#patchwork fox

[sarahkomik]

i just remembered i'm in the patchwork pals fandom... UHHHH

have these, 4 characters I like, but not patchwork

also reblogs are better than likes! but it's okay if you give em' a like!

[lifeontwolegs]

My 25 most listened to albums in 2024

[hatckmur]

I made an eric patch,The first patch I actually make

For my backpack, along with an Eric pin I made,Maybe I want to make one of ace.

[teonothefoxie]

Putting patches on your jacket is too much fun! X3

[abutteredspoon]

Fop!

[wyrmscraft]

Finally took this Gentlemen’s Agreement pattern in for quilting. I love the clamshell quilting and orange thread on the foxes, it’s so much fun. Just the orange binding left to finish this off.

[katesfatcat]

X-Files inspired patchwork sleeve <3

[patchwork-the-fox]

*Patchwork was hidding as the reboot went down...they didn't know what to do...Mari and the new player had already gotten taken to safety, but the little fox had been left behind in all the chaos*

[whovian223]

Friday Night Shots - How Important is a Game's Theme?

Friday Night Shots - How Important is a Game's Theme? @devirgames.bsky.social @jackiefox.bsky.social @sirjoshwood.bsky.social

Hi-di-ho, neighbour! Welcome back to the bar, this time for a regular post! (anybody who can tell me what that welcome is from, I will give you…well, my undying admiration. You are official old!). Yes, it’s been less than a week since last week’s post was on Saturday, but I’ve sort of taken the week off. I would like to say for bar repairs, but really it’s because I was so entranced with Rise…

[patchwork-the-fox]

"H-Hello!"

@the-alcoholic-strawberry Sunshine, Why, and Bleu

@ask-abstracted-kaufmo Why, Crazy Frog, and Soup

@yejehehe4746 Why, Crazy Frog, and Sunshine

@xxmoonduskxx Sunshine, Soup, and Gay

@pastels-bedazzled-brass-knuckles Why, Sunshine, and Bleu

@the-annoying-juniper Why, Crazy Frog, and Soup

WHAT AM I TO YOU?

u know the drill

[whimsicalcotton]

tfw you finally remember the name of a vocaloid song you really liked

[patchwork-the-fox]

*Patchwork had burrowed under a blanket and was letting out happy little yips as they nibbled on some chips*

★✮Welcome to the Slumber Party✮★

Today, for surprises, the door for Jax's room is open, but of course he's sitting right by it to make sure that no sneaky uninvited person comes in today.

Today was for his kids only, they deserved something special after all!

[@the-alcoholic-strawberry @littleladylav @phoenix-parentfriend @tye-the-archivist @yejehehe4746 @floweranonymous @anonymousclownn @patchwork-the-fox @fluffyr0cky @xxmoonduskxx @fourheadskisser ]

[n1ght0f-nyx]

The first time you saw him, you nearly shot him.

The night was thick with fog, the kind that made it hard to tell where the earth ended and the sky began. The sheep had been restless all evening, their bleating sharp and panicked. You had taken up your lantern and your old rifle, more out of habit than real fear. Foxes were one thing, but a man—if you could call him that—was another.

He emerged from the mist like a nightmare, towering and disjointed, his movements stiff as if he were made of wood instead of flesh. His clothes were tattered rags, his skin an unnatural patchwork of scars. The moonlight caught his face, and you saw the crude stitches, the mismatched limbs, the heavy, sorrowful eyes.

You raised your rifle. Your hands shook.

"G-Go!" you stammered, stepping backward, nearly tripping over a stray bucket. Your heart thundered in your chest, but he did not lunge, did not growl, did not attack. He only raised his hands in a slow, trembling motion, palms open in a universal plea.

"P-please," he rasped. His voice was jagged stone scraping against itself, barely comprehensible, yet thick with desperation.

You hesitated.

He could have overpowered you in an instant. He could have taken the gun, torn you apart like a wild animal. But he did none of those things. Instead, he stood there, eyes wide and lost, like a stray dog waiting to be chased away or, perhaps, let in.

You didn't lower the rifle, not yet. But you didn't fire it either.

