#Chain Stitch Machine

[godlovesdykes]

seam ripper seam ripper seam ripper. forever i am taking things apart. currently it is my blue tea gown that needs to be altered but was made by a very fastidious theatre costumer and has 10000000 layers of basting and staystitching and chain stitching (why?)

[himblebo]

I have the power of god and autism on my side

[kieraoonadiy]

If its one thing on my wish list, it's a chain stitch machine

Getting a lot of comments about how beautiful my 1880s treadle is, and while yes it is lovely, it's fairly plain compared to some of the rarer & earlier machines out there!

This website has pictures of a whole bunch of them, which are worth clicking through if you're interested.

Whight & Mann, 1860s.

Gresham & Craven, 1870s.

Howe.

"The Alexandra", 1860s.

Smith & Starley, 1870s.

D.W.Clark, late 1850s.

JDSM Co., 1860s.

Wilcox & Gibbs. (This one is actually not super rare, there are quite a lot of them! Also it does chain stitch instead of lock stitch.)

Britannia Sewing Machine Co., c. 1870.

Britannia Sewing Machine Co., c. 1870.

Kimball & Morton, c. 1870. Apparently the front leg coverings come off, and the needle and presser foot are inside.

That's only a fraction of them, and I've still only clicked through less than half the list. That lion shaped one isn't even the only lion shaped model on there.

[peanutheaddd]

swap au…….

my thoughts abt this au under cut ^_^

knight was a criminal in this au which is why dog man is also a criminal

knight is a criminal in this au for reasons similar to petey . theres an added part of the public school system not being very nice to him so he gives up on his education early on and then the job market wasnt very nice to him bc of that. smth smth commentary

petey is still an inventor, but its just a hobby

lil petey exists bc petey was working on making a cloning machine and through a cartoonish chain of coincidences one of his whiskers ends up in the dna chute and lil petey is born

petey still has a Lot of complex emotions abt being a dad he js copes with it wwwaaayyyy better

i think hes js scared of messing up like his dad did .

petey still kinda has difficulty regulating his emotions but again he js copes with it better. #bless

either grace is still alive, she dies way later than in canon, or petey had some other parental figure to depend on after his mom dies . either way there is some reason that petey doesnt go down the wrong path in this au

dog man kidnaps lil petey initially to antagonize petey except lil petey somehow keeps escaping whatever dog man restrains him with for reasons of: do it for the bit

eventually he js gives up on trynna keep lil petey restrained bc he doesnt try to run away and he kinda js keeps him company. LOL

petey is Very worried the first time dog man kidnaps lil petey but after the seventieth kidnapping and after hearing from lil petey abt how nice dog man is to him he js starts seeing it more as free babysitting and is lwk grateful to him LOL 😭😭😭 this is also how he finds out that dog man rlly isnt all that bad

i think dog mans always had a soft spot for kids he js tries to pretend like he doesnt

greg the dog was a stray . knight was the only person to ever show him love and i think seeing the world treat knight so shit made him kinda jaded

in this au it was knights idea to stitch gregs head onto his body . so dog mans way more aware of the sacrifice knight made for him

i actually dont know why the accident happens in this au. im thinking along the lines of one of peteys inventions blows up on accident and knight + greg r caught right in the middle of it which is why dog mans hates peteys ass so bad initially

i think lil petey begs petey to go see dog mans in jail tgth a lot. lol . everytime dog man escapes he kidnaps lil petey and they hang out

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

I got to thinking and realized something. Wouldn't you be the scariest thing in home? A human with sharp teeth, resilience and strength. To the puppets, who are all made of soft fabric, you're a machine made of flesh and bone.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Scary parts of the Reader

★ You might not think of yourself as intimidating, but from their perspective, you're a walking anomaly. A creature unlike anything they’ve ever seen. Even frank didn't know what you were! And he's supposed to be the smartest neighbor.

★ Puppets tear, unravel, and fade. Requiring patches or stitches. Even after that, they never look the same. But humans? You heal, your body repairs itself. Leaving you good as new after getting a scrape. That alone could make you seem unnatural.

★ There’s a fine line between strange and scary, and in Home, you might find yourself stuck between it. At least when you first move in. Even so, the tight knit community welcomed you.

★ If you use your teeth to open something, be prepared for some strange looks. Poppy might flinch, then look at you with concern. "O-Oh my goodness, oh dear. Why would you do that?! Is this just… normal for you?" Eyes darting between your mouth and whatever was torn open.

★ On days where you didn't have any sleep, Eddie gets nervous around you. It's something about the way you move that unsettles him. Partnered with the unfocused look in your eyes. Would Eddie be scared? No, not exactly. But he keeps his distance until you’re back to normal.

★ The worst thing Frank learned was that you're a predator. Specifically, an apex predator at the very top of the food chain. Before, Frank saw you as merely an oddity. Now, he sees you as something a little more dangerous.

★ After figuring out human's hunt prey by chasing them to exhaustion. Frank refuses to play tag with you. Saying "Absolutely not." While crossing his arms. "There is no way I'd willingly put myself in a situation where I have to outrun you."

★ Julie loves you, she really does! But sometimes you can be a downer. Even if it's not on purpose. Your serious moments just throw her off. Having a more realistic view on the world would make you stick out in the neighborhood.

★ Your stomach growing freaks out Barnaby. To him it sounds like a dog growling at him. And he reacts accordingly. Leaning back to put some distance between himself and whatever might be dwelling inside of you. Maybe just a little scared.

★ Howdy once saw you bite down on a plastic cord. Cutting it without the need for scissors. "Whoa there, neighbor! Did you just..." He gestures towards the cord, trying to process what he just witnessed. Watching you bite through tough materials is too much for him.

[arcadia-smith]

Valentine's Day with Simon Riley. (Fluff fluff fluff) Short drabble.

You hadn’t expected much for Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t exactly Simon’s thing—flowers, chocolates, grand romantic gestures. The man barely tolerated his birthday, let alone a commercial holiday designed around love. But when you woke up that morning, something felt different.

Simon wasn’t in bed. That wasn’t unusual, but the house was suspiciously quiet. No coffee machine humming, no weight shifting in the hallway. Just an odd stillness.

You slipped out of bed, padding into the living room, only to stop dead in your tracks.

On the coffee table sat a neatly wrapped box, a small envelope resting on top. Next to it, a steaming mug of your favorite tea—prepared just how you liked it.

Your heart swelled as you picked up the envelope, unfolding the card inside. His handwriting was scratchy, a little uneven, but unmistakably his.

