sirius let out a sound between a pained moan and a growl but nodded all the same.

You offered the boys a soft smile, shoulders migrating towards your ears proving to Remus that you were indeed feeling a little vulnerable.

“Hey beautiful!” Remus greeted you, taking your hand that adorned the charmed corsage Remus and Sirius had given you that matched the one’s pinned to their lapels and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“Hi boys.” You smiled, looking between the two of them. “You look very nice.”

Sirius scoffed, and Remus prayed to every deity possible that Sirius kept his wits about him. “Not half as good as you, babe! Come on, give us a spin.”

Remus let out a sigh of relief whilst your shoulders migrated impossibly higher, though you obeyed Sirius’ demand, nonetheless.

Remus dick twitched embarrassingly in his pants, and based on the pained groan emanating from Sirius, he was sure his did too. Thinking about Sirius’ dick made his own dick twitch again; this was going to be a long night. 

“It’s not too much?” You asked sheepishly as you turned back to face them, embarrassment painting your features as you looked timidly between your two boyfriends. 

“No!” Sirius shouted, but his voice came out painfully high. “No.” He corrected, clearing his throat. 

“You look stunning, my love.” Remus said more eloquently. 

You smiled beautifully albeit shyly at the two boys before your moment was interrupted.

“Circe’s tits, L/N! Where’ve you been hiding that body!?” Barty Crouch Jr called as he let out a wolf whistle, either completely forgetting or ignoring the fact that he was walking arm-in-arm with his boyfriend who only offered his brother and his brother’s dates a simple eyeroll.

“Keep walking you fuckin’ wanker.” Sirius barked.

Remus’ heart clenched when he noticed you start to ring your hands together nervously.

“I don’t know... Lily told me to go with this one, but I have another dress upstairs – maybe I should-”

“Absolutely not.” Sirius cut you off, levelling you with a look that spoke no nonsense. 

“It would be a sin to deny the world of such a sight, love.” Remus encouraged pulling you towards him and massaging at your tense jaw with his thumbs. He hoped he was giving you his softest smile possible, and the way your own expression softened in response told him he had.

“Wear what you want, dollface; I can fight.” Sirius added, causing the two of you to break eye contact, looking over to see that he was already tying his hair up pre-emptively. Remus scoffed out a laugh and you whimpered a pained ‘Sirius...’. 

“Let’s go, sugar.” He said when he was done, winking at you teasingly. “Let’s show these tossers what they’re missing.”

Remus thought you looked nervous as you allowed Sirius to hook your arms together, though he didn’t know why. You didn’t have to referee Sirius’ tussles; Remus did.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

✽ Part One - A twisted fate

I'm gonna be honest: this came to me in a tired, period induced haze and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing but the bunnies would not let me stop until I finished it. Was supposed to be a oneshot... until it wasn't XD Hoping this is just gonna be a short little pet project on the side. Lemme know if I missed any triggers!

Trigger warnings: SA (not by the 141), biting, claiming, angst, depression, hurt/no comfort, self harm

[Edit 7/16/24: updated relationship tags]

The parking lot was a certified mess to navigate, a veritable winter hellscape with the continual snowfall keeping the pavement slick and churning around spinning wheels to create a thick dirty slush. Packed cars fought for spaces towards the front of the store, wanting to avoid the headache of trudging through sloppy sleet, heavy carts overflowing with expensive gifts and last minute groceries.

Parents loaded up their trunks for their upcoming banquets. Little ones chattered in youthful exuberance about brightly wrapped packages and a jolly fat man. Festively dressed bell ringers exhausted their muscles for the cause of charity, offering joyous smiles to those passing by gracious enough to offer a token. Even six inches of heavy wet snowfall were not enough to deter shoppers from their mood. Coupled with the obnoxiously boisterous music that met you at the door it was almost impossible not to get swept up in the infectious holiday spirit.

Almost.

You hadn’t bothered joining the chaotic dominance for prime parking, opting to choose the very last row towards the street instead of wasting precious minutes yelling profanities out the window to an uppity pack trying to steal your spot. The harsh wind burned your face and nipped at your skin, pulling the woolen scarf tighter around your neck and up over your bitten nose. You avoided eye contact with the chipper lady at the front, not wanting to feel guilty for not donating when you barely had enough to scrape by as it is.

Normally you avoided venturing out this close to Christmas unless absolutely necessary. Holidays haven't meant much to you in recent years since your parent’s untimely passing and you hated the constant reminder of ‘the most wonderful time of the year’. Sure, there were still your other two alpha fathers, but they’d opted for someplace warmer in their age and visitation was difficult with your busy work schedule. Your younger brother wasn’t almost worth mentioning with his new prissy family somewhere up north. That bridge was burned the day he called you a harlot.

Needless to say, you’d become something of a grinch.

You’d been miserably sick the week prior and ate through most of your stockpile of hoarded food, not enough remaining to keep blowing off shopping with the bustling crowds. If you wanted to last past New Years then a trip into town was unavoidable.

The intense blast of hot air from the overhead heaters thawed your aching bones upon entering the store, shaking the accumulated dampness from your head and shoulders but leaving the thick cloth covering the lower half of your face. It would help you in your endeavors to get through the aisles expediently without irritating your delicate omega olfactory senses. 

It got harder to distinguish the source of fragrances this time of year, when folk spent their days burrowed away from the bitter cold surrounded by the comforts of the season. A chilled glass of rich subtly spiced eggnog, smokey cedar logs crackling in the hearth, sweet woodsy pine wreaths and garlands wrapped around thick oak banisters, trees decorated with peppermint candy canes and dried strings of popcorn. 

Gingerbread, mulled wine, cinnamon, orange, clove; a bountiful buffet of complementary aromas. Your own father had smelled of cranberry sauce once upon a time (it made the holidays that much harder when he was gone). And with so many people filling the space - even with the heating fans working overtime trying to filter out most of it - it could get difficult trying to figure out whether a boozy scent originated from a lovely beta or the soaked rum cake she was placing in her cart.

Honestly if it weren't for the outrageous delivery fees you would've had the groceries dropped off instead of enduring the aggressive pheromones floating through the air. Alas this was one of your few exceptions to your hermit lifestyle.

Truthfully, it wasn’t just December that had you hesitant to leave the sanctuary of your meager apartment. 

