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joan-crawfords-freckles · 1 month ago

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Home-Spun: Stitch by Stitch

Pairing: Lilia Calderu/Reader

Words: 2.5k

Chapter: 1/?

Summary: Lilia teaches you to sew, guiding your hands with quiet care. Between crooked stitches and whispered spells, love takes shape—soft, slow, and spellbound.

Warnings: Domestic fluff, Established Relationship, Sewing Lessons, Reader is head over heels, Sicilian.

AO3

You wake to the quiet rhythm of thread pulling through cloth, a steady sound like breathing. Somewhere on your left, Lilia is already at her worktable, bathed in the golden hush of early light. Her sewing needle glints with each precise motion, her shoulders loose, her expression soft with focus.

You stay still for a moment, watching her. She’s wearing one of her older blouses, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pair of spectacles sliding low on her nose. She looks so peaceful there—like she belongs to the morning itself.

“Mm,” she murmurs without looking up. “Sei sveglia, tesoru miu?” Her voice is low, warm.

Are you awake, my darling?

You smile, stretching a little under the quilt she stitched herself. “Barely.” She finally turns, her eyes crinkling with affection. “Come here, baby. I’ve been sewing for an hour and missing you for just as long.”

The words wrap around you like honey. You pad over barefoot, drawn to her like always. You place a kiss on her crown, breathing in the scent of rosemary and old cotton.

“I like watching you sew,” you admit, leaning on the table beside her. Lilia hums, her fingers pausing just long enough to squeeze yours. “Then sit with me, amore.”

Lilia hums as she works, something old and wordless, the kind of tune that lives in a woman’s bones more than her memory. Her fingers move with practiced ease, the needle slipping in and out of the fabric in quick, perfect stitches. She doesn’t even need to look. Her hands know the rhythm by heart.

The room smells like lavender and rosemary, sun-warmed cotton and dried rose petals. Herbs hang from the ceiling in tidy bundles—sage, thyme, a few sprigs of rue. Sunlight spills through the lace curtains in soft patches, catching on the floating dust and turning it gold. Along one wall, a row of half-finished dresses sways gently, like ghosts waiting to be stitched into something real.

You sit down beside her, as close as you can get without climbing into her lap—not that she’d mind. Lilia always makes space for you, always tilts toward your gravity. Her thigh brushes against yours under the table, and you lean into the warmth of her without thinking.

She smiles without looking up. “You’re always so touchy in the morning,” she murmurs, fond. “Like a little cat, curling up wherever it’s warm.” You grin. “Only where it smells like you.”

She laughs, low and rich, and her fingers pause just long enough to rest against your wrist. “Ti vogghiu beni, caru. You know that, se?”

I love you, darling

The words settle low in your chest, warm and steady. You nod, too full to speak.

Lilia lifts the needle again, still humming as she stitches. You watch her hands, fascinated. She sews like she breathes—easily, gracefully, without fuss. Every movement is confident. Every stitch, perfect. She’s so beautiful like this, so capable, so utterly her.

You sigh, softly. “I always wanted to learn how to sew. But no one ever taught me.” Lilia doesn’t stop sewing, but you feel her attention shift. “No one?” she murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not really. My mother always meant to, but she was always too busy. And then I got older, and it felt silly to ask. Like I missed my chance.”

She hums again, but this time it’s thoughtful. Her needle stills. She sets it down gently in the pincushion and turns fully to face you.

“I’ll teach you,” she says gently, brushing her knuckles over your cheek. “It’s never too late to learn. And you’ll never be silly for wanting to make something with your own hands.”

You meet her gaze. “Would you really teach me?” She smiles—slow, bright, and a little mischievous. “Of course, amore. We’ll start with threading the needle.”

You take the needle and thread from her, determined to do it right. You’ve seen her do it so many times—how hard can it be?

But the thread bends instead of slipping through. You try again. Miss. Your fingers are too clumsy, the eye too small. The more you focus, the more it seems to evade you, like it’s mocking your effort.

You huff a little under your breath, embarrassed. “Okay, maybe it’s… a little harder than it looks.” Lilia doesn’t tease. She just hums and sets her sewing aside completely. “Come here,” she says, tugging gently at your waist. “Sit with me.”