Not good with words, but you already know that. Just wanted you to have something to wake up to. Happy Valentine’s, love.

You set the card down carefully, fingers brushing over the box. Unwrapping it, you found a small, delicate charm bracelet inside. Nothing flashy—just a simple silver chain with a single charm attached. A tiny skull, just like the one stitched onto his balaclava.

A laugh bubbled out of you, warmth filling your chest. It was so perfectly him.

Before you could turn, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, a familiar warmth pressing against your back.

"You’re up early," Simon murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

You leaned into him, holding up the bracelet. "This is sweet, Si. Unexpected, but sweet."

He huffed a quiet laugh against your neck. "Figured I’d make an effort."

You turned in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Best Valentine’s Day ever."

Simon snorted. "Low bar, love."

"Still."

His lips brushed your forehead, lingering. "Happy Valentine’s Day."

And just like that, you knew you wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.

[alexaloraetheris]

Oh boy, I feel like it's time for a post nobody will like.

We all know clothes are getting worse. Recently I found some jeans I bought in high school, and since I lost weight recently I tried them on and they fit, so I'll be wearing them once we get out of the Hell season.

But I took them and compared them to the most recent pair of jeans I bought, and... Honestly the difference in quality is so fucking stark it made me want to give up on life. The jeans I wore in high school have gone through everything. I'm talking half of Europe here, because one of our teachers was pretty big on school trips everywhere she could get the money for. They've been washed, tumbled, survived an actual car crash and they're still good.

The most recent pair I machine-washed ONCE, everything else was hand-wash only. I babied them to the max because they made my ass look like was on Instagram. Do you know what they look like now?

They're full of fixes like these. They lasted less than a year on their own. I got another decent year out of them SOLELY because I kept fixing them. And fixing them again. The crotch alone I had to fix SEVEN TIMES. I COUNTED.

And these weren't cheap jeans! C&A jeans tend to be around 40$ these days, and I got these for about 30 with a discount. I expected them to last me AT LEAST a few years, because those high school jeans? THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING BRAND.

Considering this was the quality I was getting for nearly 40$ I figured I might as well get the same quality for 15$ and downloaded SHEIN. I didn't get jeans from them but I got some light, fluttery summer pants in the style that, honestly, I fucking love. I got three pairs for the price of one C&A jeans, and I am aware I will have to baby them even more, because out of the five pairs of pants in total I have bought on SHEIN only ONE is made of the fabric that I might be brave enough to machine wash. And with SHEIN continually getting sued for using sweatshops I probably won't be getting those pants again.

So what to do with that shitfuck situation?

I am insanely lucky my grandma knew how to sew really well and didn't mind me looking over her shoulder as long as I was quiet. I am aware that's not a skill everyone has, but quite frankly? When nobody has any money and even paying big bucks for clothes does not guarantee any kind of quality, and even fucking THRIFT STORES are full of just junk now, I think it's time to face the facts.

You need to learn how to sew.

I'm not talking about sewing your own clothes, though if you can and you have the time and patience, it's probably the best option (good luck finding decent fabric, because we can't even find THAT anymore unless you're ordering from fucking Belgium). I'm talking about fixing up seams and sewing on a patch, little repairs that make your clothes last. It might be junk, but with sewing you can make it last twice as long for the price of a spool of thread.

Now that I've pissed off everyone who is, for some reason, morally opposed to learning how to sew because it's a 'girly hobby' or 'supporting the patriarchy' (a take that left me baffled like nothing else) I'm going to piss off everyone who already knows how to sew.

I recommend getting this little guy.

It's called a stapler sewing machine, for obvious reasons. If I recall correctly, it was invented to fix clothes on the go for fashion shows and/or cosplay. It does only a chain stitch and needs to be pushed manually, but if you need to, like, hem your trousers and you don't want to spend half an hour on doing it manually (and don't already have an actual sewing machine) this is a lifesaver.

Here's a tutorial how it operates:

Now, why am I recommending this? Because it will only set you back six bucks. I got two right off the bat because I was banking on one not working (and I was right) and so I could use it for spare parts. The one in the video (Spring Come) is the one I have as well, and it's the one that actually works. I can't vouch for any unmarked ones, but the blue one works. It IS a little temperamental, but with a bit of practice it makes things so much easier.

The reason I'm not recommending an electric machine of any kind, even the one that costs 18$, is because, if you're a beginner, then an automatic sewing machine becomes a machine that exponentially speeds up the rate at which you make mistakes, and if it breaks down, good luck fixing it unless you have a dad/uncle/friend who knows his electronics. This thing can be fixed with a screwdriver, and takes the same needles as an ordinary sewing machine.

You can buy a bundle of needles just about anywhere for any price and they'll be decent as long as they're steel, but I would recommend looking for some actual better quality thread. Everywhere else, you can pinch pennies, but the thread itself is what's holding your clothes together, so this should be the part where you're looking for quality instead of price.

Alright, those of you who didn't scroll past with a derisive scoff at my take, I hope I've been helpful.

[just-a-sketchbook]

First Quilt!

It has been a lot of fun and a lot of trial and error but it's done!!!

It's roughly 1.20 x 1.20m (which is a number of feet I can't be bothered to look up but let's say it's about child sized and it'll be great to chill on the couch).

I want to thank @langdon813 who I've never talked to (sorry if you hate being tagged) but whose gorgeous Drunkard path quilts made me wanna do it too :)

I had never done any quilting before (but I did sew), so here's what I've learned, if any beginner is interested in jumping off the deep end the way I did and wants advice from someone who has freshly acquired experience but will also not use any confusing technical terms (with pictures!) :

Fabric picking : so most advice I read was to go for pre-selected bundles of fabric that already go together, but I'm contrary and like to do my own thing so I used wax fabric (the blue ones on top the pile) I had laying around, which I strongly recommend: it's very easy to cut due to it being waxed, and I added a few fat squares from the shop, plus I also had the orange and blue floral and I based the coulour scheme on it. One thing that's true is it would have been easier to work with fabric of the same thickness, and the floral was givne to me by my ma who got in on trip to Thailand and it was alot thinner than the rest which didn't help.

Cutting: I got a rotary cutter for the occasion and it's great! Do not maybe push too hard on it and give yourself nerve damage the way I did (temporary but still), it's actually ery sharp and easy to use, so long as your template doesn't slip you're fine

Piecing :Yes you can do curved piecing even if you have zero experience, you just gotta make a template and

pin it a lot.

