#All are 100% hand sewn

[techtainia-makes-things]

All of my plush felt figurines May 2020-June 2023

Almost forgot Tailgate

[tattedpetticoats]

Latest project

[neo-nomatrix]

Thinking about Sugar Daddy Miguel O’hara

Sugar daddy Miguel who: spoils you like you’re the only person in the world. When he’s around you you’re the only thing that matters and the only thing ever on his mind. His only goal in life is to make sure you’re happy and he makes it very obvious. He sets out different cards for you to take on your latest shopping spree, but of course when he takes you out he has one rule. Always let him pick out a few outfits for you. It doesn’t matter what he picks out, whether it’s a cute dress for your next date or a few pieces of string sewn together to make lingerie, you are instructed not to complain. “But it’s so uncomfy, and it doesn’t even look nice,” you whine to him about the new set he bought you. “What did I tell you about complaining? I bought all of this for you so what I say goes. Don’t make me return everything,” he threatens. Your eyes go wide at the thought of him giving back your newest Hermès bag or your Dolce & Gabbana perfumes. You immediately throw yourself onto him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and apologizing for what you said. You know Miguel, if he really felt like throwing away the thousands he just spent on you he would without hesitation.

Sugar Daddy Miguel who: Despite your somewhat imbalanced relationship loves you more than anything. He might pay for all of your necessities and insure you won’t have to work another day in your life but he will always treat you as an equal. Even when it seems like your relationship is him giving and you taking he will always come home to see you by the stove cooking his favorite meals. At the end of the day you are nothing but a happy couple. He loves opening the front door and wrapping his arms around you from behind, kissing your head and taking solace in your love. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” he says, sighing. “Mm, I love you so much Miguel,” you hum in response. “amo más que nada, mi amor.”

Sugar daddy Miguel who: Fucks you with such meaning and passion. He fucks you like it’s the last thing he will ever do. He kisses you and eats you out like he was starved for 100 days. He takes glory in watching you wither beneath him. He begs you to claw at his broad shoulders, the only time he ever likes seeing you cry is when he’s inside of you. His absolute favorite thing to do is making love to you on a bed scattered with dollar bills. He was out all day and barely texted you, of course you were upset! The only way he knew to make up for it was to take about $2000 out of his account in twenties, fives, and hundreds and lay it on your bed along with rose petals. “Come to the bedroom with me, amor. I have a surprise for you.” You take his hand as he leads you to the bed. You’re in shock when you see the grand gesture. He spends all night loving you and taking care of you. “You mean everything to me, I love you so much. Please don’t be mad at me, it hurts when you’re like this,” he moans in your ear. So of course, you can’t be mad at him after this. You’d be insane to still be upset after he treats you like you’re the most delicate and precious diamond in the world.

After all, relationships are supposed to be equal. He buys you everything you want and you love him like no one else could.

[maskerat]

I made a Sebastian Solace mask + tail!

this is mostly a makeshift cosplay and not meant to be 100% on model. I might remake the tail for Halloween.

for the mask, I've used a feline base, for the tail I've used plush fabric and felt fabric - all hand-sewn.

[vincentbriggs]

Do you need a sewing machine to start making shirts and vests? Is hand sewing an option worth considering, or should I invest in a machine, in your opinion?

That's really a matter of personal preference!

Do you need a machine? Absolutely not! Every garment ever made before the 1840's was sewn by hand, and a lot of them after that too. I've sewn many garments completely by hand, including the early 18th century tiddy-out-violinist shirt, these bright orange breeches, and this green waistcoat.

Is it nice to have a machine? I think so, but again, individual opinions vary!

One of the costumers I follow sews everything 100% by hand because she finds it meditative and isn't interested in using a machine at all. Some people hate hand sewing and prefer to do everything by machine, with maybe a bit of hand finishing if they absolutely can't avoid it.

I do about a 50/50 split overall, maybe skewing a bit more towards hand sewing. I like to do pants, shirts, and nightgowns mostly by machine with some hand finishing, but for jackets and waistcoats I usually do considerably more hand sewing than machine, because I like 18th century tailoring techniques and think they give a nicer looking result. I do most of my buttonholes by hand, or I do them by machine first and then cover them in hand stitching.

Most people who sew do at least some of it by machine, but again, I don't know which way you prefer to work, so I'd suggest trying out both to see how you feel abut them.

For hand sewing, I suspect a lot of people hate it because they're using shitty needles and/or shitty thread, and perhaps haven't found good resources for hand sewing techniques.

Here's a post of hand sewing advice that I found quite helpful a decade ago. Use good needles because the eyes of the cheap ones have jagged edges and will ruin your thread! Use nice thread because the wrong kind will be twisty and tangly and will fray more!

Thimbles are good and useful, and typically they go on the middle finger of your dominant hand, and you use them to push the needle. I prefer metal thimbles and dislike using leather ones, but some people prefer the leather ones, or rubber ones.

The metal ones come in sizes, and I don't know how to find out your size aside from trying them on in person, but I know I'm a size 11.

One very important thing is that if you're hand sewing a garment, look for hand sewing specific instructions on how to do the construction techniques you're going for. A lot of the time when someone nowadays is trying to figure out how to hand sew a thing they'll just try and copy the machine sewn version, and a lot of the time that's inefficient and more difficult and the result looks worse, because machines and hands work very differently!

This is something I'm going to briefly discuss in the outro to the very long shirt video I'm working on, because it's so very common, and I've done it too! On several of my earlier hand sewn shirts I didn't know to turn the edge in on the front slit and do a little narrow hem, so I instead sewed on a facing for the front slit and cut and turned it, just like I'd seen on machine sewn shirts. This made it about 3x more time consuming, and the result was much bulkier and looked worse.

I've got so many more things to say about sewing but it's almost bedtime and I don't want to make this post too long.

For machine sewing, again there's a lot of personal choice. Some people like newer machines, some people like vintage or antique ones. I'm one of the ones who prefers solid metal vintage machines. I grew up using an old cast iron Singer, and the newer domestic machines just feel so plasticy and insubstantial to me. I'm used to ones that just do straight stitch and can also go backwards, but some people are perfectly happy with ones that can't even backstitch.

I do think that for a beginner the vintage machines are a better deal, because if you're patient and look around for a while you can snag one for really cheap at a thrift store, yard sale, facebook marketplace, etc. Also they're mostly metal and therefore harder to break.

I recently got a Pfaff (from I think the 1960's?) at an estate sale for 25 bucks. The zig zag mechanism is stuck and needs fixing, but I cleaned & oiled it up and it works just fine for regular straight stitching.

There are SO MANY online resources for how to clean, oil, and fix vintage sewing machines, especially the more popular brands, and a lot of the time cleaning & oiling is all they need. Read the manual and get an oil bottle with a nice long pointy thing so you can reach all the parts, and get some compressed air to whoosh out the fuzz. If it's old and hasn't been used in years, turn the hand wheel and observe every single place where metal rubs against metal, and Make It Greasy There.

(If you don't have the manual, you can often find those online too. I even found the service manual for my new-old Pfaff! I have the original users manual, but this one's for the people doing repairs.)

Oh this post is getting much too long! If you don't know yet if you like machine sewing, try seeing if you can use one without owning it, perhaps at a sewing class or in a makerspace. I know some libraries can loan out machines. A sewing class would probably be a good idea actually, if there are any available where you live!

Much like how you'll have a bad time hand sewing if you've got shitty supplies and no proper instructions on good techniques, you'll have a bad time machine sewing if it's not oiled well and if the tension is uneven.

There are so so very many things to learn about sewing and I hope I'm not making it sound too overwhelming, because I promise it's not if you take it one step at a time!

Also, when someone who's been sewing for a long time says "You may think you can ignore (piece of sewing advice), but actually that's bad and you will regret it", they're usually right. Oh, how I regret not learning to use a thimble years earlier than I did...

Sorry this post is so long, I hope it's helpful!

Basically, there's no one best way to sew anything, and you should try different stuff and see what works best for you, because everyone has different preferences.

[creaturecave]

Everyone, meet Misha - Misha, meet everyone!

🐲🪡🥳

I am SO happy with how this big guy turned out! I know I say this on every doll, but he seriously was SOOOOO much fun to bring to life! Misha is around 40cm tall, 100% handmade by yours truly: hand sewn, sculpted, painted, and styled! Who knew hairstyling demon locks would be so fun!? He has a head of synthetic hair from a full, human sized wig, showing off that excellent glorious look.

Misha also sports a new, jointed plastic armature that was handmade by myself, which means he has realistic movement and is super lightweight.

I want to thank my wonderful client for allowing me to take this opportunity to bring their wonderful character to life.

I hope you enjoy this character doll as much as I do - here's to the next! Keep an eye out for new commission openings in the near future.

And as always, thanks for all your love and support of my work! You can find more behind the scenes stuff on my Patreon!

[the-californicationist]

Let's get you to 100, new gif addition and prompt ask!

Reader likes being controlled, even as she chafes against it, but there's only 1 person she wants to have that privilege.

You decide who, have fun writing lovely 😏

heyyy!! im backkkkkkk 😘 sorry for the wait! had to go on a bit of a hiatus, so thanks for being patient. and thank you so much for the ask!! sexy as hell babes omg. hope you like it. i went a little overboard on the word count sorry 🫣

TW: light bdsm and contol themes, rough sex

Soft Reins

His voice followed you down the wet sidewalk as you made your escape, striding in long reaching steps to put more distance between yourself and your apartment. 

“C’mon, bonnie! Ye cannae walk in this shite. It’s pissin’ down. Bonnie!”

You waved and smiled up at Soap as he hung over the balcony of your shared space, a deep frown pasted across his mouth as he tried to dodge the raindrops. 

Living with the boys, as you lovingly called them, was full of challenges. For one, they seemed to be oblivious to deep cleaning of any kind, and if you didn’t have the primary school style chore chart hanging on the fridge, your whole house would descend into chaos. The only exception was their captain, and his standards were thankfully on par with your own. 

But, even worse, they were nosey. They seemed to love to be in your business, always making excuses to join you on nights out, standing in an all-too-intimidating pack when you brought home dates from said outings. Even Price was not above casually bullying an unsuspecting potential someone. It was enough to drive a girl mad.

You never got a call back. Any bloke brave enough to follow you back to your place, flanked by your surly entourage, was only as courageous as he needed to be to get his dick wet. After that, he’d ghost you. There were plenty of eligible partners who had much less intimidating roommates. 

In the past year, the longest relationship you had was with a man who didn’t make it over to your house for nearly four months. You had gone through all sorts of trouble to keep the boys from finding out about him, and you guarded his address like it was the nuclear launch codes. You thought you were in the clear when the team had to leave for another deployment, but one morning — when you were wearing only your boyfriend’s tee shirt — they decided to come tromping back in, totally unannounced. 

