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dracoqueen22Title: Jack of All Trades
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two
Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Fjord
Rating: K+ to M
Description: Fjord has many, many talents, but sewing is definitely not one of them. Molly takes it upon himself to give Fjord a lesson or two, and not just with needle and thread.
Part One - Master of None
Fjord is talented in many, many things.
Sewing, apparently, does not seem to be one of them.
Molly watches him fumble with the needle, with the thread, with the stitches, with frankly everything associated with mending a hole in ones trousers. It’s making him twitch to see the uneven knots, the gaps, the drooping thread.
“I thought you were a sailor,” he says and flinches when Fjord pokes himself in the finger and immediately sticks it into his mouth to suck off the bead of blood.
Fjord crinkles his forehead. “What’s that got to do with it?” he asks around the finger. It comes out a bit muffled, but Molly’s somewhat decent at translating by now.
“Don’t sailors, you know, mend their sails and shit?” Molly flicks his fingers pointedly. His tail lashes behind him.
The stitches droop even further. The hole sags wider. The frayed edges of the trousers -- torn on a briar bush of all things, Fjord is also not very graceful -- get a little more frayed.
Fjord blinks and squints at him.
“What?” Molly asks, tailtip flicking into view.
“I’m tryin’ to decide if that’s a euphemism or not.” Fjord pops the finger out of his mouth and picks up the needle again, bending over his trousers. “It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”
“It wasn’t a euphemism.” Molly cringes when Fjord pushes the needle in an uneven row. He nibbles on a talon-nail. “You never stitched a ripped sail?”
“No. I had other duties.” Fjord squints at his trousers, more focus and intent on his face than when he’s casted any of his spells.
It’s as adorable as it is frustrating.
Fjord tugs to tighten the thread, and three of the stitches pop out, pierced as they were through an obviously weak section of fabric. He mutters a curse. Molly echoes him.
“They tried to teach me.” Fjord sighs and painstakingly picks some knots from the thread. How the fuck did he manage to knot it like that? “I guess I don’t have the right hand-eye coordination or something.”
“That’s a load of bullshit. Your coordination is fine. No, stop, don’t do that.” Molly recoils as Fjord tries to use a now severely frayed thread. “You have to start over.”
“It took me twenty minutes to get this far!”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been watching you.” It’s as painful for Molly as it must be for Fjord who just…
Yep. He just dropped the needle. Who knows where it went. Certainly not Fjord, who’s squinting down at the wood floor and his lap and twisting where he sits to find the needle that is quite obviously dangling from the thread still half-heartedly tangled in the stitching of his trousers.
By the gods.
Fjord’s tongue is between his teeth now, pinned there out of concentration. It’s adorable, and Molly would sit here in utter delight, smiling and humming to himself, were he not so annoyed.
At this rate, they’ll be here until next week because Fjord doesn’t want his ass hanging out of his trousers, and he’s never going to patch that rip properly.
"That's it." Molly shoves off the chair and stomps over to Fjord, swiping the trousers out of his hands. "Gimme the needle and thread."
"What? Molly, I can do it!" Fjord twists, cradling his sewing supplies against his chest like the utter child he is.
"No. You can't." Molly's blunt because he has to be. He flounces back over to his bed and his pack, digging around in it for his own supplies. "It's hurting me to watch you."
He curls his legs and drags Fjord's trousers over his knee, squinting at the terrible patchwork before he digs his talons into it and rips out every last stitch. Better to start afresh. He rummages through the small box, pulling out a needle, some black thread, and a few scraps of fabric, comparing them to the trousers for the best fit.
Fjord sighs and tosses his own kit in the direction of his pack. "Just don't make it look absurd or anything."
"My patch, my rules." Molly looks up at him and winks, grinning with a sharp fang. His tail swishes behind him. "Don't worry. Whatever I do, your ass will look fantastic. Not that it doesn't already."
A blush darkens the tips of Fjord's ears. He folds his arms behind his head and flops back into the bed, a plume of hay-flavored dust puffing up around him.
"Fine," he says.
Molly chuckles. "It's cute how you're conceding like you had a choice." He carefully threads the needle using a little trick Toya taught him -- rubbing the head of the needle against his palm, forcing the thread to rise up through it with friction. Such a smart girl.
"I owe you one."
"Who's keeping count?" Molly purrs. Besides, Fjord might not be so grateful once he sees the handful of sequins Molly plans on adding to the patch. Fjord needs a bit more flair in his life.
He can't wait for Jester to tease him about sparkles coming out of his ass.