Before you can protest, she’s pulled you into her lap with practiced ease, wrapping one arm around your middle. Her legs are warm beneath yours, her breath soft against your neck.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but she’s already settling you into place, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Shh,” she says, voice amused and quiet. “Let me help.”

Her hands find yours—steady, sure—and she guides your fingers to hold the needle just so. Then she takes the thread and shows you the trick: how to pinch it close to the tip, how to steady your hand, how to breathe.

“Don’t rush it,” she murmurs. “It’s not a race. Just let it happen.”

You feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, the slow rhythm of her chest behind yours. With her hands around yours, the motion feels easier—like her calm is catching. You try again. This time, the thread slips through.

“There,” she says, pleased. “See? You’re already learning.” You glance back at her, and her eyes are so close, her smile so soft, you feel warmth bloom in your chest.

“I like this,” you say, a little breathless. She kisses your temple, her hand still resting over yours. “Me too.”

Once the thread is through, Lilia reaches around you and guides your hands to the fabric. She lays a small scrap across your lap—nothing fancy, just soft muslin, already marked with a faint line for you to follow.

“We’ll start with a running stitch,” she murmurs, her voice low against your ear. “Simple. In and out, like waves lapping on the shore.”

Her fingers curl over yours again, guiding the needle through the cloth. She moves slowly, letting you feel the rhythm—how much pressure to use, where to angle the point, how to keep the tension smooth and even. You mimic her, halting at first, but she never rushes you. “You’ll get the feel of it,” she says. “It’s all muscle memory in time.”

As you work, Lilia stays close, her arms around you in a loose embrace, one hand occasionally reaching to adjust the fabric or steady your wrist. She hums now and then, or offers small encouragements in that low, honeyed voice you adore.

“Did you know,” she begins, her lips just at the curve of your cheek, “witches used to hide charms in the hems of their clothes?” You pause mid-stitch, glancing at her. “Really?”

She nods, smile curling. “Little knots for protection. Threads blessed by moonlight. Even tiny herbs, sewn into the lining of cloaks. Sewing wasn’t just domestic—it was spellwork. Power hidden in plain sight.”

You listen, enchanted, imagining a line of wise women stitching quiet magic into skirts and sleeves. Lilia’s voice makes it easy to picture. She makes everything feel sacred. “That’s beautiful,” you murmur. “So are you,” she says, so casually it takes you a beat to feel the flush rise in your cheeks.

You’re just returning your focus to the cloth when she reaches up, almost without thinking, and brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger for a heartbeat, and then—before you can say anything—she presses a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Certain. Your hands still again. You can feel the shape of her smile against your skin. “I like teaching you,” she whispers. “You make everything feel new again.”

By the end of the lesson, your stitches are far from perfect—some are too long, others too tight, and a few wander stubbornly off the guide line altogether. But they’re yours. You made them.

Lilia runs a finger along the row of uneven stitches, smiling like she’s never seen anything more precious. “Beautiful,” she says. You huff a little. “They’re a mess.”

“They’re yours,” she replies. “And I’m proud of you.”

You’re still in her lap, still tucked close in the warm circle of her arms. Her hand rests lightly on your knee, the other still holding the fabric you practiced on. Your fingers are red from gripping the needle, and your shoulders ache a little from leaning, but you feel… peaceful. Settled.

You look down at your clumsy line of stitches and then at her—so calm, so sure—and something quiet settles deep in your chest.

This is what home feels like.

After a while, Lilia picks up the piece she’d been working on earlier. You recognize it now—a soft blouse in a color you once said reminded you of spring after rain. She hums as she threads her needle again, comfortable and unhurried, and you stay exactly where you are, still in her lap, cheek resting against her shoulder.

As she sews, she begins to mumble under her breath. Low, familiar sounds. You can’t make out most of the words, but you recognize the cadence—Sicilian, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby or a prayer.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, letting the sound of her voice and the gentle pull of thread lull you deeper into the moment.

You know she sews more than just fabric. Lilia always said stitches could carry intention. And you can feel it now, in the way her fingers move just a little slower, more careful. In the way she knots the thread three times, whispering something you can’t quite catch.

She’s sewing something for you—not just with care, but with purpose. You know her well enough to guess: small protective charms stitched into the seams, blessings worked into every hem and fold. You don’t ask. You don’t need to. You just watch her, your heart full.

