#but i got my third which is a success! i learned a new thing too

[artificer-dice]

It's so glassy!

3 makes a success! This one took a bit longer since it took two tries but it worked!

[jen-with-a-pen]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is. 

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter–  to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day. 

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

[sexhaver]

ive been playing Cassette Beasts for a minute and it never stops being funny to me how flagrant they are about making this "Pokemon but with features you didn't know Pokemon has always needed". off the top of my head:

super effective/NVE hits have added benefits/debuffs beyond just doubling/halving the damage (hitting Electric types with Ground reduces their evasion and speed, hitting Steel types with Poison gives them poison-coated spikes that do contact damage, etc)

legally-distinct-Pokemon will learn new moves while in your party without having to battle, and you can then straight up steal these moves from them and put them on a not-Pokemon you actually care about using, which gives an actual incentive to hunt down and raise otherwise fringe not-mons beyond completing the not-Pokedex

we all played the Pokemon Infinite Fusion fangame right? we know how fusions work? okay so this game has them as temporary per-battle things instead of permanent ones, which is only marginally less cool while being infinitely easier to balance around

attempting to catch something shows you the percentage chance of success so you know whether you just got unlucky or if you should save your Pokeballs-i-mean-blank-cassette-tapes

leveling up is tied to your not-trainer instead of your not-pokemon, so you don't end up in the classic trap where your starter is way overleveled and everything else is underleveled and then you hit a fight your starter can't solo and have to spend an hour grinding to get the weaker not-mons up to par (funnily enough most Pokemon Nuzlocke romhacks have already figured this out and give you infinite rare candies with the only restriction being that you can't level past the next gym leader's ace pokemon, because Pokemon fans have realized that grinding is the worst part of the game way before Game Freak has)

moves, not-Pokeballs, not-PokeCenter visits, and healing items are all bought using entirely separate currencies which stops you from trivially breaking the economy in half

the soundtrack, fittingly, is pretty good! the vocals were a bit much for my taste but there's an option in the settings menu to straight up turn them off (letting the BGM play on its own), which i've never seen in any other game and really appreciate

downsides:

on a game design level, i understand why can i only carry a max of 5 not-Potions and 1 not-Revive at a time - it's to put a limit on how far away from fast travel points i can get by just running away from everything and healing off damage. on a gameplay level, however, this feels pretty bad

the pixel art style is trying to look as much like Pokemon as possible without actually being Pokemon so the overworld sprites look more like beta stuff from Pokemon that they cut for looking too weird. i have yet to find a haircut that doesn't look bad

this is super petty of me but something about the bloom and lighting of the 3d environments combined with pixelated 2d sprites that still cast shadows makes me painfully aware im playing a video game. it's like they were going for the same aesthetic as Octopath Traveler but fell just barely short. i can't think of a better way to articulate this feeling but if you know you know

it does that really obnoxious half-assed style of voice acting where plot-relevant characters will sometimes (maybe every third or fourth textbox) speak the first two or three words of dialogue before trailing off. mashing through textboxes (as one does) means constantly getting jumpscared by "hmm"s and "haha!"s "okay then!"s

i get that they wanted to make the player feel involved in the story, and it has a pretty decent hook so far, but oh my god. the amount of dialogue "choices" that just transparently do not matter. you know how people memed on Fallout 3 and 4's dialogue choices all leading to the same outcome, to the extent that you were basically choosing between "yes" and "yes (rude)"? and you know how Bethesda would at least attempt to justify how both options led to you accepting the quest anyways, even if it was really dumb? Cassette Beasts has streamlined this process even further by making the options in most of their binary decisions so identical that they don't even require different followup dailogue before rejoining into the main conversation thread. a solid 2/3rds of the dialogue options in this game so far feel like checks that you're still awake. i know this is a minor issue because people aren't playing Pokemon-likes for the engaging "choices matter" approach to storytelling, and i did ignore it at first, but it's so pervasive that you really can't ignore it

[umlewis]

lewis hamilton is interviewed on media day, baku - september 12, 2024 (transcript under the cut)

Ted Kravitz: "Good afternoon." Lewis: "Good afternoon." Kravitz: "I've only got one hit, so if I can ask a two-part question, I wanna know about- Sorry?" Lewis: [laughs] "Pick carefully." Kravitz: "I will. I certainly will. I've been thinking about it quite… Well, I wanna know about you, this weekend. Seems odd nobody's asked you so far. You're looking for a third win in the season. One hopes it could be either here or Singapore, a place you've been succeessful in. What are your chances of that, and the other part of it was, thinking back to… I'm an old man. Thinking back to 2007, had McLaren done that differently in team orders, you could have beaten Kimi to that year's world championship." Lewis: "Yep." Kravitz: "They've now said that they're gonna favor Lando, albeit 63 points behind Max, for this year's world championship. I just thought whether you thought that was too little, too late, or a good idea. But first to your weekend." Lewis: "So we're coming from not the greatest result the last two races. We're working very hard to try… We still have a good car, and I think it's just trying to optimize it. We've never really done a spectacular job here in Azerbaijan, but I think we're asking all the right questions. We're gonna try to really maximize the practice sessions, and definitely hope that we can have a better weekend than we had in the last two. Reverting on some of the changes that we made going into those two weekends, as well, on upgrades, just to try and test which one is right. And then on McLaren, it's my old family and I'm just really happy to see them back up there, and I think it's probably been a long time since they've been in that position so this is all new… newer. I mean, probably most likely all the people that are in the team today are not all the people that were there when I was there, and so even for those, it's the first time that they're having such a competitive car and I think they've been handling it well. And naturally, like everyone that's challenging for wins and for a championship, mistakes will be made. But again, I'm not running the team, so I can't say when or if they should've or shouldn't have… Yeah." Kravitz: "Thank you."

[time jump] Journalist #2: "We're making a focus on the visibility, the vision you have in the car. Can you take us through the evolution of it, and the car, is it changing for the better, you think?" Lewis: "No, visibility is way worse than it ever was, [laughs] at least in my time. We had much smaller cars when I first joined, or we didn't have the halo. The tires were smaller; we didn't have the little hubcap things going over the wheel. So yeah, vsiibility is definitely narrowed down. Also the visors on the helmets are smaller, like the window is smaller than it ever used to be, with safety going up, so yeah." Journalist #2: "So how do you adapt to this?" Lewis: [laughs] "Luckily we've got good eyes, so just you change it… Like seat position, you have to sit a little higher than we did back in the day. Back in the day I used to sit super low, as where now I have to sit a little bit higher to be able to see over those big tires. And you just have to learn to look even further ahead and plan a little bit." [time jump] Journalist #3: "Guess we've had the news this week that Adrian Newey has chosen to go to Aston Martin. He had been rumored to be considering Ferrari. Would working with him have been a nice little tick-off for you in your very illustrious career?" Lewis: "Yeah, I mean, I spoke about it before. I think anyone would wanna work with Adrian and it would have been nice, but it's just one person, and what I'm most excited about is working with a whole team of people that are passionate and not had a huge amount of success, or at least a championship, in a long, long time, and it'd be great to go and join them and try and get on that journey together."

[madelynhimegami]

To my knowledge, you like Puyo Puyo! But what do you enjoy most about it?

Honestly, it might be easier to explain my intoduction to the series. Ideally we'll get there in the end either way. You ever seen one of those "What I Played/What I Expected/What I Got" memes? My story is pretty much like one of those.

I don't remember when I started learning bits and pieces about it, or when Dr. Robotnik's Mean Bean Machine went from being itself to a Puyo game in a trenchcoat in my mind. But by mid 2017 I knew the aforementioned (I called the CPZ boss in Sonic Mania a Puyo boss on twitter when I played it), recognized Carbuncle, recognized Draco Centauros (thanks to a friend who is still a big fan of her), and had heard that there was some sort of story to it, but didn't know a lot of details.

Then in September of 2017, a friend of mine mentioned that he had been playing Puyo Puyo Tetris lately as his go-to "pick up and play" sort of game. I looked it up in the eshop, saw it was cheap, and thought a pick-up-and-play game was what I needed and bought it. Not that I knew shit about playing Puyo well, but I at least had some basic competency at Tetris to balance things out.

And hey, at least the story mode would be a good way to learn! So I dove in to the story and started playing.

I was expecting the story to be inconseqential to my enjoyment of the game. Something either generic or corny, with characters that ranged from "tolerable" to "painful anime cliche."

The thing that knocked me on my ass almost immediately was that the writing was actually funny, made better with the English cast's fantastic delivery.

Those are all from just the story's first chapter! The first one is from the prologue! The other two are from the third scene (couting dialogue before and after a round of gameplay together as one scene)! And it kept going!