Molly chuckles and starts to stitch. This is going to be glorious.
*
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two
Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Fjord
Rating: K+ to M
Description: Fjord has many, many talents, but sewing is definitely not one of them. Molly takes it upon himself to give Fjord a lesson or two, and not just with needle and thread.
Fjord is talented in many, many things.
Sewing, apparently, does not seem to be one of them.
Molly watches him fumble with the needle, with the thread, with the stitches, with frankly everything associated with mending a hole in ones trousers. It’s making him twitch to see the uneven knots, the gaps, the drooping thread.
“I thought you were a sailor,” he says and flinches when Fjord pokes himself in the finger and immediately sticks it into his mouth to suck off the bead of blood.
Fjord crinkles his forehead. “What’s that got to do with it?” he asks around the finger. It comes out a bit muffled, but Molly’s somewhat decent at translating by now.
“Don’t sailors, you know, mend their sails and shit?” Molly flicks his fingers pointedly. His tail lashes behind him.
The stitches droop even further. The hole sags wider. The frayed edges of the trousers -- torn on a briar bush of all things, Fjord is also not very graceful -- get a little more frayed.
Fjord blinks and squints at him.
“What?” Molly asks, tailtip flicking into view.
“I’m tryin’ to decide if that’s a euphemism or not.” Fjord pops the finger out of his mouth and picks up the needle again, bending over his trousers. “It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”
“It wasn’t a euphemism.” Molly cringes when Fjord pushes the needle in an uneven row. He nibbles on a talon-nail. “You never stitched a ripped sail?”
“No. I had other duties.” Fjord squints at his trousers, more focus and intent on his face than when he’s casted any of his spells.
It’s as adorable as it is frustrating.
Fjord tugs to tighten the thread, and three of the stitches pop out, pierced as they were through an obviously weak section of fabric. He mutters a curse. Molly echoes him.
“They tried to teach me.” Fjord sighs and painstakingly picks some knots from the thread. How the fuck did he manage to knot it like that? “I guess I don’t have the right hand-eye coordination or something.”
“That’s a load of bullshit. Your coordination is fine. No, stop, don’t do that.” Molly recoils as Fjord tries to use a now severely frayed thread. “You have to start over.”
“It took me twenty minutes to get this far!”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been watching you.” It’s as painful for Molly as it must be for Fjord who just…
Yep. He just dropped the needle. Who knows where it went. Certainly not Fjord, who’s squinting down at the wood floor and his lap and twisting where he sits to find the needle that is quite obviously dangling from the thread still half-heartedly tangled in the stitching of his trousers.
By the gods.
Fjord’s tongue is between his teeth now, pinned there out of concentration. It’s adorable, and Molly would sit here in utter delight, smiling and humming to himself, were he not so annoyed.
At this rate, they’ll be here until next week because Fjord doesn’t want his ass hanging out of his trousers, and he’s never going to patch that rip properly.
"That's it." Molly shoves off the chair and stomps over to Fjord, swiping the trousers out of his hands. "Gimme the needle and thread."
"What? Molly, I can do it!" Fjord twists, cradling his sewing supplies against his chest like the utter child he is.
"No. You can't." Molly's blunt because he has to be. He flounces back over to his bed and his pack, digging around in it for his own supplies. "It's hurting me to watch you."
He curls his legs and drags Fjord's trousers over his knee, squinting at the terrible patchwork before he digs his talons into it and rips out every last stitch. Better to start afresh. He rummages through the small box, pulling out a needle, some black thread, and a few scraps of fabric, comparing them to the trousers for the best fit.
Fjord sighs and tosses his own kit in the direction of his pack. "Just don't make it look absurd or anything."
"My patch, my rules." Molly looks up at him and winks, grinning with a sharp fang. His tail swishes behind him. "Don't worry. Whatever I do, your ass will look fantastic. Not that it doesn't already."
A blush darkens the tips of Fjord's ears. He folds his arms behind his head and flops back into the bed, a plume of hay-flavored dust puffing up around him.
"Fine," he says.
Molly chuckles. "It's cute how you're conceding like you had a choice." He carefully threads the needle using a little trick Toya taught him -- rubbing the head of the needle against his palm, forcing the thread to rise up through it with friction. Such a smart girl.
"I owe you one."
"Who's keeping count?" Molly purrs. Besides, Fjord might not be so grateful once he sees the handful of sequins Molly plans on adding to the patch. Fjord needs a bit more flair in his life.
He can't wait for Jester to tease him about sparkles coming out of his ass.
Molly chuckles and starts to stitch. This is going to be glorious.
