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percervall · 3 months

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till morning comes, let's tessellate

Pairing: Mark Webber x fem!reader Words: 1219 Warnings: flirting, dirty talk, bratty behaviour, cockwarming

In which you're willing to play with fire

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It’s far too hot, is the only way you can describe the weather. Having grown up in Europe, it always messes with your brain a little whenever you and your husband spend the better part of January in his home country of Australia, where it’s very much summer instead of winter. Mark doesn’t mind; he will happily work out in the garden while you prefer to remain in the shade of the plum trees as you read a book in the hammock Mark had hung for you. Which is what you had been doing until watching your husband doing manual labour proved too much of a distraction. You can’t help but clench your thighs together as he walks back towards the house, wiping his brow with the shirt he had taken off already. There is no way you can continue reading now, not when Mark lifts one of the logs of a fallen tree up onto his shoulder to carry it into the shade. The threadbare fabric of the oversized t-shirt you found in the back of his closet rubs over your nipples and you can’t help but bite back the whimper that’s threatening to come out at the feeling. Fuck, you are so turned on already and all he’s done is carry wood. Mark looks up at you, giving you a knowing smirk.

“What’s a girl gotta do to get her husband to give her attention?” you pout, e-reader now forgotten in your lap.

“You always have my attention, sweetheart,” Mark responds, dropping another log next to the ones already there.

“Besides, you were reading,” he adds, an eyebrow raised. He has you there; the world could go up in flames without you even realising whenever you’re engrossed in a book. Whatever witty retort you might have come up with dies on your lips as he swings the axe and chops the fire wood for the pizza oven you had surprised him with for your anniversary. Your breath catches in your lungs and your clit throbs as you watch the muscles in his back move under his bronzed skin.

“I’m sure Fernando would’ve,” you say instead once you’ve found your tongue. Mark just hums, amused at your sudden brattiness.

“I wouldn’t bet on that, but sure darling,” he says, raising the axe again. Mark’s got a point, even if it pains you to admit that.

“Jenson definitely would,” you counter instead. At this point you might as well fully commit to riling him up.

“Sweetheart, you work with him and know just as well as I do, he would not give you the attention you need,” Mark replies. Damn this man, you think as you grow hot all over at the implication of his words. Jenson is just as much a tease as you can be, and while this makes for great TV as you wind each other up, you need a man who-.. Well, frankly you need a man who can put you in your place, sometimes literally. Just the memory of Mark throwing you onto the bed as if you weigh nothing has you clenching your thighs to alleviate the ache you feel.

“That’s what I thought,” he muses as he watches you. You huff, folding your arms over your chest which causes the shirt to bunch up a little higher up your thighs. Mark’s eyes catch the way it shows off your legs, lust quickly replacing the bemusement in his eyes. Oh, you’ve got this man right where you want him. Trying not to show just how smug you’re feeling, you place your e-reader on the little side table as you sit up on your knees –which, given the fact that you’re in a hammock, is easier said than done.

“Maybe I should give Sebby a call. If all you’re gonna do is talk, I might as well have a little fun,” you taunt, shrugging a shoulder as you give him your most innocent look. You know you’re playing a dangerous game, bringing up his last teammate. Mark and Sebastian were competitive to a fault, and while you never even considered giving in to Sebastian’s advances on you, you know the fact they vied for your attention always brings out this possessive streak in your husband.

Mark drops the axe and saunters over to you.

“Is that so, sweetheart? What exactly do you think Seb can give you? Hm? Bees?”

“Among other things,” you quip, anticipation swirling low in your belly as he towers over you. One hand comes to rest on your chin, lifting your face up so he can look you in the eyes. His thumb drags on your bottom lip, making your eyes flutter closed, and for a brief moment you think he will make you suck on it. Your eyes snap open as soon as you hear his chuckle.

“You always talk such a big game, but as soon as there’s even a possibility of me giving what you want, you fold so quickly. What happened to using your words, darling?”

“‘S more fun this way,” you mumble, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“Getting punished for being a brat is your idea of fun?” Mark asks, eyebrow raised. You shrug once more.

“You know how much I love it when you spank me,” you say as plainly as you can while you need to fight the urge to squeeze your thighs shut. One of Mark’s hands drags up your thigh and under the t-shirt. Biting your lip, you look at him waiting for the moment he will realise this t-shirt is the only thing you’re wearing.

“You are incorrigible.” “Mm, that’s a big word for you, baby.”

“It’s not the only thing that’s big, sweetheart,” Mark says with a grin that has your heart beat stuttering. His hands move to your ass and you have just enough awareness to wrap your arms around his neck before he lifts you up. In hindsight, it’s quite impressive how he manages to get in the hammock with you.

“Wha- what are you doing?” you ask as he moves you into his lap, both your knees bracketing his hips.

“Oh sweetheart, wasn’t this your plan all along? So desperate for my cock that she forgot all her manners,” he coos, pulling his shorts down just far enough to free himself.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper as he drags it along your slit, rubbing over your clit with each pass.

“Mm, thought so,” Mark muses, lifting you up slightly so he can align himself with your entrance. He slowly sinks you down onto him, and you can’t help but pant at the stretch when he bottoms out.

“Mmhmm, that’s right sweetheart. You just wanted to be full, didn’t you?”

“Uhu..” you whisper, unable to come up with any sort of comeback or sassy remark. Placing your hands on his pecs, you try to roll your hips to get some friction, but Mark halts your movements.

“Mark,” you whine, “please, need you..”

“Oh but you have me, sweetheart. Only good girls get fucked. Naughty girls will just have to make do with cockwarming.”

“So mean,” you pout, earning you a kiss.

“Make you a deal, read your book like the good little girl I know you can be, and maybe I’ll let you come.”

written as part of @footballffbarbiex's kink bingo challenge

Well. There you have it. My descend into madness has lead me down a semi-smutty path. Y'all have @norrisleclercf1 to blame for the existence of this fic

Please let me know what you think! Your comments, tags, and likes mean the world to me 💜

#f1 fanfic #mark webber smut #mark webber fanfic #mark webber x reader #mark webber x you #kink bingo challenge

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aimzicr · 27 days

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Hunter The Parenting plot thoughts (because I love mysteries and roleplaying and I keep waking up at 2am Thinking About This Plot).

Things that seem important (in various nonspecific order, though somewhat from timeline of video):

Giles is a better fighter than his mates, actually showing some skill (compared to Simon's existence as a wet towel and Brok's brute force)

Harry's focus on Highland Legend seems a bit at odds with his muscles being 'just for lifting things', given the link in pop culture with Highlanders being warriors who fight to be the only one. Still, there's more to study beyond the Hollywood thoughts, and I'm very curious to see what Scottish myths get brought up (if any). He also has access to Storage and Security.

Followup thought: if all the characters are in the World of Darkness (specifically The Reckoning/Vigil), then perhaps each staff and student's respective areas of study reference specifically to one of the games. Fatigue with The Apocalypse/Forsaken, Elise with The Dreaming/Lost (Lost seeming more appropriate because 'I haven't found a single fairy'), and so on. Horse's prophecy referenced 'kine, kindred, garou, milklings, elohim', so that's Hunter, Vampire, Werewolf, Changeling and Demons specifically mentioned. Would Harry's 'highlander studies' be on Mages or Prometheans? Will we see Wraiths/Geists, now or in the future?

Elise does not have access to Storage and Security. Also, I will respect her pronouns at all costs.

The Doctor - Scholar of Psychotronic Studies - the has taken at least two bumps over the course of the night (visible residue on her face at Occam's collapse and just before Brok kicks the door down). You can't show any withdrawal symptoms if you're high on something else (though as Chapman mentioned, even high-level drugs 'don't even compare', but it might take the edge off for a while). Considering her academic focus, she might have been able to make herself a Very Powerful Cocaine. (Actually no 'psychotronic' refers to low-budget movies so WHAT??)

