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#stitch writes

Here ya go. The next installment of the Of the Voide Story. Like I said, it’s an original work. So don’t steal my stuff but you’re welcome to share. :)

Please enjoy!

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Originally posted by the-wolf-and-moon


The Seti’Veth System: Cor’seti Station

The space station orbiting the planet Cor’seti was always a questionable decision. It wasn’t really neutral territory, being well within the jurisdiction of the Coalition, but they didn’t exactly police it. Meant that people like the crew of the Ashewake could dock and resupply. Right now, they needed the rest. The Krimmoran contract had been a bust and then they’d had to deposit the younger Voidekeine girl back with the flotilla. Her field tour ended early, much to her temporary shipmate’s relief.

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So here is something I’m playing with. It’s secondary to my fantasy novel (don’t expect excerpts from that) but this…I don’t mind sharing. Feedback, questions, comments, all welcome. 

Okay…so yea…without further ado… enjoy!

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Originally posted by jamesholden


They were spat out into the darkness centuries ago. Their home world and the records of the calamity that drove them into the void - lost. They are a people whose home is cut off from the hyperspace network and their history, their terrestrial name, long since forgotten. It was given up to the stars as they piled into ships of a thousand designs and purposes to survive.  

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neostitchAnswer

come off anon PLEASE come off anon im actually begging please message me i cant take this


- Jeff bursts through Peter‘s bedroom window and cuts Lois down like the dirty bitch she is

- Peter looks up at the homeless, dumpster dwelling killer in awe

- „J-Jeff? Jeff!?“ Peter asks, excitedly moving across the bed and over Lois‘ still warm body, his hefty cankles breaking her ribs

- „It‘s been too long, Peter…“ Jeff says softly, an unbrushed tooth falling out of his mouth as he smiles, gently caressing Peter‘s gelatinous cheek

- Peter swallows Jeff‘s face in a sloppy, wet kiss, and Jeff moans as he can taste that night‘s dinner

- „It has been too long, Jeff“ Peter croaks as he falls onto Lois‘ now room temperature body, pulling Jeff on top of him

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“November 5, 2015

Dear Lesley,

Your script, Supernatural: Kill Bill & Ted, has been awarded 2nd place in our Spec Writing Competition!  

As part of your winnings, you will be featured in the 12/02/2016 edition of the Hollywood Reporter!  We may contact you for additional quotations for web articles and other promotions to publicize your winnings.”


That’s me. 

I did that.

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Originally posted by disneytasthic

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“Get on your knees,” Fingers ordered. Mitch watched him with a hateful glare and spit in the pirate’s face. The vicious backhand he got in return was worth it. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Mitch said, licking the blood off his split bottom lip. 

With an enraged shout, Fingers grabbed a handful of Mitch’s hair and dragged him onto the deck of the ship. The bright sun reflecting off calm ocean water blinded Mitch. He struggled against the pirate - there were no drugs in him this time, but Fingers was still huge, and it was light trying to fight against a brick wall. 

Fingers threw Mitch into the main mast and kicked his legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. “Bind his hands!” 

No. 

Ice water flooded Mitch’s veins. Two lanky crew mates dropped down out of nowhere to grab him, locking heavy metal manacles around his wrists before Mitch could pull away. 

No, no, NO!

The manacles pulled tight, a rope connecting them around the mast forcing Mitch against the roughed, weathered wood. Splinters caught against his bare chest and he could barely turn his head to look over his shoulder. He didn’t need to, to know what was coming. These manacles only had one purpose.

Fingers gave and ugly laugh as Mitch fought his restrains, but he could hardly move. “Save your energy, whore. You’ll need it.” He came over and looped the long whip around Mitch’s neck to jerk his head back, stooping down to whisper, “You should’ve taken my offer.” 

“Never,” Mitch hissed. He would sooner die than let Fingers - or any of the others - touch him again. Fingers tsked at him. 

“We’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours. Shame your tongue is too talented for me to cut it out.” 

Fingers stalked off a fair distance away, and unwound his whip. The heavy coil of leather fell to the deck with a resounding thud, garnering quiet murmurs from the growing crowd, come to enjoy the spectacle. Mitch’s hands ached from how tight he clenched them around his chains, trying to brace for the coming pain. 

The captain came before Fingers could land the first blow, abandoning the help to leap onto the deck below when he realized what all the commotion was. he sounded like he stuck the landing with more grace that Mitch had ever seen - or heard, rather - from him before. 