It was all over, then. Back to the drawing board. 

Gaz was the worst offender by far. Once, when you had planned a spa date for yourself, you’d been treated to all sorts of services that you didn’t order. The staff kept insisting that it was complimentary, but you knew in your heart that it wasn’t. By the end of the visit, you were left fretting about the bill. But, when you walked up to the counter, you discovered that it had already been paid. 

 “Oh! Your mister called it in. Already paid.” The clerk’s smile was blinding in only the way a clerk’s smile could be.

“And who is the mister?” You smiled to yourself, not with much joy, shoving your credit card back into your wallet.

“Well, he said he was your mister. A Mr. Garrick?”

Of course. 

You had only to turn around to see his shining red Beamer revved and waiting to take you to lunch. Gaz’s sunglasses gleamed in the daylight as he grinned down at you, standing over his car, his elbows resting on the roof, smug as could be.

You met him in the parking lot, bags and bags of essential oils and spa creams, heavy in your hands.

“Kyle,” you said curtly, “What did you do?”

“Nothin’, babes. Get in. We’ve got a table at that sushi joint you like.”

You complained that Gaz was overstepping. You moaned about Soap being heavy-handed. You lost your temper when you found the fourteenth Air Tag that Ghost had sewn into the bottom of your trainers. It was too much. You hated feeling trapped, and you thrived in your independence. But, living with these men meant that your desire for freedom was directly at odds with their desire for control. 

It wasn’t their fault, really. That was who they were. They were good at their high-profile special operation world-saving careers because they were good at control. It was what made them great soldiers. 

But, one of them was far better at it than the others. 

Captain John Price didn’t follow you down the street. He didn’t chase you in his shadowy, blacked-out Evija. And he certainly didn’t need to hide trackers in your clothes. No; his control was insidious. It made your blood boil, and it had you questioning your every move. He had a way of making you think that what he wanted was what you wanted, and when you ultimately discovered his plans, you could only blame yourself. Price was the king of control, but that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was that you liked it. 

You hadn’t been home for the holidays in years. Ever since lockdown, and your huge workload at your office, you just couldn’t find the time to make it back. International flights were hard to plan, expensive, and it seemed like something always came up. When you mentioned it off-handedly to Price, he’d comforted you, 

“Tha’s alright, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll find the time this year.”

That was in June. By December, your boss had mysteriously found out that you had a full week of extra paid time off that you needed to take, and your credit card called you to let you know that your airline mileage points had doubled. It was as if everything in the universe had aligned so that you could make it back to your family. 

You’d told the boys over dinner one night, and they celebrated with you, happy for you to be able to finally live your dream. Then, Price had grabbed your phone, reading the email and going over the fine print. 

It grated on you, but you needed to learn how to pick your battles in this house. So, you waited for his approval, tight-lipped. 

“Double miles… ah, there’s a catch,” his voice rumbled in his chest, low and even. 

“What catch?” You panicked. Nothing could upset this perfect balance you’d achieved.

He pointed down to the conditions, and you read it for yourself as he told you,

“Says here they granted double miles for two tickets purchased.”

“Two? Who the fuck am I going to get to come to Saskatoon in December?” You sighed, head in your hands, trying to figure out how you were going to make it work.

“Well, the boys are heading up to check on MacTavish’s mum, but Kate’s got me on a leash. I can ask her to make me remote on this project, if you want.”

His tone wasn’t sly. It didn’t sound like he was hiding something. If anything, he sounded earnest, and it was such a kind gesture of friendship that he would be willing to join you in order to help you see your folks. 

But, that’s what wormed its way under your skin. You knew it was him. You just couldn’t prove it. Months of God knows what kind of backdoor, black-market dealing and manipulation, all orchestrated just to…

Just to what? Make you happy?

Inwardly, you struggled against your bindings, the invisible ropes he’d so carefully weaved just to have you come to him of your own free will, bent on your hands and knees, obedient and eager for your reward.

“Jonathan…” You started to resist, to rebel. Every time you started your sentence, you were stopped in your tracks by the cold, hard truth: He didn’t force you to do anything. You’d done it all of your own free will. 

That was how it had started. But, holy fuck had it escalated. 

Price was the perfect gentleman on your flight over, mysteriously charming his way into business class seats. He downloaded some of your favorite movies onto his iPad, even though you didn’t remember ever telling him that they were your favorites. He even snuck his way back to the flight attendants’ galley, laughing and joking with them, procuring you two extra desserts from the carts since you were such a fan. 

Then, he met your family, and he fit in perfectly. It was as if he was the missing member, a long lost kin, just waiting to be reunited into the fold. Your mother couldn’t figure out what had you so bothered. 

“About time you brought a good one home. Even your Uncle Billy likes him, and Billy —”

You rolled your eyes, 

“And Billy doesn’t like anyone, I know. I know.”

“Honey,” your mother looked at you with a sternness that she didn’t often muster, peering at you over her rose-rimmed glasses, “Why can’t you just let someone take care of you for a change? He’s a good man.”

A good man. 

John Price was a killer. No, he was worse. He was a CIA-funded, black ops, government-overthrowing war machine, capable of literal atrocities. You hadn’t heard much, but you’d heard enough. If any of these people knew how quickly he could turn a crowded room into an empty one, none of them would be looking so fondly at the way he snuggled with the dog or complimented your dad’s knife collection. 

But, that wasn’t why you protested, was it? If you were really being honest with yourself, the reason why you were so against letting Jonathan War Machine Price run your life was that it was yours to run. You didn’t need anyone’s help.

You didn’t need it.  

You could handle things on your own. 

You liked being able to spread your wings, fly your own path…

You were nobody’s puppet.

But, you were starting to like the way he was pulling your strings. When he would take the pressure of choice away from you, after you’d already been making a million other decisions at the end of a long day, it eased something inside of you in a way that nothing else could. It was like he was using those huge, rough palms to massage the hurt out of your head, to show you that it didn’t need to be such a battle, you didn’t need to keep fighting. He would do the fighting for you, and he was determined to show you that he was good at it. 

Even now, as you stomped through the rain, you knew what you were running from. You told yourself you were avoiding John, that you wouldn’t let him see you struggling to hold yourself together. After a much needed switch into a different position at work, the stress of your own expectations weighed heavy on you. But, you wanted them to. You wanted to know that you could still make it alone. You didn’t need John Price. 

But, you’re wearing the slicker he bought for you when yours got left in a cab.

So?

But, you smell like oud, saffron, and bergamot; the perfume oils he found for you at that local boutique you love. The same one he always compliments when he smells you wearing it. 

So?

But, you’re tired and wet and cold, and all you want is for him to tell you what you want.

So?! 

The soft, amber glow of a cigar stopped you in your tracks. A man was sitting on your bus stop bench, his arm slung over the back of the seat, his legs spread wide, taking up as much space as he liked. He was smoking slowly, enjoying every breath, savoring the flavors. Flavors you knew all too well: vanilla, licorice, sweet cedar, and whiskey. 

His sharp, blue eyes only met yours when you let out a labored sigh.

“What are you doing here, John?”

He took another drag, letting the ashes smolder, their warm glow making him look more and more like the Devil, a fallen man bathed in the light of a fire he lit all by himself. And damn proud of the blaze, too. 

“Just waitin’ for my ride,” he smiled in the way that a cat must smile at a mouse under its paw, “Do you wanna sit down, sweetheart?”

“No! I don’t wanna sit down,” you threw up your hands, “I want you to stop meddling in my life. You’re not allowed to keep making me feel like… like I need someone… some — Like I need someone’s fucking help. I don’t need anyone but me.”

His tone shifted in a sudden heat, like a flash in the pan, unexpected,

“Do you think I have any bloody help?”

Price let the question sink in before standing in front of you, his gaze never leaving your eyes. His voice was soft and gravelly, thick with smoke, and yet each and every word cut into you as sharp as a blade,

“Do you think anyone comes to help me when I’m deep in some bullshit, fuckin’ around in Rammaza? Just me, is it? By myself?”

“I don’t… no, I don’t know…” You hated how small your voice sounded in this tiny bus stop hut, the pounding rain drowning out your words. 

John looked at you as if he was waiting on you to find another answer, and then his face softened. He flung the cigar onto the pavement and crushed it out under his boot, smashing the tobacco into the cement without mercy. The object of his affection, once consumed, now snuffed out under his own power. 

His hands wrapped around your shoulders, caging you in, warm and safe from the wind blocked by his broad back. He sighed, his mouth drawing a tight line across his face, 

“Of course I need fuckin’ help. I have my men, and they have me. And I keep you here,” he jammed a finger hard into his chest, “Deep inside me, remindin’ me what I need to come home to. I’m not… meddling in your life, love. I’m trying to put you in mine. I thought…” 

He pulled away, sitting back down, looking up at you with a unique look on his face, 

“I thought that’s what you wanted. If I’m wrong,” he let out a dark, bitter chuff, “You need to tell me right now. ‘Cause all my plans have you in them.”

The rain made the plexiglass roof sound like it was shattering, over and over, the concussive slam of the storm created an oppressive din. He was waiting there, looking at you, asking for your next move. What was your plan?

“Am I wrong, sweetheart?”

You waited, trying to see how many steps ahead he was in front of you. If you said yes, if you said no; what decisions had already been made for you? Did he know what you were going to say before you did? And the real question: Why were you fighting so hard against something you wanted so badly?

You shook your head back and forth, just enough for him to see. HIs eyes lit up with hope and energy, a renewed flame.

“Then, come home with me. Quit bein’ so bloody hard on yourself. Let’s get you dry, love. C’mon.”

So, you obeyed. 

Nothing was more humbling than climbing into a squat little sports car when you were drenched to the bone. You curled yourself right into his cage, feeling silly for ever wanting to escape from it. Why were you pulling so hard against such soft reins? Couldn’t you see that he wanted to take care of you? To remove all of your barriers, to clear your path? You would be more powerful under his wing, soaring far beyond what you were capable of on your own. Why deny yourself a bite of the apple? It was ripe, the snake had promised, and sweet. 

He helped you up the stairs to your flat, walking you past his men as they gathered together in the kitchen, speechless, for once. None of them dared question their captain’s choices, and he had chosen you. More than that, it was clear that you had chosen him. 

Once you were in his room, behind a locked door, he held up a hand and stopped you in the entryway, shivering and dripping by the door. 

“Wait here.”

You waited. 

You waited some more. 

Just when you thought you would turn around and take yourself to bed, he returned dressed in a dry tee and a pair of running shorts. He carried two large, fluffy towels, and his face was set into a serious mask. All business. 

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated, looking at him to make sure you heard him correctly. 

He met your gaze, standing so close to you that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His chest was inches from your face, and you had to look up in order to meet his eyes.