1/4 inch margins is the standard so I rolled with it because I don't like converting, but when you're strictly metric it is kind of annoying but doable because my machine does have a 1/4 inch mark and if you stick a length of tape along it it's pretty easy to follow, even for curved piecing.

Layout: At some point you've got to decide the layout is done, because I've re-arranged the blocks at least 6 times and it's a very good way to go insane. (For rough reference, my plan was to have no repeat fabrics in any of the circle-in-a-square blocks, and I only made one mistake which I clocked too late to change)

Chain piecing!! Meaning you pile your blocks together in a specific order (that I personnaly wrote straight up on each piece with a very sophisticated letter/numbers down/across system) and then just sew them together in a line without having to cut the thread between each pair. Looks a little like a fanion banner and at some point it feels like you'll be forever tangled into it but then it's magic :) It's not that hard actually and will save you a lot of time + there's a lot of online tutorials you can use.

Basting! (which it took me while to understand is the part where you attach the backing, the fluff and the quilt top together) : you need more safety pins. Safety pins will save you from the wrinkles and the unfortunate oopsies of realising you've caught your backing double folded into your quilting stitch, which I did a good three times and was not fun to undo. Also, I forgot to tape the backing to the floor and it probably would have helped with the wrinkling...

Backing : I used an old linen table cloth I got for 10€ at a charity shop, and I've still got about 2/3 of it left, so I recommend that, it's sturdy but soft enough, doesn't thread easily and can be washed at very high temps, if that's a thing you do.

Quilting! Well, my machine came with a quilting foot for free motion quilting (which means you're the one moving the fabric along in whichever direction and you can sort of draw with your stitches) and it seemed fun so I did that, and here's what I learned : curves are hard but doable, also my machine doesn't like to go back (kept skipping sitiches for some reason) so it involves a lot of shifting the quilt around, which isn't easy considering the bulk. And also, drawing the quilting pattern you want so you can follow it while quilting actually does help, I used an iron/heat-erasable pen and it worked just fine. Check your stitch tension, mine was too loose and I realised too late so there's spots where I could pull on the thread and it looped, had to stitch back over that.

Quilitng pattern : I wasn't sure what to do, supposedly your batting (aka: the fluff) comes with instructions on how tight you should quilt to avoid it coming apart through use but I got mine cut at the fabric shop and forgot to ask so I just rolled with a rough 10cm maximum distance in between stitching lines but tried to do less in most places. According to many blogs : the tighter your lines the stiffer your quilt, so I kept it loose for comfort. (Picture is halfway done, I added a smaller square/circle inside each square/circle and if you look at it you'll see it's actually diagonal lines form one end of the fabric to the other.)

Binding is boring, and there's nothing to it. I got a length of pre-cut bias binding, machine-sewed it front to front to the quilt top side of the quilt and the folded it back and secured it by hand to the back with a ladder stitch. Took me roughly and entire rewatch of the Last Of Us. There's a trick to doing the corners that's fairly simple but I've lost the tutorial...

Overall : I got myself a quilting book with techinques and such and it helped, but there's a ton of stuff online, and once you get over the very Christian American mum vibe of most of the blogs, it's all very helpful (and gorgeous!) (no offense meant to Christian American mums, it's just a bit of a culture shock from where I'm standing).

[leyavo]

| Coming home to you | Gaz

Summary: TF 141 boys and how their wife/gf helps them when they come home after a long and gruelling mission.

I enjoyed doing the wife/gf series and wanted to do some more 🥲 Ghost’s is already done. [Wife/gf masterlist] 1,604words

Gaz x lawyer girlfriend!reader

The soft click of a clasp drew you out of your sleepy haze. You sat up, fluffy blanket falling around your hips and you frowned. The coffee desk surface visible, your scattered files and paperwork piled neatly together beside your closed laptop and stationary case. A flickering candle set on the coaster, one you’ve never seen before.

Kyle, his back facing you as he put away the shopping from the reusable bags on the kitchen counter. He liked to do the simple and mundane things to ground himself whenever he returned from a mission.

Going food shopping however sent your thoughts haywire, he hated doing it that you normally got it delivered. You pushed the blanket off and kicked it to the end of the sofa. Before your feet could touch the floor he spoke.

“Want a coffee, babe?” Kyle asked, head not turning fully to glance at you over his shoulder. Another red flag, no hello or reunion kiss.

You pushed off the sofa and padded across the cold tiled floor, slippers no where to be seen. Now that you walked to him, the bins have been taken out and every surface in your view is spotless, almost sparkling. As if he’s been cleaning around you all morning.

“I got some new blend, but I know you like the vanilla kind.” He’s moving around the kitchen, back to you as you walked closer as if he’s trying not to look at you head on.

You leant against the counter, picking the oat milk from a bag and sliding it across the marble top. “When did you get back?”

“Not long,” he shrugged, cup slamming to the side as his back muscles trembled. “A few hours,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy.

The milk steamer silenced you as you called his name, the fancy coffee machine he got you is only used by him. You can never be bothered to learn all the functions when you’re always in some rush. Kyle making you all different types of blends when he returned from work, as if he liked the loud sound to drown his thoughts out. Drown you out when you try to question him.

“Why don’t we just go back to bed, rest,” you said, palm lightly touching his back, but you’re removing it as soon as his body froze at your touch. He goes the other direction before you can round him, your steaming hot coffee left on the side.

“Slept on the plane home.” Kyle plumped the cushions, the sound of his fists pounding so hard you thought the feathers would explode from the inside.

Sipping your coffee, you unplugged your phone from the charging station by the kettle. A chain of text messages from John lighting your phone. A warning, mission royally fucked, gal. Don’t let Kyle stew for too long, send him my way if he’s too stubborn. A few from Johnny too, don’t go looking into anything lass. That particular message telling you everything you need to know about the situation, something and someone had got in their way.

As if sensing your thoughts of getting involved, Simon texted you. He’d never done so before. Knowledge is power, give it to Gaz. Was he encouraging you to do some digging? To get involved with a classified mission? Maybe you even knew someone connected to them all.

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, finger tapping against the screen as you sent a few question marks back to Simon. Eyes glancing to Kyle unravelling the cord of the hoover across the room.

The phone buzzed, two names written in capitals and a big fucking lead from Simon. BAILEY AND ROANE. Fuck, no wonder Kyle couldn’t look at you. The same names printed on the neatly stacked files on the coffee desk.

“Did you look through my casework?”

Kyle turned to face you for the first time. Stitches holding a gash together near his hairline, grazed skin above his brow and on his cheekbone. You wondered what else laid beneath the layers of clothes he wore.