For the record, even though I was picky with what to include, and stitching lines from the same scenes together, I still had almost fifty (50) funny moments I wanted to drop out of context, in a game with a rough total of two hours of story material collected to write this post. And then I had to narrow it down further just so I wouldn't hit the image limit too quickly.

Was it a little corny and awkward at points? Sure. Several voice actors had to grow into their roles. Plus, the impression I always had from the script-- an impression that's only gotten stronger the more I learn about this series and then come back to this game-- is that someone on the development team was not expecting this to be all that successful overseas. And not for no reason, since Puyo Puyo's tried to get its foot in the door in the west several times by this point. But the end result of this lack of faith was a localization team that tried very hard to make this game stand on its own merits with as little understanding of the games that had come before as possible. Which, honestly I think they did a pretty dang good job of! Especially since it didn't shy away from the hard-hitting stuff when it came. Which I'm going to intentionally leave even further out of context so as to not give away all of it.

There was also this line here, which was what first clued me in that the writing's quality wasn't an accident, that the writer is actually thinking all this stuff through:

Fun fact, the only people you will see in your dreams are people you have seen while you're awake. The parts of the brain responsible for dreams can't make up new faces, or throw together composites of preeviously-known ones. Hence, this question, which does in fact get answered in the next scene, in a way that made me go, "Ohhh, that's really smart, actually!"

But yeah. That was just this one game. It took me a few more years before I tried other games that had been translated, fan or otherwise, but the more I've played and the more I learn about these characters and their worlds, the more engrossed I get. It's a hyperfixation now. It seems like there's always something new I'm learning about it, but it's not overwhelming, it just feels like I'm knowing a good friend better and better. The modern artstyle is deceptively simple and very endearing, and so many of the characters are interesting and fun. And the current writer is just so galaxy-brained, I'm not even kidding.

The characters in the Puyo Puyo series are all morons. They're all crazy. But at the end of the day, they care about each other, no matter how little they want to admit it. And they all have their own theming to the magic they use. It's a lot of fun. From your standard-fair RPG spells, to cosmic forces, to math terms,

I can't recommend this series enough, no matter what your skill level with puzzle games is! There's something in it for everyone.

Unless you're looking for genuinely evil characters, I guess. Like, there are characters that are intimidating or sinister or threatening, but almost none of them are actually evil. Fraid the closest to that this series has is a(n as-of-now) gender-ambiguous Elon Musk with better hair in the Japan-excusive gacha game.

Further reading from the author (that isn't already on their tumblr):

[1]

[2]

[3]

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of a reading week

11pm, tuesday, feb 20, 2024

hello beloveds. just wrote two increasingly passionate paragraphs about what social media and my use of it over the years has done to benefit my life, and got so genuinely moved that i had to come talk to you about it.

reading really wild mix of reading material of late. surprisingly high amount of YA, because people keep recommending me things and i keep going 'sure, let's try it!' so i'll use that as an organizing principle and save discussing some of the others for a future post. in order of completion:

firekeeper's daughter, angeline boulley, read by isabella lablanc. finished in a rush, very engaged in the last three-four hours. i was never prepared for the next thing this plot threw at me, though in retrospect saw how it all made sense. i didn't know a thing about it going in, which i think actually enriched the experience a lot, but for a novel set in michigan's UP and sugar island, it resonated with a lot of things i associate with ontario after living here for five+ years. the hockey, the ojibwe /anishinaabe names and cultural connections, the murdered and missing indigenous women. but it also mixes in elements reminiscent of, like, braiding sweetgrass (and tangentially mexican gothic) and various fan fiction tropes i recognized in their shape if not their execution. highly recommend the audiobook-- they cast the audiobook's narrator very carefully, and she does a superb job juggling the mix of scientific jargon, teen narrator unreliable/dramatic narrator (loving), and Anishinaabemowin.

castle in the clouds, kerstin gier, translated by romy fursland. maybe 33% through. it's giving grand budapest hotel and somehow also the princess diaries? it's also reminding me somehow of, like, the kind of novel i wanted to write as a second or third grader, which means eva ibbotson, and a particular flavor of plucky, intelligent heroine. i was hooked by the first page+ but have yet to see a ton more of the same high action and suspense, and have let this one slip a little further onto the back burner. it's cute escapism at the moment, though that may change.

fourth wing, by rebecca yarros, read by rebecca soler (and apparently also teddy hamilton, although i haven't gotten to him yet?) about 25% through. trying desperately to give us a gritty, hardcore, new and dangerous and fun take on dragons and their human riders, while also trying to be idk divergent? the hunger games? there's a love triangle, the protagonist has naturally ombre hair, the premise of the novel is brutal training where young adults are all dying in improbable droves due to how cutthroat and brutal it is. a testament to the narrator that i am, despite myself, having a great time. there are a few too many supporting characters who want our main girl straight up dead for me to really find the threats believable, but i'm intrigued by the prospect of alternate versions of this world's history than what she has learned and a potential for discovering how their kingdom has? manipulated them? could be asking too much.

fairest, gail carson levine. finished in a long saturday morning spent reading in bed. i was such an intense and dedicated fan of the original ella enchanted novel that i couldn't read most of levine's other books (exceptions for her short stories made grudgingly) because they weren't sequels and weren't the same and wouldn't be as good. in fairness, reading this now as a much-older-than-the-intended audience, perhaps i was too harsh-- but i think little-me was right to be a little suspicious. it's a snow white retelling, and again i think largely successful in building a more detailed plot in which the elements of the retold fairy tale are embedded, but where the focus in ella was on language and obedience and free will, here we're trying to articulate things about beauty and body image, and it's harder to say that it really succeeds? i like that we gave the Wicked Queen more nuance, positive and negative qualities, moments of sympathy, a name and a precarious political position. i was not nearly as charmed by the romance (fine, fine, it's not ella and char but it couldn't be, it's fine). i still love the use of unfamiliar / fairy-tale languages and how levine puts them on the page in such fun spellings. probably aimed at the youngest audience, of the four titles here, but treats its reader as almost more intelligent than fourth wing, possibly? YA from ~twenty years ago was a different world.

listening graded like twenty quizzes today with just a mess of random panic at the disco bumping in my headphones. it's a hell of a feeling, etc. i'm halfway through this particular round of grading, and they're doing so well, so it's mainly a quick check to make sure they got the basics right and i can jam while doing so.

watching spent a very pleasant ~2 hours yesterday watching as much as we could of the film amadeus with @hematiterings, @pep-squad-lizzie, and @dimir-charmer. love a film that isn't afraid to lean into all its sensory indulgences, and to be a little heavy-handed with its symbolism (the chocolate is about repression!) and to, just generally, spend money on costumes, locations, hiring lots of extras, and so many wigs. there's a live event performance of this film with orchestra + choir being advertised all over our subway right now, so it does very much feel like we're being followed by this guy:

...but what's sticking in my head right now is the costumes.

playing 41+ hours into hollow knight. i have opened half of my stag stations! i have the dream nail, surprisingly early i think! i have saved bretta! i have somehow missed the mantis lords, i think, but have made it to the city, the resting grounds, and have now been throwing myself fruitlessly against the crystal guardian and a soul warrior in alternation. i am...not good at combat. current plan is to grind to get quick focus, and i'm close! also, @spoonierbard stepped in and gave me a much needed morale boost by winning me the final mask shard necessary to get increased lives, which has helped tremendously, and the grubs rewarded me with the grub song charm which has helped tremendously.

making many potential projects, none executed (or even really attempted). soon, hopefully. fallow section for now. does music count? music counts, right? i joined a second choir! enticed by the chance to perform mozart's requiem in full with an orchestra, and finally fulfill the broken promise of 2020. that's my hobby right now. oh i also just cleaned out a ton of storage in my phone + icloud, which felt generative in its own way. besides backing things up better than i have in a while.

working on submitted the travel money application i've been thinking and dithering about since...this time last year? no real expectation of getting it, but it did actually help me consider some next steps in the diss, so that's nice. now prepping to take my class on two fun on-campus field trips next week, one to the manuscript library and one to the medieval collection in our little hidden art museum! i need to write some notes up for the TAs and docents to use, and finish organizing my list of desired manuscripts, like, yesterday. midterm grades posted today, a little late but hopefully not too bad, still well before the drop date. the aforementioned quizzes (i have like 28 more to grade, but they're reasonably painless). plus i was going to work on my fucking dissertation this week, and prep to teach the next few lectures in advance so i'm not scrambling monday nights, plus send a bunch of emails, design a CFP poster, put in some RAship hours so i can speak intelligently in my meeting tomorrow, and....prep for the guest lecture i'm giving on the 28th! it's a reskin of the conference paper i gave this summer, freshly edited, but i need to expand the intro bits to include a useful overview, since these students aren't a conference of celticists.

weirdly at peace with how my work-life balance is balancing right now, though. it's the extra sleep and the increased sunshine, and the little cat who is being so so whiny right now. i must conclude these lines and feed Herself.