“Take.”

He grabbed your phone out of your hand and dropped it on his entry table.

“Off.”

He rucked the jacket off of your back, peeling it down your arms and letting it fall to the ground with a wet slap.

“Your.” 

His fingers pulled the tie out of your ruined braid, letting the elastic roll onto his wrist. 

“Clothes.”

His hands went back to his side. It was up to you to do the rest. He wasn’t here to do everything for you. You were not his plaything. You had to choose to obey him. He wanted to watch you choose to follow his orders, not because you needed to, but because you wanted to.

Slowly, and a bit unsure, you began to shed your layers. You started with your shirt, almost knocking into him with your elbows since he was towering over you, standing in your space. Then, you writhed out of your jeans, peeling them off of your legs, kicking away your shoes in the process, stepping gingerly out of your socks, needing to hold onto his thick trunk for balance. 

Now, in just your bra and panties, you waited, hoping he’d hand you a towel. 

“What did I say?” He asked in a hushed tone, the timbre containing just enough warning to make your cheeks hot. 

“No, John. The boys are here in the kitchen!” You protested, whispering in a low hiss. 

This was beyond what you expected from him. You’d been keeping him at arm’s length, despite his constant pressure to be in your life. Sure, there had been moments of weakness. You’d shared a kiss, and you had let his hands wander when you watched a movie together on the sofa last weekend, but that was as far as things had gone. Stripping naked in the bright light of his apartment suite was something else entirely. Not to mention what sort of noises would seep out under his doorway if things got out of hand. 

“Stop,” he grabbed you by your face with both hands, making you look at him, “Stop fighting me. I am in this. All the way. The only time I wanna hear you tell me no is when you really mean it. If you say stop, I will immediately stop. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded. He released you and put his hands on his hips, impatient. 

So, you slid out of your bra, slowly letting the cups pull away from your breasts, the lace cold and damp on your skin as it joined your outfit on the floor. As you rolled your panties off of your hips, stepping out of them and shoving them under your jacket with your toe, you felt more than just naked. You felt vulnerable and a little scared. 

What would he say? What did he plan to do? You realized, with a chilly shudder, that you didn’t even know his personal preferences. He’d never even given you a cursory glance into his mind, and reading his thoughts was impossible with that serious poker face. Most men wore their thoughts right across their eyes, or some (like Soap) even muttered them aloud, unconcerned about any judgment or scrutiny. If a man wanted you, you’d know. They were an open book. 

But the captain was very hard to read. 

Suddenly, as you stood back up, warring with your own mind, you were surrounded in fuzzy, comforting warmth. He was drying you off, wiping your arms and legs with reverent care, squeezing the rain out of your hair, using the corner of the cloth to wipe your face, holding you in his arms when you felt weak, off-balance, exhausted. 

It seemed as if the more you relaxed into him, the more power you gave up, the more it began to stoke his fire. While you became soft and pliant, he shifted into a fierce protector, covering you with his hands, bracing you with his heavy bones.

Price wrapped your hair into a high bun with an unexpected level of skill, and he carefully stretched your hair tie around it. When he turned to face you, you caught him staring at your body, raking his eyes over your breasts and studying the curve of your mons. It was as if he was groping you with his eyes, and each swipe of his gaze felt like a lick from his warm tongue. It was enough of an invasion that you wanted to put your hands in front of yourself, to hide out of some sort of shame.  

But when you made a move to cover yourself, the look in his eyes was enough to make you stand with your hands at your sides, allowing yourself to be on full display for him and that ravenous glare. He hadn’t even needed to chastise you. His mere desire was enough of a correction. 

Then, almost like a reward, he wrapped the towel around you, letting you hold it tight to your chest. 

“Tell me what’s goin’ on inside that pretty head,” he commanded you, his voice quiet but firm. It was just a simple question, but you knew it was loaded. So, you brushed him off, tossing out cheap bait, wrapping the towel a little tighter around yourself, hoping he’d drop it. You shrugged,

“Just cold.”

His jaw set with a click, and that soft purr became a warning growl,

“That’s one,” he held up his finger, “The next lie will cost you that towel, pretty girl.”

You stared at him blankly, trying to find a way through this labyrinth he had — apparently — custom built for you, sending you down twists and turns and dead ends as if he knew exactly how you’d try to steal back some control. But every way out seemed like a worse fate than simply allowing yourself to trust him. Nevertheless, you tried again. 

“I am cold, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day, John,” you sighed, shifting towards him, trying your best to take back the lead to his strange dance, “C’mon, don’t you wanna take me to bed?”

You reached out a hand and snaked it under the hem of his shirt, exploring untouched skin, letting your nails scrape through a dark patch of thick hair, right above his waistband. Your fingers got as far as his navel before he snapped. 

The cold absence of him ripping the towel away from you felt worse than you expected it to. In fact, you hadn’t actually taken him seriously. You protested, indignant,

“Hey! What —-“

“You think this is the same game you’ve always played,” he snarled, throwing the towel away and shoving you to your knees, his hold crushing and cruel on the nape of your neck, “You think, because those lads will eat any scraps you throw to them,” he nodded behind you, gesturing toward his men only a thin wall away, “That I’ll be satisfied with a taste, hm?”

His tone was mocking, and there was an undercurrent of darkness that lingered between each word like a warning, like the red of a poisonous berry that shouldn’t be picked and yet sagged ripe and ready on its stem. 

“You always get your way with them, don’cha? You know that a bit of skin and a little attention will keep them on you for days. And they reward you for it. They text you at all hours of the fuckin’ night, beggin’ you for just one more look, one more bite,” his mouth was right next to your ear, bending over you, casting his shadows across your face, and all you could do was kneel there, fully under his control, unable to move against his immense strength, “But, that’s not what I want.”

Your eyes dared to slant over to the growing monster that pressed its warm body against his shorts, hanging heavy and stretching the fabric, and you dared to hiss at him, even in your compromised position, using his title like a knife, aiming to scrape him with it,

“Seems like you do, Captain.”

He smirked, you could feel his smile against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, and you could see his almost infernal expression out of the corner of your eye. Even though you were trying to get under his skin, it made you feel like you were playing right into his hand yet again, helpless to his will. 

He stood up, never letting go of his grip on your neck, pinching the muscle like you were a caught rabbit, his writhing prey. Then, with a force that made your stomach drop, Price shoved your cheek into the crotch of his shorts, bringing you face to face with the outline his swelling shaft. Your nose was buried in the fabric, and you could smell the soap of his detergent as well as the musk of his sex that throbbed underneath. 

Then, he rucked down his waistband to show himself to you, pressing his length along your cheek, the softness of his skin surprising you just as much as the size of his thick, hefty prick. 

He held your neck in one hand and his cock in the other as he began to stroke himself up and down, letting your temple  and cheekbone feel the slip of his velvet foreskin. You could hear soft, wet clicking sounds as he coated himself in his own fluid, using the clear, dripping pearls as lube. 

You tried to move your jaw to taste him, eager to know if the heady, intoxicating smell of his skin matched his precome, hungry for his reaction to your mouth. But he stopped you, tightening his grip and scolding you like a naughty pet,

“My body wants your body, love. I’ll admit that,” he chuckled, not halting his lurid, jerking pulls, using your cheek for friction, “But I want more. I don’t want a taste. Or a bite. I won’t be satisfied.”

He frowned a bit, shrugging off his confession before he continued, 

“I want you to trust me. Trust that I’ll be here for you, that I’ll always be here. So,” he tugged on your flesh, forcing you to meet his fiery gaze, “Tell me what you thought.”

What were you supposed to say? That you were insecure about your looks? That you weren’t sure if he’d approve? That you were either too much or not enough and you weren’t sure which?

You turned your mouth as much as you could, trying to at least lick along the warm underbelly of his rod, aching to taste him, but he jerked you back into place, laughing at the disappointment on your face,

“Lips to yourself, love. Only good girls get fed.”

You rolled your eyes up to him, and you knew you had to make a choice. He was joking, but it was a façade. He was using it like a shield, waiting to see if you would actually relinquish your control or if you’d cut and run like you did with everyone else. 

So, you decided to trust him, giving him what he wanted, a full confessional on burning, bent knees, eyes cast up at your new master, praying for his communion, your tongue eager for his body and his blood and his love.

You made sure his eyes were locked on yours as you spoke softly, unflinching in your resolve,

“I was worried you wouldn’t like what you saw. I needed you to want me. I was afraid.”

The relief that washed over him was nearly palpable. His whole body responded to your admission, all of that tightly-wound uncertainty melting away in the heat of your submission to him. 

“That’s it. Good,” his voice was heavy with his relief, and he almost seemed like he was slipping into a trance, rubbing himself in steady, long strokes, shuddering against your cheek, “And what now, hm? You want me to let you go? Let you free? Or are you gonna let me in?”

You didn’t break your eye contact with him, but you wavered, sure of your decision but overwhelmed when you had to say it out loud. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling the slick mess he was forging between them, trying to find some comfort. You took a breath and told him,

“I’ll let you in, John.”

His throat held back a long, low groan, the pleasure of your surrender or the pleasure of his hand forcing it from his chest. You weren’t sure which. 

His grip loosened on your neck, but he didn’t let go. His voice was barely above a whisper as he told you his rules in hushed, broken phrases, holding himself back from the edge,

“You belong to me, now, sweetheart. You might be in charge at your bloody job, but everything else is mine. Do you hear me?”

You were going to answer him, you’d even planned to tack on a cheeky little yes, sir, just to show him you were playing along, but he had other plans. Always a step ahead. Before you could even breathe to speak, he pressed the tender head of his cock between your lips and deep into the warm hollow of your mouth, his wide form forcing your jaw to fall open to let him inside of you. It shocked you to be taken that way, not roughly but so certainly, with such surety, as if there was no other choice but for him to take you. You shifted, but with his knuckles tight against the base of your skull, you couldn’t retreat. Other than lolling your tongue along the body of his shaft, or swallowing against its drooling tip, you were powerless. 

His face twisted into a hungry sort of smear full of teeth and lips, grimacing at the feeling of being surrounded by you. Every inch that he drove himself deeper, his breathing would halt until at last, as he buried himself into your clenching throat, his lungs had emptied, and he was sighing with a ragged, guttural cry. 

“When you’re with me…” He continued his dark promises to you, the words choppy and broken, only threaded loosely together between panting gasps, “Even when I’m a fuckin’ world away, I promise that I will take care of you,” he pet your cheek with the softest affection, admiring you like a work of art, “All of you. You will sleep when I say. You will eat when I say. You will come when I say,” he smiled a little more cruelly at that, watching your eyes widen. And, as you began to wish for air, planting your palms against his firm, muscular thighs, ready to push away, he looked down at you with a lurid satisfaction, “You will breathe when I say.”