Your back straightened, tension holding your shoulders up at the implication. So stuck in his head, that he couldn’t talk to you about what’s really going on.

“I just tidied it up, the place was a mess when I walked in,” Kyle snapped, flinging the hoovers plug across the floor. His nostrils flared, he’s doing a good job of avoiding your gaze as if your mere presence angers him.

“Why won’t you look me?”

Kyle’s gaze flickered to you, then to the coffee table piled with your work. He picked the files up and threw them across the room. “Drop the case, give it to someone else.” His voice was cool and controlled, like he’d practiced it all morning. It wasn’t anger he felt, but frustration.

The little tasks he’d done this morning helped him sort through his the mess in his mind. The mess that you had created both in your shared home and the relationship.

“I can’t just drop it. This is my life’s work,” you said, kneeling down to collect all the scattered papers on the floor.

Kyle sighed, crouching down in front of you and handing you photos, one in particular not leaving his grasp as you tried to take it back.

“You have no fucking idea who you’re going after,” he snapped, snatching the photo and lifting it up to wave in your face. The same man in the picture that taunted you in your dreams.

“I don’t give a shit! If they hurt you, I want to help. I want to ruin them. So you tell me exactly what they did.” You yelled in his face and he doesn’t even flinch, your throat burning and eyes stinging.

How was he so calm with everything at stake? You were so angry, every little moment of your life led up to this case and there was no way you were giving up now. The reason you’d become a lawyer in the first place, to put these scumbags behind bars and serve justice.

Kyle stood up, tossing the photo across the coffee table. “They used you to rein me in. They fucking threatened your life!” His finger pointing at you.

And there it is. The thing keeping him from you. He released a deep breath, his chest rising up and down.

“I don’t need protecting Ky! My parents were killed for their work and if I have to put my life at risk to nail those bastards I will.” More fuel to add to the fire, everyone you’d cared about, gone and Kyle wasn’t going to be added to that list.

“They’re fucking war criminals, this isn’t a game baby.” Kyle grabbed your arms, anchoring you to the spot. His glassy eyes connecting with yours, the line between his brows relaxing as he held you there.

It had never been a game to you. Retribution, revenge or karma you didn’t know what to call it, but justice didn’t seem enough most times. Not when it came to Bailey and Roane.

You shrugged out of his hold. “Have you even read my parent’s files?” He doesn’t respond, shaking his head.

Most in the military knew your parents more than you did. Sometimes you got a glimpse of them when you met people they knew, trails of stories giving you an insight to their character and morals. To you they were just mum and dad. Something you didn’t really talk about not even to Kyle, he respected that you didn’t want to pick apart that wound so he never asked any more.

“I thought that’d be the first thing you looked into. I know you looked into my background to see if I’d done shady shit. Yeah, I know.” You fell back into the sofa, gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. The wedding ring your mother wore on your finger.

The cushions dipped under his weight as he sat next to you. “It wasn’t personal, our careers, we can’t take the risk.” His hands took yours and he brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your knuckles. A peace offering and an apology for looking into you. Little did he know that you also did one on him.

“My parents were high up in the military, everyone knows that. They know how they died, but they didn’t know that I was there or that my dad gave me evidence. I’m not trusting that to someone else.”

Nine year old you crammed into that tight space, you didn’t come out for hours. Not till it was dark, not till you knew you could walk the rooms and follow the shadows. Just like daddy taught you to.

“Bailey and Roane killed them. I have evidence,” you whispered, a rogue tear rolling down your cheek. The weight of your words pushing down the knot on your chest. Saying it out loud made it feel more real. You hadn’t shared it with anyone.

“You’ve got a target on your back, I don’t like this.” Kyle wiped your tear stricken face, forehead resting against yours as he released a trembling breath.

“It’s always been there Ky, just a whole lot bigger now. Recon you could get me a meeting with Laswell and Price? I have intel they might find helpful.”

Slipping away, Kyle’s eyes scanned your face. “You’re really not going to back down are you?” He paused, nervous laugh as you shook your head. “Thought so, we’ll have to do this by the book and very discretely. I’m not letting you out of my sight either.”

🤝 Kyle and lawyer!girlfriend teaming up to take down the baddies.

[freshstitches]

In my previous post, I talked about the stacked stitch technique and said the idea came from warp knit textiles. I promised to tell you more about these knits so here's some info.

The terms warp and weft come from weaving where they are used to describe vertical and horizontal threads respectively (image 2). As hand knitters, we don't generally use these words in relation to our craft, but they correspond to the 2 primary methods of knit fabric production. In hand knitting and on home machines, yarns travel back and forth across each row horizontally (image 3). This is also called weft knitting.

Warp knitting is a process where yarn travels vertically as the fabric is created (image 4). We, as hobbyists, rarely use this term because it is very tedious to do by hand requiring a knitting loom or a lot of patience. Each needle has its own spool of thread and the width of the fabric is essentially determined by the number of bobbins/spools used. Imagine intarsia, but each color is just one stitch wide. Each thread must constantly zigzag from needle to needle in order to create a sheet of fabric and not a series of disconnected crochet chains. This lateral movement is referred to as "shogging." Threads swing to the front of the needle (overlap) and move one unit to the side then swing behind each needle (underlap) and and move to the side one or more spaces.

Warp knits are known for being sturdier with less elasticity and than weft knits. They can be very dense like stranded colorwork or contain extremely large holes. They do not run or ladder, if a yarn breaks, the fabric will slowly unravel and only a small hole will form. 

As in weft knitting, many different textures and colorwork effects can be created using only a few, basic stitches. Tulle, athletic mesh, and flame stitch (image 1) textiles are all manufactured using warp knitting machines.

The cover photo belongs to the @vamuseum and shows a silk shawl from c.1850. I made the illustrations from scratch and I'm very proud of them, please share them so lots of people see them.