For the past few years, you’d been battling a severe case of agoraphobia, something you’d been working on wholeheartedly with a therapist since the accident that made you so. It had crippled you to the point that even daring to have the blinds open on your windows sent you spiraling into that dark abyss of cackling distress, panic consuming every last ounce of breath until you found yourself minutes later curled up on the bathroom floor, lightheaded and queasy.

Nausea was a constant in your life, along with the cold sweat that had you sleeping on a towel just to keep from ruining your bedsheets. Lethargy was embedded in your muscle fibers. A searing ache in your throat. The painful deep tugging in your chest an ever present reminder of the uphill battle you fought each time you opened your crusty sleep filled eyes. Depression was your best friend, curled around you in a false sense of comfort where it was easier to slip into a maladaptive headspace than face the truth of your harsh reality.

But despite the physical manifestations of your trauma, you’d made good strides so far with your weekly sessions. It had been a difficult road getting to this point and your therapist praised you for your dedication to not letting it hinder the life you had ahead. You weren’t sure what it looked like, but you tried all the same.

Like a hound that heard you calling, that ominous presence that filled you with dread came crawling into the back of your skull, mittened hand discreetly itching at the wool around your neck and scratching the irritated skin beneath. Forcing yourself to take a few deep breaths until it settled, you grabbed one of the many baskets available and began the trek weaving down the rows of food.

Christmas was about a week away and the mobs were out in full force. Thankfully the items you were on the hunt for were not the same ingredients needed by everyone else. There was the occasional overlap of things like milk, eggs, bread, etc. But there was no call for a full sized turkey or spiraled ham; no sweet potato casserole or chocolate yule log to bake. Just some bologna, shredded cheese, a couple packs of ramen, and a few other household things here you were running low on. 

Maybe for the hell of it you’d stop in the frozen section and find yourself a mini cheesecake to splurge on for when you inevitably opened that bottle of fireball sitting on the shelf come next Tuesday, forced to listen to your upstairs neighbors' horrendous attempts at Christmas caroling.

Halfway through the store, your browsing was interrupted by an alluring scent swirling somewhere nearby.

Citrusy. Acidic. Sweet. Airy. 

Your scarf had slipped off your face when you bent down to grab something off the lower racks, exposing you to the freshly baked goods across the way. Someone nearby was carrying a batch of lemon cupcakes, your mouth watering as the scent invaded your tastebuds and forced a pleasant hum from the back of your throat. 

Something curled in your chest like a finger beckoning forward, begging for an acknowledgement that had you standing at rapt attention. Your body seemed to move on its own, head swiveling like a rickety chair, scanning the nearby vicinity - for what, you couldn’t say. The inner omega that prowled just underneath the surface vibrated restlessly, choking back a needy whine while your eyes swept over the closest individuals. Something primal had called out to you, throwing your hormones out of whack, piecing together invisible clues so obviously standing right in front of you. 

The summery concoction felt so out of place in the harsh winter months, swirling and nagging at the base of your spine, urgent and loud and taking up too much space until you felt like you could drown in its tang–

Your muscles locked in place, gaze affixed to something - someone - at the end of the aisle. 

A big someone. An alpha.

And he was massive.

There was a natural musculature that came with the inherited alpha genetics. Beta’s could grow to a similar size if they worked at it, but there was a casual arrogance that was impossible to mistake with the former designation. Even still, this man towered over most others in the vicinity, lesser alphas giving a wide berth to the intimidating figure currently staring down at his phone screen. Thick grey hoodie pulled up over his head, a black military jacket layered over top. Dark wash jeans led down to warm boots hefty enough to stomp a man’s skull in. Messy dark blonde hair peeked out from up top, a black surgical mask covering the lower half of his face from view.

He couldn’t have given off any more ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibes if he had it tattooed across his forehead. There was nothing sinister about his bearing per se - one hand casually shoved into a coat pocket as he leaned back against one of the dessert displays - but there was a coiled alertness that gave you the distinct impression he was more aware of his surroundings than he led you to believe.

One thing was for certain: you were never more sure of anything in your less than perfect life that that man was your scent match.

Your lungs expanded in your chest to drink in more of his scent. Palms turned sweaty, hair on the back of your neck prickled, the weight of the basket on your arm all but forgotten. Your throat parched at the prospect of getting to shove your face against his scent gland and taste the delectable lemony goodness right off his skin. 

People went lifetimes never meeting their perfect scent matches. The odds of you ever encountering one wasn’t even worth holding out hope for. Over seven billion people on the planet and you had to win an epic fucking lottery to get as lucky as you just did. Bonding ceremonies like that made the news for how rare it was. You’d never even dreamed of this happening, making peace with the idea that mates only existed in fairytale romance.

You just about dropped your groceries when he was joined shortly thereafter by another gorgeous male, slightly shorter by a few inches and not as broadly built. Rich dark skin, effortlessly cool street style, short black curls, and a dazzling pearly white smile.

This new alpha didn’t seem to flinch in the presence of the other, lemon cupcake glancing up only briefly to acknowledge the newcomer whose toasted coconut aroma barrelled right into you, colliding like a runaway freight at an unguarded intersection. Gulping down mouthfuls of air like a fish heaving on dry land, your head spun wildly at the nutty intrusion; smokey yet sweet, conjuring images of a warm evening bonfire on a lush sandy beach. 

Hope bloomed in your chest something fierce and bright. Your omega preened in unbridled delight, pawing at the surface, eager to get her hands on the two beautiful specimens whose every atom screamed ‘mine’. Tears stung behind your eyes, a mixture of relief and elation, vibrant like bursting fireworks and twinkling Christmas lights. 

What would you say to them? Do you approach them first? Should you wait for them to scent you back or try to pretend you didn’t smell them yet? What did their voices sound like? You could see their lips moving, even if the ones’ were hidden behind a surgical mask. Tenor, baritone, rumbly bass? What were their names? Where did they live? Was this really happening right now?! 

Something twisted and gnarled sunk its claws into your subconscious, rearing its ugly head in protest at the newfound revelation, but for the first time in years you didn’t fucking care. 

They were here. Your alphas. Your pack. Your salvation.

“Babes!” 

Decadent chocolate floated past you, a small apology from her lips as the omega brushed by, bumping her arm against yours on the way to her intended destination. You’d hardly noticed, too caught up in your own inner monologue and girlish fantasies to barely manage a quiet ‘no worries’.