[thatfreshi]

Imagine Mark trying to impress a crush who is completely ignorant to his flirting. It’s not that they don’t like him back they just can’t tell if it’s a bit or not.

This is a short and sweet one, which you guys seem to love, so I hope you enjoy!!

Mark is usually seen as some naturally charismatic. It hasn’t always been that way of course, but it’s been that way ever since you met him. Just be grateful you didn’t go to college together, Bob is probably scarred by the awkward events he had to witness. This late-sprouting confidence has helped the content creator in numerous ways, assisting his skyrocket to success, and even benefitting his personal relationships. 

Today, this skill of his was to be used in the gym, where you were going to join him for a workout. You’re not necessarily a gym buff, but you figured it might be time to start working out more, especially since no one’s getting any younger. 

“I promise Alex didn’t put together anything too difficult.”

He smiles at you, and you sigh, knowing that whatever wasn’t all that difficult for Mark was going to be miles worse for you.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe I should just do yoga and drink protein smoothies like every other fake gym rat.”

He gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

You try to give him that trust, but your stomach sinks as the two of you start walking towards the weights. Mark better be damn good at spotting.

“Okay, so I’ll show you first so you get the proper form and stuff, and then I can coach you through it.”

You didn’t realize that this was more like a personal training session rather than two friends working out. It’s nice of him to walk you through everything though, considering you have no idea what you’re in for. 

“Okay, we’re gonna start with a bench press, probably stuff you’ve seen before.”

You nod as if that’s even remotely correct, wondering if you should text Ethan so he can swap in for you. Soon, you learn what a bench press is, which is a lot simpler than the scary gym vibes make it seem. Luckily the two of you are in a more secluded corner, so you don’t feel like an idiot the first time you drop the bar.

“It’s okay, you got this. You’re gonna be great!”

You get back onto the bench, ready for attempt number two.

“Really, you’re like good at everything you do, so you got this.”

With the bar almost off the rail, you drop it again, about to keel over in laughter from Mark’s comment. It takes you so much by surprise that your laughs come out in coughs.

“Are you okay?”

Mark comes over to the side of the bench to check on you, but realizes you’re just lost in some comedy world.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good.”

You manage to choke out between giggles.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just you trying to hype me up, it’s funny. Like I’m not that impressive at anything really. You don’t have to do all that.”

He goes quiet for a moment.

“I, I wasn’t like joking. Really, you learn fast and I think you’ll be really good at this with some practice.”

When his words settle, you sit up on the bench.

“Well, that’s very sweet of you, but really, you don’t have to say all of that. C’mon, let me try again.”

Mark mutters something under his breath and goes back to spot you, and on your third attempt you finally manage to get a pretty good lift in. You drop the bar and almost yell.

“Oh my god, did you see that! Like my arms extended all the way, I did the thing!”

You hop up off the bench and do some stupid victory dance that should not be recited in words, for the awkwardness would probably seep through the letters. Despite that, Mark is beaming as you revel in your success.

“I told you, really, you’re like this jack-of-all-trades. It’s kind of crazy to watch you learn new stuff, because you’re just so good at it, and yet you don’t take any credit for it.”

Your dancing comes to a close and you stare off at Mark, who you still aren’t fully taking seriously.

“You’re a funny guy, you know that?”

“Really, I’m not trying to be funny y/n.”

He usually doesn’t call you directly by name like that, especially in such a serious tone. It wasn’t angry, but desperate. Like he was trying to say something that he couldn’t quite phrase.

“Honestly, I think you’re kind of great at everything.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re like a genius.”

He sits on the bench as you grab a swig of water.

“Why can’t you take the compliment?”

You almost stop mid-drink, taken off guard.

“I don’t know, because you don’t usually compliment me like that.”

Mark stands back up and grabs your water bottle, setting it down nearby on the ground.

“Well, I should, because it’s true, and if anyone should tell you how wonderful you are, I want it to be me.”

Your brain suddenly swaps functions, realizing where this conversation is going. You didn’t even realize he would or could ever see you like that, but if he’s being genuine…

“What do you… what do you mean by that?”

While you try to search for more questions you study his face, and in a quick moment of actions over words, he leans in to kiss you. You melt into it, almost rolling your ankle because you were leaning to the side right before. Luckily you catch yourself without him noticing it, and you hook your arms up around his neck to anchor yourself in the moment. When the moment ends, you step back, almost kicking your water bottle over. Mark is clearly surprised by his actions as well, trying to get a grip of what he just did.

“That. That’s uh, what I mean.”

He puts his face in his hand in uncertainty, and then you start laughing, not with cruelty, but with compassion. Mark slowly realizes that he’s being laughed with, not at, and starts to chuckle a little bit himself. After the laughter dies down, you two catch your breath.

“So, uh, should we maybe try another lift?”

You ask coyly. He takes your hand in his and smiles.

“I think that can wait til next time.”

[mariana-oconnor]

The Golden Pince-Nez pt 1

A new story, whose name I don't even recognise, and I can only hope that it goes a little something like this:

But probably not...

...I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin...

Ah, the traditional 'listing of fascinating sounding cases that are not the case we are about to read about'. Has there ever been an adaptation that actually created cases for some of these teasers? The ones that don't have their own story, as I know occasionally they do come up again.

I kind of want to know what the singular contents of the ancient British barrow were. I'm guessing it wasn't dead bodies or ancient artefacts, as that would be rather par for the course.

...I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith...

Excellent names, which lead me to wonder both if there is a Yoxley New Place and an old Willoughby Smith who lives there. Clearly the two must never meet, which is going to be a lot easier now that young Willouoghby Smith is dead. Bad for him, but possibly for the good of the universe.

Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest...

No joke, I just love the word palimpsest. Excellent word use.

It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.

It's another miserable day in London. Is this where everyone got the idea that it never stops raining in Britain from? ACD's atmospheric dreariness and pathetic fallacy?

Watson is having a moment contemplating his insignificance in the face of eternity, very relatable.

I actually love that feeling in relation to nature. Just that weird awe that you feel when you see nature being so vast and powerful and remember you are tiny compared to a cloud or a storm or a mountain. Good feeling. Good words and good feelings. 10/10 evening so far.

“Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said Holmes...

Why do I suspect these to be famous last words?

"Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

And what does that say about you two, my good men? Hmm?

It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest.

No animal description yet. Lestrade didn't have one in the last story that I noticed either, but I am inclined to believe that was because ACD could only think of tigers for that entire thing and he thought tiger was too complimentary a comparison to turn upon poor Lestrade.

Or perhaps in the interim between the first stories and the second lot, he forgot about his habit of comparing police officers to animals?

"There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me—I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead—there's no denying that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Either they got the wrong person, or he's secretly The Worst. In Sense & Sensibility Willoughby was definitely secretly the worst. This is probably not the same Willoughby. Probably.

"The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. [...] This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge."

How very goldilocks of him. Did the first one write too fast and the second one right too slow?

Hmmm, so suspicion points at first to the idea that either the professor or Mr Smith manipulated events so that Mr Smith would end up with the job. We've seen malicious employers enough times in these stories that it's an automatic thought.

We do have indications that Mr Smith is who he claims to be, though.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate."

Not-A-Cult ™

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter."

I know he means positive as in definite, but I read it as positive as in happy. So for some reason Susan was feeling good about Mr Smith's untimely demise.

"She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence."

A slamming door is my best guess for something that could shake the whole house. But also, please to be adding a banshee to that list of supernatural Sherlock Holmes stories. Strange and unnatural scream followed by an immediate dead body?

"It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own desk."

The fact that the weapon was left behind and an item from the room indicates either crime of passion or some sort of accident (he ran into my sealing wax knife, he ran into it ten times). So we're probably not looking at a premeditated crime here.

‘The Professor,’ he murmured—‘it was she.’

Coming at it from a 21st century perspective, my mind immediately jumps to this being a rival female professor who had broken into the house to steal/sabotage Professor Coram's research. I imagine that is not what we're supposed to be thinking, however, as an Edwardian audience would not expect a professor to be female, and honestly, I kind of doubt ACD would go there, so 'The Professor' is likely to refer to Professor Coram OR another professor whose surname starts with She/sounds like Itwashi (Japanese perhaps?)... OR this is a reference to it being a banshee. It does feel a bit like one of those deathbed speeches that is misunderstood by the person listening to it. Especially with the line 'The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words.'

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track."