Lord Fatigue - of Lycantropy (not Lycanthropy? A typo, or something else?) - I saw someone posting about him being quickest to recognise the symptoms of someone going through a change, and I highly agree. He's also a lovely old man ('toffee pud', wreathed in golden light from the Archives, etc) so maybe he just doesn't want to see anyone suffer? Kindness often gets punished in WoD games.

Brok is sitting on a different chair. His mother's chair follows him everywhere he goes, does it?

I'm calling it, Chekov's M60s Mounted On A Bus. BUT. Not for this particular arc.

If there are keys to steal, in order to get into the Archives, they would be taken from Occam, Blacklaw, Dr Waters, or Lord Fatigue.

There are no other entryways to the Archives but there may be passages around, beneath, or above the Archives. Walls thin enough to use Vampire Magic through?

Giles knows that Spit is out of Ritalin, which serves as an explanation for Spit's symptoms and proof that the guys keep an eye out for each other.

Spit seems to be the biggest red herring. Something is very wrong with him but it isn't being Ghouled (and it isn't just something that can be managed with Ritalin). Still, when he gives his blood sample, he doesn't give two drops: he hides out of sight and only delivers a blood-smeared chalice. We don't see him giving blood, and the sample is darker than the rest. Older blood? Stored and poured?

It's Elise that pickpockets Giles of all his worldly possessions (while Spit is being consoled by Fatigue). She even takes one of the smokes for herself, having it in her mouth at the top of the stairs and then as she descends. So, then, she handed the smokes over to Olivia at some point. Maybe when Elise was 'looking for Grimal at the time'. A gift? A trade?

At some point after the 'I said FOLLOW MY LEAD' fight, Blacklaw and Brok work to get the Cold Tessellation out of the wall. Where the hell did D go (and why is it under the stairs, digging through old newpapers). How did he get out of that fight?

Grimal is in the Security Room, crying, when Occam is attacked. Could she have seen who attacked Occam, or did she miss it because of her tears? ('Noises of insecurity' in the Security room is pretty funny, I'm sorry.) HOWEVER. Grimal does NOT have access to Security, according to her chapter card... but Elise did steal Giles' keys, so perhaps Elise let Grimal into the Security room? Now the question is, was the door locked behind her? Did Elise leave other doors unlocked as well?

Spit says he knows where Giles' things are. How? A good nose for it? Or just an excuse to get out of the room (where a lot of dead animals are)? He then goes... downstairs, to the Music room. Lord Fatigue says he will go look for Spit, but goes upstairs to the Staff Break Room instead, diagonally above Occam. The minimap shows Spit stressed, Occam tense/in pain, and Fatigue with... the same facial expression. Is Giles doing something to the blood? Is Fatigue doing something to the blood? Is there some direct line of connection between the three? Is there really only one way into the Archives, or is there a way up from below, or down from above? The placement of Spit and Fatigue on the minimap feels incredibly important to figuring out who attacked Occam (even if that doesn't have anything to do with the ghoul).

Elise is in the middle of taking her ponytail out when Kitten returns from his pacing and fuming and brief stop in the kitchen. As a ponytail haver, the decision to NOT undo the hair after starting to do so is significant. But then again, maybe giving her a different animation model wasn't in the cards for the episode. (She's hot enough already idk).

There are large claw marks on a lot of walls and doors in the Chapter House…

There are 15 people in the Chapter House, but 16 cups are strewn about when Occam is found. All 16 cups are bloody. Someone else is present? Someone left an extra cup, some extra blood?

Kitten is focusing on 'who could have attacked Occam as we were leaving' but is that really the timing of the attack?

'Your papa could never take a punch like that' says the man who has been fighting Blacklaw all evening. Playfighting? They've been playfighting this whole time? Yet the man can handle a bottle being thrown at him by Marckus, so he at least has some grit.

"Look. It's the same. Indisputable." So if Blacklaw cannot tell the difference between 'a bleak British man and a middle-eastern meat-slab', either his eyesight is shitty and thus he cannot be trusted to give any trustworthy visual evidence, OR, he hasn't looked at D in actual decades because D is the Devil and must not be observed directly. Which is kinda countered by how often they face off and glare at each other, so.

Other things that might be of note and/or are things I noticed:

Amanda's blue gloves - does she have a latex allergy? Or does the Arcanum not provide boxes of disposable gloves for the staff and they have to just make do with one set each? As someone who worked back of house in hospitality, this seems... bad.

Both Blacklaw and D have yellow and black as a major colour to their outfits, but inverse to each other (jacket and tank top vs jacket and vest). IDK maybe that's something worth noting, or it shows how more alike than they like to admit.

Hardcore Kitten steadying inhale in front of the portrait of the dead knight made me think to how TTS ended... Then again, the man out here killed a vampire with a shove and an iron fence while being badly hurt so like. Man's badass enough on his own.

Git works with the Lady Regent's favourite daughter. Could Poly have slipped him something, made him a ghoul without his knowledge? Man can reverse-drink a beer but his favourite food being available at his place of work could lend itself to some Manager-induced tampering of the safety seals.

Kevin was invited to the 'funny phrenology library' but decided to stay in the basement. He might have recognised the ghoul right away. He also might have gotten D's family Blood Hunted AND targetted by the Coalition, if that were the case. For reasons of safety first, comedy second and plot third, Kevin stays at home.

Hey uh what's the Penis Explosion Room on the mini map and why is it Elite Access and also why is it there and why is there no doorway to it and also what

Harry being able to get dressed very quickly between listening in at the door and then D showing up with the keys. I know he doesn't really do Anime but I feel like that must have been a magical girl transformation somehow (/j)

Guy Chapman might be the most dangerous ghoul at the moment: 'sharpened senses, inhuman strength, even the power to bend minds' He did drink the blood of Kevin, a Vampire Wizard. I'm thinking about Marckus' night pubbing, and how Chapman heard the beginning of the vampire talk, as well as the fact that Brok's first and second knife broke dramatically. The cop did it, with his new vampire magic.

The portrait on the wall (when Elise is doing D's hair) - baby Occam is adorable, I'm sorry his mother is a Blacklaw but she seems far more hinged than Remold, is baby Brok okay, is Brok's mother the blonde woman from the interrogation room - if so who is the woman standing with Blacklaw? And the slacker behind her? A Blacklaw Family Drama photo, I'm very pleased.

'Amanda never sweats, she's lower class' I've never seen a Rich Bastard in media who thinks this, this is fascinating. Normally it's 'sweating is for the lower classes' but here we are in the reverse. Does Blacklaw think the 'lower class' are literal automatons or

Fatigue dies in the room where his younger Hunter self is immortalised in a portrait on the wall. Taller, younger, still with the same glasses, nose, and ears. Just how old is he?

Side note: 'did anyone find out if Mummies are real yet' - yes, Marckus, they did, in The Resurrection/Curse. You were right.

#hunter the parenting #hunter: the parenting #htp #h:tp #theorycrafting #theories #analysis #i miss roleplaying games so much I want to play in all of them

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shock · 3 months

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"Don't just play—do something!", Jack Abele, 01.21.24.

This is a companion piece to the collage I made about moving into the first place that felt like my home back in '21 (shown below). They have matching frames and are displayed together above our dining table! This second piece is a reflection on how my relationship to "home" has evolved since then, especially after proposing to my now fiancé last month. I'm really proud of it!

Text transcript:

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

In the cold, thin clouds of interstellar space, written in the precise message of starlight:

What made you so interested in fireflies?

Imagine that they propel the environment into play: they STAND OUT, add color, chaos, curves moving behind and below, inside, outward along feedback loops, perplexing positive panic persuaded to make another form of animal art.

Love is a Many-Splendored Thing, a beautiful structure, flamboyantly scuzzy, sassy, a full bouquet of many wild ideas — a dazzling interplay between lightness and unclarity, trying things out, fancy, whimsical records looped with webs, half-truth surface textures composed of swirls within swirls, a performance of information, scene-setting details with many impressive, more tongue-in-cheek, unforeseeable aspects relatively stable and evolving at the same time.

Distinctly transitional.

