#she was a fuckin bitch but at least she had good taste in sewing machines
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another thing i made recently! a heart shaped tote bag ❤️ one of my first projects made on my vintage singer sewing machine. it’s been sitting in storage for a while but i decided to pull it out and get it fixed up and in working order last week and i’ve been teaching myself how to use it since!
this bag was made from salvaged cotton i rescued from the side of the road 🤘
etsy // patreon
#i inherited the singer from my horrible grandma lol#she was a fuckin bitch but at least she had good taste in sewing machines#mine#my art#sewing#crafts#fashion#slow fashion#handbag#tote bag#textile art#fiber art#heart shaped#heart#heartcore#lovecore#solarpunk#traditional art#sustainable fashion#sustainability#upcycling
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( under a readmore cause it’s long.
i guess??? this is the start to a gavcentric redemption fic with some ree.d900 on the side. i have maybe three more chapters planned out but i haven’t finished it yet. )
--------
they’re probably going to put on his tombstone ‘dumb shit.’
nothing else. no date of birth, mother’s name, none of that. just, here lies a dumb fucker.
laying on his back in a wet alleyway, struggling for breath around the blood in his mouth, gavin reed thinks it’s probably for the best.
he was supposed to call for backup but since when the fuck has he ever needed backup? no partner necessary, he may be shit at office work but out here, in the field, was where he got his kicks. a perp wanted to bust out the third story window and try to outrun him on the fire escape? good.
gavin was not far behind, huffing around smokers lungs but spite was enough to keep his legs moving, keep the high teen in his sights as he darts up stairs one more floor to the roof of the apartment building.
“that’s enough, kid,” he remembers saying, training his gun at the perp’s back as he contemplates jumping off, “there’s nowhere to go.”
“i can’t--- can’t go to prison, i can’t---” he was high, confused. just a fucking teenager. for some reason gavin thinks of the boy’s mother. where she was now, and if she knew what her boy was doing. did she even care.
he couldn’t tell you why, but he remembers putting his gun away. offering up both hands empty like some sort of peace offering.
“you can still get out of this alright, don’t be fuckin’ stupid. just turn around, and get over here.”
“they’ll kill me! they’ll kill me...i can’t--- no, nono--”
“who’s they? talk to me, kid, i can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
the kid eventually turns around. wet tear tracks on both cheeks, snot dribbling over lips, and hands clutching a beretta.
gavin didn’t have time to say a word before hearing the pow pow of gunfire.
choking, gasping, he knows he’s shot before he even looks down but when he does, the world spins, and he’s falling over the ledge.
shoulder catches the edge of the fire-escape, shattered. body rag-doll, he manages to land on his back just so he could graciously choke on his own blood.
so yea, he’s a dumb shit. he didn’t even call for backup.
you try to do something nice, and it gets you shot twice in the chest.
-----
somehow, he wakes up.
he has no idea when, but he wakes up.
the harsh lighting, the stale sick smell, the soft ‘beepbeepbeep’ lets him know he’s in a hospital. it’s not the first time he’s woken up in one and the detective doubts it will be the last. but this is certainly the first time he can hardly move once consciousness returns to him.
everything hurts. literally everything, even the follicles of his hair feel sore in his head, and he’s hovering somewhere between drugged beyond recognition and not nearly doped enough to withstand the discomfort.
all he can manage is a low groan of pain, flexing fingers to see which ones work and which don’t.
his entire left arm is casted, gavin can barely turn his head enough to see the thing, it goes up to his chest where gauze springs from underneath. it’s wrapped tight, tight around his torso and down to his navel, though gavin can’t see past the sheet thats been brought up to his armpits. he’s sewed up, tucked in, and left here.
“detective,” a voice calls from the doorway. at least he gets his own room.
the soft glowing LED in the nurses temple under blond curls would have made gavin scoff if he weren’t so broken. he groans again. a fuckin’ android. he forgets they’re allowed to do whatever they want now, regardless of model and make.
“please try not to move so much. honestly, i’m surprised you’re awake. you’ve only been out of surgery for three hours, your body is still adjusting to the changes,” she’s rummaging through a virtual clipboard, the skin on her hand peeling back to interface with it directly.
“you took two gun shot wounds to the torso. one made a clear shot, it hit nothing vital. the other punctured a lung and broke one of your ribs. your shoulder and arm were shattered from impact after you fell, and required extensive surgery and reconstruction to repair. do you remember where you were before here, detective?”
gavin groans. his mouth tastes like sandpaper and actual, literal asshole. it’s too dry, he rolls his tongue around but it feels two sizes too big. he manages to croak out “case,” and not sound totally out of it, to his defense.