The first few days, you kept your distance. He lingered at the edge of the farm, curling up in the barn at night when he thought you wouldn’t notice. The sheep, though still wary, were no longer terrified. You watched him from the kitchen window as he sat in the hay, staring at the world with quiet wonder.

He was slow to move, slow to react, as though every part of him was at war with itself. And yet, he did not act like a beast. He was gentle, careful. One morning, you found him holding a lamb in his massive hands, stroking its tiny head as it dozed against his chest.

You swallowed your fear and took a step toward him. "You... you know how to be gentle."

He looked at you, startled, then slowly nodded.

You sighed. "If you're going to stay here, you work. You understand? Work."

"W-work," he repeated, voice thick and strained. He nodded again, more eagerly this time.

And so, he worked.

He was stronger than any man you’d ever seen. Tasks that took you hours were done in minutes. The woodpile grew tall, the fences were mended with ease, and the fields were tilled in a day. But it wasn’t just his strength—it was the way he did things, careful and methodical. He treated each chore with a strange reverence, as if he was grateful for every task you gave him.

Communication was slow, but he understood more than he could say. He watched you carefully, mimicked what you did. When you showed him how to feed the chickens, he did it precisely as you had, though his fingers—huge, stitched-together things—moved with great caution, as if he feared crushing something delicate.

"You learn fast," you murmured one evening, watching as he repaired the broken wheel of your cart. He paused, looking up at you. A small smile pulled at his lips, awkward and unfamiliar, as though he had only just remembered how to use those muscles.

"Good," he said.

You nodded. "Yeah. Good."

As the weeks passed, fear gave way to curiosity. You found yourself watching him more, not just out of wariness, but fascination. He was unlike anything you’d ever seen, a thing of stitched flesh and borrowed parts, yet so... human.

He liked the stars. Every night, he sat outside the farmhouse, staring at them in silent awe. You joined him once, bundling yourself in a wool shawl against the autumn chill.

"Pretty, aren't they?" you said, glancing at him.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the sky. "B-beautiful."

You blinked. It was the first time he’d chosen a word of his own, not just repeated yours. Something warm settled in your chest.

"Yeah," you agreed, smiling softly. "Beautiful."

Winter came, and you worried. You didn’t know what he was, not really. Did he get sick? Did he feel the cold the way you did? You caught him shivering one morning, his massive hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea you had left out for him.

"You should come inside," you said before you could talk yourself out of it.

He looked up, startled. "I... in?"

"Yes, in. Before you freeze solid. Come on."

His steps were hesitant as he followed you into the farmhouse. He ducked under the doorway, his broad frame making the kitchen seem suddenly small. You gestured to the chair by the fire, and he sat, stiff and uncertain.

"Here," you said, wrapping an extra blanket around his shoulders. "Better?"

He grunted in something that might have been gratitude. You watched as his fingers curled around the fabric, as if he had never been given warmth before.

Maybe he hadn’t.

By spring, he was no longer just a presence on your farm—he was a part of it. The townsfolk never came by much, and you never saw a reason to tell them about him. He was your secret, your shadow, your strange and wonderful companion.

One evening, as you sat on the porch, you turned to him. "Do you have a name?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "N-no... name."

You frowned. "That doesn’t seem fair. Everyone should have a name."

He looked down, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

You thought for a moment. "What about Adam?"

His eyes lifted, something flickering behind them—recognition, maybe, or something deeper.

"Adam," he repeated, slow and deliberate. He nodded. "Adam."

A smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. Adam."

He smiled back, small but real, and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t see a monster.

You saw a man.

And maybe, just maybe, a friend.

[scarsnfevers]

The Road Away

Prologue of Wolfgang

summary: You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance. The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. The city teemed with others of your kind. Wolves.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader

chapter word count: 1,5k

chapter warnings: loneliness

You had never liked packing. The act itself was tedious, a chore buried somewhere between indecision and sentimentality. But this time, it was something else entirely. This time, it felt like peeling away layers of your own skin, each cardboard box a confession, a piece of yourself that no longer belonged to the person you were trying to become. You stood in the middle of the apartment—your apartment—where echoes now rang louder than your thoughts. The bookshelves were bare, the kitchen stripped to essentials, the bedframe dismantled. What remained were the ghosts of late nights, quiet breakdowns, and days blurred by exhaustion.