The trouble with love is it's hard to describe in simple and consistent words. Beyond the jolting familiarity of self-similar, self-referential tessellating hues, the little comedy-drama fictions... you see openness, possibilities toward change; our very existence together antidote to the dull grind of the paradox that we live every moment in an indifferent universe yet having so much fun with friends, local communities, places, faces, even muddy bog holes.

Music! A Tribe Called Quest, The Beastie Boys, The Breeders, Nick Cave, Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, Santana and Crosby, Stills, and Nash, mud-caked at Woodstock, picking up Space Age scrap, cutting collaged paper, playing with magical little lights, heretically evolving in this meaningless, magnificent place fine-tuned just right to allow for life, love, and grunge to exist nevertheless.

Maybe what keeps me here, making art, is how beautiful it is for optimism to become the first expression of hope despite danger amid the disparate depth of our universe created by chaos.

Movement characterizes my "youthful, dynamic" journey, escapes to infinite other places somewhere else, afraid of considering complicated survival long-term, wherein risk is worth the reward. But something about your windy city reminded me what strange, cascading effects the fingers of two hands form together, intersect one another, interfere with fate, interlace like light radiating rays woven, at certain points, into dynamic singularities.

Mutualism is a happy hybrid of symmetry and chaos — a relationship, it's like the entire forest is blinking in sync.

Just as the fun is to make up a great story, the writer in me calls this piece, "Don't just play— do something!"

This time around, living offers a profound pivot from playing a game. Today we confront as animals, we're not far from dogs, domesticated punks at heart, manifold.

I am humbled, exhilarated, afraid yet strangely calm and clear "On Bended Knee"

(The term ground seems inapt.)

...Nor is it possible to describe...

The closest feeling to being the world itself? It is to have loved someone so much that you wanted to spend the rest of your lifetime with them, with each other.

We're writing a book. Adding a stroke of paint and words to illustrate what we became, a bright third dimension that can be seen from space to meet the generations to come, to simulate the uncountable whimsies they could achieve.

The mind already knows before the key touches the lock.

To watch firefly swarms with a mangy mutt.

That must be quite a sight to see.

BECAUSE THEY EXIST

NOWHERE ELSE ON EARTH.

#collage art #my collages #my art #collage poetry

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eviebakes · 4 months

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'til morning comes

Summary: In the twilight years of gunslingers and outlaws, Mattie is used to being on her own—and then she meets Flora.

Word Count: ~4.5K

Warnings: Violence, Explicit Language

A/N: This story was inspired by @drizzledrawings amazing cowbians art, which you should definitely go check out!! Mattie and Flora are their characters, but hopefully I did these two cowboys justice 🤠 The title is from Tessellate by alt-j. Thank you so much for reading!

__________________

Mattie stood beneath the shade of an oak tree, an unlit cigarette between her lips.

She patted her pockets, biting back a sigh when the search failed to yield any matches.

Damn. Mattie tilted her head skyward, lifting her hat and pushing her bangs back into her hair.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, hinting at the promise of rain. Somewhere overhead, a hawk screeched.

June grazed nearby, just visible through the trees. Mattie debated calling her over so she could look through the saddle bags before quickly dismissing the idea.

She’d resupply when she got the chance. Maybe stop at that muddy little town she’d ridden past this morning and grab a hot meal while she was at it.

Later though.

Now, it was time to rob some bastard blind.

Mattie hummed beneath her breath as she strode through the trees, her hand brushing against the worn leather of her holster. The ground, still wet from last night’s rain, sunk beneath her boots with every step.

She found a good vantage spot on the edge of the road and tucked herself against a tree, half-obscured by the surrounding foliage.

A covered wagon rolled past, a man and woman arguing loudly over supplies. Then, a group of men on horseback, all of them grim faced and armed to the teeth.

Mattie waited patiently, biding her time.

Experience had taught her that it was better to wait for the right target. Even if there were less lawmen in this part of the country, picking the wrong person could lead to trouble.

Mattie straightened from her lean when a woman appeared down the road sitting astride a piebald horse, a white hat pulled low over her face.

Mattie eyed her consideringly—but to her surprise, the woman raised her head and looked straight at her.

Their eyes met. The woman gave her a once-over and smiled, touching the brim of her hat as she rode past. After a moment’s hesitation, Mattie returned the gesture and resumed her vigil.

Half an hour passed before another single rider appeared. A man this time, unarmed and covered in road dust.

Perfect.

“Help me,” Mattie gasped, limping out of the brush and stumbling to the ground in front of him. “Oh, God—please help me!”

“Whoa!” The man pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, eyeing her warily. “What’s wrong, miss?”

“I-it’s my ankle,” she whimpered, clutching at her foot. “Somethin’ is wrong with my ankle!”

He hesitantly took a step closer, the watch chain on his vest glinting in the sun. “What happened?”

“My horse bucked me and r-ran off into the woods,” Mattie panted. “Please, mister. Can you help me find him?”

He shifted on his feet, seemingly torn between pity and suspicion. But Mattie was a good liar and, after several days of traveling, she didn’t have to feign dishevelment.

“Please,” she said, her voice cracking, and his expression finally softened. Got you.

“Here, let’s get you up,” he said, crouching beside her. “We’ll find your horse, miss.”

He helped her to stand and, as soon as she put weight on her foot, Mattie pretended to stumble into him.

Her fingers skimmed against the watch chain right as he moved to catch her, causing her hand to knock into his stomach. Shit.

Before she could play it off, he grabbed her wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Let go of me!” Mattie snapped, dropping all pretense.

Her free hand went to her holster when he only tightened his grip. “I should’ve known better! You’re nothing more than a goddamn—"

They both froze when a horse appeared down the road at a full gallop, heading straight for them.

The man released her with a curse, and Mattie dove away as the rider desperately pulled back on the reigns to avoid them.

The horse reared, the rider tumbling off the saddle and hitting the ground with a cry.

The man rushed over to help, and Mattie took advantage of the distraction to crawl into the undergrowth. Breathless, she peered through the leaves to watch the scene unfold.

“Miss! Miss, are you okay?”

“I-I think so. J-just a little shaken.”

“Here, let me help you sit up. Careful now—take it slow.”

Mattie narrowed her eyes. It was the same brunette who’d ridden past earlier. Why’d she come back this way…?

“Thank you, sir,” she said as the man helped her up, hastily offering an arm when she swayed unsteadily on her feet. “I truly appreciate your kindness.”

“If anything, I should be thanking you. You interrupted some ugly business—a would-be thief trying to rob me.”

“How awful!”

She clutched the man’s arm more tightly, and the sleight of hand was so subtle, so natural, that Mattie almost thought she’d imagined it.

But no—the woman smoothly tucked the watch up her shirtsleeve a moment later, her eyes never once leaving the man’s face. “I’m lucky I ran into you instead—I could’ve been in even more trouble!”

Unlike Mattie’s fumbled attempt at pickpocketing, the man didn’t so much as blink. “Don’t worry, now. She seems to have scampered off in the chaos.”

“Thank goodness for that! The roads can so unsafe sometimes.”

Mattie ground her teeth, fuming at the turn of events. This had to be a damn joke.

But as the man helped her onto the horse, the brunette turned to look right at the spot where Mattie had concealed herself—a flash of dark, mischievous eyes.

And then she winked.

What. The. FUCK.

_________

A few hours later found Mattie at the saloon, nursing a lukewarm beer while she sulked.

What a waste of a day. Hours spent staking out a decent spot along the road, and nothing to show for it but a bruised ego. She’d been outmaneuvered and out—out thieved, and it pissed her off to no end.

She took an angry gulp of beer, slamming down the bottle in a futile effort to relieve some of the frustration prickling beneath her skin.

No one paid her any mind. It was late afternoon, and the saloon was blessedly empty save for a few men playing poker.

Tomorrow, she’d start fresh. Ride to that town north of here and rob any easy targets she found along the way.

Tonight though, Mattie just wanted to forget the whole shitty day.

She drank her way through several more beers while the saloon slowly filled with people, the wall lights flickering to life as the sunlight faded. Carts and stagecoaches rumbled past outside, joining the piano music and the hum of conversation.