You were choking. You could hear yourself in the quiet of his room, your throat gurgling, full of your own viscous drool, escaping where it could along the stretched line of your mouth, running down your chin and neck. You felt the flare of panic rise up within you, and you tried to pull away in earnest, writhing against his grip, trying to escape from him and failing, turning your body in shameful futility. 

Price bent his face toward you, folding himself to whisper his lustful words, making sure your eyes met his, pressing your nose into his soft pubic hair,

“You. Breathe. When. I. Say.”

He kept himself contorted like that, keeping his face low to watch your eyes, to witness your struggle, and you felt hot tears burn down your face, the effort overcoming you. But, you wanted to show him that you could obey. You wanted to trust him, to show him that you were willing to give him your freedom, knowing that only he was worthy of such a gift. So, you swallowed deeply, watching as it made his eyes flutter, and again, and again. Over and over, you closed your throat around his steel-hard length, choking when it became too much. 

Still, he kept you there. As brave as you’d been with partners in the past, even those moments were fully eclipsed by this one. You had never even thought that you might be capable of holding your breath for so long. 

You were sobbing wholeheartedly now, your eyes reflecting your desperation, tears pooling and spilling across your face. He was watching you cry, whispering breathless nothings, soft words of encouragement,

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

Just as purple and blue spots began to obscure your vision, he pulled himself out of you in a terrible, wet departure, leaving you clutching his hips, sobbing into his belly, watching his hard cock pounding, swaying at full height, swollen with blood and eager for its finish. You could feel those same soft, dark hairs matting down as your tears soaked into them. He ran his fingers through your hair, keeping the fallen strands out of your face, still holding you at your nape, but just to comfort you. 

You imagined him letting go, and you felt… sad, somehow. He would have to release you at some point, but you were in such a submissive state, just the idea of him leaving you without his guiding hand was too much to bear. 

Your cries turned to a twisted kind of grief, and when he heard your tone change, he dropped to the floor with you, holding you to his chest, rocking you back and forth, shushing you and talking to you in a hushed voice,

“Shh, baby. Tell me to stop. Tell me…”

You grasped at him wildly, uncontrolled, holding onto whatever part of him you could, shaking your head,

“No, no. Don’t — don’t let me go. Please, I can’t… I need… I need you to touch me.”

You planted one of your hands across his, covering the one that gripped your neck, pressing it like a plaster, like it was keeping a wound healed, like it was a dam in front of your frothing, vengeful river; it was a lifeline and you were adrift. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not gonna let you go. I’m right here. Shh. Shh. It’s alright. I’m here. C’mon. Come with me.”

He lifted you, helping you walk on sore, shaking legs, your nerves sparking across your skin. Then, with his hand still firmly planted against your neck, he led you like a shepherd with his lamb, marching you to his bedroom. As you approached the bedframe, your thighs hit the mattress, and Price guided you forward until your body lay flat against it. The duvet was cool and smooth against your belly and breasts, and you tucked your arms into yourself, looking for warmth. 

You felt John plant gentle kisses across your back, trailing them down your spine, and after the overstimulation you had just gone through, even his lightest touch was electric. 

Your tears had stopped, but still you panted, sniffling, trembling from the shock of his careful kisses, waiting for whatever would come next. 

You felt his hips press against your exposed ass cheeks, his shorts now missing, and all you could sense was his warm, furry skin. You sighed into it, happy for the connection. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

You complied immediately, all of your tortured resistance gone from you now, ready to trust him to take care of you. 

The unknown was what made your belly swarm with butterflies, and as you waited for his next move, your mind raced with possibilities. 

Would he be cruel? Would he punish you for your lying when he had first taken you in? His hand might strike your tender flesh, slapping your ass and leaving red, angry marks. 

Would he be lustful? Your mind fed you imaginary moments where he would press his cock into your pussy, skipping any foreplay, simply using you like his warm, wet toy. You thought that he wanted more, something more intimate, but if not, you would let him. You were his to use. At this point, you were so pliant, so open to his will, he could use you over and over and you would take him. It was a dark confidence you had never known until now. 

Perhaps he would simply stop. Maybe he perceived you as weak, as if you couldn’t take what he wanted to give you. He would simply comfort you, pitying you for your wrecked state. It was this thought that turned your stomach. Surely, he knew you better than that. John Price was not the pitying type. 

As the base of his cock lay nestled in the cleft of your ass, still as hard as a stone, his long shaft was shoved up against his lower abdomen, pulsing with unslaked desire. Then, as he settled himself, pleased with your spread display, John began to slip the very tips of his fingers into your pussy. He was just feeling your softness, plucking at your petals, laying them open with his hand, using your own wetness to paint your lips and the tight muscle of your hole, preparing you for more. 

His voice broke the trance that his touch had put you in, 

“It kills me when I have watch you putting yourself through hell. You are so strong, but you deserve to have everything you want. Everything you need, I’ll make sure you have it. I promise.”

He was so sincere, and his voice sounded so sure. It was like he was sharing an old memory, something he knew by heart. 

“John, please…” You whispered, feeling yourself slipping, slowly becoming untangled by his touch. You needed more, but you had no words. You could barely concentrate, and your mind was swimming in a liminal space, trapped in a loop of mounting bliss. 

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you felt your tears return, and although you were desperate for something, you couldn’t find the answer. 

“Shh, shh, shh. You’re alright,” John rubbed your back with his free hand, smoothing your skin with his warm touch, “Does my pretty girl need to come?”

You nodded, daring to glance over your shoulder at him as he worked on you, his finger now sinking deeper into you, gently prodding your walls in long, aching circles. His other fingers were cradling your folds, slipping between them with each undulating thrust, brushing beside the swelling body of your clit and making you throb with need. 

He felt it, and you saw a warm smile spread across his face,

“I can feel you needin’ me. So wet for me. Fightin’ me so bloody hard. Thought I’d be wantin’ you forever. Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of havin’ you under me like this? Fuck, I need you so badly, baby.”

You felt his grip tighten on your neck again as he pressed you deeper into the soft mattress, his prying hand picking up the pace. His thick finger finally slipped down to the knuckle of his fist. As he fucked you on his hand, you could hear your body’s slick as it softened for him, submitting to his power just as you had done, your body at peace with your mind. 

He pressed a second finger beside his first, twisting them together, curling the tips to rub you from the inside, making you feel the deep ache of your orgasm building within your belly. 

You tried to find more friction, rocking your hips against the bed, squeezing your legs together, needing more but completely helpless to his pace and pressure. 

Price stopped, pushing his fingers right into the tender flesh of your neck as a warning,

“Open,” he shoved your foot away, spreading them for you, “You keep fighting and fighting… fine. I’ll give you something to fight for, hm?”

You tried to twist your knees together again, but his legs stood apart, holding you open. Then, you felt his threat. He put the head of his heavy prick against your greedy hole, dipping it into your wetness like a seal into warm, melting wax.

“C’mon,” he squeezed your nape hard, once, just enough to get your attention, “You wanna drive? Fuckin’ drive, love. You think you can fuck yourself better than I can fuck you? Prove it.”

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him, watching the muscles ripple and pop in his forearm that held you down, unwilling to give you full control, and yet allowing you to set the pace. You saw his other hand rub the curve of your hip, dropping lower to grope your ass, egging you on. 

Unwilling to beg, you thrust yourself down onto his shaft, gasping from his girth, only managing to fit half of him inside of you, physically unable to go any deeper on your own. But, you tried again, lifting away, sinking back, repeating your movements and reaching between your legs to rub your clit as you fucked him.

But, it wasn’t enough. You felt so close to the edge, and yet you couldn’t tumble over it, losing your rhythm, chasing it down, too weak to reach the peak you knew was right within your grasp. 

You grunted in frustration, and his cruel laugh made you turn back towards him again. 

He shrugged,

“I thought you wanted to be in charge. Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You gasped, trying to catch your pleasure and feeling it slip from you yet again, humping your hips against the bed shameless and desperate. 

“Tch,” Price gripped the inside of your ass cheek, shaking it and rolling your soft flesh in his hand, “Too bad, love. I wanted to give it to you. Shame, really.”

“John! Please,” you caved, sobbing out a short moan, begging him impatiently. 

“Please, what?” His question came just as he decided to press himself deeper into your body than you had been able to go, sinking into you like a hand into a glove, a tight, all-encompassing fit. 

You whined, rolling your fingers over your clit faster, feverish, ready for relief, 

“Please make me come.”

“You will come…” He stretched you, giving you no warning, the sharp feeling of his invasion making you catch your breath, “When I bloody tell you to.”

Then, as if to prove it to you, he stuffed his length into your pussy, never pulling back very far, choosing instead to massage you with his cock, using his base to stretch you wide before rolling away. The sensation overwhelmed you, and his size made your mind go blank. Any words that formed in your mind turned to whining cries of pleasure on your tongue.

There were no sounds of lewd pounding of flesh on flesh. All of Price’s work was deep and wet, churning inside of you like a volcanic sea, hot and untamed. He, however, made plenty of noise, praising you in every way he knew how, speaking in half-clipped phrases, losing his sentence to a groan of relief as he fed himself to you, filling your pussy like a hungry mouth. 

You felt yourself getting closer by the moment. Each grinding thrust was pushing you ever nearer to that gleaming, crackling fuse. He had lifted you, unintentionally, unable to understand the effect of his strength, and your toes could barely scrape the floor. You could feel your sacral core clenching around him like a delicate vice, grabbing for his cock, trying to hold him within your belly, some twisting grip of nature used to ensure that his creamy come ended up where it belonged, soaking into your womb.

Your clenching made him pause, which, in turn, caused you to cry out to him, wordlessly babbling, begging for him to return, to keep his pace. 

“Don’t you dare, sweetheart. Don’t you dare come,” his voice was like rattling brimstone, smoky and burning within his throat. 

“Please…” You whispered, unable to lift your raspy, keening voice. 

With shallow, teasing thrusts, Price used his cockhead to softly pop in and out of your soaked hole, swollen from being well-fucked. Just hearing a vibrator would have sent you over the edge at that point, and you fought him, trying to get any sort of power at all, rolling your body like a caught snake. 

“Stop,” he said curtly, “Stop fighting. Be still.”

You quieted yourself down, breathing heavy, sweating into his sheets, shivering like you had a fever, burning up from the inside out. 

For the first time, you felt his hand leave your neck, and his fingers twisted themselves into your hair at the base of your skull. Slowly, carefully, he lifted you by your head, forcing your back into a vicious arch, letting your breasts hang freely, your arms trying to balance you, mostly worthless since Price had full control of your torso in this position. 

His free hand slid around your front, groping you wildly, plucking your nipples and filling his palms with the meat of your breast. Then, he replaced your fingers with his own, pressing beside your sensitive clit, rolling it softly in long, firm strokes. 