For a split second, your eyes met coconut’s beautiful luscious brown, breath catching in your throat as the object of your desire finally seemed to take note of your existence. It was like gazing into the threads of the universe, pulling taut between you in a cosmic symphony that brought your stardust back together from whence it scattered at the dawn of time. 

A perfect part of an incomplete whole.

…until those shimmering umber pools shifted left, aimed at the bubbly figure headed right towards them. 

Huh?

Confusion as both alphas turned their full undivided attention to the dark haired omega, holding out a box of something for them to inspect and smiling when it met their approval, an affectionate pat on the head from lemon for her success that left her beaming with pride. 

That’s when you noticed it - peeking out underneath the collar of her elegant peacoat. A faint white crescent moon shaped scar, standing out against her lightly tanned skin, a matching one a little farther down. 

Mating bites. A bonded omega. 

And your scent matched alphas were gazing lovingly at her as if she’d hung the stars. 

She was theirs. They’d already found their mate. 

And it wasn’t you.

Something died in your chest, a broken scream torn silent from your soul as it condensed into a burning black hole. Agony unlike anything you’ve ever known, piercing your fragile heart and burrowing like a plague into your veins until the sickness had spread to every corner of your being. Your omega clawed at her eyes, willing the visions in front of you to vanish like a twisted mirage, begging for a bullet to erase the image of coconut planting a soft forehead kiss before wrapping an arm around her waist and turning to leave. 

A dejected whine ripped from your throat as you took an unconscious step forward, hand vaguely outreached, instincts screaming to chase after them and make them choose you instead of her. But you did no such thing. You watched helplessly as the alphas who were supposedly destined for you by the stars turned their backs on your pathetic existence.

This couldn't be happening. Why was this happening?! Please turn around!!!

With the same circulating air that had guided their scents to you, the wind in the store shifted.

Lemon cupcake went ramrod straight, whipping his head around so fast you were worried it’d go flying off his shoulders. It was uncanny the way he immediately zeroed in on your poor trembling figure, standing in the middle of a crowded aisle, uncaring to the concerned glances of the other shoppers as he unknowingly ruined your life. 

Recognition sparked deep behind voided irises before going completely neutral, steeling his expression but remaining unmoving as stone. It’s like the two of you were locked into place, orbiting each other by an invisible tether, watery eyes begging the ones staring back to please… please not leave you behind.

Coconut halted in his own step at the end of the aisle, sniffing the air for a moment with a furrowed brow, glancing over his shoulder at lemon, asking him something too far away to overhear. You can only assume the contents of his reply, the slightest shift of his mask the only tell he’d responded before coconut turned to face you as well.

This time garnered more of a physical reaction than the last, jaw dropping while staring just as unabashedly as his alpha companion. Eyes swept from head to toe, cataloging every minute detail the same as you’d done to them. Pupils dilated exponentially, nostrils flaring taking in the crisp pear scent you exuded, memorizing every facet and swallowing it down like a ravenous predator.

What a sight you must’ve made; eyes red and puffy from the tears that now flowed freely from suffering instead of the earlier jubilation, meek and sheepish and falling apart at the seams. What a piss poor impression to give the men fated to be your mates.

There was a brief moment where coconut seemed to match your initial energy, a flash of something saccharine and longing, only for it to collapse under the grueling weight of our fatalistic reality. There was an internal struggle in the crease of his brow, the downturned expression souring behind clenched teeth and tight fists. But more than that there was pity - pity at how you couldn’t have met sooner. Pity that you’d had to discover them like this, a woman on their arm and bite marks on her neck. Pity that they hadn’t had faith that they would be the lucky ones in a packed society.

You can make out a question on the chocolate omega’s perfectly pouty lips, trying to put the jigsaw together as to why her alphas were suddenly acting this way while glancing between the three of you.

Ignoring her, coconut takes a half step forward; you take two steps back. There’s an apology in your watery eyes, a hushed ‘merry christmas’ too strained for their ears. Your heart’s beating too loudly, your breath comes too shallow. You don’t even realize you’re sucking in heaving sobs until a gentle hand of a passerby lands on your shoulder, snapping you out of the chaos of your psyche. 

You can’t take it any more; the shame, the embarrassment, the gut wrenching defeat. 

The basket falls to the floor with a loud clatter, startling the people nearby who let out shrieks and gasps of surprise as the spilled contents inside break open and shatter. Eggs crack, milk pours onto the mud trekked tile, a fragile jar of strawberry jam splatters across someones pristine boots with an indignant shout.

A smooth tenor voice calls out ‘WAIT’, but you’ve already rounded the corner, barreling through the crowds of happy smiles and ecstatic giggles, too torn up inside to feel anything but desolation at the future so cruelly ripped from your fingers.

The crisp frigid air smacks the breath from your lungs, winter boots slapping on the slushy frozen ground. The squeal of brakes accompanies you as you sprint uncaringly through the bustling traffic, horns honking and voices shouting, muffled and far away as you drown in the whirlwind of your mind. It’s a miracle you’re not hit by a car, an even bigger one that you make it back to your own unscathed.

Slamming the car door shut, you smack your padded palms repeatedly against the steering wheel, banshee wailing your vocal cords raw in despair. The dark presence creeps in once more, a mocking chill down your spine as it caresses your fractured soul. The nausea comes back full force, the tugging on your chest, the burning in your throat. There’s a desperation as you tear your fitted mittens off, reaching under the woolen scarf and incessantly scratching at the irritated skin until it shreds under your nails. The pain doesn't register through your emotional torment, blocking out the inner voice until it inevitably slinks back into the shadows after its bitter lick of victory.

Panting hard, your head slumps back against the cloth headrest, stewing in the silence of misery and defeat, the distant joyful bells of Christmas the only company you have on this cold winter’s night.

It takes a few tries to fit the key in your deadbolt, blinking through tears now frozen to your eyelashes. There’s no recollection of how you even made it home in your brittle mental state. For all you knew were twelve civilians flattened like pancakes on the side of the road and a warrant out for your arrest. 

Wouldn’t that be nice? A break from having to pay bills and function like an adult.

Stumbling through the door, the sparse furnishings of your minimal studio glare at you, flipping them off as you shuck the damp outer layers from your frail form. A mess to be cleaned up another day.  