One of the poker players sidled up to the bar, squeezing into the open spot beside her. He was around her age, his hair slicked back with too much pomade.

He ordered a whiskey, subtly glancing at her while the bartender filled a glass for him. Mattie ignored him, keeping her gaze forward.

She bit back a sigh when he fully twisted to face her. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore—"

“Not interested,” Mattie broke in flatly, not even bothering to look at him.

“I’m just trying to have a conv—”

“Get. Lost.”

His ears reddened, but there were too many people around for him to do more than shoot her a dirty look. “You aren’t that pretty anyways.”

“Good one. Very original,” Mattie said beneath her breath as he staggered away.

“Right? A real charmer,” someone said at her elbow.

Mattie tensed. It was the brunette—smiling at her like they were the best of friends. “You.”

“Me,” she agreed easily, resting her arms on the bar and nodding at the empty bottles. “Tough day, huh?”

“No thanks to you,” Mattie hissed accusingly, jabbing a finger at her. “You robbed me.”

“I thought about robbing you, but you didn’t look like you had much.”

She gaped. “You serious?”

“No, I’m Flora.”

“You—that’s not—!” Mattie pressed her lips together, glowering. “So…so you just came here to gloat then?”

“I came here for a drink, sunshine.”

Sunshine…? Mattie mouthed stupidly, her glare faltering. It was like she’d encountered a whirlwind—one that was two steps ahead of her.

“This was the closest town in riding distance,” Flora said, gesturing at the sunflower on Mattie’s hat in answer to her unspoken question. “And I was gonna rob the first good target I ran into out there. Don’t read too much into it.”

Her voice was friendly, but lacked the flirtatiousness from the road. It’d just been part of the act, like pretending to fall off her horse or Mattie’s damsel in distress ploy.

“Well aren’t you good at what you do,” Mattie said, like she had a mouthful of marbles.

“Awful sweet of you for noticing,” Flora said, grinning when she rolled her eyes. “Tell you what. Your next round is on me.”

“No thanks,” Mattie said, scowling. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Hey, if I feel bad for anyone, it’s that poor bastard from earlier.” Flora leaned closer, one of her braids sliding over her shoulder and grazing Mattie’s arm. “He was the one getting robbed today, one way or another.”

A laugh bubbled from the back of her throat. Mattie barely managed to turn it into a cough because—yeah, she had a point. “Just one drink.”

“That’s the spirit,” Flora said cheerfully, catching the bartender’s attention and tossing a few coins on the bar.

“But this doesn’t make us friends,” Mattie added, catching the drink Flora slid her way.

“Whatever you say,” Flora agreed amicably, clinking their bottles together. “Cheers.”

She waited until Mattie took a sip, smiling with the lip of the bottle still pressed to her mouth. “That wasn’t so bad, was—"

“Hey,” someone interrupted loudly. They simultaneously looked over their shoulders. “Hey, you. Irish.”

“Oh good,” Flora said lightly, turning and propping a hip against the bar. “Mr. Charmer is back for another round."

“Course he is.” Mattie clenched her jaw, twisting to face the man. “What do you want now?”

It took him a full second to focus on her. “I want to know what your problem is.”

“My problem is that I’m tryin’ to have a peaceful evenin’, and you keep botherin’ me.”

“I’m just trying to be friendly.” He leaned closer, his breath making her nose crinkle. “What, you’re too good for a conversation?”

“Is that what you call this?” Mattie looked at him coolly, her lip curling. “If you want to talk so badly, go pay someone for it.”

He flushed a dark red when Flora snickered, something ugly flashing across his face. “You really think you’re better than me, huh.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t go that far, but at least I don’t spend my time harassin’ folk and—what was that other part again?”

She pretended to mull it over before snapping her fingers. “Oh right. I don’t smell like fucking pig shit.”

Mattie raised her bottle in a sarcastic salute and turned back toward the bar, already anticipating his next move.

Sure enough, he grabbed her arm and tugged her toward him. “We aren’t done talk—"

The words cut off in a howl of pain when Mattie deftly flipped her bottle and smashed it against his face. He stumbled backwards and tripped over a chair, taking another man down with him as he fell.

The uproar was immediate. A few people ran for the exit, but the drunkest men joined the fray—hooting and hollering as they laid into one another.

Mattie didn’t wait to see the outcome. She sidestepped two brawling men and beelined it toward the exit, dodging neatly out of the way when someone ran past with a chair and threw it through the window with a whoop.

She’d almost reached the saloon doors when a hand clamped down on her arm and yanked her backwards.

Mattie twisted, catching a flash of Pig Shit’s bloodied face right before he plowed her in the cheek.

She spun with the force of the blow, tasting blood as pain erupted across her entire face. Mattie barely avoided his next few swings, landing a single punch before he decked her again.

Her vision went white. She flew into a table and crashed to the floor, shot glasses and bottles raining down around her.

Mattie struggled to her knees, shards of glass digging into her skin. Pig Shit’s boots appeared in her line of vision, the leather worn and muddied.

“Not so superior now, huh,” he sneered, kicking aside her hat as she spat out blood. “Bet you’re regretting that smart mouth of your—"

He staggered when something connected with his head, his expression frozen in surprise for the briefest second before he crumpled in a heap.

“With a mouth that big, he’s sure one to talk,” Flora said disdainfully, tossing aside the broken table leg while Mattie gaped at her. “Come on, sunshine—on your feet.”

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Mattie panted as Flora hauled her up and pushed her hat into her hands. “Figured you’d be long gone.”

“Well, you’re glad I’m not, right?” Flora retorted, her gaze locking onto something across the bar. Mattie wiped at her bloody lip and looked over her shoulder.

Two of the poker players—likely Pig Shit’s buddies—were shoving their way through the crowd in their direction.

“Can you run?” Flora asked urgently, grasping her wrist.

“I think so.”

“Then run,” she ordered, already tugging Mattie towards the exit.

They shouldered through the saloon doors and raced across the street, Flora leading them into a dark alleyway between a row of buildings and a fence where several people were loitering.

Without warning, Flora pulled off her hat and crowded her against the wall, pinning their hats between them.

“What’re you doin’,” Mattie hissed as Flora casually wrapped her arms around her waist. “This is the opposite of runnin’.”

“It’s called hiding in plain sight,” Flora whispered, settling into the embrace. She was a few inches shorter than Mattie, her temple fitting perfectly in the curve of her jaw. “Play along.”

Mattie bit back a retort when footsteps echoed down the alley, bowing her head as the men ran past—but young lovers hiding in the shadows was nothing unusual, and they didn’t so much as spare them a glance.

Flora stepped away as soon as the footsteps receded, placing her hat on her head. “Where’s your horse? You might be able to sneak away without them noticing.”

Mattie rested against the wall, biting back a wince while she probed at her cheek. Her left eye was already swollen shut. “The only place I’m goin’ tonight is a hotel.”

“Right,” Flora said, drawing out the word into multiple syllables and somehow injecting skepticism in all of them. “And you’re doing that why…?”

“’Cause they’ll be expectin’ me to jump town tonight,” Mattie explained. “Better to hunker down now and head out early.”

“That’s…actually pretty smart.”

She sounded insultingly impressed. Mattie huffed. “Give me some credit here.”

“The hotel is just around the corner,” Flora said, ignoring her. “We should head there now before our new friends decide to come calling again.”

Mattie looked at her sharply. “We?”

“You’re not the only one in danger,” Flora said, her tone losing some of the levity that’d been there all night. “They’ll be looking for me too.”

Mattie shook her head, too tired to argue. “Fine, but you’re not—"

“—your friend,” she broke in, raising an eyebrow. “I know.”

“No, that’s not—” Mattie put on her hat and pulled some coins from her pocket, pushing them into Flora’s hand. “I was gonna say that you don’t need to pay for the rooms since it’s my fault you’re in this mess.”

Flora gazed down at her palm for a moment, looking taken aback for the first time that day. Her eyes were bright when she glanced up, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, partner.”