Stanley Hopkins here already proving himself head and shoulders above your average Holmesian police officer in that he actually looked at the evidence. Good for him. Unless it turns out that it was one of his fellow officers who walked on the grass in order to stop himself from leaving prints on the path... in which case, thanks for trying.

"What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

In spite of Stan's best efforts, Holmes remains bitchy af, as per usual.

"There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed."

We do only have the Professor's word about this, but I am overly suspicious of everything. For all we know this is a long con and the professor isn't even a disabled old man at all, he's been in disguise this whole time.

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes. “Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible."

He was still alive when he was found, so he might have foolishly pulled the thing out and thrown it aside.

"And, finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand.”

Stanley also likes a dramatic reveal, it seems.

Is it gonna be some pince-nez? Is it?

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it.

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

The only thing I can think of here is that they just have plain glass in the lenses and Sherlock is amused by the fact that they're part of a disguise. I don't see what else he'd be able to work out from them other than how bad the owner's eyesight is. Unless their eyesight is so bad that they could easily mistake Mr Smith for Prof. Coram... but then they were wearing the pince-nez before the murder, presumably, which would solve that problem. So yeah, only thing I can think is that they're costume glasses with no prescription.

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her.”

OK, fine... apparently it's the opposite. Her eyesight is so bad that she should be easy to trace.

I know a lot of people with very bad eyesight, I really don't think it's as uncommon as Holmes seems to be implying. The majority of people I know have glasses and many of them are practically blind without them. Increased computer usage probably has something to do with increased deterioration of eyesight in current times, but at the same time. London is very big, there must be plenty of women out there who have terrible eyesight, mustn't there?

The rest of it makes sense, though. And honestly, I'm mostly just glad that no one's saying that as her eyes are close together her criminal tendencies are clear. Wonderful to have a description with no physiognomy involved.

"As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects."

"Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire."

Good of you not to put the man out in the middle of a storm at 1 am, Holmes. Still a bit weird for a police officer to be sleeping on your sofa. Is there no guest room? I guess, now that Watson's moved back in in his widower years, he's staying in it again. And it would be cruel to wake Mrs Hudson up at this time of morning.

It seems we must wait until next time to learn the secrets of Professor Coram's household.

[emmedoesntdomath]

baby’s first fic exchange

I wanted to have this posted last night, but unfortunately, that didn’t happen, so here we are. I’m just going to start from the top, and work my way until now.

so, I tried running my first exchange back in february, before I even had an operating tumblr account. I set it up, I opened the sign ups…and then immediately panicked and took it all down, before anyone could see anything. I decided I was way over my head, and firmly swore to never try that again, ever.

(fun fact- emme doesn’t know how to keep her promises to herself.)

flash forward two months, to april, and a friend convinces me to create an actual tumblr account. she says it can be small, I don’t have to do anything with it, I could just be mutuals with her, and then talks me out of deleting it immediately, too. I make it through the first two-ish weeks essentially white-knuckling it, not knowing what to do, not talking to anyone, just reblogging parkner posts because that’s what I came here to do, okay.

and then I made that stupid post about wondering if anyone had any newsies asks.

and then crystal reblogged it.

suddenly, I was knee-deep in this fandom again; talking to people, making headcanon posts with @sparkedblaze, ranting about history until people took notice. and it kind of just,,, kept going??? I was sitting there the entire time, confused but having the time of my life, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for everything to go away again. and it didn’t. it SPIRALED.

at some point, we got close to the end of our headcanon posts, and I remember thinking, well, now what I am I going to do? I hadn’t really been posting new works, was stuck firmly in a writer’s block, and was bored. (bad things happen when emme’s bored.) and a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered- fic exchange?

and suddenly we were doing a fic exchange.

on the first day that I officially opened the sign ups, we got fifteen. FIFTEEN. I remember, because I was with my friends and just staring at my phone in shock. that, of course, grew to THIRTY SEVEN SIGN UPS. WHICH GREW TO FOURTY TWO WRITTEN WORKS. WHICH LEADS US TO LITERALLY TODAY. WHAT.

it was a two months of absolute joy, guys. and throughout that entire process, I was figuring out the minor details behind the scenes, having so much fun and occasionally freaking out to @sparkedblaze. it was a definite learning experience, and I legitimately can’t wait until next time. it’s going to be even better than the first, and I will guarantee that.

now for the fun part, since we’re done with the stories.

first of all, thank you so so so so much to everyone who signed up and participated. it was such a joy to work with you all, and then get to see what you created. I know a lot of you at this point, and it felt like one big party most of the time. I can’t wait to do it again <3

second of all, an even bigger thank you to those who tried to participate, but couldn’t. there were a couple of you that couldn’t get an AO3 account in time, or we couldn’t figure out an immediate solution, and thank you so much for being willing to join us, and for your patience with me. I am very excited to see you all in our next events.

third, to our lovely pinch hitter @ill-say-anything-i-hafta. you stepped in with exactly a week to write a fic, and gave us something beautiful. I owe you so much for that, and I’m so eternally grateful to you. I am waiting anxiously to see what you do next, my friend.

fourth, to @thatoneandlonelyemo2005. mack and I tossed headcanons back and forth so many times during this exchange, and I legitimately would not have the fics that I did without him. <333

and- of course- @sparkedblaze. you wrote pinch hits, listened to my freak outs, begged to help more, told me it was going to be okay, and yelled at me when I needed a break. you have done so much for this, and honestly, you deserve the majority of the credit for the exchange’s success. I owe you literally everything. thank you so much for all you do. know how much I appreciate and adore you, please <3

see you all next time. thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

[hskinhome]

Heyyy what's up? Could we get a shufflemancy or a tarot for beforian karkat in general? (Whichever is easiest? :)) Just his life and stuff if that's possible? We know he was *definitely* super pampered and spoiled but that's kinda all we know.

If 'life' is too broad maybe the game (if it existed?) And relationships?

Sure thing! I’ll do a tarot reading using this spread and my Homestuck Kickstarter deck, which should give you a better view of your life as a whole! Also, thanks to Mod Mituna for the behind-the-scenes interpretation input!

———————————–

First Card: Your past life as a whole

I got the upright Death card, which symbolizes the end, positive change, transformation, renewal, rebirth, new ideas, and new opportunities. Your spoiled-ness was to your detriment, causing you to stagnate in your beliefs and personality. However, you were taught how to be a better person (well, troll), and were reborn metaphorically! You transformed yourself, and as a result, new doors were opened to you! It was the end of your old, pampered self, and you became more giving!

———————————–

Second Card: Theme of major challenges

I got the upright Four of Swords, which symbolizes rest, retreat, recuperation, relaxation, and banishment. It’s possible that something you were passionate about caused you to become ostracized, and you retreated into yourself as a result. You may have slipped into a depression and lost your passion in isolation, and also struggled with fatigue and motivation for everyday living.

———————————–

Third Card: How you handled them, and their effects on you

I got the upright Chariot card, which symbolizes triumph, victory, success, control over natural forces, and balance. You were able to overcome your depression for sure, no matter how long it took! I don't know whether that was with yourself or with the people who banished you, but you were able to find the balance between yourself and your struggles to overcome them.

———————————–

Fourth Card: Lessons learned during this life

I got the reversed Eight of Pentacles, which symbolizes failed ambitions, false vanity, intrigue, and unethical practices of skills. You needed to accept that your pride and pampering, while definitely good for you for a time, did require some changing and overhaul. That doesn’t necessarily mean you were in the wrong the whole time, but you needed to make some effort to become a better person.

———————————–

Fifth Card: The impact or effect on your current life

I got the upright Six of Pentacles, which symbolizes charity with justice, fair distribution of wealth, generosity, presents, gifts, and material gain. In your current life, you’ve taken those past life lessons and put them to use! You’re caring and generous, possibly with a socialist/communist leading (/hj). But really, you care deeply about not only your friends but strangers, donating to charity and gift-giving being one of your top love languages! If this doesn’t fit how you are right now, it may be a good idea to consider how to integrate it!

———————————–

I hope this helps you! Let me know if it helps!

[hall0wedwyrm]

the only actual humans out of my fankids

Heather, Valentine and Victor!!

Val and Heather grew up incredibly close (bcs Mario and Luigi are very close) so they're essentially siblings. They also grew up with Niko and Nina (bcs Sonic is close with the brothers too (the hc that hes their third brother,,,,,, why does no one use it))

Heather technically has 4 parents. Luigi and Daisy thought it would be fun to be parents together, and they thought reaallly long and hard about it, and they went for it. The two of them are like ... super best friends. Daisy is with Rosalina (which Heather represents by the star earring) and Luigi is with Bowser (represented by the spike and also Bowser badge she wears). She's very bubbly and optimistic, like Daisy, and she's not much of a fighter, like Luigi.