Outside, the early morning sky wore a veil of grey, mist curling between buildings like it was alive. Inside, you crouched by an open suitcase, carefully tucking in a worn photo album. The cover was scratched, the pages slightly curled, but the memories inside were too precious to leave behind. Alongside it went your laptop—your lifeline, your history, your work. A few clothes, a flashlight, a pair of sturdy boots, a half-used journal, and your favorite mug. That was it. You had given away most of your furniture. The couch that had supported your weary frame after long shifts, the armchair with the wine-stained cushion, even the coffee table with the splintered leg—all gone. You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance.

The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. Seattle teemed with others of your kind.

Wolves.

Too many packs, too many alphas posturing, too many silent battles fought in crowded elevators and boardrooms. You had spent the last few years trying to dull your edges, hide your instincts behind power suits and conference calls. But the scent of dominance hung thick in the air. There were always meetings where someone tried to assert control with nothing more than a glance. Always those late nights when the moon called too loud and you had to fight the tremble in your limbs. Always that feeling of being watched, challenged, provoked—even by those who smiled politely. And as an alpha, even one who never sought power or pack, it was a constant weight.

You had tried to hold it all together. Tried to be normal. But the tension never truly left your shoulders. Your skin itched under fluorescent lights. Your hearing stretched too far, your nose catching whiffs of anger, fear, desire—all so sharp, all so constant. Over time, the city drained you. Slowly. Quietly. Like water eroding stone.

So, when the final project wrapped and the lease came due, you didn’t renew. Instead, you searched. For something quieter. Simpler. Farther. Fox River. You hadn’t heard of it before you stumbled across a listing for a cabin in the woods. Five hours from Seattle, population barely three digits, tucked between forests and forgotten lakes. The pictures showed pine trees and a misty hill behind the cabin. The seller’s name was John Whittaker. The price was reasonable. And something about it tugged at you. You made the call.

The trunk of your car was a patchwork of duffels, sealed boxes, and a folded wool blanket. Everything you owned now fit in the back of a vehicle. You stood there for a moment after slamming the hatch shut, keys cold in your palm, breath fogging in the morning chill. The street was empty. A light drizzle began to fall, speckling the windshield, trailing tiny rivers down the glass. No one came to wave you off. There were no lingering goodbyes. Just the soft hum of the engine as you turned the key, the city skyline disappearing behind you with each mile.

Traffic faded as you moved northward, buildings giving way to trees, streetlights to open sky. You took the highway out past Everett, then veered eastward, climbing steadily toward the highlands. The terrain shifted beneath your tires—concrete to gravel, flatland to forested ridges. Each mile tasted of distance. Of release.

You kept the windows cracked. The air grew colder, crisper. Cleaner. It carried the scent of rain and pine and something else. Freedom, maybe. The road curved like a ribbon through the mountains. You passed a gas station that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. A lone hiker walking alongside the road. A family of deer that froze as you approached, then leapt gracefully into the trees. Time slipped differently here. You could feel it.

Eventually, your GPS went quiet, the screen blinking blankly at you as you reached the edge of mapped civilization. You followed the directions John had given you by phone, scribbled on the back of an old receipt. Left at the old quarry. Right past the dead oak. Two miles down a gravel lane until the forest opened up like a breath. The trees parted, revealing a small clearing bathed in afternoon light. Moss carpeted the forest floor, and the cabin stood in its center like something out of a dream—wood dark with age, the roof steep and shingled in rough slate. Smoke trickled from the chimney in a slow spiral. A dark red truck was already there.

John Whittaker was exactly as he sounded: tall, silver-haired, wrapped in flannel and denim, with eyes like weathered stone. He watched you climb out of your car, then walked over, a hand extended in welcome.

"You made good time," he said with a warm smile. You returned the handshake, firm and grounding. "Barely got lost." He chuckled. "That’s saying something. Most folks don’t make it on the first try."

Together, you walked toward the cabin. The porch creaked under your steps, and the front door opened with a soft groan. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and old firewood. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden light. The interior was small but sturdy—a stone fireplace, a modest kitchenette, a cozy reading nook by a bay window, and stairs leading to a lofted sleeping area above. You walked slowly, fingers trailing along wooden beams and windowsills. Everything was handmade. Honest.