Mattie grunted and made her way toward the street. Flora fell into step beside her, undeterred. “Buddy?”

“No.”

“Pal?”

“Ugh.”

She thought for a moment before snapping her fingers. “Compadre.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Mattie warned without heat, tilting her hat down to hide her smile when Flora just laughed.

“Maybe you should stay here,” Flora suggested when they reached the hotel. Light spilled through the windows, casting flickering shadows across her face. “You might, uh—”

Mattie snorted, sinking into a squat beside the water barrel sitting on the edge of the hotel porch. “Draw some attention?”

“Just a little,” Flora agreed. She hesitated, then untied the red bandana from her neck and held it out. “Here, sunshine. Your lip is bleeding again.”

“Mattie,” she corrected, gratefully accepting the piece of cloth. She realized Flora was staring at her after a second. “My name’s Mattie.”

“Mattie,” Flora said slowly, like she was testing the weight on her tongue. “It suits you.”

She looked up, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. Flora was already walking away, her boots clunking softly across the wood.

Mattie exhaled and pressed the bandana to her mouth. It smelled like clean linen and something slightly floral.

She closed her eye and leaned her head against the barrel, breathing in the scent of water-soaked wood. Her face throbbed, the pressure almost unbearable around her eye socket.

Someone was humming nearby, the tune fading in and out. A horse walked past on the street, its hooves thudding against the packed dirt road.

Mattie didn’t realize she’d dozed off until someone touched her shoulder. She jerked away, her hand shooting to her knife, but it was just Flora.

She pushed unsteadily to her feet. “We good?”

“Kinda. They only had one room left,” Flora said, trading a key and the remaining coins for her bandana. “You alright with sharing for the night?”

Mattie shrugged one shoulder. “If you wanted me dead, you’ve had a few chances.”

“And we’ve already established you have nothing worth robbing,” Flora joked, moving toward the hotel entrance.

“That too,” she said dryly, tipping her hat over her face as they passed the front desk and climbed a creaky set of stairs.

The room was surprisingly spacious, with a lit hearth and two neatly made beds.

Flora opened the window while Mattie tossed her hat onto the closest bed and went over to the washstand.

She pulled a towel from the rack and poured water into the basin, wincing when she caught sight of her reflection. Shit.

Flora was watching her when she turned around, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “That’s looking pretty bad.”

“Feels worse,” Mattie muttered, sitting on her bed and balancing the basin on her lap.

She wet the cloth, pausing when Flora stepped in front of her and touched her wrist.

“Let me help you with that,” she offered softly, waiting until Mattie gave a terse nod before sliding the cloth from her hand.

Flora retrieved the chair from the corner of the room and sat down, shifting forward until her knee bumped into her thigh. Mattie tensed when she grasped her chin, her fingers cool against her overheated skin.

“So, ‘peaceful evening,’ huh,” Flora said, dabbing the cloth against her lip. “I hate to see when you really let loose.”

“I doubt you could handle it,” Mattie said more airily than she felt, her eye darting to Flora’s face when she laughed.

“Oh, I think what I can handle would surprise you,” she said lightly, her fingertips sliding across Mattie’s jaw as she turned her face—the pale imitation of a tender touch.

“Why’re you helpin’ me so much?” Mattie demanded, feeling suddenly defensive.

Flora glanced at her through her lashes, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Maybe I have a soft spot for underdogs.”

She bristled. “I’m not a charity case.”

“And I’m not your enemy,” Flora said quietly, her thumb resting on the soft underside of Mattie’s chin. “Besides, everyone needs a little help now and then—even tough cowboys like you.”

Flora dipped the cloth in the basin and ran the cloth over her swollen cheek, the motion achingly gentle—and Mattie abruptly realized the answer to her own question.

Kind. Flora was helping her because she was kind.

Mattie shot Flora a subtle glance, her eye moving from the furrow of concentration between her brows to the soft curve of her face.

Flora lifted her arm to inspect the cuts left behind from the broken glass, the motion causing Mattie’s knuckles to skim against her shirt.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, followed by the soft patter of raindrops against the window. A gust of wind fluttered the curtains, filling the room with the scent of rain.

“There,” Flora said after securing a makeshift bandage over the deepest cut, sitting back in the chair as she surveyed her handiwork. “Good as new.”

“Just about,” Mattie said, cradling her arm to her chest. She hunched in on herself when Flora smiled, the skin at the corner of her eyes crinkling. “What?”

“You aren’t so tough, are you? You just need someone to look after you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Mattie muttered, her cheeks warming. She picked at a thread on her pants as Flora stood and stretched her arms over her head. “Hey, uh…”

Flora looked at her, letting her arms drop to her sides.

“Thank you.” Her eye darted to Flora and away again. “For everythin’.”

Mattie stared fixedly at the peeling wallpaper, but she could still feel Flora’s smile. “You’re welcome.”

_________

Mattie woke early the next morning, her entire face aching.

She stared blearily at the ceiling, breathing through the pain for a few minutes before sitting up and pulling on her boots.

It was still dark out, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. Mattie put on her hat, glancing at where Flora was sprawled across the other bed. For a moment, she thought about leaving her.

The impulse faded as quickly as it had come. It would’ve been a shit way to repay her kindness.

“Flora,” she said quietly, touching her shoulder. Flora sat up, instantly—enviably—awake. “We should go before the sun is up.”

They left the hotel a few minutes later and retrieved their horses from the hitching post in front of the saloon, following the road northeast until the town had disappeared behind them.

The ground was still wet from the rain, mud splattering onto their boots while they rode and a cool breeze ruffling their hair.

When the town was several miles behind them, they paused beside a river to refill their canteens while the first glint of sunlight pressed through the trees.

“Your horse is beautiful,” Flora said, shaking her hair loose from its ties and redoing her braids. “She seems so sweet.”

“Looks can be deceivin’,” Mattie said with a snort, glancing at where June was drinking from the river. “Tamin’ her cost me a sprained ankle and two cracked ribs. June’s a feisty one.”

“Just like her rider,” Flora teased, grinning when Mattie scoffed. She swept her braids over her shoulder and nodded at her horse. “Meanwhile, Bandit would gladly sell my soul for a peppermint.”

Mattie released a startled laugh. “Everyone has their price.”

“Oh! Speaking of...” Flora rummaged in her saddle bag and tossed Mattie a small sack. “Your cut.”

“My cut?” Mattie frowned and opened the bag, nearly choking when she saw the contents. “Where the hell you get this?”

“From the saloon,” Flora said innocently, her eyes shining. “I took the liberty of robbing the place blind after the fight broke out.”

Mattie gaped at her. “But why are you givin’ me half your share?”

“Because you started the fight.”

“You are somethin’ else,” Mattie said, shaking her head and stowing the money in her saddle bags. “How’d you get so good at stealin’, anyways?”

“Lots of practice,” Flora said, looking pleased as punch. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply. “Your brand of chaos isn’t half bad either.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks. Matie retrieved a cigarette too, more for something to do with her hands than because she wanted a smoke.

She put the cigarette between her lips and patted her pockets for a match before abruptly remembering the previous day.

“Goddammit,” she sighed, shaking her head when Flora looked at her questioningly. “I meant to pick up matches in town, but then—”

“You picked a fight instead?”

“Well—yes, but—” Mattie smiled winningly, the cigarette still between her lips. “These things happen.”

“For some more than others, I imagine,” she laughed, exhaling a cloud of smoke from the side of her mouth. “Come here.”

Flora leaned forward, tilting up her face so the ends of their cigarettes touched. Her eyes flickered up for a breath, the light catching on her face.

Mattie had spent time in Arizona before realizing how much she’d preferred the plains and forests to the unyielding heat of a semi-desert, but the land out there had been something special.

The ring of color around Flora’s pupil was the exact same shade as the rocks had been in the soft light of morning, a richness and depth of color that faded into the same warm tones found in coffee or the earth.

And then Flora straightened, leaving Mattie to take a deep, shaky drag of her cigarette.

She held the smoke in her lungs before releasing it through her nose. “So, where’re you headed next?”