You heard yourself make a new sound, one you’d never made, an animal’s grunting, something reckless and feral. 

Then, Price took up his stretching rhythm again, fully in charge of everything you were sensing. To you, he may as well have been in control of your mind. It was no use to you; you were at his mercy and it was everything you’d ever wanted. 

“Do you trust me?”

Your thoughts swam, unable to even consider anything but the truth, and amongst all of your vocalized ecstasy, you managed to reply,

“Yes.”

“Don’t come. Keep it. Just like that.”

“J-John!”

“Wait, wait, wait… good girl. Good.”

“Ohhh, fuck…”

His next words seemed barely human, snarled at you through bared teeth,

“Now. Come for me. Come f— fuck! Holy fuck.”

When you felt him spill into you, you had almost no control left over your own orgasm. Your heart felt like it had leapt into your throat, and all you could experience was your shining, explosive finish. You heard no sound, and your eyes went white, rolling back into your head. You couldn’t breathe, or scream, and if it wasn’t for John’s immense body holding you tight, you would have crashed into his bed, all used up.

His orgasm was as long as yours was, and he finished in slow, fearsome thrusts, burying his head into you as deep as he could reach, smearing your lips with your mixed fluids, caring nothing for the mess. 

“C’mere, love. Come to me,” Price held you to his chest, finally pulling himself from you, holding you as close as he could, laying beside you in a sweaty, spent tangle of arms and legs. 

You lay your head on his chest, catching your breath, only to tumble into a dreamless sleep with him, your body exhausted from your effort. 

When you woke up the next day, you could feel him all over you. He had left you alone in the bed, and yet your skin and bones kept his imprints. You could feel the ghost of his fingertips on your neck, and you were sore in places you weren’t sure how you could be. Everything was a wet mess, and just when you worried about how you’d cross the apartment without yesterday’s outfit, you saw that John had left you a note. 

Training day on base. I'll be back tonight. Dinner on me. Wear this. xx

Under the note, Price had laid out his favorite dress of yours, a blue satin slip of a thing, and (with the tags still on) you found a matching lace set of bra and panties in the same pretty color, just your size. You couldn’t see the price, but when you searched for the brand online, you couldn’t help but blush. He'd spent more than just a pretty penny on this outfit. You couldn't help but notice that the delicate lace would show through the thin fabric of the dress, making little raised ridges where your nipples would be.

Whatever you’d just agreed to when you said you’d let John Price into your life was about to get very, very interesting. 

AO3 Link

[synchodai]

When I say Tyland Lannister is my favorite character...

I am being 100% dead serious. Here is why I prefer this seemingly average nobleman over the many many many fan favorites in Fire and Blood.

Tyland Lannister is a second son in a story about second sons. Whether his feelings on this are as strong as Aemond's or Daemon's, we never know for sure in the books, but it's obvious that he's subservient to a mirror image of himself who only has more authority because of a few seconds separation between twins. It's a great display of both the arbitrariness and rigidity of succession.

His initial role in the Dance is as the master of coin for the greens. He's depicted as a typical Lannister: charming, comely, and cunning. He did what any savvy accountant would do and divided the crown's treasury amongst different allied regions for safe-keeping, ensuring that if King's Landing were sacked, their enemies wouldn't loot their coffers dry and they'd still have plenty of gold for their war efforts.

And of course, King's Landing gets sacked. Tyland is put in the black cells and ordered to be tortured by Rhaenyra to extract the gold's whereabouts. Winter is coming, people are starving and rioting, her army is dwindling, so she desperately needs that gold. Tyland is gelded, maimed, disfigured, and blinded but the torturers get nothing out of him.

Mind you, this man has been a rich, pampered bureaucrat all his life and he endured all that without breaking. When Aegon II releases Tyland from those cells, he has no fingernails, his eyes have been gouged out and/or sewn shut, this man who was once known for his good looks doesn't look human anymore — but he still manages to maintain his wits so much so that he plays an important role after the Dance.

Even with Rhaenyra dead, there are still armies raising their banners for her eldest surviving son, Aegon Trois. Tyland tells Adult Aegon to kill Child Aegon because obviously, the latter threatens the former's claim and Tyland's understandably angry over what his mom did. Aegon Dos is like, nah, I'll keep the boy hostage instead — that'll keep the armies at bay more than outright killing him.

So Tyland volunteers to go to Myr to hire sellswords for Aegon 2 since their armies are pretty much kaput after six years of this civil war. Tyland is blind at this point I remind you — there is a huge chance this man will never get to go home again. But he does it anyway, because even after years of fighting, he keeps his unwavering loyalty to the monarch he declared for.

Aegon II dies while Tyland is in Myr, and Tyland goes back to Westeros just in time to see Cregan Stark use his powers as the new Hand to marry Aegon III and Princess Jaehaera to unite the green and black sides. Cregan dusts off his hands, says my work here is done, warns the boy king not to trust anyone, then leaves for the North for everyone else to sort this mess out.

Now comes the part where Tyland shines as a character. He becomes the Hand of Aegon III and when you see his policies detailed in the book, it's clear that his goal is focused on repairs and renumerations. After what happened to him, he has every right to be spiteful and bitter against the blacks, but instead he "claimed a curious failure of memory, insisting that he could not recall who had been black and who had been green." He abolished the heavy taxes imposed on the smallfolk, sent out gold to lords whose holdings had been devastated during war, and set out to rebuild the Realm's granaries and fleet. Cleaning up is a tedious, unglamorous job — and because of his monstrous appearance and former allegiances, Tyland was looked upon with distrust.

And yet, while other regents grasped for power and tried taking advantage of the 13-year-old King Aegon III, Tyland seemed to be different. If he wanted power he could have married his twin brother's widow and convinced the boy-king to route more resources towards Casterly Rock and the Westerlands. But he didn't.

Instead, he genuinely seemed to be a father figure to Aegon III.

Tyland Lannister, blind and crippled, had always treated the king with deference, speaking to him gently, seeking to guide rather than command.

And for that, many lords saw him as a weak Hand. But Aegon, who cared for very little and never laughed and was always sullen, seemed to care for Tyland.

When the plague ravaged King's Landing, Tyland dutifully prioritized it over quashing the Ironborn raids at Lannisport. He was the last person to become afflicted with the Winter Fever, and the king sat by his Hand's side during his final hours. When the council starts discussing who should be the new Hand, Aegon (the boy who rarely ever speaks) says:

I would have Lord Rowan as my Hand. Ser Tyland thought well enough of him to offer him my sister’s hand in marriage, so I know he can be trusted.

This boy trusted Tyland, the man who only years ago wanted him dead.

So it's easy to imagine that this man saw Aegon III as the boy he was responsible for, as the son he could never have because of what the war had done to him. Tyland Lannister was a broken man who despite losing everything, his king and his brother and himself, kept a broken Realm and broken boy together when everyone else swarmed like vultures just trying to pick at carcasses.

What motivated this man's loyalty for a boy whose mother mutilated him? Did he regret pushing for the death of an innocent child and this was his penance? Did this man who gave everything for his cause think that this boy was something that could still give all that sacrifice and tragedy meaning? Was the mercy and kindness he afforded an apology for the horrifying trauma that scarred this boy — did he feel responsible for his mother's downfall and the failure to save his uncle? Did his disfigurement and blindness allow him to let go of the man he once was and become someone capable of seeing the folly of pride and power?

Here is his obituary in Fire and Blood:

Ser Tyland Lannister had never been beloved. After the death of Queen Rhaenyra, he had urged Aegon II to put her son Aegon to death as well, and certain blacks hated him for that. Yet after the death of Aegon II, he had remained to serve Aegon III, and certain greens hated him for that. Coming second from his mother’s womb, a few heartbeats after his twin brother, Jason, had denied him the glory of lordship and the gold of Casterly Rock, leaving him to make his own place in the world. Ser Tyland never married nor fathered children, so there were few to mourn him when he was carried off. The veil he wore to conceal his disfigured face gave rise to the tale that the visage underneath was monstrous and evil. Some called him craven for keeping Westeros out of the Daughters’ War and doing so little to curb the Greyjoys in the west. By moving three-quarters of the Crown’s gold from King’s Landing whilst Aegon II’s master of coin, Tyland Lannister had sown the seeds of Queen Rhaenyra’s downfall, a stroke of cunning that would in the end cost him his eyes, ears, and health, and cost the queen her throne and her very life. Yet it must be said that he served Rhaenyra’s son well and faithfully as Hand.

Tyland wasn't extraordinarily badass, noble, or even skilled. He was an excellent politician but no way the best. But I think that's what makes him compelling to me — that he's this down-to-earth depiction of a POW, a war veteran by all accounts, trying to pick up the pieces and slowly glue what remains of the Realm and himself back into something vaguely human.

We tell so many stories about the glory, the tragedy, and the losses of war. But I think it's important and beautiful to tell stories of those bravely and optimistically choosing to keep living in the aftermath as well.

[cheesycatz]

The Making of: Life-Size Malworm Plush

(Wormton AU)

STATS

16 ft 3 in (495 cm) long

Total time: 150 hours

Material Cost: $124

Theoretical minimum cost (based on seamstress wage): $2,524

(Progress photos and commentary below)

I'll be referring to my life-size wormton plush as "malworm" for convenience sake.

Unlike my Spamton NEO, Caine, and Fake Peppino plushies, I didn't spend a lot of time on concept art. Since I planned to make the malworm plush as close as possible to its 2D design, I didn't have to add much stylization, other than simplifying some details (no way in hell was I going to make 104 separate embroidered stitches for the segments of his toes, sorry). I mainly used the planning stage to calculate how wide the body pieces needed to be, plotting it out in 1/4 in : 3 in scale and using circumference formula to find the values I needed. I planned to make it around 10 feet long, the length of a young adult malworm. A lot of this project was improv, but, I mean, it wasn't my first or second or third time making a spamton centipede.

The head was quite a complicated shape, so I carved a tiny model out of craft foam, covered one half of it in masking tape, then cut the masking tape mask (hah) into flat pieces. I then traced the pieces onto graph paper and manually scaled them up by using the fact that I wanted the nose to be 1 ft long as reference. The rest of the pattern pieces were very simple, as wormton's teeth, body, legs, etc were very easy to translate into 2D shapes. I used old school notes as paper for the body, as I needed a lot of it. It was entertaining cutting exerpts of Moby Dick and English Renaissance biographies into body parts. I ended up making the body significantly longer; I had to spend $100 dollars on fur anyways, so why not make a maximum size one?

Making the pattern pieces took around 8 hours. While waiting for the fur to ship, I started cutting out the teeth, legs, and eyes. By the time the fur arrived, I had already sewn 36 worm teeth. I did an 11hr all-nighter to cut all the fur in one sitting the day it arrived. After a long vacuuming session and an uptake in the amount of polyester fiber in my lungs, I finished cutting the pieces, taking about 18 hours and 40 minutes.