“yes, we were informed by your department you were chasing a suspect. though i am not authorized to talk to you about legal matters, i just need to confirm your mental faculties are still in order. you fell almost three stories, detective. the only reason your skull was not crushed on impact was the loss of momentum your body sustained hitting the fire escape on your way down.”
he manages a scoff this time. guess he’s lucky for the shattered bones.
“what is your name?”
another noise, he grinds teeth around the ‘g’ sound.
“g...avin. reed.”
“yes, that’s very good. i have more questions for you, and you willneed a debriefing, but you still need rest,” she’s coming to his bedside then, futzing with the fancy IV machine whirring away there. she hits a few buttons, pumps him full of morphine, and suddenly gavin feels really warm and he wants to sleep.
he does.
-----
it’s the first time in twelve years, gavin sleeps longer than two hour increments.
the next few days come in blinks, and trying to keep track of time is utterly useless. there’s a potted plant at his bedside one time he opens his eyes. a succulent, some weird desert lookin thing and he knows it’s chen. he likes this kind, barely have to do shit to keep it alive. he passes out trying to move his arm to touch it.
the next time he’s awake, there’s flowers. a single arrangement, freshly pruned peace lilies harsh white like his whole fuckin’ room with a little blue ‘k’ on an equally white card in the middle. if he could, he’d knock the whole thing off on principle. fuckin prick.
the third time he can actually remember anything, he’s sitting up more. that same blond nurse is back, checking about his vitals and tidying the room. there’s not much to do, even in his haze gavin can tell there has been little traffic here. the detective isn’t shocked by the notion. he’s not known to have friends.
he’s awake for more than fifteen minutes this time, and gavin knows what to expect. a half hour into consciousness, one of his own is buzzing into his room. he’s expecting chen, maybe anderson if the captain wanted to let the old man gloat. he’s not expecting fowler himself to walk through the door.
his gut plummets like a shitty wooden roller coaster at the sight of him. dark blue button up. black slacks. badge at his hip. but no clip board, no pen. he’s not here to talk about the case.
“reed,” fowler begins, hands in his pockets as he walks toward the large window to gavin’s left. it’s hard to turn his head that way, considering his shoulder was in pieces not long ago, but he manages to get the man in his peripheral.
the silence that follows is maddening. gavin wants to claw his god damn skin off.
“fowl-”
“you could have died, reed. you very well should have.”
“i had it under con-”
“if you try to undermine what this is, so help me.” perhaps it’s just the morphine, but gavin swears fowler’s hands are shaking in his pockets.
“listen. you’re a good detective, gavin. you and i both know that. it’s why i wanted you back on the force after the whole android awakening,” fowler has finally turned to face him now though stays by the window. his voice is level, but terse. he feels like he’s being scolded by his father.
“you bitched and moaned about what cases you wanted, you bitched and moaned when i brought in the other rk unit, and you bitched and moaned when i tried to pair you with him. for months. and i’ve listened because you got results. i don’t give a shit if you’re everybody’s best friend, so long as you do the job and you don’t get yourself killed. but you fucked up big time, reed. and i can’t have it happen again.”
“captain-”
“you are not dying under my watch, gavin. you hear me? not because of your inflated ego and some shitty pride!”
gavin swallows at the tone of fowler’s voice, would have flinched back if he could. for once in his miserable fucking life, the detective agrees, and nods.
“yea. yea i hear you.” he hates how weak he sounds. he’ll blame it on the fatigue.
the tenseness fowler carried in his jaw loosens some. shoulders slack. gavin can see the clenched fists in his pockets ease. he’s said the right thing. gavin wasn’t made a detective for nothing.
“good. cause you’re getting a partner when you get out of here, and i’m not hearing another word out of you about it.”
ok, so he’s not fired. that’s awesome. but...fuck. he doesn’t even have the energy to ask who. he likes to think he’d be all teeth and gums about this, being the squeakiest wheel he can be to get the grease, if he weren’t still in recovery.
“get some rest. we’ll interview about the suspect when you’re not drugged off you ass,” his captain makes to leave, but stops by the doorway just to shoot gavin a rarely seen, but always infuriating smirk, “should probably keep you on it, though. you’re a lot nicer when you can’t bark.”
fowler leaves.
gavin, through grit teeth and optimal discomfort, manages to knock the peace lilies off the table.