“I was thinking of going to a town about twenty miles north of here,” Flora said, flicking cinders from the end of her cigarette.

“I know the place,” Mattie said, cutting her eye to the side. “It’s more of a proper city than this dump was.”

“Exactly.” Flora grinned, propping a hand on her hip. “Lots of places for folks to drop some money or lose some valuables.”

Mattie chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“What about you?” Flora asked once they’d finished their cigarettes and had mounted their horses. “More bar fights in your future?”

“Not for the time bein,’ no,” Mattie said, leaning down to stroke June’s neck. “I was plannin’ on headin’ north too. You know, if you don’t mind ridin’ together for a bit.”

“That depends.” Flora tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You always this much trouble?”

“Sometimes,” Mattie admitted, leaning forward in the saddle. “But I can usually make it worth your while.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt it,” Flora said, her smile as bright as the new day. “Lead on, sunshine.”

Mattie ducked her head to hide her own smile, facing the horizon.

Together, they rode towards it.

#mattie and flora #flora and mattie #cowbians #cowboy lesbians #wlw #cowboys #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2

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youremyheaven · 9 months

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Art & Vedic Astrology

i thought ill make a post about the recurring motifs, patterns, techniques that different nakshatra natives seem to resort to in their art work!! so here it goes<3

Punarvasu

Punarvasu natives often use matrixes, mazes, repetition, interloping patterns, and tessellation in their work.

Pedro Friedeberg

He has Punarvasu rising and he is known for surreal, abstract and whimsical style

he repeatedly used the same patterns over and over again in his work

Claire Nakti's new YT short did mention that these natives were very prominent in the Surrealist art movement and I often see how they have this surreal, whimsical element in their artwork. Often using bright colours and repeating the same pattern/motif over and over again.

the Punarvasu aesthetic is veered towards maximalism. however these natives do not like clutter or maximalism that is random? if you look at any of these artworks, you can see how the same pattern is repeated many many times (a common theme in the work of these natives) its not 8 different patterns or motifs, so there is a sense of minimalism or balance within their otherwise eclectic seeming art creations.

MC Escher

If I use the term "tessellation", the artist that would come to mind for most people is MC Escher (Ketu in Punarvasu). he had a thing for repetitive imagery and using the same pattern over and over again.

he made the technique of tessellation as well known as it is now. in fact it was Escher's signature style

alt-j has a song called "tesselate" and its written by joe newman (the lead vocal) who also has ketu in punarvasu!!

Harmony Korine

He has Ketu in Punarvasu and you can see how he uses endless circles in his work, going back to Punarvasu's association with the endless nature of the universe

he returns to the same motif again and again

or draws the same pattern repeatedly

Paul Klee

he has ketu in punarvasu and his venus & rising in swati, another nak associated with infinite space and abundance

there is a tendency to use the same pattern repeatedly

once again the punarvasu urge to use bright colors and repeat the patterns, themes, motifs

and there's a lot of interlooping

here's a cat (punarvasu's yoni animal)

Sol Lewitt

He is Punarvasu moon

There is tessellation and use of bright colors

repeatedly using the same shapes, patterns and the work being maximalist outwardly but minimal in essence

lots of interloping because punarvasu is the endless infinity of the cosmos!!

Ashlesha

slightly similar to Punarvasu natives, these natives also seem to love repetition and pattern making

Yayoi Kusama

Yayoi Kusama is Ashlesha moon and this art installation definitely seems to invoke serpentine vibes but sticks to the whimsical, colorful, exuberant nature that is Kusama's trademark

her birth time is unknown but I strongly believe that she has Punarvasu rising tbh

i mean??? her work is very punarvasu coded imo but here's more of her ashlesha esque work

not to promote stereotypes but these be looking like snakes to me 🤪

Princess Fahrelnissa Zeid

She is Ashlesha moon

Ashlesha natives love color and using bold patterns and designs in their work but their work is maximalist through and through

with Punarvasu, their artworks were almost minimalist compared to the hypermaximalist works that Ashlesha natives seem to create

do you see how crowded and busy these works are?

Keith Haring

He is Ashlesha rising and we can see how he consistently used similar motifs throughout his work but his work is very loud and very maximalist

like this

his work is very eclectic and very busy

Andy Warhol

Andy Warhol is Ashlesha sun & rising and his most famous artwork is one that uses repetitive imagery and features Marilyn Monroe (Ashlesha rising)

(yes this is a painting) Ashlesha natives love to use the same pattern to crowd an entire painting

Willem de Kooning

He is an Ashlesha moon and his works also have the same eclectic, colorful and "loud" aesthetic that we saw in the works of other Ashlesha natives

do you see how there is a similar running motif in all his works but compared to the works of a Punarvasu native, an Ashlesha native work seems far more frenetic and fast(?) there is a different degree of intensity

#astrology notes #astrology observations #sidereal astrology #vedic astro notes #astrology #nakshatras #astroblr #astro notes #astro observations #vedic astrology #astro community #punarvasu #ashlesha #art #abstract art

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garaksapprentice · 25 days

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Sewing Zero Waste Culottes from The Craft of Clothes

Zero Waste Culottes From The Craft of Clothes

Behold! Fancy pants!

The pattern for these pants was one of my Christmas gifts. It comes from Liz at The Craft of Clothes, a zero-waste designer. I've really gravitated towards self-drafting and zero-waste sewing in the last couple of years, and this pattern has been on my list for a good six months, so I was excited to get into it.

Drafting

The first step (after reading the pattern through twice) is drafting the pattern pieces.

My biggest starting hurdle was deciphering "the culottes are designed to sit on your waist" when choosing the correct pattern size. Most designers consider "the waist" to be the teapot - that is, the true waist. (It's easiest to find if you bend to the side and stick your hand in the crease - like you're singing "I'm a little teapot".) But some consider belly button height to be "the waist". I generally wear my pants at the latter height, and there's a good 2" circumference difference between those two for me.

I eventually decided to call my belly button my waist, on the grounds that that's where I prefer to wear my pants. It's also easier to take seams in than out, if I guessed wrong.

Decisions over, it was smooth sailing from there. Pattern drafting is not a technically difficult process, as long as you have good instructions, and Liz's patterns definitely fit that bill. But there's a lot of attention to detail required to make sure the end result is good. That sort of thing always makes me nervous. Fortunately there was only two pattern pieces to draft, and they're 98% straight lines and based off rectangles.

Interestingly, this is the first zero-waste pattern I've tried that has you draft pattern pieces to use. The others I've seen (most by the creator of this pattern - our library had a copy of her book, Zero Waste Sewing) have had you draw directly on your piece of fabric to create the layout. (In fairness, I didn't have to draft my own pieces. The pattern came with the option of self-drafting, printing on A4, or printing on A0.)

I much prefer the direct-draw method to faffing about with pattern pieces. But given that this pattern is designed to have the pieces tesselate, having a set of physical pattern pieces does make more sense. It's also got me wondering if I could successfully make a pair out of old jeans legs, using one leg per pattern piece. But then, I'm always looking for ways to use up my denim pile...

Sewing

I prefer structure rather than flow in my butt coverings, so I was somewhat limited in my fabric choices for this first pair. (I know the fabric I really want to use, but I am being a sensible apprentice and trying things out on a nice-but-less-hideously-expensive fabric first.) Most of my stash acquisition has focused on stuff for shirts, since I wear those out faster than pants. I eventually settled on this nice brick red, 100% cotton, table cloth.

The picture is suffering from sun exposure. It's nowhere near this bright in person.

I laid out the pieces and huzzah! The fabric was just big enough! ... But only if I unpicked the hems (they're monsters, a full 3 cm/1.2" each side) and ironed them flat first. Thus, it was time for a marathon unpicking and ironing session.

After that was done, I checked the pattern fit again. Huzzah! I had enough space for all the pattern pieces, and not very much scrap left over once I'd cut them all out. (Of course, it was late and I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, so I didn't add an extra inch when I was forced to cut the waistband in two pieces. There was enough extra fabric that this was only an annoyance and not a complete disaster.)