As usual, the head was the first thing I worked on. It was...kind of wonky once I flipped it inside out. I trimmed some of the fur so that I could actually see what was happening. The main issues were the lack of any forehead, the nose being way too wide, and the cheeks being too flat. I did some ladder stitching as well as modifying the thing from the inside, and eventually made the head look much better. The cheeks still don't stick out that much still, but I'm happy with how the head looks now. I think it conquered the sopping wet owl resemblance. I inserted wire into the nose and jaws to help them keep their shape.

When I started this project, I wasn't sure whether to make it based off of Wormton or just a copyright-free malworm; I decided to do both. I went with red for the non-Spamton version, as I think it really fits the cartoony fly/mothman-style cryptid look malworms are supposed to have.

I sewed a square pouch into the throat and put in all those teeth. I used hot glue to wrap blue squares around a wire for the proboscis, because I think I would've gone bonkers cuckoo bananas if I had to hand sew that entire thing. The throat pouch holds the proboscis when it's not extended, as well as anything else I wanted to shove in there. I never measured it, but it's around 4-5 ft long. I finally made the Spamton... eye patches(?) and a pair of eyelids, though I didn't end up using them in the photo shoot. I also made a new pair of nostrils, as the old ones kind of got swallowed up from all the plastic surgery I was giving him

Now that the head was finished, I got to work on the body. I sewed the white belly and segments of the body together. I left most of the tail open, as the fur was too thick for me to flip it out at a certain point. I worked on the legs, next. After living out my cosplay dreams by putting the claws on my fingers like bugles chips, I grouped the claws together and sewed most of each leg and foot together, leaving me with many pairs of charred drumsticks (did not taste good)

I attached an extra long wire structure into each set of claws, then threaded the wire through each respective leg and stuffed them. I ladder stitched the claws to each foot, then stuffed each with some plastic beans in order to give the feet weight. I then finished sewing each foot shut. I now had a pile of disembodied limbs and one very long scarf.

I wound many long pieces of wire together to create an armature for the body. While the plush's body is way too heavy to be properly posable, the wire does still give some structure. I wrapped the extra long ends of the legs' wires to the metal spine, using the body's leg holes for reference. I then pulled the body up the metal armature like a sock.

I pulled the legs through their respective holes and stuffed the body. It was the first time the malworm was huggable! It's sort of like an oversized body pillow, in a way. I had to ladder-stich all the limbs, the head, and the rest of the tail, as it would've been completely impossible to flip inside out. It was quite difficult to do on furry fabric, and my thread frequently broke from the force I had to pull with to keep the stitches tight. Eventually, I got everything attached to some degree.

The last details I worked on were the mane, tail tufts, and scopula pads. The mane and tail tufts were ladder stitched onto the body, but I decided to use glue to attach the pads to the feet. I think the extra blue details make his proboscis fit much better, and who doesn't love spider paw pads? I also glued some velcro to the eye patches so that they stay attached better. They slide under the black eye rings.

My malworm was finally finished! I tried to put a lot of effort into the photo shoot so that people who don't know about the AU can enjoy it. I wanted to make it seem like some weird entity whose only goal is obtaining more Spamton brainrot. Hence it making Spamton on Mario Kart DS under the bed, obsessing over the Spamton Plush, inspecting the Spamton Shrine, and just generally harassing the photographer (me, I guess?). I wanted to capture the silliness, creepiness, and lack of respect for personal space that Spamton is known for. I thought about giving him a bag of doritos under the bed like that one image of the isopods eating them, but went with the DS instead. I thought it would be funny to see this thing playing Super Mario 64 DS (or Super Spamton 64) and here the "buh bye!" sound effect when it closes the DSi XL.

That's all from me, for now. I have other Wormton related matter to attend to.

Don't let the parasitic Spamton larvae bite

[mvltisstuff]

hihi so!! would it be possible for a buck one shot from season 2, ep 4 where the drunk girls are flirting with him and reader is kinda jealousy? like when one girl asked buck to put his number in her phone reader is just giving her the nastiest side eye ever or something?

this honestly just made me giggle and if you don’t do that then that is 100% okay! thank you so so much if you do this or even just for reading it! <3333

outside i keep it quiet - e.b

summary: buck sees y/n’s jealous side for the first time in their relationship.

evan buckley x reader

og gif post

a/n: hello ;)) i love silly little requests like these, and again, im so sorry for how long ago this was requested, but i hope you’ll still enjoy today! also disclaimer, the word bitch is not used in a sexist, derogatory way (at the end at least) don’t get too upset ;) also some things might be a little different from the episode as i haven’t watched in a while lol

the scrunch on y/n’s brows was unfamiliar to buck. she was busy bandaging up one of the girls, who was busy staring at buck. her gentle fingers were more stiff than normal, and buck definitely noticed.

y/n was getting increasingly frustrated with the girl she was working on. her intoxication only making her interested in the firefighters in front of her. buck hated to admit it, but he loved seeing the fiery jealousy coming from his girlfriend. they’ve been dating for quite some time, but she’s never had a good reason to be jealous of him.

she whipped her head around at the words she heard from the other group of women.

“you, like, have really big arms,” one of them mumbled to him.

“oh, thanks,” buck replied, not showing interest and just doing his job.

“like i know it’s a free country, but i don’t know if you can carry those guns around,” the other girl said, giggling to herself and earning cackles from chimney. y/n gave him a death glare, telling him not to entertain them without words.

“why don’t you guys go sit down on the curb, and y/l/n will come check you all?”

“i’d rather stay by you, but, whatever you say,” she winked and walked away. y/n let out a huff as she finished wrapping up her patients arm.

“hey!” she heard a holler from where the group was sitting. “do you have a bitch?”

y/n let out a laugh straight from her chest, not even trying to hide it anymore. the whole team looked at her, seeing a stance in her they didn’t know existed. none of them knew this side of her.

“no, i don’t have a bitch,” buck replied, not even making eye contact with them.

“ooh! did you hear that?” one of the girls further away exclaimed.

y/n was like a ticking time bomb. she was about to slap these girls clean across the face, but it would definitely not end well. so, instead, she gave them picture-perfect smiles that buck could see right through.

buck walked over to y/n, placing his hand on her hip to pass by her. y/n felt chills up her body, loving the fact that the girls were sat completely still at the sight. they were cleaning up some of their tools from the sight and loading them back into the truck, and everyone was fully over this call.

bucks fingers lightly touched her side, making sure she felt him there but also making sure the drunk girls noticed. they surely did, because they couldn’t stay silent if their mouths were sewn. even if they didn’t know they were dating, not a soul on the earth could miss the look in bucks eyes whenever he landed his gaze on y/n. he pecked her cheek rapidly before she ran off to the truck.

“wait, i thought you said you didn’t have one?”

“i did, she’s not my bitch.”

back at the station, buck found y/n standing by her locker, changing into her clothes to head home. she had only gotten to take off her top shirt before buck came in.

buck walked in and couldn’t take his eyes off of her. she’d taken out her braids and let them wave down her back and run her fingers through it. he noticed her waistband landing right on her hips, her undershirt scrunched up to show off her abdomen. he came up behind her, sliding his hands to the front of her, but she stopped him and turned around.

“you should’ve told them i was your bitch.”

“but you’re not-“

“i wanted to see the look on their faces if you had said yes and pointed to me. i wanted them to know you’re mine and only mine, not theirs.”

“o-oh.” buck murmured, as she walked toward him as he backed up.

“call me your bitch, then.”

“no!” buck replied. “i’m not gonna call you that.”

“i just wanna hear it so i can imagine their faces.” she tapped her ear and turned it toward him with her other hand on her hip.

buck sighed and tossed his head back before leaning in closer to her. “you’re my bitch.”

y/n grinned at his hesitation and grabbed the sides of his neck, pulling them chest to chest as her nose pressed against his face. it was almost the most powerful kiss they’ve ever had, other than the first i love you’s.

“don’t make me say that ever again.” buck chuckles.

“i won’t, baby,” she says. “my place tonight?”

“i’ll be there.” buck smiles and she turns to walk out of the locker room. chimney walks in as she leaves.

“oh, bye, bitch!” he waves and smiles at her.

“hey! no.” buck shouts at him and shakes his head urgently.

“sorry,” chim says under his breath.

[devilfic]

❝friends of the web❞

plot: you have a fear of spiders, but you've made a promise to work past it. peter thinks your determination is really quite adorable. pairing: tasm!peter parker x gn!reader. cw: fluff, humor, established relationship, spiders (not graphic), reader has arachnophobia but is being so brave about it, based on the poem "ten legs, eight broken" by I, e on tiktok because it fundamentally changed the way I interact with small bugs forevermore. words: 1.2k.

a/n: I have had pretty bad arachnophobia my entire life and after reading ten legs, eight broken a while back, it convinced me to start saving little spiders I find in my house. this fic is 100% based on how that ends up going every single time. minus peter parker coming to save the day

He's careful, stomach coiled tight to control his breathing. One hand is delicately pinching a bolt with tweezers, the other holding his webshooter frighteningly still. One wrong move would trigger the suspension, and about four hours' worth of fluid refill would end up all over his research notes. He has to be slow. He lowers the tweezers another half inch.

Gently, the bolt's thread catches and he releases the breath he'd been holding. In that same moment, you shout and his tweezers slip.

It's the feeling of webs spraying him in the face that he registers first, their tendrils catching onto his glasses and eyelashes and lips. Then it's your rushed breathing, the pumping of your heart nearly beating out of your chest. He doesn't feel a tingle along his spine but your shout jolts Peter out of his spell. In an instant, he's batting away the webs and throwing himself out of his office with enough velocity to take down a wall. He's expecting scorpions, vultures, lizards, his hearing zeroing in on you, and-

-and he turns the corner and there's you, crouched on the floor, hands cupped in front of you—cocooning something. "Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa." Peter's eyes flit around the room, looking for the threat his senses ought to have picked up on by now, and kneels beside you. He focuses on your hands and your complete and utter lack of urgency. "What's going on?"

You glance to the side, so quick he doesn't even think you register the panic on his face, "Pete, thank God. Can you talk to this thing for me?"

You move your hand and the other breathing thing in the room becomes apparent. A spider, barely the size of a crumb, is crawling over mountains of carpet thread. It's moving quickly but in circles, clearly confounded by the terrain. Peter looks at you. He drags each syllable out as he asks, "What is happening?"

You shift and Peter shifts with you, keeping an eye on the spider, "This thing- this spider is such a jackass."

"Yeah?"

"I'm trying to get him outside and he won't go."