“That’s enough,” Stiles said, catching the pirate by his wrist just as he reared back to give the first lash. He was a thin waif of a thing, but stronger than he looked. 

“The whore needs to be taught some respect,” Fingers spat. Belatedly, he added, “Captain.” His tone dripped with derision. 

If anyone needs a lesson in respect, it’s you, Mitch thought. He was too relieved at having his impending flogging averted to speak his thoughts aloud, lest Fingers go ahead and whip him anyway. 

“That whore is to be delivered untouched and unharmed along with the others. You’ve already failed the first. Are you willing to pay for the second?” There was steel in Stiles voice that might even make Mitch think twice about challenging him. 

Silence followed. Mitch tried to crane his neck to see, but he was held fast, forced instead to strain his ears to listen for any small sound. All he could hear was the quiet lap of waves against the side of the ship and straining lines, and billowing sails. 

Then, finally, a grudging, “Yes, Cap’n,” from Fingers. Mitch sagged in relief. 

I guess I’ll get to live another day. 

Release him, and have him taken to my quarters,” Stiles ordered. Another of the crew came forward to comply. 

“I thought you said he was to be untouched,” Fingers sneered. 

Stiles caught Mitch’s eye as he was led away. “That ship has sailed.” Stiles grinned. Mitch didn’t. Stiles looked away, realizing too late that he should have kept his mouth shut about that particular wound, and told Fingers, “I’ll deal with you later. If you lay a hand on him or any of the others again, without my express permission, I’ll have you keelhauled.” 

“Whatever you say, Captain.” 

Cold dread wrapped around Mitch’s heart at the tone in Fingers voice. Mitch knew the day was coming when Fingers would stop taking Stiles’ orders, and when it finally did, they were both fucked. 

Watch yourself, Stiles. You’re running out of time.

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Okay I thought I made a post about this one AU but apparently I DIDNT so let’s try again

WoW AU, where Mitch is a paladin. Or—he used to be, before the Light abandoned him. He always had a strict set of morals, dolling our divine retribution to those who’d earned it. He was a warrior of the Light, not a priest, and as such has killed many, many people.

I’m not sure what exactly happens for him to forsake the Light. Maybe Katrina is killed while he’s away on a mission, and he comes home to find her dead. Tries to resurrect her but he can’t. It’s a power few are granted and Mitch believes that after all he’s done for the Light, everything he’s sacrificed, it owes him this. The one thing he’s ever wanted for himself, the only thing he asked in return for his service: to be able to come home to his family, for Katrina to be safe while he wasn’t there to protect her.

But the Light doesn’t answer. And so Mitch turns his back on it, swears vengeance on whoever killed Katrina and spends his days hunting them down, and every vicious kill makes the Light within him flicker out a little more, until there’s nothing left. The Golden Light fades from his eyes and leaves them an empty, scorched black, and he welcomes the darker powers that aid him on his mission, killing anyone who gets in his way.

Mitch becomes a mercenary eventually, which is how he later meets Stiles: a mage that hires him as protection/a guide for some quest he’s got to do in some dangerous part of the world. Maybe he’s studying demons or the fel.

Whatever happens, Stiles does end up killed, Mitch unable to protect him. Their journey lasted several months, given them time to get to know each other and bond. Enough that Stiles’ death crushes him, holding his battered and bloody corpse enough to almost make his heart stop beating. And it’s been years since Katrina, since Mitch forsake the Light, but he can feel that gentle, warm presence around him. He doesn’t want to ask for it’s help again, not after it spurned him the first time, but he can’t lose Stiles. So he swallows his pride and begs it bring Stiles back to him—and it does.

A beam of pure Light falls apon them, peaceful and invigorating and Mitch can’t breathe because he forgot what it felt like to wrapped in its grace, and then Stiles does breathe as his life is returned and his wounds are healed, and the first thing Stiles sees is Mitch’s sooty face streaked with tears, and his eyes glowing a pure, iridescent gold.

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a cool and fun and sexy thing about trying to write supernatural fic without having watched the show in many years is that sometimes you’ll think of a cool scene involving a story from the bible and start to write it and then go, “wait, i should check the wiki to see if the show made up some dumb fucking lore about this biblical character” and it did so you start to rewrite the scene with a different story from the bible and then go, “wait, i should check the wiki to see if the show made up some dumb fucking lore about THIS biblical character” and folks you’re not going to believe this,,

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Ronnie pushes into him with a filthy grind, groaning against Mitch’s ear. “Just like old times, isn’t it?” he asks in that slow drawl that Mitch hates and loves in equal measure. Any response he might have given is kept trapped in his throat by Ronnie’s hand over his mouth. Shame curls in his belly mixing noxiously with his desire; tears track down Mitch’s cheeks and over rough fingers. “Keep quiet, now, wouldn’t want anyone to hear us.”