Valentine is the youngest son of Peach and Mario. Since he was young, he LOVED the idea of being a ruler like Peach. He's a little bit sassy, and is incredibly capable of becoming a ruler some day (His oldest sister Clementine is happy being the beautiful daughter who's got an uncanny resemblance to Peach, and middle sister Florentine likes doing various business aspects of the kingdom) due to his strong head and determination.

until.

Victor Robotnik is the protege of Eggman, and also his son. As the new local menace, hes incredibly good at leading a Badnik army. Hes just absolutely ass at making robots... hes like a kid with crayons. Eggman officially takes the role of inventor and builder, while Victor is manager and battle field leader. Hes actually rather successful in his duty of... causing as much damage as possible really.

Valentine and Victor develop... an odd relationship. They are weirdly very into eachother??? but Valentine uses the logical part of his brain and thinks 'hey maybe i shouldn't date my uncles arch nemesis's son' and tries to avoid him the best he can. But its really reaaaaally hard to do that when your cousin is up in his business the moment he steps foot in Central City. (Spoiler; this logic does not last long)

deeeets:

Niko and Vic have a very similar dynamic to Eggman and Sonic from the Fandubs. Vic goes on a tangent and Niko basically tells him to shut up and then beats up his new weapons and leaves.

Victor sees the relation Heather has to Bowser, and he thinks he can get her to join him, but she just laughs at him.

Valentine and Niko made a truce, "I wont tell anyone about Victor, and you dont tell anyone about-" "wait who are YOU WITH??"

Victor really looks upto Eggman and Bowser, but when he learns Bowser doesn't do the villain thing anymore he's a bit disappointed

I think the pairing of Heather and another character is oddly sweet and equally hilarious but i think im gonna do a big post probably named Partner Reveal (mainly because i dont have a reference for Heathers partner yet)

When the four were young, Heather and Niko are the cousins that roll around in the mud together, and if any went on Val he would cry. (he still would)

okay thats all I'll be posting more soon teehee

[bomberqueen17]

sewing bandwagon

So I have been a member of the Cashmerette Club since like January or so, since it started this past year, and they’ve sent out a pattern a month, and it’s been awesome. Not every pattern has been like, a hit for me, but the major attraction to the company is that the pattern company founder has measurements very similar to mine, and while she’s not the fit model, she’s close. I’ve been hampered in my attempts to sew over the last few decades by patterns all being designed for a B cup, and up to a 38″ bust, and when i started learning to sew I was a 44″ bust which seemed like I could just make it work, but by now I’m a 50″ bust and it’s not even close. So I resented paying for patterns I’d then have to take apart and fix entirely with adjustments before I could use, but I didn’t know enough to make my own instead... Well, these ones fit me, and I was prepared to make adjustments and mostly just have not needed to. (Garments and patterns usually fit me too small in the bust, too large in the shoulders, and then the whole armscye is wrong, and then the fixes needed aren’t apparent. When you start off with a pattern that you can print off in a 20G/H and grade to a 22 in the waist then you suddenly find out that no, you don’t have narrow shoulders or freakishly small armpits. If the bust fits, the rest of the garment just... fits, and it turns out you don’t have a problem figure.)

so anyway. I wasn’t able to sew for most of the summer, after having gotten a fun start, so now I’m getting back to it. i’m going on a nine-day trip in late January and I have gotten it into my head to sew most of the garments I’m bringing. I probably won’t succeed at that, and it turns out I do actually own suitable garments for like half of the thing, but I’m going to try and we’ll see how far I get. Meandering about the plan behind the cut!

So we’re going someplace warm, which I’ll talk about later, and I don’t have a lot of warm-weather gear. I like dresses and want to sew dresses, and we’ll see when it comes time to pack if those are actually what I want to reach for! But in the meantime.

I had already made a muslin of the Honeybourne Dress, which is not from the club but is from the book Jenny put out  that I got for last Christmas-- a woven, gathered-skirt, darted-bodice dress. The muslin fits beautifully and is comfortable but is made from muslin so it’s off-white and there are few places I can or will wear a white dress; I will dye it at some point and then it’s likely to become a favorite. it’s cheap muslin so it crinkles funny and I’m not about ironing, so we’ll see how it holds up once it’s worn and washed several times. I’ve only washed it twice so far. Dyeing will change the texture too, so. That’s an experiment to make this winter! But after the success of that muslin, I immediately cut out a second one in linen, and then carried the pieces around all summer and did not sew them, so that’s Suspect #1 on my Get Shit Done list for this wardrobe sewing thing.

An aside for non-sewists: fabrics come in two broad categories-- wovens, which don’t stretch, and knits, that do. For busty sewists, tops can be shaped in two main ways-- darts or princess seams. There’s a third way, curved side seams, but that largely only works super well on knits. By this point, I now have patterns in all three major construction techniques, and generally understand how they go. I keep telling myself I don’t need any more patterns because, as the pattern company admits, it’s better to just pick a pattern that fits you and hack it to have whatever fashion detail is the new hotness, than get a whole new pattern and make all the rounds of muslins and adjustments you need to-- but, since these patterns so reliably fit me without major adjustments, I’m not as inclined to be sensible. They’ve been good, in the Club, though, at not just giving you too much overlapping/redundant stuff.

I have almost no trousers patterns though. Which is fine; i can buy trousers that fit, because my lower half doesn’t have the statistically-not-actually-that-outlier boobs problem. I just have Flat White Lady Ass which is actually sort of what a lot of trousers companies cater to. And I get it; the target market of Cashmerette is people who are bustier than the B cup most patterns are drafted for, which it turns out is the majority of people, but that selected-for demographic is not as eagerly clamoring for trousers patterns.

Anyway I’m bringing purchased trousers on this trip, and then a bunch of blouses and dresses I make. My second dress, I think, I am going to muslin the Kineton dress, and then make a short-sleeved one in a linen-rayon I just bought, though I’ll have to piece in some solid linen-cotton for some of the panels because the fabric store ran short on the print.

But for my first progress pictures-- I found all the pieces to the Honeybourne, re-marked the darts on the bodice, sewed the darts and shoulder seams on the machine, and stalled out again, and then because I am smart and nice to myself I brought the pieces upstairs with me and then last night on the couch watching a friend livestream Witcher 3 gameplay on Death March difficulty wearing only the towel you can pick up in the interview scene in Vizima, I brainlessly sewed both sleeve seams, quite easily gathering the sleeve caps to fit, and then went on and sewed the bodice side seams, and now I have an assembled bodice. I might machine-finish the seams, but it was a huge extravagance for me to just let myself do them by hand instead of saying “no it’s a waste of time it’ll be faster on machine” and then never doing it.

So--

[image description: brick red fabric, close up, with a line of smallish slightly-uneven black stitches crawling across it, the needle with trailing thread sticking out of the last stitch] It’s not the most beautiful hand stitching but it should be sturdy.

[image: looking down onto my torso, my head mostly out of frame to the left, I am wearing a slightly-baggy brick-red linen garment with a very even shoulder seam and the neckline finished in serged stitches.] It fits.... well it probably would fit if I put a proper bra on. I’ll have to check that today. Might need to go over the shoulders and take them in a bit, but then might not; I sized this up slightly to be loose, as the pattern is drafted to have a back zip and I hate back zips because of my fucked-up (but normal sized!) shoulders.

🤩 I should make a version of this with a front zip someday. We’ll see! Meanwhile I’m intending it to fit sort of loose and hoping it looks “breezy“ instead of “sloppy”, we’ll see.