The needle glides. Her voice hums. And the little room glows with golden light, the scent of herbs, and the quiet, unspoken kind of love that doesn’t need to be named.

Eventually, Lilia lifts her head, blinking as if waking from a dream. Her needle pauses mid-stitch. “Come,” she says softly, giving your hip a little tap. “Up. I need to fit this on you properly before I finish the sleeves.”

You groan, only half teasing. “But your lap is warm.” She laughs, bright and fond, and cups your jaw with one hand. “You’re such a spoiled thing.”

“Says the one spoiling me.”

Still, you rise, stretching a little before letting her help you slip the blouse over your head. The fabric is cool against your skin, soft and just the right weight. It already feels like something meant for you. Lilia steps in close, smoothing it down over your shoulders, adjusting the seams, tugging gently at the hem.

She circles you slowly, her fingers always touching—measuring, checking, lingering. She tugs a pin from the cushion at her wrist and carefully folds the fabric at your side.

As she works, she speaks, voice low and steady.

“I stitched a few things into the seams,” she says. “Nothing too strong, just… small charms. A thread for safety. One for courage.” She looks up and smiles softly. “One to make you feel loved, always.”

Your breath catches. “You did that?”

“Of course.” Her hands pause at your waist, resting gently. “Even if I’m not there, I want something to be.” You’re quiet for a moment, throat thick. “That’s… really beautiful.”

She shrugs, gentle. “It’s old magic. The kind women have always done with their hands. Quiet. Intentional.” She leans in and adds, with a conspiratorial smile, “And it works best when stitched into things meant for someone you love.”

The word hangs there—love—but she says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, like it’s just the truth. And it is.

You blink at her, soft and overwhelmed. “What were you mumbling, while you were sewing?” She chuckles. “A mix of things. Some spells, yes. Some measurements. And some… nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” She steps back to admire the fit of the blouse, then moves forward to adjust the collar.

“Things like, this will look so pretty on her, or her shoulders are so sweet it’s unfair, or I hope she smiles when she wears it.” She flicks her fingers lightly under your chin. “Talking to the cloth. Talking to you, even if you didn’t hear it.”

You can’t help it—you smile. “I did hear it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t know what it meant.”

Lilia smooths a hand over your arm, her touch slow and reverent. “It meant I love you,” she says. “That’s all it ever means.”

And you stand there in the soft glow of morning, wrapped in the blouse she made for you—stitched with spells, with care, with every unspoken word she didn’t know how to say aloud—feeling more seen than you ever have before.

Lilia gives a satisfied little hum and steps back. “Almost perfect. Just a few more stitches.”

She reaches for the hem, fingers brushing your waist, and carefully helps you out of the blouse. Her touch is gentle, reverent, and even though you’re standing in just your nightgown now, there’s nothing rushed or coy about it. Just care.

Once the fabric is off, she pats her lap again. “Back, bella mia. I work better with you close.” You don’t hesitate.

She settles you into her lap like you belong there—which, at this point, you’re sure you do. You curl into her, cheek brushing her collarbone, and watch as her fingers move swiftly through the final stitches.

The room is quiet now, sunlight slipping warm and drowsy across the floor. Her sewing needle flashes in the light, quick and sure, and you can feel the calm in her chest, steady beneath your back.

When she ties off the last thread, she lifts the blouse with both hands and speaks something soft under her breath—Sicilian again, but slower this time, more focused. The words carry weight. Not just habit, but purpose.

You tilt your head. “Another spell?”

“Mmm.” She nods, her voice honey-sweet. “Just a little one. For grace. For joy.” Then she runs her fingers gently along the blouse’s collar and says, almost dreamily, “Quantu ti pari bedda, amuri meu.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

She laughs softly, tucking the blouse into your hands like a secret. “Ah… I forget you don’t speak Sicilian, stellina. I keep talking to you like you do.”

“Well?” you press, grinning.

Lilia brushes her knuckles under your chin, her eyes warm, full of something tender and a little amused. “It means, ‘How pretty you’ll look, my love.’”

You melt a little, holding the blouse tighter. “Maybe you should teach me.” Her smile widens, slow and knowing. “Maybe I will.”

You smile so wide it almost aches. She leans in and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose—light, dotting touches like punctuation.

“Go put it on,” she says softly. “Let me see the spell finished.”

#sobbing #so beautiful #not my fic

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