The fabric at the top is scrap. All but a few inches of the stuff on the right became waist bands and plackets.

Sewing was a fairly straightforward exercise, though it required enough brainpower that I completely forgot to take any progress shots as I went. Almost every step of the pattern comes with a diagram to show you what to do, which helped me immensely. So did having the seam allowances specified at each point, as there's three different ones used in different places.

That's not to say I didn't screw up, of course. While sewing the crotch seam, I somehow managed to close up the front of the pants entirely and leave a gap for the placket open at the back. (That will teach me not to double check the direction the pockets are facing before I pin and sew that seam. Maybe.)

I also made a highly decorative and completely awful to sew with choice for topstitching thread, which I quickly became too stubborn to stop using. So the topstitching is, uh, not great. But it is purple and sparkly, and if I'd had any sense at all I would have left it til last (or even done some sort of hand embroidery with it).

I was tricked by the first line of stitching being so easy. LIES. It was all lies.

Why should I have left it til last? Because it turns out that the culottes are, in fact, designed to sit on one's true waist. Which meant I had a two inch difference between what I needed to fit me, and what the waist measurement was. If I hadn't top stitched the panels, I could have simply ran another line of stitching down the seams that didn't have pockets in the way, and taken the waist in without much fuss or bother. Unfortunately, I didn't do that, so I was left with two choices.

Take out the topstitching and take in all the panels, bitching and moaning about the effort I went to and the number of times the topstitch thread broke while I was sewing the stupid sparkly goodness onto things.

Work out how to take the waist in by the necessary two inches, using only the crotch seam and maybe some darts or pleats or something.

Choice #1 would have been the logical, rational decision, so of course I went with option #2.

An hour and change of basting, pinning and unpinning the waistband, and completely forgetting how seam allowances work later, I managed to get a fit I was happy enough with. I ended up grading in a dart-like object at the centre back. (If I decide later that I'm not happy with the fit after all, I'll try out the modification for adding elastic to the back waistband that the pattern also includes. Probably while questioning my life choices and lamenting the amount of time I spend with a seam ripper in hand.)

The original stitching line is in blue, the new one is in black.

After all that fitting woe, I wasn't in the mood to try buttonholes (my good machine, the one with the automatic buttonholer, is currently out of action). Instead I dove into my snap stash to close the placket.

I love using bright, vivid colours for inner details. It's the sewing equivalent of wearing leopard print underwear.

A nice bonus of using the snaps is that I could put them through just the placket, leaving the fly front clean. This did make the placket pull slightly when I'm wearing the pants, exposing a trace of bright red. I fixed that by invisibly whip-stitching through the placket and outer fabric to hold everything in place. Next time I'll also double check the understitching, and topstitch the edge if needed, before installing the snaps.

Field Test and Adjustments

Trying stuff on as you go is all well and good, but nothing tells you what you really need to fix like being out in the field. I quickly discovered several things:

The waistband needs serious help to stay where it's supposed to be. Which, y'know, I did make a size larger than I should have. This was not surprising.

The crotch needs to either drop a wee bit or (preferably) rise a couple of inches. The latter will likely spoil the skirt-effect somewhat, but it will be far more comfortable for my legs.

I need a loop on the waistband to hold my keys.

For the waist woes, I had a few choices - 1) belt loops, 2) suspenders, or 3) add elastic to the back waistband. Belt loops are fiddly to make and sew on, but would solve the key-hanging issue. Suspenders technically wouldn't need any sewing changes, but the clip-on style are notorious for pulling off when you're doing things. And while the pattern includes instructions for adding elastic to the waistband, I wasn't confident it would do the job I wanted (I stick a fair amount of junk in my pockets and elastic can't always cope with the weight).

After some dithering, I went with the suspender option for this pair. I like the look of them, and the "floating" effect they give when they pull the waistband a bit above where gravity wants it to sit is extremely comfortable. But I didn't want to deal with clips always popping off. So I indulged in a quick side-quest of improving my suspenders, then sewed buttons into the waistband of the culottes.

This used to hold the clips, but the wire was easy to bend flat with needle-nose pliers.

Gee, I wonder which buttonhole I did first?

Fashion Show

Overall, I'm quite happy with how it all came together. I'll definitely be making at least two more pairs - the "men's" version (less flare in the hems), likely out of recycled denim, and a pair in heavyweight stash linen.

The back panel adjustment is basically unnoticeable.

They have great range of movement - maybe I need to make a workout pair?

And I even have somewhere to hang my keys.

This post was originally published on my blog, Garak's Apprentice . I currently syndicate my content at Micro.blog, Tumblr, and Ko-Fi.

or Tip me via PayPal

#sewing #projects

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tessell · 9 months

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so to be clear, your stomach isnt supposed to hurt at like a level 5 when you are hungry (not starving, just hungry, starving is like a 7)

#tessell talks #disability #i wanna tag this to find ppl who can respond idk #i dont rly know what i have specifically #candida #or whatever its called #or um #other #gastrointestinal disorder #idk let me know a good tag for talking about this stuff

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shirecorn · 10 months

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Hi! I love your art, especially when I see your Vonder worldbuilding on my feed! I just wanted to ask: what made you start wanting to worldbuild (and/or make Vonder specifically)? And what got you interested in speculative/fantasy biology?

I've been worldbuilding since I could talk! There was never really a start to it. I would make stories with my siblings and populate it with new rules for how magic worked. I have 2187493275893 different variations of "dragons" and what they mean, how they work, how they breed, etc etc. I grew up watching national geographic at every opportunity.

As a kid I was raised homeschool fundamentalist evangelical young-earth creationist and told that evolution was invented by the devil, while celebrating what the world had as wonders created to bring glory to god. Scientists were either misunderstanding creation or evil. I was very spiritual so I felt when I was inventing worlds and creatures in them, that I was communing with God. We were both creators, and I was made in his image.

Then got to college, took my first science class and got blown out of the primordial water by evolution. I thought "there's no way deer became whales lol. thats impossible and there would be in between stages all over the place.

Then I looked up "whale evolution" and guess what? there's in between stages. There's thousands of in between stages. There's a fossil record of the nose hole slowly inching up to the forhead to breathe air when surfacing. there's tessellations of the hips slowly disappearing from one ancestor to the next. So then I had to decide if every photo, specimen, paleontological dig, and diagram was a purposeful lie crafted by evil humans who knew more about god than I did and dedicated their lives to sculpting rocks just to spite him and lead christian astray.

I'm not a conspiracy theorist so I was like damn. Evolution real. What do you know.

Then I exploded

My creative potential was unlocked. Everything became possible. I could create imperfect animals that had quirks and holdovers from previous generations. I could mutate and reform and call back and stretch and bend the possibilities. I could appreciate the true beauty of how every animal is an imperfect attempt at fitting in, just as I am also an imperfect work in progress. I learned that what makes you different can be an advantage in the right environment. I learned about mimicry, about complex symbiotic relationships that evolved alongside each other in a beautiful adaptive dance. I learned about the first ancestors of bilateral animals. I learned to love the forces that turned creatures from one thing to another. I looked at all of the world and I saw it not as a flawless portrait of god, but as an active, breathing, and changing masterpiece created by the paint itself.

I loved it. I love all of it.

I started working immediately. My dragons split and split again. My unicorns developed parasites that evolved to feed on their magic. My mermaids started out as fish and turned their swim bladders into resonate cavities with which to sing their siren songs. Hunters hunted and the prey learned to run.

Life cannot be stopped from changing

I cannot be stopped from loving it

I see religion now as something humans created to be a touchstone of community and ritual. It's beneficial to have something to point to for ethics and routine, and an explanation for things we don't yet understand. One day I may find a place that fits and fulfills me.

for now I am free.

#ramble machine #ask #evolution #religion

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 7 months

Text

𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 🎃💦 ∘₊✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟜 ✧₊∘

|| ︶꒦꒷𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥꒷꒦︶ | main masterlist ||

@absurdthirst's Kinktober 2023 Prompts

Day 4: Overstimulation, Oviposition/Egglaying, Human Urinal

𝐄𝐠𝐠-𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐲 ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Jɪᴢᴢ Fɪɴɢᴇʀs ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ

“I know you said our sex organs are compatible but our hormones and liquids aren’t, but can’t we try something new? Something fun and, like, ovum adjacent?” you pout.