[umlewis]

Lewis Hamilton On Winning Again and Making the Formula 1 Movie With Brad Pitt

Sir Lewis Hamilton is suddenly on a hot streak. In early July, the seven-time Formula 1 champion won the British Grand Prix for the ninth time, setting a record for the most victories by a driver at a single circuit. It was just the latest milestone for the 39 year old Hamilton, who has won more races and finished on the podium more times than any other Formula 1 driver in the history of the competition. But the win in England was his first in more than two years. He followed it up by finishing on the podium in third at the Hungarian Grand Prix in Budapest a couple weeks later, and then a week after that, Hamilton, who was knighted a few years ago, notched another victory at the Belgian Grand Prix after his teammate George Russell was disqualified post-race when his car was found to be underweight. I got a chance to sit down with Hamilton at the Ritz-Carlton in Budapest the night before the Hungarian Grand Prix. The Ritz-Carlton is the official hotel partner for the Mercedes AMG Petronas Formula 1 team, and I was one of a group of invited guests and prize winners who traveled from Vienna to Budapest in a convoy of Mercedes vehicles for what the Ritz-Carlton called the "Road To Legendary Car Tour." Hamilton stopped by to chat with the group and to offer a tasting of his non-alcoholic tequila brand, Almave, which he launched last year with the spirits company Casa Lumbre. Hamilton is taking on new challenges at the track, too. This season is his last with the Mercedes team. He announced before the season that he would be leaving after twelve years and will be driving for Ferrari in 2025. Hamilton is also going Hollywood, co-producing the much-hyped movie F1, which is scheduled for release next year and stars Brad Pitt as a former driver returning to compete in Formula 1. We talked about his battle to get back on top of the podium, how he stays in shape to compete with younger drivers, calling bullshit on the F1 screenplay, getting out on the track with Brad Pitt, collaborating with director Joseph Kosinski, and how he'll know when to walk away from racing. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

What do you get from doing something entrepreneurial, like launching Almave, which is different from everything else you're involved in? "I think as a racing driver it's really healthy to unplug and do other things and tap into other mediums, and when you get into the room to sit with a bunch of creatives-working with Casa Lumbre, for example, who have done who knows how many different spirits-they can explain to you the whole process. And then there's things that perhaps you ask them that they've never had to think about before." Your win at the British Grand Prix was your first time on the top of the podium since 2021. What was it like to finally get back to winning, and to do it on your home turf in England? "Everyone was talking about it being this fairy tale, and it really, really was unexpected. Going into that weekend I had no idea that that was going to be possible, and it had been such a long time. So many thoughts cross your mind. Some of them you start to potentially believe in, bit by bit. And finally I had that day when I was able to excel, and we excelled as a team, and it just kind of shuts that all down nd it helps you rebuild again. So it was really great to be able to do it at home, in my home country, with my family around. The last race in Mercedes at Silverstone. It couldn't have been more magical."

The past couple years have been kind of a grind for you after experiencing so much success for so long. What have you learned about yourself, going through that? "It's been mostly a battle of the mind; keeping yourself sane, trying to pick up new tools. Ultimately it always comes back to persistence and dedication. Hard work. It always does eventually pay off. I think I learned that life is really about how much pain you can experience and keep going, and how much you can suffer and keep moving forward, you know? And that's life, right? It's not how you fall, it's how you get up. It's how you continue to apply yourself every single day. It's how you connect with people that you work with. I probably learned to be a better teammate in this period of time, because we've had more time to focus on communication." There's been a lot of buzz about F1, the upcoming Formula 1 movie starring Brad Pitt. I know you're a producer. How did you get involved? "We were there from the beginning. There were a couple scripts out there. I had known Joe [Kosinski, the director] from when we talked about doing Top Gun: Maverick through Tom [Cruise]. Tom put me in touch with Joe, and there were discussions of being in the movie. And then we just stayed in touch. Then we all reconnected to talk about potentially doing a Formula 1 movie, and then we went through this whole process of working with a writer."

What was that like? Did the screenwriter interview you about the details of driving in Formula 1? "Ehren [Kruger, the screenwriter] basically did a ton of research, watched a lot of races, came to a bunch of races, and then went away and wrote up a script. But we would sit and talk about what racing is about. Then once he wrote the script, I would sit with him and call bullshit, basically, on the things that don't seem real and are not what F1 is about and try to make sure that it's as authentic as possible. Then, at the same time, I started a production company, so I'm a producer with these guys. I've been able to be involved in all areas, so making sure the cast is diverse, making sure we've got a woman in a pit stop, which we never, ever had at the actual track. Hans Zimmer was someone I wanted to have doing the [music for the] movie, so we have Hans Zimmer. Joe has been amazing at including me in everything." What types of things in the screenplay made you call bullshit? "It would just be racing scenarios, technical jargon engineers would talk, but particularly racing scenarios and sequences between overtakes and pit stops and strategies and all those sorts of things. There may have been a crash that was like the car hits the wall and flips and lands on the wheels and keeps going, and that doesn't happen in Formula 1." When you were prepping for the movie, did you ever get out on the track with Brad Pitt to check out his driving? If so, how'd he do? "Yeah, we went to a track in LA. I took him out and sat in the passenger seat, and he drove. I used to be a driving coach when I was younger-it was a way of making some money part time whilst I was racing-so I've sat with god knows how many non-racing drivers. You can tell immediately the good ones, the bad ones. Straight away he was on it. You could tell he has it. He has it in his DNA. He's just not been able to hone in on it like we have. But he's got big potential."

So you're confident he can give a realistic performance as a driver? "Yeah, but I think obviously it takes time. Ultimately, the story of a 50-odd-year-old jumping into the season and fighting against us youngsters, it's just not the done thing. But then there's discussing, how would you go about doing that? How much training would you have to do in order to really be able to come back and fight and react in the same way? Yeah, there's a lot of detail that went into it." How have you changed up your training routine over the years to stay fresh and competitive? "You definitely adapt always, and you learn you have to just watch your energy. Recovery is huge, a really big part of the process. It's the whole 360 thing. It's not just going to the gym. It's how much you stretch, how much physio you end up doing, what you eat, and that's constantly changing week by week. And obviously, depending on how much energy you have, the different time zones that you're in." You travel so much for your sport. Do you have rituals or secrets to make yourself comfortable when you arrive? "Not really. I listen to a lot of music. I have music set up in my room. I record music. Basically, I write and sing music, different sorts of R&B. So I record music at night. Often in my evenings, I read. Try to meditate, mostly in the mornings, but I don't always get to it. And then I'm focused on my sleep-try not to slack on that ever-so there's a cutoff time when I want to go to bed, depending on what time I need to be up the first day."

In working with a partner like the Ritz-Carlton, you have a chance to do different kinds of events, like the Almave tasting we just had. Any favourite experiences? "We were just talking about this the other day. In Mexico City I went to visit a school and see the kids. I love when I work with partners that are doing practical stuff. I think that's been a real shift. When I first joined Formula 1 we were working with partners, but less so in the human connection space. In the last five or six years, working with partners like the Ritz-Carlton, it's "What impact are you making? How do you give back?" When we go to a school, see youth and see that they're invested in children, for me, that brings real warmth to my heart, especially as my foundation is all about getting youth who won't have the opportunity, for example, to get into our sport, to get into STEM and channel through to a good career." Do you have a time frame for your career? You're going to be starting a new process with a new team next year. Do you have a plan for how long you'd like to keep racing? "I definitely do. There are days I'm like, shoot, I don't know how much longer I can go. There are days I'm like, shoot, I'd love a break, a proper break, because you don't get a real big break in the season like other sports. You don't finish until mid to late December, and then you're back into training already in January, and that's two times a day you're training. There are another couple of hours of therapy that you're doing during that time, as well, so you're not really getting a huge amount of downtime. And in February you're flat out running until December." That sounds pretty grueling. "But I do have, mentally, a plan of where I would like to extend to. I've just got to strategize and sequence things. I'm very much about sequencing, like looking at brands that I collaborate with, companies that I'm essentially starting, how I manage my time between all those, and how I'm able to dedicate myself to this job still. Is there a time when I'm not all-in and I'm just not in love with it anymore? That's the moment that hopefully never happens, in the sense that I've fallen out of love with it. But I will know when I need to stop."

You'll feel it. "I want to make sure I really max it out while I can and fully enjoy this sport I've done my whole life. There are so many people that have finished their careers early, and I've spoken to many who've said they wish they could have just done one more year or two, and they're like, "Stay in as long as you can!" But I don't want to do it if I'm not good, so it's like, how much do you want to train? When you're 22 it's so easy to work out and be fit. There's no recovery and you've got nothing else going on, no other stresses, no real responsibilities except for that one thing to go and kill. Now it's, how can you stay sharp and be able to do all those things you have going on, and still be able to compete with those young guys in their twenties?" Does it give you particular pleasure to beat the young guys? "Not particularly. I'm super competitive naturally. I don't care who it is. I just want to win." No matter who it is you're competing against. "Yeah. When I won the other day, I didn't think anything about anybody else. I just thought about my team. I thought about people that were with me. People that have sacrificed their time away from their families. People who were giving that extra bit of time in their day when they could have left early to go home and see the kids, and they've given that extra time to build these parts that got us that result. That's who I think about."

[deafmangoes]

An Ambitious Purchase

After getting a little too drunk with his peers, a Fiendish Braggadocio heads to Polythreme with half a purpose and less of a plan.

Link to AO3! Here's my entry for the @fallenlondonficswap, written for @bizarrebazaar13 and featuring over-confident devils and the delights of Polythreme!

When London fell, there were 4412 registered public houses. No one's entirely sure how many remain, or how many have appeared since, because the damn things no longer stay still long enough to be counted. Living in the city you eventually learn which pubs are For You, and which Are Not For You, according to your status, wealth, morals or humanity. The Seven Bells in Spite was a haunt for the infernal sort, pent up after a day's work at the Brass Embassy and looking to relax in ways that might be fatal to humans.