You've got a flier for Pilates in the Park clenched in one hand, while the other is cautiously putting a wall between the spider and the abyss under your sofa, a place where even Peter dares not go. "Why don't you just kill it?"

Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. You look horrified at him as you answer, "I can't kill him!"

"Do we- are we sure it's a him? Have you decided he's a him?"

"I made a promise to myself that I would stop killing."

"I don't think... okay, what is going on here?"

You struggle to explain and focus on the spider at the same time, "It's a resolution I made for the new year. That even though I'm terrified of these things, I won't kill them anymore because... because they're living beings just like me." Peter watches you bite your lip, a twinge of pity sewn into the divot between your furrowed brows, "So I'm putting them outside whenever I see one... if only they would stop being jackasses about it."

Peter half-laughs, half-sighs. The little spider crawling around on the ground is none the wiser to your inner peril, "This isn't just because your boyfriend is, like, 1/3 spider, is it? I won't take it personally if you hit him with a shoe."

You snort and place your flier in front of the escaping spider, watching it crawl over the word "yoga" before making a u-turn for the carpet, "Of course not, my spider overlord."

You try to scoop up the spider again but every time you lift the paper, it dives off the other side and back into the carpet. "How long does this usually take?" Peter asks. He sits back on his ass, propping up a knee to rest his arm on.

"Ten minutes at best. If I don't lose them."

"Hm. And this works for you?"

You pout up at him, scooping up the spider again and watching it fly off once more, "I usually manage to get them outside, I'll have you know."

"And the screaming?"

"I never said it was a peaceful process."

"So, let me get this straight," Peter leans into you, "you spot the spider, you grab the nearest piece of paper, you try to get the spider on the paper, and then you...?"

"Scream and run until I make it to the window."

"Why- why the screaming?"

You wince, trying not to lose the bug in the carpet, "Because I'm scared they'll touch me." Your boyfriend tickles his fingers along your arm and you shiver, swatting him with your free hand.

After another failed attempt, Peter places his hand in front of the spider's path and it crawls into his palm to get to the kitchen. Before it can cross over into tiled territory, it's forced to a sudden stop, and Peter takes advantage.

It takes him three strides to get to the living room window, yank it open, and release the spiderling into the wild.

You're standing behind him with a look of frustration on your face, even though your shoulders have finally sagged with relief, "How'd you convince him to sit in your hand like that?"

"I didn't. Sticky hands." Peter wiggles all his fingers at you, amused.

"Wh- that's it? Do they not usually listen to you or something?" You grab one of his hands and quickly realize he's using that ability on you this time. He's got you stuck in a handhold.

"I can't remember when I ever said I could talk to spiders."

"I mean, it seems like a pretty fair assumption," you grumble, trying to shake his hand away before giving in, "they put their juices in you after all."

"Why would you say that?"

"Thanks for the help, by the way. I'm still... getting used to not panicking when I see them."

Peter raises his other hand to your hair and gives you a kiss on the temple, smiling against your skin, "You are so, so, so brave."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's pretty brave to show mercy to something you fear, right? You could've killed it or asked me to do it, but you didn't. You wanted it to live."

"It doesn't mean to scare me," you bring your intertwined hands up to your mouth and press a kiss to his knuckles, "I'd want it to take pity on me if it was the other way around."

"I think the spiders will appreciate that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do they give me such a hard time?"

"Well, you're so scared of them that you don't even realize they're just as scared of you. You gotta make 'em like you, you know?"

"Got any tips for that?"

Peter guides his free hand to your waist, rocking you side to side, "Hm. Buy them sushi. Take them to a midnight showing of Night of the Living Dead. Tell him you think his nerdy rambling after the movie is sexy..." You giggle into Peter's chest and his heart swells, "Don't laugh! It worked on me."

You tilt your head up and he steals a kiss without hesitation, making you stumble on what you say next, "How about you just come let them out for me next time, hm?"

"And if I'm not around?"

"...make me a super scientific spider catching gadget?"

Peter hooks his hands underneath your thighs and hikes you up around his waist, "I'll make you one if you refill my web fluid for me."

"You can fill me with your web fluid."

"Okay. I'm putting you in time out, freak."

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes

[hxltic]

Hello,can i request domestic Ghost x reader, marriage headcannons?

Sure!

Ghost has been trained to eat to keep himself alive. You finally get him comfortable with eating whenever he wants to, and come to find out, he really likes little foods. He shakes his palm filled with sunflower seeds back and forth, or maybe almonds, or fruit snacks

Building on this, he drives on road trips. Every time. He’s better with sleeping now but he’s always had trouble laying his head to rest, so he chooses to take advantage of it by driving all day and night

Ghost’s hearing isn’t 100%. All the warfare he was around before he retired has ruined that. It’s not bad by any means, it’s still around like 85%, but this just means all his other senses have multiplied. He can feel you walking into a room and reads lips extremely well, though sometimes when his back is turned you may have to repeat yourself

Ghost hasn’t taken off his ring since the day you two got married. There’s something so personal about it, the cool metal around his skin, that makes taking it off impossible. It’s like he carries around your love for him everywhere he goes. It’s reassurance someone really does love him for all that he is

You can try to slow dance in the kitchen to old music he loves, but he can’t dance. Not at all.

“You alright?” That’s it. That’s the headcannon.

He could cook, but he was really rusty. He had to learn when he was younger to take care of himself and his family, especially his mother, but the military didn’t call for it and now he has to relearn it again. It didn’t take long though—soon he was whipping it up

(If you were to have kids) He knows everything about them. Fuck all that shit about the dads not knowing their children’s teachers and things. He knows how one of his daughters likes her hair, which toy is her favorite, her favorite restaurant, favorite color. Everything. At the doctors, of course he knows their individual birthdays to the minute, eye color because they’re chocolate brown like his, and where their birthmarks are.

He’s a girl dad, in case I hadn’t made it clear.

He has the ability to tell identical twins apart. And he’s never wrong.

He gets really bad heartburn.

He doesn’t own many clothes. His closet is small, compared to yours, carrying just a few trusty shirts, shoes, and jeans he has on rotation for laundry. This ultimately changes later in the marriage as you find yourself shopping for him, and his style has changed a wee bit.

He doesn’t like Italian food.

Despite how everyone thinks he’s a morning guy, he isn’t. He only got up in mornings because he was told to. His best work is at night since it works with his inability to sleep well, so he does computer stuff and paperwork then. Sometimes he’ll be in the kitchen eating when you get up for water.

Ghost loves when you put on your wedding dress. You feel the same about the matching tuxedo he wore, but he owns a few of those, so he doesn’t think it’s the same. He paid for the dress, one in a million and hand-sewn, but you’re far more beautiful than any clothing

He likes to clean. The smell of bleach is oddly comforting to him

©️ hxltic

[handweavers]

i sew most of my own clothes and want to share more about that on here. my primary reasons behind sewing my own garments come from issues finding clothes in my size that accommodate my body shape as well as various health issues that require my clothes to be loose fitting and made from breathable fibers. for reference i wear a us size 20

my sewing is mostly self taught, although my nan showed me how to use a sewing machine as a kid. while i have a sewing machine, i prefer to handsew my clothes with a trusty backstitch and use hand-finishing techniques. i work mostly with 100% cotton thread that i coat in beeswax for better stitching and longevity, and fibers like cotton and linen. linen tends to look rumpled when worn but i don't mind.

both items in the top photos were fully handstitched and handfinished. in the top photos: my shirt is adapted from the all well box top and sewn in a lightweight cotton-linen blend. the pants are stylearc's ethel pants in a midweight linen that i embroidered around the knees (not pictured) and they have inseam pockets. both fabrics were bought at spotlight in malaysia.

bottom photos: the shirt is another box top adaptation (i pieced scraps of this fabric together to make the shirt, hence the seam at the front and more seams along the sides) and the pants are readytosew's pleat pants inspired by traditional thai fisherman's pants. i did some sashiko embroidery on the butt pockets of these. both are in a black cotton-linen blend, i can't remember where i got it but i know it was some online fabric store in canada. i've worn the pants more than the shirt so the black dye has faded more from it, but i like that when they're worn together it looks like a jumpsuit. i machine sewed both of these but finished them by hand.

[slarpg]

I've received a few questions from people looking to make fan merch recently, so now's as good a time as any to update SLARPG's fan merch guidelines in our FAQ for clarity!

Selling fan-made merchandise

What's okay:

Generally speaking: independent artists making merch with their own SLARPG-inspired artwork/designs and selling it in limited quantities. This includes the usual things you'd sell at a convention like prints, stickers, pins, charms, standees, etc.

For example: if you draw a piece of Melody fanart, and you print 100 copies to sell at a convention, and then you sell the leftover stock on Etsy, that's all totally fine.

Basically anything handmade or one-of-a-kind. Cosplay items, hand-sewn plushes, Perler bead sprites, etc.

Fan zines, comics, etc. consisting of original artwork.

Also, if you're selling these things online, please try to make it clear that it's unofficial in some way, just to avoid confusion. A simple shout out in the description telling people to check out the game will probably suffice.

What's NOT okay:

A company (as opposed to an independent artist) selling unlicensed merch.

Mass-produced unofficial merch. I don't have a specific number for what counts as "mass-produced," and if something sells out I won't stop you from making more. But, y'know, please don't order 10,000 of something.

Designs sold via online print-on-demand services such as those provided by Amazon, RedBubble, CafePress, TeePublic, etc. where they can be mass-produced indefinitely.

Selling printings of official artwork from the game, presented as-is in a non-transformative way. For example: selling a poster of one of my illustrations of the cast, or stickers using the character sprites.

I'm a smalltime creator trying to make ends meet, and SLARPG and any related projects are my livelihood, so in some regards I have to be a little precious with these things. But I also get that fan artists are just trying to make a living themselves, and this stuff is usually made out of love for the source material. So I wanna allow as much as I reasonably can.

If you have further questions, feel free to contact me (Bobby) through the usual social media channels or by e-mailing me via ponettplus@gmail.com.

[zvdvdlvr]

The World We Knew

☢️ — synopsis. Sometimes even the Ghoul got lost in thought.

When Cooper was bored and there wasn’t anything worth shooting, he would find himself thinking of the love he had, the life he had, and the world he knew. He only let himself take a blast to the past once in a blue moon. Cooper knew that you were dead, your corpse long rotted over the 200 some years after the bombs dropped.

Admittedly this was one of the times Cooper would think of her.

The first time Cooper heard of you was after hearing your name being brought by some scriptwriters. “She’s just a young thing without much experience. We need to have a bigger name in this move, not some girl!”

The other man ‘tsk’ed. “Foolish man! I know the woman personally- not in such an inappropriate way, mind- and this would do wonders for her career! Y/n is truly a lovely thing and skilled at her trade. Just let me bring her in, Randy. Make your decision after you meet her.”