“I guess I could figure something out if that’s what you really want,” splorgimum Mr. Ben agrees. “I love that adjective usage, baby. Have you been reading that Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary I got you?”

He licks his lips as he palms himself. It was kinda a weird kink of his, but it made sense for a teacher, you suppose. You just hope this wasn’t going to veer into Geometric Proofs again unless he was going to tessellate that cock into your pussy.

“Yeah, I bookmarked it at defenestration,” you purr with a sultry emphasis on the window ejection term.

He shuts his eyes and groans as he grabs at himself through his dark gray dress slacks. “God, you know what vocabulary does to me. Say something else.”

“Nomenclature,” you hum seductively.

Mr. Ben grunts. “Fuck, say something else. More.”

You walk your knees across the bed to him and lean into his ear.

“Antidisestablishmentarianism,” you say in a tantalizing hush.

Mr. Ben’s hips jerk as he grunts at your foreplay.

“You wanna hear me talk about the Dewey Decimal System?” you coo as you run a hand up his chest.

He looks up to the ceiling as if he’s trying to hold it together and is barely hanging on by a thread. “If you start talking about proprietary library classification systems, I’m not gonna last,” he breathes out heavily.

“Then let’s stop talking, and let’s start fucking,” you suggest with a lewd tug at his raging hardon.

“Yeah,” he agrees, running a thumb over his bottom lip. “Lay back for me, baby.”

You settle onto the soft bed and let him use his spaceboi powers to make your clothes disappear. He breathes excitedly as he pulls out his phone and centers it between your legs. You squirm under the gaze of his camera lens.

“Lemme just make this Fan Cam of your pussy really quick, baby,” he coos. He taps something on his phone and a bright light illuminates your glistening cunt. “Incredible,” he breathes.

You tug impatiently at his navy blue sports ball themed tie. “Ben, please,” you beg.

“Okay, okay,” he says with a sigh. “Gimme just a sec. Gotta…make sure this… zoom and transition… is seamless…..” he trails off as he concentrates on his work.

“Don’t you have enough Fan Cams of my pussy, Ben? There’s thousands by this point,” you pout.

He makes a noise like he’s paying attention, but he’s clicking around on his phone again. You hear a slowed down reverb version of Britney Spears’s Toxic playing low in the background. “That’s a good one,” he says to himself.

“BEN,” you call his attention back.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs with an apologetic grin. He sets his phone aside. “I just hafta make them. You’re my beloved, and your pussy has me in a chokehold.”

You moan at the praise.

“You’re in your Coochie Meow Meow era, and it’s nom nom delish,” he whispers into the shell of your ear as he braces himself above your body.

You grab for his cognac colored leather belt and work it open with deft fingers. He helps to free his massive cock from the confines of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

“Put it in me, please!” you whine.

He shoves himself into you all in one go. You cry out in pleasure.

“Oh fuck yeah,” he groans as he thrusts sloppily into you.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he stretches you.

“Say something dirty to me, baby,” he urges as he snaps his hips harder.

“The Oxford Comma isn’t mandatory. It’s grammatically optional,” you rasp.

“Ohhh FUCK. Keep going,” he begs.

“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” you moan.

“OH GOD, I’M GONNA OVIPOSIT IN YOU, BABY.”

“You’re so Daddy! Periodt!” you wail.

“Hhhngggffff- fuck! I’m Daddy, and you’re Mommy,” he cries out.

You feel a large oblong spherical shape stretch your walls as you both climax. “Ohmygod, Ben! It’s so big!!!”

He grunts as he empties himself into you, smearing his creampie fingers onto the bedsheets on either side of your head.

“Yeah, baby. I’m giving it to ya real big. It’s that C = 2 π r you love.”

He pulls out of you with a gasp. Your pubic mound looks like it swallowed a giant avocado. “What is that?” you ask breathlessly. You feel so full.

“It’s an egg, just like you wanted,” he hums, rubbing his palm against the shape of it where it bulges out from your lower belly. This should really do it for those belly bulge kink sluts you think to yourself.

“Push it out, baby. Let’s see it,” he spurs you on.

You start bearing down as hard as you can. “Why does it feel all plastic-y?”

“Please do not be alarmed,” the splorgimum voice reassures you telepathically. “It is not derived from such materials. There is no risk of microplastics in your sexual organs.”

“Oh okay, good,” you breathe a sigh of relief. You push as hard as you can. You feel like the Bettie Page of Easter Bunnies. You push and push until the rounded shape moves from where Mr. Ben placed it.

“That’s it. That’s my little Omelette Princess,” he praises.

You break a sweat working it out of you, but finally it emerges. It shoots out of you like a tshirt cannon at a baseball game. Mr. Ben uses his sensual splorgimum spaceboi powers to make it levitate in the middle of the air. It slowly spins, and you can just make out the words underneath the splotches of your slick dripping all over it.

“Is-Is that what I think it is?” you breathe.

Mr. Ben nods and grins triumphantly.

“A Ryan’s World Giant Mystery Egg Series 12?!” you gasp. Tears brim in your eyes. It’s so beautiful floating in the air. You can barely contain your excitement at the thought of holding it. “But that series isn’t even out yet!”

“Only the best for my girl,” Mr. Ben coos.

“Can we–?”

“Of course,” he affirms with a warm smile. He lets it float down into his hands. You begin hastily unwrapping it together. Something is different about this one.

“A Ticonderoga #2 pencil?” You’re bewildered. Where was the slime packet? The minifigure? The collectable stickers?

You dig in further. Mr. Ben pulls out an SAT Prep book. He groans lustfully. “Gonna set that aside for later,” he says as he gives you a lecherous wink.

All in all it wasn’t a bad haul. Just strange. You smack the yellow ruler design slap bracelet onto your wrist and watch it instantly wrap around it. “Cool.”

“I guess I, uh, kinda came up with my own Mystery Egg surprises for this one,” he admits sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

You hold up the Lunch Lady Paulina minifigure and turn it fondly in your hands. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” you say in a reverent, hushed breath.

“No, you’re perfect. I know I’m your bias and that I always munch on it, but I just don’t get it. Why did you choose me?” he asks in a shaky voice.

“We chose each other,” you whisper as you draw him in close.

“You eat it up,” you moan. “No crumbs left.”

“Oh fuck, let’s make a Fan Cam together,” he moans into your mouth as he captures it in a passionate kiss.

“Anything for you, Skinny Legend,” you rasp.

Mr. Ben clicks a few times on his phone before you hear Sza’s voice low from the speakers. You spread yourself open for him and let yourself sink into the comforting and arousing dulcet sounds of

ᵢₜ’ₛ cᵤffᵢₙg ₛₑₐₛₒₙ

ₐₙd ₐₗₗ ₜₕₑ gᵢᵣₗₛ bₑ ₙₑₑdᵢₙg

ₐ bᵢg bₒy

ᵢ ₙₑₑd ₐ bᵢg bₒy

ᵢ wₐₙₜ ₐ bᵢg bₒy

Gᵢᵥₑ ₘₑ ₐ bᵢg bₒy

tagging everybody that wanted to be tagged in the first one plus a couple of extras

@wannab-urs @gracieispunk @milla-frenchy @patti7dc @lumoverheaven @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @xdaddysprincessxx @toxicanonymity @rubyfruitjungle @huffle-punk @jupiter-soups @swiftispunk @bonezone44 @psychedelic-ink@theywhowriteandknowthings @multiversed-daydreamer @beefrobeefcal @clawdee @criticalarchitecture @katiexpunk @covetyou @sugadolly @koshkaj-blog @obscurexsorrows @elegantduckturtle @kdogreads @pedrit0-pascalit0 @admiralackbarssugarbaby @party-hearses

#kinktober #crackfic #pedro pascal characters

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