"I fixed it up over the years," John said. "Was going to keep it for the grandkids, but they’re more screen than forest these days. You look like you’ll treat it right." You turned to him, feeling something unfamiliar and warm rise in your chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief.

"I will. Thank you."

He nodded, then handed you a heavy brass key. "She likes to be warm in winter. Keep the hearth going, and she won’t give you trouble. Pipes are good. Roof too, unless it’s a real blizzard." He paused then, glancing toward the woods. "Me and my wife live a few kilometers that way, down the trail behind the house. If you ever need anything—tools, food, help with the generator—just holler. Don’t be a stranger." You stepped onto the porch with him, watching the sky shift into a palette of lavender and gold. The trees whispered in the distance. The world here felt wider, older.

"I won’t," you said. "Thanks again. For everything."

He tipped his hat, smiled once more, and drove off slowly, tires crunching over gravel until the forest swallowed the sound.

And then you were alone.

You stood there for a long time, breathing. Listening. The woods pressed close around you, but not in the way the city had. This was different. This was peace, not pressure. The weight in your chest began to lift, like something inside of you had been held underwater for too long and was finally surfacing. As dusk fell, you unpacked only what was necessary—a blanket, your journal, a single lamp. You lit a fire in the hearth, watching as the flames caught and grew. The light danced across the wooden walls, casting long shadows.

And then, just as the last blush of sun dipped behind the ridge, you heard it.

A howl.

Far off. Low. Mournful.

It echoed through the valley, resonating in your chest like a memory you hadn’t known you carried. You froze, heart stuttering. Every hair on your arms stood up. You knew that sound. Not just what it was, but what it meant. You stepped onto the porch again, eyes scanning the darkness. The trees swayed gently, their branches rustling like breath. And something inside you stirred. Something old and aching.

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you let your instincts rise, let the wild inside you shift just beneath the surface. You closed your eyes, tilted your head toward the moonlit canopy, and listened.

And somewhere deep in the forest, something listened back.

[contrarianwitt]

random trc headcannons part 3:

anytime gansey is going on a history tangent, the only way blue can make him stop is by kissing him, because it always leaves him with a breathless with a goofy smile because they can do this now (yep! they can kiss. don’t care!! they can kiss. please.)

declan and blue don’t really interact until one night at a barns party they’re both really drunk and have a heart to heart about being the black sheep in their magical families and they literally never talk about it again but both are secretly fond of each other

adam can’t look blue in the eye for a couple months after everything goes down, because her scar is a constant reminder of the agency he lost and the harm he inflicted

blue is really confused when ronan tells her that him and adam are dating because she thought that they were a thing since like right after blue lily

gansey just does not know how to talk to any kids. he either talks to them like an adult or like a baby. he has tried to explain his glendower quest to a three year old before.

gansey is so upset when he finds out that he didn’t know about adam and blues birthday

one time adam and ronan happened to be on a late night drive the same time as blue and gansey and they turned off the headlights on the bmw went behind the pig and honked really loudly while bluesey was making out (because they can! they can kiss!)

blue gets patchwork tattoos for each of her boys and the fox way ladies (also a snow globe for some reason? it just came to her randomly) - ronan takes her to get them done

part 2

[wyrmscraft]

She done, she complete. I had to use this heart pattern for the quilting, a: it’s a grouping of three hearts over three rainbow lines and the bi flag has three colours, and b: it looks like the hearts Buck drew in season 5 💖

Also, I used pink thread on the top, lavender at the middle, and blue on the bottom because that just seemed like a good idea.

White cuddletex on the back, because I couldn’t find a cotton I liked, and the pink/purple/blue striped binding.

I love it.

(Now to make the other one with the other half of the blocks lmfao)

Picked out some bi flag colours to make a celebration quilt last year when Buck from 9-1-1 got kissed by a guy and figured out he was bi.

Annnnd now it’s 2025 and I’m finally putting it together LOL

I’m gonna have 88 blocks when they’re all made and I don’t really want to make a queen size quilt because, well. They take a lot of energy lol

So maybe I’ll just do two identical lap quilts.

We’ll see what happens when I lay it out.