#( OOC. )#fic stuff#reference / /#no one#has to read this#but here it is anyway#also i know its a small mention#but this is under the hc that#kamski and gav are related#but its...hard to tell#it will come up more later in the story
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Chapter 10: Affordable Prices To Pay...(Pt. 1)
KIERSTEN
“Boy you’ll be the death of me, you’re my James Dean you make me feel like I’m seventeen…” - BEYONCE X RATHER DIE YOUNG
TWO MONTHS LATER…
“Sweetie, like always when you get into one of your moods you dip off, and close everyone off like we can’t resolve things like adults. Call me back.”
…..
“Bitch! I want to actually see you, IN person for brunch this weekend, mmmkay!? You got London on the verge of tears talking about you keep blowing her off, and even my dad has been asking for you! The project is not that deep, ain’t nobody about to be playing hide and seek with yo’ ass either. Call me hoe!
…..
“Hey Kiersten, its Jessie. Just checking in to see if we’re still good for Friday, at 7pm. We still have to discuss the little things like donors, designs, and the guest appearances for the show. But no worries! We’re almost done with everything. See you soon!”
….
“Hey, sweetheart. It’s dad, I know you may be busy with school, and your work but I wanted to discuss some things with you. I don’t like going this long without out talking to you sweet pea. Let’s do dinner Sunday. Love you, call me soon.”
…….
“Honey, I’m doing an interview with Vogue for Models On Duty, and I’ll be teaming up with June Ambrose and Ashley Graham, I’d love you to be involved. June asked for you. Being as though you aren’t answering me at least. Call her. Back.
……
“Baby girl, I’ll be swingin’ your way shortly. Give me like an hour. I had to meet with this nigga to discuss somethin’ for the club, you know how that goes. But I’m ‘bout to stop at your favorite spot. Let me know what you want.”
……
“It’s your mother again, you know the one that brought you into this world. That was in labor for 16 hours over you Kiersten Stephanie Whitaker! You’re really behaving despicably! Two months! People are asking questions and growing concerned honey, Please!
…….
She was never fond of pet names. Terms of endearment made for coddling, or pacifying sometimes expressed in a condescending manner that made her blood boil. Well pet names from her. She placed her phone down after shooting a few texts out, and deleting the majority of voice messages.
Amongst the seven, three voicemails belonged to the woman that birthed her that bordered hysteria, even at the calmest level of her tone. She could picture Fiona Whitaker swallowed in the high priced mansion where the walls were caving in with her stricken with loneliness. Where she was accompanied solely by a wine bottle, Marlboro cigarettes and a broken heart. Coping methods to perpetuate the sickness that will certainly take more than medical assistance to cure. She was sweetie in a drunken slur on most nights, honey when anger was on the surface of aggravation, and love when on the brink of being dismissed for what her mother deemed as a trivial manner.
Kiersten grimaced, setting down the chiffon material meant for sewing, that she couldn’t even attempt to make happen. She wished the internal battles didn’t always make her the common casualty from her mother’s assaults. So much so, the name coddling was salt poured onto more opened wounds. I’m not a child. Slightly started, she felt the calloused hands caress her shoulders that trailed to her wrist, and finally her hands, spreading them out beneath his large ones.
But when he called her baby? Mmm. Spoken in that gruff bravado was enough to make her knees buckle. The warm fuzzy feeling of contentment growing fonder these past months as she inhaled his distinctive scent of wood and spice.
“What you in here stressin’ about? I can feel that shit all the way from the other room.” Was her transparency that evident? Kiersten smiled smally as his lips reached her temple causing her to get further cocooned.
“I’m not stressing.” What a lie, Kiersten. Do better.
“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Messiah’s eyes boring through her as she attempted at pulling away. The makeshift desk on her vanity made up of her sewing machine, and kit only providing but so much room for her to find an escape out of her gratefully enormous walk in closet. Or as Messiah would put it: ‘Your couture bedroom’. His pronunciation of couture (CAH - tour) always causing to giggle like an idiot.
“Yeahhh.”
“Nah, stay your little ass in place.”
“Come on‘ Si, I’m working. No interruptions when we’re in our zones remember?”
“Na. I ain’t tryna hear all that baby girl. You been in here too quiet, for too long…” She felt the scruffiness of his beard nestle close to her face as they both looked into the vanity mirror, cheeks pressed together. “Damn you’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that soooo much. Now, move. I wasn’t quiet but moreso focused.” She pointed down to the mop of materials to sew in front of her. “As you can see.”