It wasn't just the rejection of your fated mates you were facing. It was the knowledge that your entire future had been ripped away and no amount of hot glue could piece it back together. Today’s revelation was the final nail in the coffin for the rest of your life.

The bathroom lights flickered with dying bulbs, something that had been on your shopping list tonight and was now being swept off the floor along with everything else you’d left behind. It didn’t stop you from locating the first aid kit under your sink, setting it on the ceramic counter and pulling out the well loved supplies inside.

You avoided staring at your gaunt reflection, not wanting to see the person looking back as you tugged at the thick scarf looped around your neck. The constricting material tore away with ease, falling into a discarded heap on the floor, revealing the torn mottled flesh hidden underneath. 

Your own set of crescent shaped scars - where the line of your neck connected to the meat of your shoulder, long since healed over and faded with time. The area surrounding it was now swollen and inflamed, raised angry red lines dotted with scrapes like a bad case of road rash, bloody from where you'd furiously clawed at your neck on the car ride home. The only time the fucker in your head shuts up - the connection tethering you emotionally gone silent once he got tired of feeling physical pain across the bond.

Memories came unbidden. Flashes of that fateful encounter coming home late from work, dragged into a sequestered shadowy overhang a few meters down the darkened alleyway. A feral alpha hopped up on something illegal, tearing into your clothes and violating the virginal space between your thighs. The muffled cries as he overpowered you, panting through a rut with his greasy fingers shoved down your throat to silence you, gagging on the musky taste. The scream as his teeth pierced your flesh, the bond snapping taut and stealing your future from you without a thought to your own wishes.

He’d fucked you ragged that night, waking up with your cheek pressed into the damp pavement and his arm slung around your waist from hours earlier. There’d been no one to turn to, no one who would care. By law now you were his - no matter the means it had been done. 

A mating bite was binding. 

You’d crawled away from him, your outfit in tatters hanging loosely over your bruised form, dried blood stuck to your neck and a stabbing pain at your apex. You felt dirty and used and wanted nothing more than to strip the skin from your bones. The unconscious form of the– your alpha flopped prone on his back, crimson stains around his mouth and his flaccid cock still half out of his trousers. The pinpricks on his arm told the tale of a junkie. It’s possible he hadn’t even been fully aware of the crime he’d committed. 

You didn’t stick around to find out.

But you paid for that decision harshly, opting for a life not attached to your abuser, at a steep tormented cost. Bonds weren’t meant to be strained for so long. It starts to cause negative impacts on the pair, the omega bearing the worst of the brunt. Nausea, sweating, pain, dizziness, fatigue. The chronic illnesses you endured day in and day out would stay with you for the rest of your life. So long as he was up and walking free - alive somewhere on the other side of the country - his greasy claws strumming your senses through the connection tethering you eternally.

Only a perfect scent match could override the original bite and free you from the oppressive bonds that shackled you to an invisible alpha - the last remaining hope you had at any semblance of happiness.

And you just lost it.

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

>> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[bluegekk0]

FPK AU Outfits: Vyrm

Part one of the alternate outfits for the AU characters, which will eventually be accompanied by some general worldbuilding related to clothing in the AU.

(From left to right)

Old royal cloak - Vyrm's old cloak worn during his rule, and the only remaining layer of his royal robes. The cloak is made from soft, warm material, and has darkened over the years he spent in hibernation. He wore it during his time in the wilderness, and as a result, it became torn and raggedy, though it is still perfectly suitable for wearing. Vyrm usually wears it at home, or outside during the warmer months of the year. The collar has a hidden button allowing him to freely take the cloak off.

Casual cloak - given to him by Grimm as a birthday present, this woolen cloak is particularly soft and comfortable and has enough buttons to allow him to put it on and off without trouble. Vyrm only wears it at home, especially during colder months or when he feels overwhelmed, as the softness of the fabric helps him calm down.

Formal outfit - a set of clothes designed by Divine as a wedding anniversary gift, alongside a matching set for Grimm. It is composed of a button-up tunic sewed from soft fabrics and a fancy light cloak with a slightly fluffy collar. Vyrm reserves it for special occasions, such as holiday celebrations, dates and his rare visits to the City.

Winter outfit - the clothes Vyrm wears during the coldest months of the year, composed of two layers: a button-up woolen tunic and a warm cloak with a fur collar. To additionally protect his hands and feet from the cold, he often puts on warm wraps

Gathering outfit - a simple green tunic Vyrm wears whenever he goes gathering, or to stop by the market. It is accompanied by a belt which holds his geo purse or any additional pouches, a shoulder bag, and a pouch belt wrapped around his tail. This allows him to collect small items such as any tools or materials he bought at the market, or herbs and fruits that he collected on his occasional gathering trips with Hornet.

Modern AU outfit - his main clothes in the modern spin-off of the AU, which illustrate his general clothing preference: a casual button-up shirt and soft, comfortable pants specifically designed to be worn with a large tail.

[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.”

[maxinemaxmayfield]

@steddieholidaydrabbles • December 6th • Cooking Together

Tradition (slightly longer version on ao3) rating: T words: 999 tags: first kiss, post-s4, getting together, friends to lovers

It’s been their Christmas Eve tradition since Eddie moved in and Wayne switched to working nights at the plant for the extra pay. 

It started off with microwave dinners and a side of cranberry sauce from the can. But as Eddie got older, he would spend the night in the kitchen, whipping up whatever he could manage for their late-night feast. 

The Christmas of ‘86 isn’t any different, except for the ways that it is. After everything they’d been through, Eddie and Steve hardly go a day without seeing each other or calling to check in. So when Eddie finds out that Steve’s parents are going to be out of town for Christmas, he insists Steve join them for their silly little tradition. 

Steve only agreed on the condition that he could help with the cooking and bring dessert. 

So here they are, at two in the morning, on opposite sides of the small kitchen – Steve mashing potatoes within an inch of their life while Eddie stirs the instant gravy, going blue in the face trying to argue with him. 

“You’re wrong! You’re so utterly, completely incorrect!” Eddie proclaims, exasperated.

Steve huffs out a laugh, grabbing the electric hand mixer and sticking it into the bowl of potatoes. 