At a table near the bar a trio of devils were working their way through pints of bitter lager and glass after glass of brandy. The conversation had turned to boasting about recent acquisitions.

"Took the soul of a judge this week! Sold it to me for a kiss, the pervert," remarked a young devil, flushed with booze.

"Well, I got a ladies' sewing circle up near the palace. Every last one of them," replied another. The third devil, a Fiendish Braggadocio, fidgeted with his glass in silence for just a moment too long. The pair saw this and pounced.

"So, what did you drag in this week?" they teased, knowing the answer already. The third devil looked anywhere except at the pair. He hadn't made a successful purchase all month. It was galling. What he needed, he thought to himself as his companions laughed, was a really big score. Something monumentous. Incredible. Something that would get him noticed.

He finished his pint and slammed the glass down on the table. They stopped laughing.

"I've got a lead," he said, alcohol-induced terrible ideas coming to the fore in the form of the biggest lie he could think of, "I'm off to the docks, and..."

They stared at him, incredulous.

"I'm going to buy Polythreme."

That's why the Fiendish Braggadocio was stepping off a rusty steamship onto the living stone of Polythreme's quayside, clutching a suitcase filled with spare clothes and paperwork. He strolled along the water's edge, ignoring the muffled complaints of the flagstones below his feet, and searched for someone upon which he could foist himself.

He found one in the shape of a bundle of scarves and pair of damp zailor's overalls, hauled back from the depths. There may have been someone inside, the devil thought it best to not pry. The enthusiastic (if fishy) Salt-Encrusted Ensemble shambled forward and shook the devil's hand with gusto. Its glove had barnacles on it.

"Welcome to Polythreme, the Island Of A Thousand Voices!" it said, with a watery gurgle, "That's our new tagline, do you like it? Oh, no, don't answer yet, I'll send you a survey at the end of the tour."

"Tour?"

"Yes! We are one of the Polythreme Tourist Board's official guides, here to show new visitors the many Sights of Polythreme and our Vibrant, Living Culture!" it continued. The Fiendish Braggadocio felt he could hear the pronounced capitals. The clothes colony dragged him with a surprisingly strong grip up the harbour and into the main streets of the small city.

"To your left you'll see the Muttering Ampitheatre, and its twin the Grumbling Ampitheatre. Over on the right we have the city's finest coffee house - ignore the screaming, that's just the kettles - and the Wailing Folly, our tallest and least useful building..." it continued in this vein for some time, before finally dragging the devil to a boarding house that had been been garnished with a sign reading 'HOTTEL'. The clothes colony entered first and ducked behind the makeshift counter, re-appearing with a foppish top hat and monocle.

"Good afternoon, sir! May I furnish you with one of our finest suites? Our beds are the quietest and most co-operative in the city."

The devil nodded, a little dazed. The Salt-Encrusted Ensemble (and the Hotelier's Hat) shook his hand again, directed him to sign the guestbook (blank, maudlin) and gave him a key (conciliatory, fanged). It then ducked behind the counter a second time, re-appeared wearing a bellboy's cap, and snatched up the devil's suitcase. When at last the Fiendish Braggadocio sat on the bed (thankfully silent, for now) with a survey form in hand, he realised this had all perhaps been a mistake.

After three days the devil was certain: this was a mistake. His cravat had rebelled on the first day, refusing to be worn and professing its undying love for his left sock. He caught the cravat cavorting with his right sock later that evening, and the arguments ("I didn't know you had a twin!", "they seduced me!", etc.) continued all night. On the second day he found his suitcase had eaten his favourite hat, and the rest of his belongings refused to go on until they had held a funeral. On the third he had a nasty run-in with a razor that had turned bloodthirsty. The whole time he had struggled to get any information. Clay Men avoided him. The occasional visitors from London or the Elder Continent exchaged polite nods but little else. The Clothes Colonies were more interested in fashion trends than business. He was no closer to his goal than when he'd started, and didn't dare return to London empty-handed.

On another walk around the island he passed by a delegation from the Khanate. His Mongolian was rusty, but he was able to make out something about 'the Hundreds' refusing their meeting. It wasn't much of a lead, but better than he'd had yet. The devil returned to his lodgings and caught the Salt-Encrusted Ensemble as it was cleaning (in a maid's apron, no less).

"Who is- or who are, the Hundreds?" he asked while it dusted.

"Oh, didn't I tell you during the tour? The Hundreds is our king. A father, of sorts, to the Clay Men. I suppose to me he's more like a stern uncle."

"Where could I find him?"

"Everywhere, really! He's the entire island. But you won't be able to speak to him, he doesn't take many visitors. People try of course, they march up the hill but almost no one gets through the gates."

"So he lives up there?"

"I suppose from your singular perspective you could say he 'lives' there, it's where the island began."

The Fiendish Braggadocio considered his options. He had to talk to this king. Gifts were out of the question, he had nothing to offer, and he assumed the Clay Broker wouldn't make introductions. That just left breaking in. He could do that. He had experience. A plan came together.

Living islands needed their sleep too, it seemed, and there were periods of time where Polythreme became quieter. He had taken note of these over the days, and chose one such time to walk up the winding street towards the hilltop. He crouched in the shadow under the villa's walls and prepared his equipment: a rope stolen from the harbour, excited to be used for new purposes, a set of lockpicks that bickered with each other but could be bribed to co-operate, and his spare suit, ready to cause a distraction at the gates.

He gave the signal and his clothes lumbered away. Shortly after they were arguing with the guards, and the devil waited until he heard the Clay Men on the other side of the wall scraping towards the commotion. He threw the rope, which knotted itself to the wall, and made short work of climbing over. Quickly down the gravel path to the door and the lockpicks came out. They made short work of the lock, cajoling and daring it to open for them.

It was dark inside the villa. Fine copper lamps lined the walls but remained unlit. The devil stalked the sprawling complex, finding only room after room of furnishings that never saw any use. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Finally he came to a room simpler than the rest: it looked like the interior of a village hut and spurned the decor seen elsewhere in the palace. A marble statue finer than any he had seen in the streets sat over a low fire. It turned its head to meet him and the devil yelped.

"Well? You've broken into me and roamed my corridors. Here I am," it said, in a soft, accented voice that reminded the devil of the Fourth City. "I could summon my guards to remove you, or if I felt like it simply move myself such that you'd be left outside, but..." it paused, and gestured for the devil to sit. "I saw you arrive. I saw you outside the walls, I saw you open the door. I could have stopped you at any time, but I didn't. Why is that, do you think?"

"My charm?" the Fiendish Braggadocio offered, though there was uncertainty in his voice. The King with a Hundred Hearts chuckled, and the house shuddered with the statue's shoulders.

"You piqued my interest. I've had agents of the Presbyterate try to get in. I've had Hell's Triremes dashed on the rocks of my cliffs. Thieves from every fallen city. But they all knew what they were after, and it seems that you don't. I should be plain with you: I don't have a soul. Not anymore. I heard you speak with my Broker about it."

The statue stared into the fire in silence for some time.

"I will make you a deal, if you like. You may have something else from me, in place of what you cannot, so long as you do me a service in turn."

The Fiendish Braggadocio leant in close, the light of the fire glinting off his fangs. The King with a Hundred Hearts reached into the ashes with a stone hand and drew out a shard of diamond the size of a thumb. The whole building sighed and relaxed, as if something uncomfortable had been removed. The statue turned it over, watched it shine, then offered it to the devil.

"A piece of my heart. Take it west. Take it all the way to Hell." It saw the devil's surprise and explained, "I was a traveller once. I journeyed from my home in the far east following the sun. I went west until I found the Crossroads Shaded by Cedars. That world is long gone now, but still a part of me desires to go further. So take it - take me - west, further west, over the Hinterlands and past the White City. That's my price. Do we have a deal?"

"We do," the Fiendish Braggadocio replied, clutching the shard tightly. He felt the villa shift around him, and a door appeared behind the marble statue.

"Very well. Take this exit. The guards will not bother you." It dismissed him with a waved hand.

The devil made his way back into the quiet streets, and it seemed to him that everything held its breath as he walked. The Salt-Encrusted Ensemble stood outside its 'hottel' with the devil's bag already packed. It assured him that the bill had been settled and heartily wished him good luck.

So the Fiendish Braggadocio climbed back aboard the steamer and headed west, back towards the lights of London. He smiled to himself, looking at the diamond in his hand. The next round at the Seven Bells was on him.