“Come on mami. Come take a break.”
“Nooo, Messiah I have a deadline. You’ve been distracting me enough!” She was becoming accustomed to this… routine of there’s for lack of better words. Conforming to the ways of a hermit, Kiersten for the past month shielded away the outside world as she remained ducked and hidden in her condo. With only the exception of classes, work, and random trips to Mood fabric store, she limited herself of any social interaction. Her excuses being senior projects, creative assistant duties, and lastly the silent emergence of depression coasting that she couldn’t get a hold of. So like usual she figured solitude the best remedy. But not to London, and Brooklyne who have boarded stalking by the definition. And she couldn’t blame them. The only form of communication she was accepting was rushed over phone convos, scarce FaceTime calls, and texting at best. But a particular gentleman, a Brooklyn specimen, who wasn’t accepting the limits Kiersten was dishing out, wanted all in.
So from random pop ups, to persistent contact of the physical kind, he was the only one she was really allowing access.
But having a man of Messiah’s caliber coexist in her presence, and actually wanting to be there, was still mind boggling. Wanting to provide an ear, offer consolement to even something so trivial as a missing earring. Where, as if it was second nature or a necessity for the completion of his day, having to know the condition of her well being, and being in close proximity to receive it. Not to mention he always wanted to touch her. Always.
She inhaled a soft breath feeling herself being lifted and pulled to his steel chest, where a pinch to her ass cheek was then given, causing her to squeal.
“Eeeeee! Messiah, stop! Wha- for one I’m entirely too heavy for this, what are you-?”
“Shut that shit up, it look like I’m having a hard time holding you?”
“I didn’t say that, Messiah. I just…okay. I can spare an hour then I have to get right back to work. You’re so impossible, like seriously.” Wedged between the rock solid arms of him, was Kiersten escorted to the confines of her kitchen and sat down on the cool surface of the countertop, causing her to tug at her shorts. Exasperation was displayed as she watched him pull out various items from her cabinets and freezer. So much for that hour break.
“You know what you need, Keeks?” It wasn’t a guess that the question was posed rhetorically, but she now found herself contemplating heavily. What do I need? Her feet swung back and forth waiting, while allowing her eyes to latch onto the define muscles of his back as he maneuvered around the kitchen preparing a meal she had yet to identify.
“Besides these cute fuchsia Manolo pumps I seen, today?”
“…To get out this house…a peace of mind.” They were face to face now. Him coming towards her with a bowl filled with mixed vegetables, and a neutral expression that bordered him examining. Kiersten figeted reaching for the bowl to occupy her hands that she nervously toiled together looking back at him. But he dodged it out of her reach, and locked her in between his hands that framed her, setting the bowl by them. “How long you gon’ be hidin’, usin’ work as a scapegoat?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. So don’t…don’t try and psychoanalyze me, ‘kay?”
“That’s what you think I’m doin’? ‘Psychoanalyzin’ you like you some nutcase, or I’m a shrink?”
“Messi-”
“Nah, fuck that. So I’m not ‘spose to ask these questions? Like I’m not hip to what you doin’. You’re buying time, and shit to avoid what? Tell me why I’m here, if it’s not to be concerned but your damn well being Ki?”
“Listen, okay? I just need you to be…” Here. For as long as I need you to be. With me not having to feel like the other shoe is bound to fall any day now.She felt the emergence of tears, and gritted her teeth, now pushing him back lowering her head.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ coward. We not doin’ that shit. I told you that. Talk to me. Finish what you was about to say, and look at me. You need me to what? Be here? Hold you? Feed you? What? Pacify you? Keep you locked in and throw away the key? What, Kiersten?”
“Just be present!” From that tiny place engulfed in her stomach where the grueling feeling of turmoil resided, was the shout’s source. Messiah remained unmoved and focused, waiting for her to continue. “…like now. Messiah, just continue to make me feel like I’m not going crazy, and by myself. Please.”
He nodded. She exhaled. He cooked. She watched, and the night continued as was.
BROOKLYNE
97…98…99-
“Sorry to disturb you baby girl, but you got a minute?”
Benjamin Pierre’s presence, just like his coffee, was served strong. Like the emergence of the rigid taste of the straight black caffeinated beverage on one’s tongue, as expected it was, it still took you aback. The distinction being that stern. Her father’s deep brown melanin seemingly glowed under any light that further highlighted his strikingly handsome features; the eyes that matched her own stared at her for moments of intensity, with urgency in the midst of. She placed a halt in her morning exercise of 100 plies, and barre work giving him her full attention.