Eddie nearly shrieks and storms over. “No, no, no, STOP! You gotta leave the lumps in the potatoes – it’s the best part!” He reaches out, trying to wrestle the mixer from Steve’s hands.

Potato hits the cupboards, their faces, even the ceiling.

“Eddie,” Steve sighs. It’s the same tone he uses when one of the kids does something supremely stupid that Steve specifically told them not to. 

“Oops.”

Steve just raises his eyebrows at Eddie, mashed potato splattered across his cheek. It isn’t fair how cute he manages to look with a dollop of potato in his hair, Eddie thinks, as his stomach does that pathetic little swoopy thing it tends to do around Steve.

Eddie turns to grab a nearby dish towel to pass to Steve, taking the moment to try and compose himself. But when he spins back around, Steve’s so much closer than expected and he freezes, the tacky floral towel trapped between them. 

“Hi,” he says stupidly. 

“Hi,” Steve says, and Eddie can feel his breath, warm and laced with chocolate.

Eddie’s arm is already raised, so he follows through, reaching up to wipe the mess from Steve’s face. He doesn’t mean for it to be so intimate, but the closeness, the silence that surrounds them… 

And Steve still hasn’t moved, standing there like a fucking statue.

“Better?” Steve asks. Eddie just nods in return, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. 

Just as Eddie’s debating whether to make a move or lock himself inside his bedroom, Steve surges forward.

It’s somewhere in the middle of urgent and hesitant, like Steve’s doing everything in his power to hold back how he really wants to kiss Eddie, to stay on this side of soft and sweet. Eddie realizes then that he’s far too in his head, thinking all of this through and not kissing Steve Harrington back. 

So he melts into it, dropping the kitchen towel and replacing it with the front of Steve’s woolen sweater, pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss, letting his tongue dart out and swipe along Steve’s bottom lip – a question. 

Steve answers it eagerly, parting his lips and letting Eddie in, breaths growing hotter and heavier between them.

But Eddie hears it first – the sound of gravel crunching outside. He stiffens, releasing Steve’s sweater and breaking the kiss, his eyes flying open. The moment of bliss broken. 

Steve looks worried, confused. He opens his mouth, a question on his lips, but before he can ask it, the door opens behind Eddie. Steve’s eyes grow wide and he tugs at the hem of his sweater before plastering a wide smile on his face. 

“Hi, Mr. Munson! Merry Christmas!” he says.

Eddie turns to see Wayne watching them both with a look of amusement. 

“Merry Christmas, boys,” Wayne says, hanging up his hat on the hook next to the door. “Smells good in here, you been cookin’?” 

“Got carrots, mashed potatoes, roast chicken, gravy… and cranberry sauce!” Eddie lists. “And Steve brought pie for dessert.”

“Pecan pie, sir,” Steve chimes in. “Hope that’s okay.” 

“Sounds good, kid. And quit it with the sir and mister, call me Wayne.” There’s a pause, and Wayne’s eyes dart up and then back down to them, his facial expression never changing. “Do I wanna know why there’s potato on the ceilin’?”

“Nope,” Eddie says, lips popping around the p. “Food’ll be about ten minutes if you wanna wash up first.”

“Yup,” is all Wayne says before heading down the hallway.

After dinner, Steve gets up to serve the pie, and Wayne fixes Eddie with an expectant look. 

“What?” he asks, baffled. 

Wayne lowers his voice. “Just thought you mighta told me when you got a boyfriend. Y’know I’m fine with it, and especially with Steve. He’s a good kid.”

Eddie chokes on a mouthful of eggnog, spluttering.

“Come on, kid. I’ve seen you two together. And the fact he calls here near every day to check on ya? I might be old, but I ain’t blind.”

“Wayne, we–”

Steve chooses that moment to return with dessert, setting it down on the table. He looks at Eddie. “Sorry, am I interrupting…?”

“No, no, no, all good. This looks great,” Eddie insists, changing the subject. 

“Hope it tastes as good as it looks.” Steve smiles and reaches out, wiping a stray drop of eggnog from the corner of Eddie’s mouth. He can feel his cheeks burn hot. 

Wayne tosses him a knowing look from across the table before digging in.

It isn’t until Steve and Eddie are laying side-by-side as the first rays of the winter sun start to peek through the bedroom window that Steve Harrington officially becomes Eddie Munson’s boyfriend. 

He’ll tell Wayne in the morning. 

Officially.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[iwaoiness]

When Oikawa looks into Iwaizumi's eyes, he sees his whole life reflected in green glass. Thirty years together, thirty springs filled with allergies and butterflies; thirty summers of beaches and sweet watermelons; thirty autumns spent around kotatsus and crunchy leaves; thirty winters wrapped in woolen scarves and frozen hands.

It's so, so many years. And Oikawa wants more. Much, much more. He wants to give Iwaizumi everything he has, offering his heart with the certainty that he won't break it. He wants to entrust him with his soul, confident that he won't wither it. He wants to share all his emotions, knowing he won't despised them.

With Hajime, Tooru comes to life. Without Hajime, Tooru feels lost.

All those years apart were truly dizzying, sometimes separated by the equator when it was just Irvine and San Juan, and other times by an entire ocean when it was just Japan and Argentina. It hurts to remember how hard it was, how strongly nostalgia struck, and the painful sting in their hands when they could see each other through a screen but couldn't touch.

However, it say that when you know, you know, and Tooru and Hajime know. They know they are more than just statistics of failed long-distance relationships. They know they are more than the rest of humanity. They know no one else shares the bond they have. They know no one else puts in the effort they do.

Tooru smiles from his soul as Iwa-chan runs into the curtain of rain falling before them. It smells of damp earth, of summer humidity, of everything right in the world. There is the sound of the rain, its tap, tap. He watches Hajime stretch his arms, spin around, and lift his eyes to the sky. His laughter reaches Tooru like an arrow, striking a heart already filled with arrows of years and years.

"Come here, Tooru, this is amazing!" Hajime turns to him, all genuine smiles and eyes sparkling like a child's. He's drenched, with strands of hair falling over his forehead like seaweed, and his pajama shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin.

Oikawa returns the smile, wide and utterly in love, and steps into the garden. The water falls on his skin, cool and heavy, while the wet grass tickles his bare feet. Tooru wiggles his toes, his smile widening at the sensation, before looking up at the love of his life, who waits for him with outstretched arms and playful eyes.