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, minor angst

pairing: kotaro bokuto x fem!reader

warnings: drug use, addiction

summary: breaking bad inspired. frank ocean lost inspired (please have a listen!)

you were good once.

not perfect, never that, but good.

had a planner. a part-time job. a bullet-point life you were trying to keep from falling apart. second-year at a state university, your loans stacking faster than your credits. business major. something practical. something you told your aunt would pay off someday. you worked the closing shift at a laundromat that doubled as a convenience store, just off the highway, neon lights buzzing even when the ice machine was broken.

that’s where you met him.

kotaro bokuto.

he used to have it all. back in another lifetime, he was a star. starting outside hitter for a D1 school, full ride, a future in his hands so bright it could blind you. recruiters calling at all hours. NIL deals coming in hot. they called him showtime. highlight reels, gym posters, shirts printed with his number.

but it was too much. the pressure cracked something in him. he started skipping lifts. started partying harder. started missing practices with no reason but that hollow feeling in his chest that nothing really mattered.

eventually, he just left. packed his bag and drove out west with a friend-of-a-friend who had a connection, said he could show him how to make real money without ever picking up a ball again. that was two years ago. now, he’s got scars on his knuckles and burn marks on his arms. hasn’t seen a clean gym in eighteen months.

but he’s magnetic. even now. especially now.

you meet him in that gas station-laundromat. he comes in for rolling papers and red gatorade. wears sweat-streaked tank tops and gold chains with no shirt underneath.

something about him makes your stomach twist, the loose way he talks, the heavy-lidded stare, like he’s constantly hovering somewhere between awake and dreaming.

at first, he’s just a regular.

then he’s leaning over the counter longer. asking about your classes. offering you rides. telling you to call him ko.

then one night your car won’t start. and he’s there. joint in his fingers. half smile on his lips.

“want a hit?”

you take it. and it’s smooth, sweeter than you expect.

everything about him is sweeter than you expect.

…

at first, it’s harmless.

it started with joints. rolled effortlessly, tight, clean, always burning even. his fingers worked with the kind of ease that only came from muscle memory. he never looked down while doing it, just kept talking, lighter flicking like punctuation.

he passed them to you without asking. never pressured. just held them out like an offering. like smoke could be communion.

then came the cart. “no smell,” he said, grinning, tapping the mouthpiece against the counter. “you can keep it under the register. no one’ll know.”

you found it later, tucked behind the paper towels. sleek. gold-trimmed. a sticker on the side with a smiley face and your name, spelled wrong.

next came edibles. rice krispies, melted marshmallow fingerprints on the baggie, your name again in sharpie, this time spelled right. little hearts around it. he asked if you liked the taste. told you he’d make more.

and he did.

you tried shrooms on a tuesday. just a cap. maybe a stem. he sat with you in the break room after close, lights off, vending machine humming like a lullaby. he gave you a hoodie when your arms started to shake and let you trace the stitching on his knuckles while your pupils blew wide. when you told him the soda cans looked like planets, he leaned in close, whispering, “which one do you think we’re on?”

you laughed for ten minutes. he didn’t mind.

now it’s the desert.

his truck, rattling loose down some nameless stretch of highway. stars above. cassette in. otis redding. tevin campbell. marvin gaye. the stereo warbles between tracks, and he taps the wheel in time, window cracked just enough to let the wind bite.

you bite your lip to keep from laughing.

you just passed a cop car doing eighty. he doesn’t slow down.

he says things you shouldn’t believe. stories that don’t add up. names that change.

but you believe him. you believe all of it. even the lies.

especially the lies.

because when he says you’re safe with me, you want it to be true.

because nothing else feels safe right now.

not the laundry card that keeps declining. not the rent hike notice slipped under your door. not the way your boss at the laundromat keeps slashing hours and calling it budget cuts. college tuition emails go unopened. your fridge hums louder than your phone rings. even your shoes feel tired.

but him?

bokuto doesn’t flinch when you cry in the front seat. doesn’t ask questions when you show up empty-handed. he hands you lighters like you need them, lets you roll down the window as far as you want. he laughs like you’re still someone soft, even when you don’t believe it.

and in that moment, in the hum of tires, in the bass line of stolen soul records, in the smell of weed and old vinyl and the wind tangling your hair:

it is safe.

just for a little while. just long enough to forget the difference.

he never takes you to the same place twice.

when he works, it’s always late. always hot. always quiet. he tells you don’t ask. you nod like you mean it. but you do. of course you do.

you start noticing things. coolers packed tight with baggies and twist-ties. coffee filters stained brown. burner phones. lighters with no cigarettes. his hands always smell like iodine and citrus.

he keeps you out of it. makes you wait in the truck, windows cracked. sweat pooling in the dip of your back.

you don’t mind. not really.

you love being near him. love when he leans over to kiss your jaw and calls you his good girl. love the stacks of cash he counts on motel beds. love how he still holds you like he’s scared you’ll vanish in your sleep.

you think it’ll stay like this. you think you’re smart enough to keep your head above water. but the tide’s already coming in.

and one night, you find him cooking.

you weren’t supposed to be there. he told you to wait at the station. but you came anyway. traced the route you knew by heart. the back lot. the rusted trailer. the porch light blown out.

you open the door, and the smell hits you first, pungent, acidic, like something sour rotting in plastic.

he’s bent over a table, mask pulled up, latex gloves on. beakers bubbling. a hot plate glowing red. steam curling from a pot.

you freeze.

he doesn’t notice at first, until you shift and the floor creaks. then he looks up. eyes wide. face pale.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” he barks.

you blink. don’t move. don’t breathe.

“ko…”

he strips the gloves fast, peels the mask off, grabs your wrist. “you weren’t supposed to see this,” he says, voice hoarse.

but you can’t stop staring. not at him. not at the lab. not at what he’s become.

“is this what you’ve been doing?” you whisper.

he doesn’t answer.

just looks at you, like he’s already ruined you by accident.

you step forward. touch the edge of the counter. glass jars. pill bottles. lye. ammonia. crushed cold pills. everything.

and still, you say, soft and steady: “let me help.”

his face twists.

“no,” he snaps. too fast. too loud. “absolutely not.”

but you don’t flinch. you know how to talk to him now.

you remind him of your hours getting cut at the laundromat. how school feels like a rich kid’s joke. how your mom hasn’t called in three months. how you’re already with him on every drop, every drive, every late-night cash swap under flickering gas station lights.

you promise you won’t get in deep. you just want to help. just want to be useful. just want to breathe for a little while without feeling like the world is chewing through your skin.

he doesn’t say yes.

not at first.

just stares at you, jaw locked, hand raking through his hair like he’s trying to dig a hole through his skull.

his voice is tight when it comes out. his whole body trembling.

“fine. but you don’t touch anything. you don’t cook. you don’t sell. you don’t lie for me. you sit. you watch. you keep your fucking hands clean.”

and that’s what you do.

for a while.