That is the one thing they can agree on; Mitch would rather die than get caught—again.

But Ronnie doesn’t really want him to be quiet. He likes to hear Mitch, laughs at his strangled shout when a vicious thrust almost topples him. Mitch is left in a precarious balance; pitched forward on his knees, held up only by Ronnie’s arm across his chest, tan from days in the sun and corded with muscle. Ronnie wraps his other hand around his cock and Mitch hates that he knows just how to touch him to make him cry out from the pleasure, digging his nails into Ronnie’s forearm because he has nowhere to sink his teeth.

They aren’t quiet enough. Stiles must’ve gotten out of bed and decided to follow the creaking springs and harsh breaths and muffled groans. Silence in this old farm house isn’t good, but sound isn’t much better.

Mitch sees him first; a pair of warm brown eyes looking through the partially open door, wide with shock but unable to look away. It’s like someone poured ice water down his back, having a witness to his shame. It gives Mitch the clarity he he needs to finally pull Ronnie’s hand away from his mouth, panting freely and searching for an explanation, an excuse, anything to make this look like something other than what it is.

“Stiles—” he starts, but what can he say?

“Hm?” Ronnie looks up and laughs. Mitch shivers at the hot breath ghosting over his neck, covers his own mouth to muffle his mouth when Ronnie twists his wrist deliciously. “Look at that. You didn’t tell me you’re cousin’s a little voyeur. Come on in, darlin’, get a better look at Mitch here. Don’t he just sound so pretty?”

Stiles bolts—Mitch is grateful. He doesn’t want anyone to see.

“You didn’t tell me he’s such a sweet little thing,” Ronnie says. “I’m disappointed in you Mitch.”

Mitch rears his elbow back and it connects with Ronnie’s cheek with a satisfying crack! When Ronnie jerks away Mitch gets out of bed on unsteady legs, the sweat cooling on his skin as he hastily pulls on his—he hopes they’re his—jeans.

“Stay the fuck away from Stiles,” he bites out, chest heaving.

“You little bitch!” Rage burns in Ronnie’s eyes and Mitch is waiting for a fight with a sick kind of anticipation. He’s drawn the line in the sand—Mitch is standing to one side of the room while Ronnie occupies the bed, both of them still hard and aching and one way to relieve the tension is just as good as another. The door separates them, splitting the room down the middle with a stream of light from the hall. And for several long seconds of eternity, all that’s between them is labored breathing and burning blood and sticky skin.

Ronnie leaves the bed with a bright red bloom on his left cheek and Mitch hopes it hurts. Hopes he’ll get to see it bruise; it’s the least Ronnie deserves.

He gets dressed but doesn’t leave, walks over to shove Mitch back into the wall and fist a hand in his hair and force him into a kiss that makes his lips bleed when their teeth clash.

“You’ll come crawling back,” Ronnie bites into his mouth, a promise and a threat and an invitation that tastes like copper.

“Get the fuck out,” Mitch snarls back, shoving Ronnie away from him because if he didn’t he’d only pull him closer. He wants to pull him closer, let Ronnie bite more vicious promises into his skin, fresh bruises that won’t last as long as the shame. Around his wrist the old polished wood of his rosary beads burn.

Ronnie gives him a mean grin and condescendingly slaps his cheek. “Be seeing you, Jezebel,” he says, just to see the way Mitch flinches at the old nickname, knowing the memories it brings.

Ronnie leaves after that, grabbing his shirt and shoes on his way out the door. Mitch follows to make sure he does leave, and breathes a sigh of relief when he passes Stiles’ door to find it shut tight.

Once the headlights on Ronnie’s truck disappear down the long drive Mitch finally goes to shower, burning water cleaning the sticky fluids staining his skin. Too bad it can’t purify his soul.

-

The next morning had Stiles walking on eggshells, maintaining carefully neutral small talk while Mitch made breakfast. He didn’t want to upset the man by bringing up what he saw last night, and if Mitch wasn’t going to say anything, then Stiles wouldn’t, either. He knew what to expect from a conservative town like this, and that wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over breakfast.

Stiles’ breath hitched when he saw Mitch flinch, and the careful bubble around the morning popped, fragile as anything.