Come with me, I’ll catch you.

Laughter spills from Oikawa's lips as he runs towards Iwaizumi, leaping into his arms and clinging to him like a koala. Iwaizumi catches him, holding him tightly as they spin. The garden fills with their laughter, with love, with sweetness, with a relationship that has sprouted from the earth and climbed over slippery, cracked walls.

"Happy birthday again, Hajime-chan," Tooru smiles, cradling Hajime's face between his long fingers, gently brushing his rain-dampened cheeks with his thumbs. "30 years and you still have that same grumpy gorilla face, unbelievable," he jokes, lightly pinching his cheeks now, amused as Hajime's brow furrows in response.

"Oi, where's the rule about not messing with the birthday boy on his day?"

"It's a compliment! My favourite grumpy gorilla" Tooru hums, as if cooing to a baby. Despite Hajime's attempts to resist, he finds himself laughing, shaking his head at him.

"Shut up and kiss me now, will you?"

"Always so bossy" He playfully chides, sticking his tongue out in jest. Yet, he soon leans closer, tenderly brushing his nose against Iwaizumi's, a smile dancing on his lips as Hajime's touch on his thigh urges him on. Then, finally, kiss him.

Iwa's lips, cooled by the rain, remain as soft as ever, created specifically for Tooru's own.

When Oikawa looks into Iwaizumi's eyes, he sees his entire life reflected in green glass. And he knows that Hajime's soul is intertwined with his own, that it has always been this way. They were never strangers; they were there for each other all along, even when Tooru had yet to enter the world. Hajime simply waited for him.

...

one time i see that tweet that said stargazing by myles smith it's iwaoi's song and now i cant take that out of my mind

happy bday to the love of my life!! <3

i had a longer one shot writed but i didnt have time to finish but i'll post it as well when finish it!! thank u so so so much for reading

u can find this and me on my ao3 🍉

[haleswallows]

OOOOOO

Teaser:

“Unable to sleep?” he murmured. Tim nodded, looking about for somewhere to sit. “Here.” And Phantom stood, offering his rock. Tim hesitated for a moment, but decided he was too tired to think about it very hard or pick apart Phantom’s behavior. He dropped onto it, finding it pleasantly warmed from the fire.

No wonder Phantom had been sitting here.

He blinked blearily into the fire, his mind slowly spinning up to consciousness. When a heavy woolen cloak was draped over his shoulder, Tim startled badly.

“Sorry to surprise you. Didn’t want you to get cold.” The press of night demanded hushed voices, and Phantom’s baritone was pitched low.

Tim slowly wrapped his hands into the material. It was worn, well-traveled, but lovingly cared for. The thickness of it quickly helped trap the heat of the fire and Tim found himself warming quickly. Waking his vocal cords, Tim whispered a thanks.

“No need. I don’t suffer from the cold as others do,” Phantom explained.

“Ice magic?” The man - his husband, Tim reminded himself - nodded at the question. “You also could not sleep?”

Phantom dropped to the ground, leaning back on his hands. He slowly stretched his legs out before him and frowned at the fire. “This body does not require much rest.”

This body. As if it was not his own. Tim frowned. The odd statement stuck in his mind, noting something strange, almost melancholy in Phantom’s tone.

“A good night to be sleepless,” Phantom spoke up again. He gestured broadly to the night sky. “No clouds, the stars are beautiful.”

“I never studied the stars much.” Tim followed the sweep of Phantom’s arm, stunned at the sight of the sky speckled densely with stars. “Do you know the constellations? I’ve never had an eye to find them.”

He didn’t notice Phantom standing, or coming to sit as close as he could to Tim as possible. “Here, follow my hand.” Tim leaned forward at his command, his face just a scant breadth from Phantom's, the man’s hair tickled his ear. With an unfathomable patience, Phantom pointed from constellation to constellation, naming them in turn. Moved on only when Tim finally could see the vague shapes.

For once in his life, Tim understood why people stargazed.

“And there, the brightest star.” Tim followed his hand. “Aquila, the guiding Northern star.”

It was hard to miss. He nodded. Phantom let his arm fall, which was when Tim noticed how close they were seated. Slowly, he withdrew.

“Aquila?” Tim asked, hoping it would be a distraction from their nearness.

Phantom hummed, eyes trained on the star. “I named him when we were bonded. Dragons have their own names, but they’re unspeakable by human vocal chords. I needed something to call him, I like the stars. Thus, Aquila.”

There was probably something poetic in there, the dragon being Phantom’s guiding star. But Tim wasn’t a poetic soul. In fact, he was probably allergic to poetry and anything romantic. Suddenly, he felt very awkward. Why would Phantom share this with him? Sure, they were married but… it was for the treaty. It wasn’t real.

“It’s late.” Tim struggled to find his voice.

Standing, Phantom rolled his shoulders. Even in the loose shirt, Tim should see his muscles bunch and shift. Although he was watching the other man closely, it still surprised him Phantom pressed the back of his hand against Tim’s forehead, cool against his own skin.

“You were overly tired earlier. I worry about sunstroke. There’s not a lot of shade on the roads. We should make sure you have extra water tomorrow.” He paused. Tim realized he was holding his breath. “No fever though, that’s a good sign.”

“Oh. Good.” The hand withdrew, and Tim felt the tension fly out of his body. “I would hate to be a burden.”

“There is no ‘burden’ when it comes to you, Your Highness. You are my husband. We should rest some before the morning. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

Phantom offered his hand. The firelight flickered over his bare skin, highlighting faded scars on his forearms where the sleeves hung loose. Slowly, Tim placed his hand in Phantom’s, wondering again at how much cooler Phantom’s flesh was. 

He allowed himself to be led back to the tent, feeling like a maiden about to be bedded. But Phantom was as gentlemanly as ever, releasing Tim’s hand as soon as they were inside. Tim settled under the plush furred blankets, curling his arms against his chest. Ignoring the way his hand tingled and watching Phantom lay back on his own cot, on top of his own blankets.

“Goodnight, Phantom.”

[random-thot-generator]

A Blanket of Stars

Soap x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI - sexual themes and descriptions (it’s just smut, pure unadulterated smut... but with feelings), some cursing, Ghost is a good bruv (in his own way)

(A/N: Just a short romantic smutty drabble, nothing earth shattering, just a sweet moment between Johhny and reader, with a tiny little twist at the end. If I missed any tags, please let me know)

Word count: 1607

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It’s a warm, clear night and the stars are bright in the sky above, The pilled fabric of the old woolen blanket chafes at the skin, but it’s easy to ignore when Johnny is holding you.