“For my favorite old man, of course. What’s up, pops?”
“Fiona contacted me…” Aw, shit. “What’s this I hear about Kiersten’s blatant refusal to go home?”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Yes, so much more. But that’s just the half.” In Brooklyne’s bedroom at an early 9:43am was a stare off. Meddling in normalcy, but she was sure wasn’t to last much longer as that thick bushy brow of his rose. Following the cross of his arms, and the tilt of his head. But Brooklyne wasn’t London. She didn’t crack under pressure easily or allowed any of Benjamin Pierre’s typical courtroom intimidating tactics to shake her the least bit. After all, I am my father’s child.
“Hm, not sure daddy…that’s strange. Last I spoke to her things were fine. And she was definitely home. FaceTimed her and everything seeing she was right in her bedroom.” Yeah, to pack the last box I was to swing by and pick up to finish decorating.
“Is that right? So when was this?”
“A…couple days ago? Yeah, Tuesday.”
“Hm. Interesting. Look, Brooklyne…two things I need you to understand if you haven’t by now…” Through a sip of her chilled bottle of Fiji water, Brooklyne concealed a gulp of concern. It’s one thing for her father to intimidate for answers, it’s another when he already knew them, she supposed, and was behind the fire of checking. “I find out everything. No matter the time of delay it maybe. No matter the circumstance, I…do. It’s what I get paid for, as you know.”
“Dad-”
“So, if and when you hear from Kiersten again and she turns out to actually be “fine” like you say she is? Tell her to call her mother. Thanks, babygirl.”
Brooklyne flopped on the bed huffing heavily.
“This too much.”
———
You’re missing me, I’m missing you
Whenever we meet, we ain’t gonna get no sleep
When I get to be together with you
It’s fait accompli, we ain’t gonna get no sleep
Slick. The droplets that trailed down his steel abdominals, flexed and illuminated his cream complexion. Under the soft light in the studio his shadow trailed closely behind as it remained in sync with Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep”. Brooklyn seeped in light breaths, as she remained tucked away and hidden by the barre. Taking peeks was growing tiresome like her thighs, she surpassed a little warm up to get started. At this point she was truly stalling. Why am I even doing this?
“So, we startin’ from the second verse…you ready?” Lord knows I’m not.
“Mind explaining to me what’s this for again? I’m not a hip-hop dancer, we know this.”
The heat of his body radiated onto her own as he stepped forward and stood behind her. There in the ceiling to floor mirror was the detection from Brooklyne’s view, trouble. Not a simple attempt of a duet or a pas de deux rather insisted by his mother, her instructor from hell.
“As you know The Joffrey Ballet intensive my mother is instructing has a hiplet component. A mix of hip-hop an-”
“…and Ballet, Tahj. I know, hip-hop on pointe shoes. Yes, she explained this. But why me? Did you insist this little arrangement?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Brooke. She did, actually.” She turned to him and searched his face. “I don’t know…for some strange reason she has this idea that you’re good enough. Let’s get this shit over with.”
She sneered at his sarcasm, tying her hair back. An hour in as she began feeling perspiration coat her skin, she was finally able to blur out the ridicule she felt. Taking this exactly for what it was which was simply a dance demonstration for a bunch of high school students that should last no more than four minutes.
“Shit!” A stub of her toe caused her attitude to look less than stellar, as she tripped into an awkward fourth position. From her peripheral she could see his bemusement.
“Don’t overextend your back like that. The fuck you tryin’ to do? Break it?”
“Since when did you become an expert of ballet? Focus on poplockin’ nigga.”
“You forgettin’ who my mother is? You been in her class long enough, to just be makin’ common fuck ups. What…” He walked closer to her side of the studio. “You nervous?”
“I twisted my ankle, right before the senior showcase…the senior showcase that had Juilliard talent scouts, and the director of Ailey in the audience. Guess who was accepted to both? Tahj…don’t insult me. Can we start from the top, please?” She went to her cue in stance of releve with her arms in Egyptian pose.
“…You were perfect.” She would’ve missed it, had it not been so quiet you could hear a mouse piss on cotton, as he muttered it so quickly.
“What?”
“You heard me nigga…that’s what got you accepted, right? Now, from the top.”
#i know it's been 234 years :((((#Clermont twins ff#theclermonttwinsff#heather sanders ff#chris brown ff#chrisbrownff#asap rocky ff
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