[unnamedartist-portfolio]

DIY Sawdust brick kiln experiment : Take One

Okay so! As you may have noticed, I've fallen back into ceramics, and I am loving it! Last christmas, I made my dad a hand to hold one of his father's pipe out of clay, but I didn't have a kiln on hand, so it was raw clay, and I gave it to him with the promise one day, we'll try and make a kiln ourselves to cook it.

Well! Summer's back, and that day has finally come!!

After the smallest amount of proper research humanly possible, and armed with enthusiasm and total hubris, I settled on building a sawdust brick kiln, simply because it requires the least amount of skills and work, and is completely dismantlable. I stole all of my knowledge from this Potter Wheel tutorial (thank you so much!!), scouted the internet for reclaimed bricks unsuccessfully, grumpily settled on buying fancy new ones, and finally, we got to work.

The concept is really simple. Stack the bricks to assemble a chimney of sorts, stuff it with as much sawdust as you can, set the whole thing on fire. A pyromaniac's dream.

We placed all of our stuff at the bottom, on a layer of sawdust, filled the rest, lit it up, covered it once we were fairly sure the fire wouldn't die on us, and waited.

A whole bunch of grandkids were there too (you can see some little feet on the pictures) so we turned this into a cookout opportunity, because why not, and it was delicious

That being said, I am sorry to report the fire went out around 11:30PM, only about 8 hours after we started it, meaning we were 4 hours short on the amount of time we wanted it to last. We left the kiln to cool down over night as planned, but I was already fairly sure we did not achieve full cooking.

Here's what it looked like upon opening the next day (and I feel like an idiot because I got exited and moved some of the things before taking a picture, so their placement is not quite right, which could've been relevant... --')

We have:

two rimmed vase shaped vessels (that a friend of mine threw, I'm not there yet)

two small bowls

the most famous hand

and two hand built pouring bowls (with the handles) I made waay back that were bisqued but not glazed

So 5 raw clay pieces and two cooked ones. The idea was to see how different things would react, and see what I could learn from it.

First and foremost, I'm happy to report we had no breakage! Now, does that mean we managed to avoid any kind of thermal shock, or that we did not get enough heat to cause said thermal shock, I'm not entirely sure.

We definitively got some nice coloring on the bowls and vases, and the shine on the bottoms (that were trimmed and inadvertly polished in the process because the clay was a bit dry) makes me think we acheived at least /some/ cooking? They sound less dull when flicked, but we're still far from the bell like sound of thoroughly cooked clay.

The bigger vase got some nice petroleum shine that is also encouraging, but as you can see on that same third picture, and on the rim, it cooked completely unevenly, and all the light clay is still raw and dissolves and smudges when I rub it with a damp cloth. This is were I'm pissed at myself for messing with the placements of the pieces when I opened the lid, because the obvious explanation would be that the uncooked bit faced the walls of the kiln, but I can't be sure.

The hand, despite being in the middle of the kiln because I knew it would be the hardest to cook, is in fact, the least cooked one of the lot. I'm not at all surprised, modelling takes a lot more clay, and it is way thicker than the other raw pieces we put in. But the finger tips and edges give me hope that, with a little more time, we could cook it through!

The most successful piece is the smaller vase. It's still not ringing clear as fully cooked clay should, but it definitively got the most out of this firing, thanks to my friend's consistent and thin throwing.

As for the two pouring bowls, I forgot to take pictures, but most of the blackening and coloring washed off, and I can't say I'm surprised. They too have pretty thick walls, because hand coiling, and I really don't think we reached enough heat to cause the already cooked clay to react. Still, it was interesting to try!!

So all and all? I think we did pretty well for a first attempt!

The next obvious thing to try is to make the kiln bigger to allow for more combustible. Not sure when we'll be able to try again, probably not before september, but we'll get there!

In the meanwhile, I'm thinking of sacrificing one of these pieces to get a better idea of how much it did or did not cooked by leaving it to sit in water and see what (if anything) survives. Can't choose which one though. Help?

[ellowynthenotking]

Dec 21

Dear Dad,

Despite the fact that I've barely been able to help or do anything more than sit around, one of the priestesses at the temple must have felt bad for me because she let me do some of the dusting that needs doing.

So the temple is pretty small, apparently tiny from what I understand, so most of the alters and stuff are in rooms about the size of broom closets with little doors that close behind people. Some of the closets, as a result, are not opened for months, so they get pretty dusty. 

So, I got to go around on the topmost floor, which is mainly filled with gods and goddesses of the sky and light, and are also up like 8 flights of stairs, and dust everything so the alters would be clean for the festivities. 

The priestess I talked to said that this festival was one of the few nearly universally practiced. It's pretty similar across the continent. 

The first evening will be mostly people drinking, dancing, and festivalling through the night, eating various festival foods, and then, in the darkest depth of the night, watching the play about the origin of the world and deities. From there, the little ones are put to bed, and there's even more festivaling and people leaving offerings on the various alters. Most will be left on the altar of the patron god of this city, but people hoping for specific things, love, success, etc., will leave their sacrifices on the alters of the deities who are most likely to provide for them. 

I don't know if there's a god of portals, but I've got a couple days to look for them and see if they'll help us. 

The second day is all about the different other gods. Then more festivities and sacrifices. Then, the third day is about this area, the fourth is about whatever god is the patron here, and the fifth and final night is about the temple and city itself. Then, more festivities, with the morning of the fifth day all about praying to the gods and resting. 

Then, clean up for however long that takes. So that's going to be pretty neat. I mean, I'm not going to drink, so I'll probably have a harder time sleeping those nights, but I doubt anyone will bother me if I want to sleep in. 

So there I was, making sure that I was carefully dusting everything because just because I don't really believe in these gods doesn't mean I'm going to risk messing up the alters. When I found Zunair in one of the somewhat cleaner ones. 

I wasn't expecting him, mostly cause I thought he was over at the bard hall or working a corner or something. 

I think I startled him as much as he startled me because we both jumped, and he yelled at me a little. He had his instrument, a small stack of papers, and what I'm pretty sure was my spare pen. 

I asked him what he was doing there, and he said he was trying to come up with a new song. He thought it might be a good thing to give up, a sacrifice. I asked him if he thought a sacrifice would help us get home, and he said it couldn't hurt for us to try. We'd seen some weird, amazing, really out-there stuff, and we knew someone was magically healing people. It seemed related to the temples, so maybe it was gods or other beings like gods. Maybe they'd answer our prayers even though there were sure to be so many other people praying. 

I hid myself away with him in the room. Zunair's obsession with music wasn't something I hadn't heard from him or for him before, and I was curious. I asked him about it, and I figured it would be something he was just picking up, something passing like the magic for me, something to do here that could make a little money if he was half decent at it. 

Zunair told me about his mom. His mother used to play and sing to him when he was little, and Zunair wanted to learn to play, too. He told me about her incredible singing voice and how she'd bring any room alive with music. He'd learned how to play a little bit from here while growing up, but when he tried to pick up her guitar after she passed, he thought his father was going to have an aneurysm. 

He didn't, and Zunair hadn't tried again. The pain of that interaction, the memory of his mom playing, had been too much for a long time. 

But here, he missed his mom, and this was something he could do to remember her that wasn't hurting anyone and wouldn't make his dad cry.

And here, and now, where he wasn't home, and he still missed his mom, and where he wasn't home and just had to be here, more or less alone with the pain he felt and the loneliness, he could try it again. So he was. 

It makes sense to me now why the other Bard Hall let him in so easily then and why he was putting so much of himself and his focus into it now. He needs something to focus on, just like I did, do. His just happens to be music.

I hugged him and told him I'd help cover with the others if he wanted help at the apartment. It's nice for him to do, and he has been getting a lot better. 

I dusted around him and left him to keep working on the song. I'm sure it'll be something. I can't say good. I really don't think it will be, but it'll be from the heart, and I think that'll make it good enough. 

And maybe the gods will appreciate something new and made from the heart. 

Thankfully, there weren't any other surprises while dusting. But it was still so exhausting that I napped for a little while, waiting for Riley to finish whatever her tasks for the day were. 

Reese gave me a piggyback on the way to the apartment, which is probably for the best because I'm not sure I would have been able to make my way up the stairs. There aren't many, but it would have been too many for me. 

This weakness is just the worst. 

I hate it.

I don't think much else worth talking about happened. Grace helped clean up the pools on the bottom floor of the temple, and Zunair told me he was much closer to being done with his song, which is also great. 

Overall, it was a good day, and I got to hang out with Zunair and get to know him a little better, which was a surprise and a pleasant one at that. 

Good night, Dad. I hope you're sleeping okay and that you haven't had to spend too much of the time I've been gone on cases. Or maybe you have, so you're not too worried about me.

Love, Jack

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