“Are ya warm enough, hen?”

“I’m fine,” you whisper back. placing a chaste kiss on his lips. “Never better.”

Hands trailing down his chest, he rises above you, a broad silhouette against the starry background of the night. He can see the light of the stars shining in your eyes, and it takes his breath away.

You wind your arms around his back, your fingertips trailing over his naked flesh, following the rise and dip of muscles, tracing along a random scar above his hip.

“I missed ya, sweetheart. Dreamt of ya every night I was away.”

Hearing his confession in that deep brogue sends a shiver down your spine, despite his warm body lying atop yours. He always has that effect on you, igniting sensations throughout your body with a few muttered words.

“I missed you, too. So much. But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

“Aye, ‘s all that matters.”

There’s a tremor in his hands as they brush down your sides, fingers curling into the meat of your thighs as he spreads them wider. A shaky breath stutters past his lips as he settles between them, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock making him shudder.

“Always feel s’good,” he mumbles into the darkness, rolling his hips to coat himself in your slick. “Need ya s’bad. Can I...?”

“Please,” you sigh in answer, wanting nothing more than to be full of him once again.

Raising his hips, he slips a hand between you to notch himself against your entrance, moaning at the feel of your pulsing channel. Dipping his head to capture your lips, he swallows your whimper as he sinks slowly into your welcoming heat. He groans once he’s fully seated in the cradle of your pelvis, his breath panting against your lips now that he’s sheathed to the hilt inside you. He holds himself there, giving you time to adjust, heart hammering as he whispers endearments into your ear.

Once the burn of the stretch eases, you bring your knees up to cradle his sides and cant your hips to take him in deeper. Knowing that’s his signal to move, he lifts his hips until only the tip remains inside, then rocks them forward, throwing his head back as you envelop him once again.

“Can feel ya pullin’ me in,” he gasps out, tilting his chin down to stare at where the two of you are joined together. He can’t see anything, as dark as it is, but moans just the same. “Could stay here forever,” he breathes out to the stars, rolling his hips again. “Never felt anything like it before.”

The first time he told you this, you thought it was just empty praise, but the plaintive note in his voice has never changed, the way he says it telling you he means every word. If ever two people were meant to be joined, he’s convinced it’s the two of you. There’s just no comparison.

The wind rustles through the tall grass, crickets singing, and the heavens spin above you as Johnny sets a slow pace, his deep languid thrusts making your toes curl. His hands come up to knead at your breasts, thumbs circling the nipples until they rise into stiff little peaks. The feel of his chest hair brushing over the sensitive buds leaves you panting and desperate, his moans and hisses only serving to stimulate you more as your hips rise to meet each thrust.

Spurred on by your response, his pace quickens, each stroke now a little deeper, their delivery a little sharper. Knowing you want him in this way as much as he wants you does things to him, makes him feel feral.

“Do ya like that, hen? Like what ya do t’me? Ya’ve ruined me fer anyone else, ya know tha’ don’t ya? Ya― ah, fuck!” he gasps out, hips stuttering when your walls clamp down around him.

You’re strangling his cock, unable to maintain your composure after hearing his words. Your body craves him like air, like water, your need for him overwhelming. Your hands grope at him to ground yourself, fingers digging into the meat and muscle of his ass as you urge him to go deeper, harder, desperate little mewls being punched out of your lungs with each devastating thrust.

He’s growling now, feet raking the ground for better purchase, as his arms snake around your torso, one hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other latches onto the plush cheek of your ass. He’s clutching your body to his as he pounds into you, completely unhinged, muttering filth and praise in equal measure. He pistons his cock in and out of your channel, his movements frenzied and losing rhythm as he nears his peak.

“Cum fer me, love, I’m beggin’ ya,” he whispers in a quaking voice, his fingers finding your clit and working frantic circles into it. “Do it fer me, love. Need to feel ya, please. I―“

That’s all it takes, that desperate plea, and your entire body seizes up as the coil inside you snaps. Molten heat spreads out from your core as your walls spasm around him and triggers his own release. He gives you one final thrust, burying himself as deep as he can go, before he too is dragged under by the force of his climax. You’re still riding the crest of your own orgasm when you feel the warmth of his seed filling you and sob out his name into the night.

It’s a slow descent back to earth, hearts pounding in unison, his heavy form lying spent between your legs, his head buried at the crook of your neck. Eventually, he rolls onto his back, taking you with him to drape your body over his. Big, calloused hands began to rub lazy circles on the smooth skin of your back, and he bends his neck to place a kiss on the crown of your head. You hum in contentment, lips grazing over his chest.

“I meant what I said, ya know?” he murmurs, brushing the hair away from your face. “Ya’ve ruined me fer any other. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Only you.”

You sighed, a slight frown creasing your brow. “I― I feel the same way about you,” you admitted. “Does that bother you?”

Johnny laughed, shaking his head. “Bother me? Are ya mad, hen? I’ve finally found me other half,” he said, voice going low and soft. “If ye’ll have me.”

You lift your head to see the stars reflected in his eyes, twin galaxies staring back at you. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Aye, love. It is.”

“Then, I guess you’re stuck with me, Mactavish,” you say, kissing him soundly on the lips.

He huffs out a laugh before pulling you in for a slower, softer kiss, knowing no other words need to be spoken. Hugging you to his chest, he closes his eyes and let his thoughts drift...

+++++++++++++++++++++++

“Oi, Soap! Get yer arse up. ‘S yer turn to take watch.”

Soap jerked awake at the feel of Ghost’s boot nudging his thigh. Blinking his eyes open, he stared up at the big Manc, a big goofy grin spreading across his face.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Ghost muttered, eyeing him with suspicion. Who the hell got woken up at three in the morning to take over watch with a grin on their face.

Soap climbed to his feet, his grin never wavering. “How would ya like t’be my best man, LT?”

“Wot?” he grunted, staring at him as if he’d gone mad.

Soap took up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder, then clapped a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. “I’m gettin’ married, LT. Gonna propose as soon as I get home.”

“Yer serious? Ya just woke up an’ decided that?”