…

you knew he used.

not because he told you. not because he ever did it in front of you.

he kept his highs away from you, like a secret. like a stain he didn’t want to smear on your hands.

but you saw it anyway.

you saw it in the track marks. little bruises blooming along the inside of his arms, half-faded and rearranged every time his sleeves slipped up while he was driving. sometimes you’d catch him rubbing his wrist absently, fingertips brushing the skin like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

you saw it in his eyes.

some nights, they were clear. steady. warm in a way that made you forget where you were. but other nights they turned glassy. sharp. too still. like he was watching the world from two feet behind his own body.

he never used in front of you. never touched you when he was high.

but you knew the signs.

the jaw that clenched too hard when the silence stretched too long. the way he’d press his knuckles to the bridge of his nose like he was holding back something ugly. how he’d go hours without speaking, then burst into laughter that didn’t reach his chest.

how he slept sometimes for a day and a half, and sometimes not at all.

you never asked. you told yourself it wasn’t your place. you told yourself he’d stop if he could.

but you saw it all. and still, you stayed.

because the highs were part of him now. not the best part. not the worst. just there.

woven into the threads of who he’d become.

you saw it. and maybe—maybe some quiet, shameful part of you wondered what it felt like.

…

the first time you ask to try it, he flinches. hard. his whole body jerks like you slapped him.

“no.” his voice is flat. but shaking. “you don’t need that. don’t even say that shit.”

“but you do it,” you say. petty. childish. desperate. “you do it all the time.”

he turns away. his hand curls into a fist, then relaxes. then curls again.

“because I’m already fucked up,” he mutters, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “because i don’t have choices anymore. but you—you still have a way out. you could leave right now. go back to school. go back to someone who isn’t like this.”

you step closer.

he doesn’t look at you.

“don’t do this to yourself,” he says, quieter now. his voice breaks on the last word.

but your mouth is already dry. already aching with a want you don’t understand. you want to know what it is that keeps him coming back. what it is that lets him float when the world drowns everyone else. maybe, if you feel it, you’ll understand him better. maybe, if you feel it, you’ll feel closer.

“please.”

you say it soft. too soft. like a wound being kissed.

it breaks him. he stares. shakes his head. curses under his breath.

and then, slowly, he lines it out.

a single line. smooth. pale. on the back of an old mirror with a cracked corner.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t gloat. he just holds the mirror steady and watches you lean down.

trembling. wide-eyed. mouth dry as paper.

his hand rests on your back. not pressing. just there. warm. steady. alive.

your breath catches. your pulse screams.

then the high hits like god. not light. not air. not clarity. fire. everything burns and sings and pulses.

you feel like you could lift the world in your bare hands. your heart’s a hummingbird. your skin buzzes like a stereo too close to the amp.

the trailer melts into gold and orange. sunset dripping down the walls.

his hands on your hips feel like velvet and lightning. you kiss him. you can’t not kiss him. you laugh so hard you cry. you cry so hard you moan.

your body shakes from the inside out.

you grab his face, breathe him in, press your forehead to his and whisper, this is it. this is the best thing I’ve ever felt.

he nods. but his eyes are hollow. his jaw is tight. he holds you like a man watching someone walk into a fire they can’t come back from.

and then— you crash at dawn.

hard.

your mouth is sandpaper. your chest is collapsing in on itself. your nerves scream. your legs won’t stop shaking.

the world is too bright. too loud. even the silence hurts. you cry. ugly, cracked, wet sobs. you curl up on the mattress and press your face into the crook of his arm like it might save you.

he holds you. rocks you. whispers against your hair. “you shouldn’t’ve done it, baby. you were good. you were so good.”

you cry harder.

and he just holds you tighter. like if he squeezes hard enough, the poison will leak out.

you shake until you sleep.

and when you wake up— you still want it.

…

from there, it’s a blur.

you lie to yourself.

say it’ll be the last time. say you’ll stop before it’s too late. say you’ll only help when he really needs you.

but the late nights come fast.

so do the favors. the exceptions. the can you just hold this and watch the door and keep the engine running.

you start picking up lingo. you learn what the codes mean. what a “half” looks like in a ziplock bag. you learn how to measure without a scale. how to tell when someone’s trying to short you. you start carrying a burner. you stop asking who the product’s for.

you’re not cooking. not yet, but you’re there.

mixing. breaking down. packaging with trembling fingers while he checks the blinds. he teaches you how to keep your prints off glass. you learn how long it takes to cut and cool and double-bag.

your hands stop shaking after a while. your heartbeat slows. you get good at this.

…

one night, a guy talks to you.

it happened outside a gas station just past dusk, the air thick with heat and the smell of fried food, rubber, something faintly chemical. the sky was still bleeding color, oranges melting into purples, the neon from the ice machine sign flickering against the hood of bokuto’s truck as you leaned against it, arms crossed, waiting for him to come back with change for the quarters you forgot.

the guy is too close. too greasy. he sees your face before he sees bokuto, and he gets stupid. asks if you come with the product. laughs when you don’t answer.

you try to move past him. he grabs your wrist and bokuto’s there before you can blink.

not yelling. not dramatic.

just calm. deliberate. a kind of stillness that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

his hand dipped under the driver’s seat like muscle memory, like it wasn’t even a decision. just instinct. he pulled the piece without blinking, without flinching, without looking to see if anyone was watching.

it was simple. dull black. heavy in his grip.

you didn’t catch every word. the blood in your ears was too loud. but you heard the tone, cold. deep. old.

“say that again.”

the guy froze. hands raised. tried to laugh it off. started stammering apologies you couldn’t hear over your own heartbeat.

bokuto didn’t move. didn’t speak again. just stared.

and then, without a word, the man backed off. quick. turned. disappeared into the night like he’d never been there at all.

bokuto holstered the gun slow, like he’d done it before. like it was routine. like it was just another part of the job.

he didn’t look at you right away. didn’t ask if you were okay until nearly a full minute later, eyes scanning the dark before finally shifting to your face.

“you good?” he said, like nothing had happened.

you nodded. but something cracked open inside you. not fear. not exactly.

just something ugly.

something you couldn’t name. because the truth was, in that moment, watching him fold danger back into silence like it had never existed, you felt safe.

and that? that was what scared you most.