“Who was that last night?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself. He thought he knew—remembered Mitch chasing him off the porch with a shotgun earlier in the day, and they certainly hadn’t seemed to friendly then. Stiles can’t figure out why Mitch would welcome the same man into his bed after then. Then again… what Stiles saw didn’t look all that welcoming.

“Who was who?” Mitch asked with careful innocence. The steam from his coffee rose in delicate wisps around his face, distorting his expression into a scowl. Beside him sausages sizzled in the pan; Stiles was sure they were the perfect picture of normally, with him sitting at the table and Mitch leaning back against the counter. It felt like the short distance between them stretched out into a chasm.

“That guy. I saw you—I mean, I wanted to ask—it’s just that you look like—are you okay?” Flustered nerves made Stiles ramble until he settled on that one simple, horrible question. Mitch bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been intended as a smile, and responded just as simply.

“I’m fine.” He put his back to Stiles and turned his attention to finishing up breakfast, taking the skillet off the burner so he could slide the sausages onto their plates, joining the already cooling eggs. “And there was no one here last night, either.”

“What?” Stiles asked incredulously. “Yes there was, I saw him. It was the same guy from yesterday afternoon.”

“It was just you and me, Stiles,” Mitch answered. His face was carefully molded into a mask of concern when he turned back around, setting a plate in front of Stiles. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Stiles frowned, running through the night’s events in his mind. He was so certain of what he saw; Mitch, hazy-eyes and tearstained, on his knees, restrained by that stranger from before. He remembered that man beckoning him into the room, and bolting away instead, shame pooling in his belly at being caught. Why had he stopped to watch? As soon as he realized what was happening, he should have left, but something held him rooted to the spot.

Stiles was so certain that what he saw was real, but then… it wouldn’t be the first time he saw something that wasn’t there. This house had a way of making him see things, distorting reality around him, changing it into something he shouldn’t recognize anymore.

“I think I’m just tired,” Stiles said, with a wretched laugh. Mitch gave him a sympathetic smile that didn’t reach his black eyes, and Stiles longed for home.

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Welp. No little writing snippets this week. I still got 3 prompts in the ol’ inbox for me to fill out, but those are gonna be taking a backseat for a little bit. Main reason I was filling them out in the first place was cause I was suffering from some major writing block on Final Days, and I think it finally managed to jostle something loose. Once this gets uploaded, I’m gonna go and see what I can manage to write before I have to go to work in a couple of hours.

(That being said, if people still want to send me prompts to fill out, or if someone wants to send another, then the list is right here! I will gladly write more stories about dorks kissing.)

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I just found a very old prompt from a long time ago 👀

Locker room slut Stiles has had a not-so-secret rush on the new coach, Mitch, all year. The whole team knows about it and calls him out for being Thirsty, and they make a bet with Stiles to seduce Mitch before the end of their last game of the season. If he doesn’t, everyone gets to fuck him as a nice send off for the season. 

Sure enough Stiles doesn’t win the bet (but spends his night getting railed by half the team so did he really lose?) and then Mitch finds him after, still catching his breath and covered in come. He hasn’t found the energy to go home yet, and he didn’t expect Mitch to come back to the school, having apparently left something behind in his office. Mitch certainly didn’t expect to come back after hours and find Stiles looking like that. 

And Mitch has known about Stiles’ little puppy crush the whole time, thought it was cute how desperate Stiles was to get his attention. But he didn’t expect Stiles to be such a slut clearly he needs someone to keep him in line.

And… since everyone has already at a go at him, Mitch may as well too, right? But not before he has some fun tormenting Stiles first, makes him feel humiliated at getting caught. But Stiles is such a masochist too, and he can’t hide how turned on he is, and he doesn’t even know what to think, just that he really, really wants Mitch to fuck him. 

Eventually he does ;) 

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I didn’t want to go to my Finnish class this morning. Like, I really didn’t want to. I didn’t sleep at all last night. My anxiety was really bad, and I just felt stressed and uneasy. My head was in so many places that I didn’t want it to be and every time I tried to close my eyes it was as though every little thought I had ever had was bouncing around my head. Thankfully, Finnish ended up being really good this morning. I answered some questions – and got them right! Yay! And felt like I was learning something. Usually the hours drags so much because I am so tired, but today it went fast and I really enjoyed it. I wanted to try and sleep afterwards but after trying it just wasn’t happening. I got up and did what I always do when I am trying to stop overthinking. I tidied and cleaned. I’m currently laying on my bed, the window is open, my room is spotless, the surfaces dusted, carpet hoovered, books neatly shelves, new bedding, a candle burning next to me and music playing. It feels good. I’m ignoring that I also need to clean the bathroom and the lounge area, but for now I’m just having a break.