Soap’s face grew somber. “I love her, Ghost. Scares the shite out o’ me how much I do, but it scares me worse imaginin’ life without her.”

Ghost grunted as he laid down on the cot Soap had just vacated. “’Bout bloody time ya got yer head outta yer arse. She’s too good fer ya, but I guess ya know that already,” he grumbled, and then turned on his side.

Soap sniffed in amusement.” Aye, I know, but she’s loves me anyway. Tha’s got teh count fer somethin’, right?”

“Just don’t fuck it up, MacTavish,” Ghost muttered. “Now fuck off. I need to get some sleep.”

Johnny made his way outside, taking up his post on the ridge above the safe house. He peered up at the night sky, recalling the stars from his dream. It was the same dream he’d been having for the past month, just you and him in that field behind his family’s farmhouse, making love with the stars shining overhead, but this time, the dream had had an ending, or the promise of a beginning. That’s how Johnny saw it, anyway. 

And so that’s how he proposed to you, two weeks later, just you and him lying naked in a field of dreams beneath a blanket of stars.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Notes: Couldn’t sleep, so wrote this instead. Inspired by @deadbranch​ and that slow ride to Glasgow.

[lebenspurpur]

AN: I literally have posts about other slashers I could work on, but the Vincent obsession keep coming back.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, anxiety, once again not proofread

Groaning, you massage your throbbing temples with two fingers as you stare at the blinding white screen. You can feel your eyes starting to tire from dealing with the blue light of the pc for too long, but it can't be helped. You promised Bo you'd send at least three applications today, and thus far, you're only done with two of them.

Stretching, you let the foot that has been propped up on the chair for way too long fall on the floor and ignore the numb burning of the limb. Only a few more minutes, and then you could start cooking. And then, after some cleaning up and doing dishes, finally you could sleep.

Your eyes wander to the small clock on the bottom of your screen, but the white numbers dance in front of you. Blinking a few times, you try to rid yourself of the sleepiness gathering in them, and when you glance at the numbers again, they're unfortunately all too readable. Already so late, you think to yourself, fingers resting on the keyboard once again, ready to keep typing.

Your head feels foggy, and it takes a lot of discipline to get it to stop fussing and focus on the task at hand. The next few minutes are going to be spent trying to make your personality attractive to yet another employer. The thought depresses and frightens you.

You don't want to work. Not really anyway. But Ambrose needs the money, and you're the only one without a daily occupation. Bo works at the station and deals with the incoming tourists, Vincent has his art and Lester already works the entire day. You don't want to be a burden, no more than you already are.

You know the boys are struggling even if no one tells you anything. Lester is the only one that ever started working somewhere, while Vincent and Bo always rely on others to fill their pockets. The savings they made in good years are slowly dwindling, and your unpaid presence doesn't improve their situation either. Guilt settles in your bones whenever you think about the burden you're putting on the Sinclairs.

A floorboard creaks behind you and with a way too loud and embarrassing shriek, you spin the office chair around, ready to feel a knife twisting a hole into your back.

You're lucky, it's just Vincent who looks almost adorably flustered at being caught sneaking up on you. "Sorry.", he signs after a second or two, but the crinkling of his eye and the slight shifting of the mask tells you that he's not feeling all that apologetic.

"You're going to give me a heart attack one day.", you breathe out, hand splayed over your racing heart. Breathing deeply, you turn the chair around again. Something dark moves in the corner of your eye as Vincent leans over your shoulder, soft breathing brushing against the holes in his mask.

His head tilts once he notices your tense posture and your shaking fingers hovering over the keyboard. Nonetheless, you keep your gaze on the screen, re-reading the same sentence over and over again in hopes that he'll leave you alone again. You know that as soon as Vincent will try to comfort you, the tears will flow and never stop. And you don't want to deal with that right now.

His fingers find your thigh right as you notice the letters in front of your eyes blurring from the fluid in them. Your gaze drops to your lap as he turns the office chair around, crouching down to look at your face. Worry sparks in his azure eye and the hand on your thigh moves to lift your chin.

As his fingers lift your face, you glance up at him, clinging to the familiarity of his masked face with anxiety in your heart.

His sweater-covered arms open a little, an invitation you gladly accept. Sniffling, you slide down the office chair and kneel in front of him, suddenly smaller again.

His arms wrap around you as you throw yourself into them, the woolen sweater scratching your bare face. Vincent smells like smoke and wax and rain, and you hang onto him like a drowning person, hoping that his warmth will encase you.

The artist's hands gently run up and down your back, smoothing out the sobs you cry into his shoulder. A small part of your brain acknowledges that the tears might soil his clothes, but you push it away. Not now.

You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but you know that after you're finished, the anxiety has given way to a complete feeling of fatigue. Still, you feel better than you did before.

"Thank you.", your lips brush against the soft skin of Vincent's neck, arms still connected around his torso. The Sinclair hums as an answer, head moving away to tenderly peck your forehead with his wax lips. The loving smile on your face wavers as his hands move from your back, and you nearly pout, until you realize he wants to sign something.

"I think you need to get some rest.", his hands move slowly and emphasized, making sure you get that he's not taking no as an answer.

"But the applications-"

"No buts.", if signing could be stern, Vincent's would fit the description. You give up, not really grieving over the loss of the task.

"Will you join me then?", the hint of a teasing smile grazes your lips.

"If your majesty insists."

"They do.", an affectionate feeling blooms in your chest as his eyes crinkle in a smile and Vincent uses your moment of weakness to stand up and pull you with him. As he tugs you out of the small room, hands intertwined, you finally feel the tiredness catching up to you. The walk to your room seems too long, and you silently thank Vincent for supporting your slumping body.

Yawning, you stumble after the dark-haired man and when you finally reach your shared bed, you swear you've never seen a more glorious sight. Vincent chuckles as you bury yourself in the sheets, pulling off his thick sweater and abandoning it on the floor as he joins you.

The second his arms envelop your torso, your eyes close with a sigh, and you move closer to your lover, trying to get as close as possible. Relaxation settles in your core, a feeling you missed dearly. It's fed by the soft sensations of Vincent's fingertips on your skin.

As your focus turns more and more drowsy and the welcoming arms of sleep come closer and closer, you register Vincent moving while he takes his mask off, and you smile into him. You would be fine.