…

the mirrors go quieter after that.

you stop checking them. stop picking up your phone when it rings. you don’t know how to explain this. you miss your cousin’s birthday. you miss rent. you miss the way bokuto used to laugh before all of this swallowed him whole.

you’re still getting high. but it’s not about feeling good anymore. it’s about not feeling anything.

you tell yourself it’s just until things settle down. just until the next drop. just until you can breathe again.

but you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks. and bokuto watches you.

starts using less. starts hiding the stash in places you can’t reach.

beneath the trailer floorboards, covered in duct tape and loose insulation. inside the back of the toilet tank, double-wrapped in a freezer bag. once, tucked into an empty pack of marlboros sealed in a ziplock, jammed behind the rusted car battery.

he thinks he’s being careful. thinks he’s protecting you. thinks you don’t notice.

but you do.

he’s different now. quieter. hollow in places he didn’t used to be. you can feel the way he pulls back when he kisses you. not because he loves you less. because he’s afraid.

he touches you like glass. like if he’s not gentle, you’ll splinter. washes your hair when your body aches too hard to move. sings under his breath when you can’t sleep. old soul records. songs you recognize in pieces. you think that maybe he’s singing to who you used to be.

…

you go looking on a tuesday.

midday. no clouds. the kind of heat that peels paint. makes your knees sweat just from standing still.

you tear the trailer apart. not slow. not careful. frantic. guttural. hungry.

the drawers, the vents, the mattress. behind the fridge. under the couch. in the crack where the wall doesn’t meet the linoleum.

your breath is clipped. your fingers twitch. your vision pulses like your brain forgot how to filter light. you’re halfway inside the cabinet beneath the sink, hair wild, knees bruised, fingers bleeding from the sharp hinge, when he finds you.

and the second your eyes meet you snap.

“where is it?” your voice is sharp. hoarse. already broken.

he steps in slowly. arms down. voice low. “baby,” he says. “you don’t need—”

“don’t,” you hiss. “don’t call me that. just tell me where it is. please.”

your throat is dry. tears spill before you feel them. your voice climbs high and helpless. your fists dig into your own ribs like you’re trying to hold yourself together from the outside in.

“i’ve been good, haven’t i ko? i’ve been so good. i didn’t ask yesterday. i didn’t use last week. i just need something. just a little. i won’t go too far. i swear. please.”

he’s frozen. his face cracks in real time, eyes raw, mouth barely moving, grief written across every inch of him like bruises.

“stop,” he says, almost choking on it. “please don’t do this.”

he moves to kneel. to hold you. to reach for your wrist like he’s done a thousand times when you’re spiraling.

but you jerk back like his skin is fire.

“you made me like this.”

and that—that ruins him. he doesn’t speak. just flinches. back hits the cabinet. he slides down slowly, hands limp in his lap. his face crumples without collapsing. the kind of expression that doesn’t scream. it just dies.

you’re sobbing now.

fists in your hair. rocking. nails dragging across your scalp. everything in your body screaming. everything outside of it quiet.

“just—just tell me where it is. please. i need it. bo, i need it.”

still, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

then slowly, he reaches into his hoodie pocket. pulls out a folded bit of foil. unfurls it. tiny. half a hit. barely anything. not even enough to feel.

he doesn’t say a word as he lays it out on the lid of an old film canister. no torch. no mirror. just desperation and dust.

you’re already nodding. crawling across the floor into his lap. fingers trembling. face soaked.

your voice is wet. gravel and glass.

“thank you. i’m so sorry i said that baby, i love you. i don’t blame you. i swear i don’t. i’ve just been feeling so bad, and this doesn’t even make me feel good anymore, but it helps. it helps. i promise it’ll be the last time.”

he holds you after. arms around your waist. cheek against your spine. body still. his hand rubs circles into your back. slow. careful. afraid.

but his eyes never leave the wall. blank. burned out. gone.

but he won’t leave you. he can’t.

not when you’re the only thing he’s got left that still feels like anything. like home. like maybe he didn’t ruin everything.

and you—you’ve given up too much to turn around.

school. home. your body. your breath.

…

you kiss him in the truck with the windows rolled down. the wind is hot. your neck is sticky with sweat. the gun rattles under the passenger seat.

the cooler between your feet is packed with bills.

you tell him you love him. he says it back.

the drive stretches on forever. the desert opens like a wound. wide. flat. aching. the sky burns low, yellow at the horizon, then orange, then a red so deep it feels like drowning.

the road hums under the wheels. sand dances in the rearview. everything around you is nothing.

he drives with one hand, and the other rests on your thigh. his jaw tense. his eyes far.

the radio crackles. worn. warped. one knob missing. the deck held together with duct tape, loose wires, and hope. you glance at the display. the green light flickers, half-burnt out.

frank ocean – lost

the tape warps slightly under the heat. the vocals slide soft and slow through the cracked speakers, syrupy and half-muffled like a dream underwater.

“she’s at a stove, can’t touch her soul…”

it almost feels ironic. mocking, even. like the song knows. like it’s watching you from inside the tape deck, whispering truths you’re not ready to admit.

your throat tightens. not from emotion, not at first, but from the way the lyric lands right in the hollow of your ribs.

you feel it in your molars, in the ache at the back of your jaw. in the gums you’ve bitten raw from the come-downs. in your chest, where the breath doesn’t always come easy anymore.

it settles like a weight. not heavy enough to crush. just enough to remind you that it’s there. that it’s always there.

and still the song plays. and still you listen. and still, despite everything, you don’t reach for the volume.

you just sit there, staring out at the open desert, wondering how you became the kind of girl a song like this makes sense to. the kind of girl who lives in metaphors and motel rooms and the passenger seat of someone else’s bad decisions.

you weren’t always this. but now you are.

and no one’s coming to save you. not from the sun. not from the heat. not from him. not even from yourself.

the sun is bleeding across the sand.

painting everything in gold and rust and regret. and for a second, you remember something else.

your name. your laugh. your bedroom walls. your mother’s perfume. the way you used to hum in the kitchen while waiting for coffee to brew.

that girl is gone. burned up. buried under powder and smoke and him.

lost. in the heat. in the love. in the ache. in the hum of tires. in the crackle of tape. in the steady weight of the backseat that smells like cash and death.

and somewhere in your bones, you know. you’re never coming back.

[yarnandink]

I cannot be trusted with my own finances, and I don't care.

I am making a breathtakingly expensive impulse purchase thanks to the aforementioned Bernadette Banner video binge I dove into this weekend.

See, I was already contemplating investing in a refurbished antique sewing machine, once I've finally purchased my own home (along with a refurbished piano, but that's another matter altogether and will be subject to availability of space and soundproofing).

Antique because they're beautiful pieces of machinery, they're resilient tanks (especially compared to modern sewing machines with planned obsolescence) and it's easier for the sewist to regulate the speed to their own comfort and pace (also unlike the modern sewing machines I'm familiar with, which scare me more than a little).