Yesterday was quite a good day. After the week from hell I just needed to relax and chill and that’s exactly what I did. I lay on the sofa all cosy and read my book for a few hours and it was just perfect. I made lunch instead of ordering which I was super proud of myself for and then cooked dinner as normal. I didn’t bother with the news or watching anything much at all. I just enjoyed the quiet and my book. And it was so good. Today its cooler, it’s windy too and apparently there are severe winds coming. I feel lucky for the views I have from my windows. From where I am sat/laying I can see a large tree with all the branches shaking in the wind and the orange leaves trying their best to hang on for dear life before falling to the ground. I am so glad I chose this apartment. Huge windows and natural light are now the top of my list for buying an apartment, or renting. The difference it makes to my mood is astonishing.

I’m worried about my parents at the moment. A caught covid and I’m so scared of my parents catching it. My mum is still working in a health care environment which she shouldn’t be with her medical issues, yet the government haven’t issued the same guidance they did last time for those who should shield and so she has no option but to go to work. A is much fitter and healthier than both my parents and considering it completely knocked him off his feet, I dread to think what it would do to my mum and dad. Thankfully A is recovering and can soon be let out into the world again. He didn’t need to go into hospital which was a relief, but knowing what the virus can do to people who are in tip top health and workout pretty much all day every day is shocking. We WhatsApped the other day for a while and thankfully he is on the mend. My main issue is my dad not following the rules. I know his mental health is really struggling for numerous reasons, and he is doing better than a lot of people I know in regards to following the rule, yet he still meets friends. We still brings people to our hour. It makes me so angry, but there are so many times that I can yell, shout and cry at him about it. Thankfully he isn’t one of these crazy people who thinks the virus doesn’t exist, but he also can’t not see his friends… apparently. Anyway, I bought them both a bunch of masks and will be putting them in the post to them tomorrow. Both of them are great for that. They are wearing the masks all the time, but they only have the ones I bought them whilst I was at home and medical ones my mum wears for work, so I bought them a pack each to ensure they don’t need to worry about buying any.

It’s Sunday, but I am so ready to be off next Friday. A three-day weekend will be wonderful. I have zero plans, but I also don’t think I care. If the weather is nice, I will go for a walk and I have a 6am meeting on Friday morning with my New Professionals group. I also have a new email pen pal, sort of. We met on a friendship app and we get along really well. She’s interested in witchcraft and I am really excited to explore that further with her as I have never really had anyone else in my life who has been involved in it – other than S, but let’s not go there. In fact, I forgot until just now whilst writing this that she had been keeping strands of my hair in a box to use for spell purposes. CREEPY. Gosh, I haven’t thought about that for such a long time. Nor her, what an odd thought. Anyway, yes, so I have a new person to chat through via email, although I think she would like to start handwriting, and who am I to turn down a new penpal?! She lives a few hours from here and we have quite a lot in common, so I am looking forward to exploring this possible friendship. She also writes like I do, pages and pages and worries that she is writing too much, which I love, because I do exactly the same, both in letters, emails, messages or even just here. It feels nice to share things with someone again on a purely platonic level and hear about their life and have them interested in mine. As much as I love being able to talk to people whenever I need to and have them in the palm of your hand via a phone, I do miss not being expected to reply straight away. Sometimes I am just not in the mood to reply, so it be able to see a handwritten letter and just reply when I have the chance feels great. It also eliminates social media and small talk. Two things I pretty much loath. S and I haven’t written hardly at all this year and that makes me sad. I guess life has just been one big blur this year, although we have spoken a little online and she keeps telling me I have to visit as soon as covid is ‘over’. I hope we can get back into writing again next year or when things get a little bit more ‘normal’.

I found a new chocolate shop in Georgetown and I am far too excited about it. It looks super expensive, but I don’t care. I want to go so bad. It even has a café, so I hope when we can, H and I can go and maybe take F. That would be wonderful. I actually haven’t been to Georgetown for a while which is silly considering how close it is. I imagine it is a beautiful time of year to visit, so maybe that will be where I venture to next weekend.

