handmade ribbon

SoMa Week 2017 Day 3 - CLOTHES (ft. FlaMakNess Nisekoi AU Collab!)

context: maka is overjoyed that soul gave her handmade ribbons; she wears them all the time in the later part of our AU. she’s always worn her mother’s extravagant, colorful ribbons prior to this

snippet of @l0chn3ss’ oneshot ♡ : 

“– and of course she would become wary if anyone just told her to hold out her hands and close her eyes. But the initial touch on her fingertips, the way the smooth fabric cascaded into her waiting palm, the fall of the last strand that slipped over her wrist… it could’ve only meant one thing. Maka peeked under her eyelashes in anticipation and noticed the bright, solid red immediately; it resembled Soul’s matching blush to her own. A swell of tears gathered, threatening to fall, and her arms flew around him in a tight embrace…how else could she have reacted…

screenshot redraw of this adorable scene in Season 2 Episode 12:

snippet of @flamedork‘s artwork down below  ♥

remember to check the flamakness collab tag!


For any of my crafty followers who like/are interested in making their own accessories, this woman makes the most amazing ribbon flowers I’ve ever seen. Go check out her videos!

anonymous asked:

Oh god I’d read anything you decided to write, if I had to pick though I’d be curious to know how you’d headcanon the following scenario: flashback to the first time Hopper and Joyce meet after he settles back in Hawkins following her daughter’s death, and the flashback is linked to a situation happening in the present time.

You will love again (the stranger who was your self)

[A/N: On Ao3 || Title from “Love after Love” by Derek Walcott || big ups to @abbykomskaikru for her encouragement and edits as I attempt to write in this new fandom]

Hawkins is the same as always, even if he isn’t.

He spends his days wandering the same tidy streets of his youth, driving down the same quiet country roads; spends his nights chasing drink after drink in the same bars he used to walk past as a kid.

There’s that same ache in his chest he always felt when he lived here before.

But that ache had been a vague, dull kind of pain that had pushed him to leave, to go, to run as far and as fast as he could once he turned 18.

This ache is different.

It expands from the center of his chest, ripped and cavernous, a throbbing sort of pain that never dulls, never fades, no matter how many whiskey bottles he goes through.

He wonders if it will kill him. Wonders, on those empty, lonely nights when the pain of loss cuts jagged across his heart, why it’s taking so long.

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