And then I watched Bernadette's video about her mid-19th century chain stitch sewing machine and... I fell in love.

The beauty and resilience of the chain stitch, the simplicity of skipping a bobbin entirely, the compact size and the quietness of the device all really strongly appeal to me.

So I looked online on a whim, to try and get an idea of price, and... I found one.

Same maker, I suspect even the same model, with the original carrying case as well!

She's a little more worn and tarnished than the one Bernadette received for her video, and the timber carrying case is definitely going to need a lot of TLC, but she appears to be in working order!

Anyway, I was talking with a friend (who absolutely abdicated all attempts to dissuade me from this purchase), and realised I already knew this old beauty's name... Which pretty inevitably meant that I have to purchase her!

So, meet ✨️Emmeline✨️

Her seller lives in the same suburb where I commute to the office once a week, and has even agreed to drive to the block where I work to let me inspect and meet this lovely old lady after I finish work this coming Wednesday, before exchanging any funds.

And I am SO EXCITED!!!

[azriona]

Tiny book!

I made a tiny blank book over the weekend, because I found myself absently making tiny little signatures out of my 9yo's scrap drawing paper. I've also been somewhat obsessed with the idea of a tiny book ever since I saw a post about key-chain sized books. I wanted to try a quarter-bind (or similar) anyway, so I figured I'd try it in a tiny version so I wouldn't end up wasting supplies if I screwed up or decided I didn't like doing it.

End result? Adorable.

The paper in the textblock is boring white printer paper which I tore into shape, which I kinda like since it gives the block a slightly softer edge. I cheated and used a sewing machine to stitch the folios into signatures, which bit me when it came time to sew the signatures in a textblock because the stitches were so tight. Might have to rethink that in the future.

I used cereal box for the boards, with the end boards from a slightly thicker Cheerios box and the spine from a less-thick Cinnamon Toast Crunch box. The bookcloth and scrapbook paper are both scraps from other projects. Lego Harley Quinn volunteered to model for size, and also because I promised her the two Lego lightsabers I used to make the indentions on either side of the spine. (If there's a technical name for those, I don't know it; feel free to enlighten me.)

On the whole, this was a super fun project and I had an absolute blast doing it and I so badly want to make more tiny books (and possibly even tinier ones). My eyes may never forgive me.

[bumblehoneybee]

hello! may i request a dogday fanfic cuz i luv him sm

it goes like this, we created dogday ( he sees us as a best friend ) . after saving him from the little critters, he recognizes us. the only reason why we came back is we had to keep a promise to the prototype ( setting him free to the outside or just anything really bad cuz the prototype let us free during the hour of joy) and dogday trying to convince us to stop?

i love ur writing sm 🤸🤸

Promises Made, Promises Kept

Your biggest regret is your ignorance.

Had you know, had you picked the pieces and put them together into the picture before you, you would've never created Dogday. As cute as the pup was, as happy as it made the kids, you were horrified, plagued by guilt to find what became of your idea.

An animatronic, you had first assumed. You were honored to think that they loved your Dogday so much that they made him real, in a way. Sure, he looked a little different, bigger than you would have made him, but you loved him silly. And he loved you.

You were his best friend, and he was your creation of love and happiness.

But then. . . you found out that animatronics weren't what brought your boy to life. Instead, it was the blood of another person, forced to trade skin for fabric. The realization, presented to you by an amalgamate of life and machine, bone and metal, wires and nerves. You had no reason to doubt it, to doubt its agony, so you promised.

You promised that you would return, far in the future, when it was ready for you. And you would free it. Retribution for your sins, you hand in the torture that created your Dogday.

It was years before Dogday finally saw you again.

He first thought he was dreaming. To open his eyes and see the face he'd longed for, the one he dreamt of to not face his sad reality, it was too much to believe. He cried to you, his angel, his creator, and you cried back.

You pulled him off his chains and sobbed into his shoulder while he cried into your chest.

He was half of who he used to be, but you loved him all the same. You carried him with you, away from the dungeons, into the Playcare above. And to Dogday's shock, none of the miniature creatures followed you. Not even Catnap, who he could spot prowling the rafters, made a move against you.

"I'm so glad I found you!" You said to Dogday, delirious in your exhaustion and joy. He watched, silent, as you stitched him up with spare fabric. "Now we can leave together. All of us, free to go!"

"Us?" Dogday asked, scared to know the answer.

"Well, you! And all your friends!" You smiled at him, so bright it hurt.

"Who told you. . ?"

"The Prototype!" You chirped, ignorant to his horror. "He said that he had a plan, a way to get you all out of here and somewhere safe, where you'll never hurt again. Isn't that wonderful?"

"And you believe that?" Dogday demanded. His heart hurt like it had been ripped out when the smile slipped from your lips. "Angel, he's lying to you."

"But he-"

"The Prototype is a monster." Dogday said. He grabbed your arms, uncaring if he was still half open, if the blood on your hands stained his own. He needed you to understand, to be the angel he dreamed of for so long. "Angel. . . he killed everyone. Everyone but you."

Your head hung in shame, and Dogday's heart stopped in his chest. "I know he killed those people, the ones that did this to you, and to Catnap, too all the, uh, 'bigger bodies' here. But-"

"He killed all the kids." Dogday interrupted. The color drained from your face. As much as it hurt him to hurt you this way, he was glad to see humanity within you. "He killed the kids. The workers. People who didn't know, who didn't do anything. Innocent or guilty, he killed them, or had others kill them. Huggy-"

"Dogday-"

"Mommy-"

"Dogday, please-"

"Catnap mauled those kids, angel! He mauled the other critters! He ripped me in half!"

"Stop!" You shouted, hands over your ears. Dogday stopped, watching you curl into yourself. Tears leaked down your flushed cheeks, and your chest shook as you struggled to breathe. "Please, stop. . . I-I made a promise-"

"You didn't know." Dogday said, thumb rubbing over your cheek. Your head dropped into his hand, and he cradled you so gently. "He is not good, angel. You can't keep a promise to him. He'll hurt so many people."

You crawled onto the bed with him. Dogday accepted you easily, reminded of days spent together, curled up and talking. You never cried much back then, but here you lied, sobbing your heart out for the lives lost that you could not save, even if you had known.

Once again your ignorance came to bite you. And once again you were left horrified, ridden with guilt that ate away at your insides.

A difficult choice laid on your shoulders. Dogday only hoped you'd choose what was right, even if it broke a promise, one made to the Prototype, and one made to yourself.