I’ve wrote quite a lot, and somehow managed to keep myself busy enough with irrelevant things to discuss any of the things currently spinning in my head or the time of my life I have been reliving for the last few hours. My therapist tells me I am very good at avoidance… something I am already acutely aware of. Maybe that’s a good thing for today. Maybe today just isn’t the day for in-depth thoughts being spilled out all over a word document which I will then post onto my blog (after the disaster of losing everything, I now ‘back-up’ my posts – better late than never, just a shame I couldn’t save the others). Maybe today is more for surface level thoughts to ensure that I can actually function for the rest of the day.

Anyway, time to finish my book. One more chapter to go. I have learnt so much. I have cried, I have gasped, and I have smiled from ear to ear. If you are interested in queer culture, a wee bit of history and lgbtq+ events worldwide, you need to read ‘Queer Intentions: A (Personal) Journey through LGBTQ+ Culture’ by Amelia Abraham. I cannot wait for her next book to come out, but for now, once I’ve finished this I’m not sure what to start next. I really am on a non-fiction roll at the moment. I think the fact that the world is such a mess right now it just doesn’t seem right to be exploring magical, unrealistic worlds when our own is falling to pieces. So, I’m using books to educate myself right now. Looking at my shelf I think I might move on the book I got free from work regarding data bias and women in society… although I have a huge set of books in my Amazon Wishlist that I also want to read and purchase asap. Gosh, so many books. Thankfully being at home more means more time to read!

[Blog title: Stitches - State Champs (cover)].

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@crushsprite​ asked:
the inherent intimacy of taking someones measurements. kneeling in front of them for an inseam.

They’re insufferable. The leprechauns, that is. Theoretically, she could forgive textured flesh and that absurdly green hue, but it’s the principle of these things. The origin. The resemblance to that creature that must not be named. Swallowing her bile around their amphibious biology has gotten easier with time, but mostly? That improved opinion is a result of the competent ones.

One of them is currently bettering his standing now, from his knees. Stitch, she recalls, is the in-house tailor. With a brutal tongue and a perfectly steady hand, he’s useful. Professional. He knows how to arrange the folds of space-time, pleated in perfect ripples. Admirable. Even polite, where she’s concerned. He’s made a comment here or there about his courtesy being her right, gruffly calling her ma'am.

Naturally, she doesn’t say anything about this. Nor is she hurrying to correct him, state that ma’am is a fraction of the respect she’s owed. Snowman… doesn’t dislike him. Froggish as he is.

When she comes to him with haughty demands, with the commanding diction of a queen (though her nation is long dead) and an armful of proposed outfits, he quickly complies. Though she is no artist herself, Stitch works tirelessly to realize the visions she expects. Even with a grumble, a complaint, a sneer at her scribbles. He obeys. Competent, clever creature.

And perhaps he enjoys kneeling in front of her to lay a tape measure against her inner thigh for the fifth time in a week, a little too much for a member of such a repulsive race. But the concentration lining the tailor’s brow is attractive enough. Who’s to say she doesn’t enjoy the feeling of his textured skin on her carapace just in turn? No one will question how she stretches her ligaments slightly to make him readjust, or click deep in her thorax when his sigh comes out wet.

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Due to reasons & shenanigans in the Cross Stitch Chat Discord, I wrote a breadlik style poem for the whole debacle at Four Seasons Total Landscaping.

My naem is Rudy
And wen we lose
I do my duty
Rant about clues

Voter fraud reasons
Coem hear me say
At the Four Seasons
By the highway

Next to adult books
I rant and rave
We get some weird looks
But I won’t cave

Networks don’t call it
The courts decide
News will be lit
Biden should hide

Trump is the winner
News you don’t like
I know he’ll win
I drop the mic

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Great news! I have writing to share, it’s not from Final Days unfortunately, but it is from the prompt I’m currently writing. Planning to finish it off this afternoon!

From his place on the floor, Chris turned his head to look in the direction of their bedroom. “Unsupervised?” he sputtered, “she wasn’t unsupervised! I literally turned around for a second to grab the diapers and wipes.” During this, it occurred to Chris that Joshlynn had figured out to angle her head in such a way that she was able to stick his thumb into her mouth and gnaw contently on the digit. “Can you please just grab her, I can’t really move right now.”

He wasn’t lying. His frantic movements in trying (and succeeding) in saving their daughter meant that he was completely unable to move from his current position without removing his hands from the edge of the couch cushions. And while Chris was supremely uncomfortable from his spot on the floor, it was still an exceptionally better alternative then having their seven-month old daughter continuing with the momentum of her roll and joining him on the floor with a crash.

And a cross-stitch update per the usual. Making headway, little slower then usual but  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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