Randy sucked his teeth and massaged his temple. “Fine. A quick meeting. But when that thirty minutes is over, don’t yell at me when she’s thrown out.”

The Ghoul pulled out his canteen of miraculously clean water and took a sip. He had quietly grabbed a snack during their conversation and left without a word. Little did he know just how drastically his life would change after that conversation.

“Hello! I’m y/n l/n,” a woman greeted politely. She stuck out her manicured hand and shook Cooper’s tightly. Cooper was surprised by your firm and respectful handshake- he was used to people running up and hugging him or gushing and asking him questions.

“Well,” Cooper said as he returned your handshake. “I’m Cooper Howard, darlin’. More than happy to make your acquaintance. What brings you around… here?” He gestured to the men and women running around the movie set. He remembered your name from the overheard conversation from about a month ago. 

You just laughed. “It would appear, Mr. Howard, that I will be lucky enough to work with you. I would have gone as far as to guess the production crew would have told you? It was brought to my attention that you were aware of my arrival,” you explained. Cooper was amazed at your polite and easygoing nature. It felt wonderful to be treated like just and average Joe for once. “I’m sorry you had to find out by me, Mr. Howard. I was under the impression you were already aware of this arrangement.”

“Oh, Cooper or Coop is fine, sweetheart,” Cooper told you kindly. “And it is truly no problem. Why don’t we go and see if we can get you all situated?” To Cooper’s delight, you nodded with a grateful smile. “Well have some time left until we wrap up for the day: why don’t you tell me about yourself, darlin’?”

Heaving a sigh, Cooper lets himself kick aimlessly at a large chunk of rock. What he wouldn’t do to go back in time to just have another conversation with you…

You two had gotten alone like two peas in a pod! Weeks passed quickly and soon the movie Caught on the Tides was released. To no one’s surprise, it was a smashing hit. People apparently loved the idea of a woman who was practically immune to the male charm until Walter (Cooper) caught your eye at a local festival. It was an easygoing romance/comedy that was thankfully PG-13. As a young woman, the past roles you were offered were side pieces or basically selling yourself. You took what you could get and attempted to steer clear of the nudity.

The side celebratory party was amazing. Randy and Joseph had rented out a cozy little bar/restaurant building that had enough room for about 100 people. The other castmembers, producers, and writers were there along with quite a few guests.

As the night went on, though, you found yourself growing increasingly exhausted with all the plastered smiles and arm patting and men’s eyes dropping to your assets whenever they thought you wouldn’t notice. You slipped out a side door and dug out a smoke and a light from one of the pockets you’d personally sewn into your dress.

You had just slipped out of your heels and plopped (unladylike, of course, but no one else was there to reprimand you) when the door opened. The intrusion made you want to sigh unprofessionally loudly and hide in the puffy material of your dress. Until Cooper’s smooth voice and slim body say down right beside you.

“Some producers are lookin’ for you.” Cooper’s comment doesn’t have the sharpness your manager’s would when she hollered up a storm about your tendency to wander.

In response you only click your tongue and fill your lungs up with smoke. You turn and face Cooper, who’s complexion is lit wonderfully but the light of the full moon. “Do you think the man on the moon gets lonely, Coop?”

Cooper’s eyebrows dip downwards. “I- I’d imagine so. Can’t be too fun bein’ up there by his lonesome.”

“I think so too,” you hum. Smoke seeps out of your lips as you turn to ask him another question. “Do you ever feel like the man on the moon, Coop? I’m just- I- I wonder if I’m in over my head sometimes with everyone here, Coop, and I-“ your words stumble out of your mouth and your hands shake as you bring the cigarette to your lips again. “I just feel like… you’re the only one that knows what I’m talking about, what I’m feeling.”

Cooper stares into your teary eyes with a heavy heart. You brought out such a protective part of Cooper he hasn’t felt since… since falling in love for the first time. Cooper shook his head. “I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. A sick part of him feels ecstatic that you are practically snuggling into his side- that you feel that he is the only one that understands. Deep down Cooper indulges himself in thinking you want him the way he wants you.

But you don’t. So Cooper is just barely content to let you lean into his side and tearfully ask for advice. “A part of that is always there, sweetheart. I feel like the man on the moon more than I’ll ever admit. But I’m also an old man who’s future is practically set in stone. You, though,” he chuckled and patted your side. You seeped into him and Cooper felt adrenaline rush through his veins. He could smell your delicately scented shampoo and matching body wash. “You could have any man on Earth you wanted, darlin’. Only a fool wouldn’t fall for you.”

You sighed and snuffed out your cigarette. Every part of you told you to leave him alone- to leave whatever relationship you have with him alone because he’s married (and you’d rather die than ruin your friendship). But being tucked under his arm and hearing the speed of his heartbeat made you think he felt the same as you. “Coop?”

Cooper looked back down at you. “Hm?”

“Are you a fool?”

Cooper’s heart raced. Your powerful gaze seemed to dig into his soul, searching for the answer he’d be damned to hell if he never gave you. “Do you take me for a fool, darlin’?”

You swallowed. “No, Cooper. Never.”

Within seconds, Cooper found his lips pressed against yours. He felt like exploding into a ton of confetti. His other hand came to cup your cheek and take dominance of your mouth. The passion Cooper felt was like none other and your breathless whimpers only encouraged him.

“Cooper…” you murmured, sitting up and grasping st the nape of Cooper’s neck. You felt perfect.

Cooper closed his eyes. He stood outside a familiar house. He figured he would stay here for the night. Cooper had already cleared, secured, and set traps around the building whenever he knew he’d be back.

Heaving a sigh, Cooper settled down on the bed and tilted his hat down over his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,” Cooper muttered after wrapping a hand around your waist. “Got another birthday party and then I’m all yours, baby doll.”

The fall from fame was hard on everyone but Cooper refused to let it affect your career. He only saw you in professional settings and when no one saw you enter or leave his house. 

“Manager’s giving me the day, so I’ll be here all day if you don’t mind,” you said, scooping out cherry pie filling from the can to your mouth with a spoon. Frank Sinatra’s hauntingly low voice crackled through the radio, painting a scene Cooper wanted to commit to memory forever.

Cooper just shrugged. “Up to you,” he said. “How do I look?”

You tilted your head and slid off the counter. Your hands came up to adjust the collar of Cooper’s blue cowboy shirt. Then they slid down to his lapels to smooth back. “Perfect. Ready to roll, cowpoke,” you joked.

His soft eyes stopped you in your tracks. “Why’re you looking at me like that, Coop?”

“Like what?” Cooper asked. His tone was teasing but you noticed a hint of the seriousness that had grown on him as of late.

You shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Coop. Like… like you love me, I suppose.”

Laughter filled the room, drowning Sinatra’s eerie song. “‘I suppose’?”

You shook your head with laughter. “I don’t want to overstep right now, Coop.”

The mood turned quiet again at your words. Cooper took your face in his hands and rested his thumbs under your eyes. “You don’t overstep, sweetheart. Speak your mind. Always.”

“I will. Promise,” you replied solemnly. Cooper pulled your face up to his and kissed you gently.

“I’ll be home later, sweetheart. Promise.”

You grabbed your spoon and the cherry pie filling before fallowing Cooper outside. The cool grass felt good on your bare feet as you watched Cooper mount his horse. When he looked back at you, Cooper broke out into laughter at the sight of you raising our eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll be back soon, sweetheart, and then we can get busy.”

You muttered something along the lines of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’ before nodding with a comically dejected expression. “Alright. Bye Coop. Be safe!”

Cooper tipped his hat at you. “I will, sweetheart. I’ll see you later, now.”

Cooper could have sworn he heard you call out ‘I love you’ as he rode away. In fact, Cooper would have sworn on his life that you had said you loved him. But Cooper would just come home to you and hear you say it clearly when he got home.

If he got home.

200 years later, Cooper heard Frank Sinatra singing “over and over, I keep going over the world we knew” and wished he would have told you he loved you back.

[or-what-you-will]

How To: Phantom Cloak

I've gotten some questions about how I made my phantom cloak, so I thought I'd do a post about it so that others could try it out. Overall, it cost me about 250$ USD plus several hours of labour. Details under the cut!

Note: I am not a professional, nor do I have particularly advanced sewing skills, this was mostly me making things up as I went

I'd never made a cloak before, so I started with a base that I got off of Amazon (about 70$ USD).

Note: prices are listed here in USD for accessibility, but I paid for most things in CAD.

It's a basic 100% polyester cloak, pretty light weight, but full length (54 in/137cm). It's not a full circle cloak, nor is it exactly circle shaped. It's more bell shaped and doesn't lie flat when spread out because of the way it's sewn together over the shoulders.

From there, I went to my local fabric/craft store and got enough velvet to cover the collar and black sewing thread (about 20$ USD).

Note: if you do not already have a basic sewing kit with needles and pins you'll need one of those also.

I pinned the velvet to the collar and sewed it on inside out, along three sides using a back stitch. I did my best to hide my stitches in the collar's existing seam. I left the bottom open, where the collar meets the body of the cloak, for sewing on appliques later.

Note: the collar was really floppy before I put the velvet and the appliques on because the fabric was so light. If you want, you could get some plastic or metal boning/wire to put between the velvet and the original fabric to make the collar more stiff or to allow for custom shaping.

After this, I went searching on etsy for appliques. I eventually settled on nine (about 100$ USD for all 9).

Once I got all the appliques, I laid out the cloak and positioned them all in their places to make sure that I was happy with their placement and everything was symmetrical. Then, I recruited my poor roommate to stand there in the cloak while I pinned them in place to make sure that they fit with the way the fabric fell.

When they were pinned in place, I started sewing them on along the edges, with a few stitches in the middle.

The reason why it's important to leave the bottom of the collar open is because then you can sew the appliques to the velvet more easily without having to sew them to the fabric of the cloak. This allows you to hide your stiches between the velvet and the fabric of the collar and prevents them from catching on things and coming undone.

Once I'd sewed on the collar appliques, I pinned the bottom of the velvet and sewed it closed along the seam where the collar meets the cloak.

I left it like this for a few months, but eventually I decided to add a lining, mostly due to the applique stiches catching on things and because I wanted to add more weight to the cloak. I'd also be going to cons for the first time and I wanted it to look nice in person.

So, I went back to the fabric store, and this time came out with four meters of polyester satin and more thread (about 40$ USD, but the fabric was on sale, so it would have cost me about 100$ USD otherwise). Then I realized I really, really did not want to sew that much fabric entirely by hand. In the end, I borrowed a friend's sewing machine.

Note: you can also rent sewing machines from your library and sometimes community centres depending on where you live.

Adding the lining is essentially the same technique that I used to add the collar, just on a much larger scale.

I found this cloak tutorial really helpful for figuring out the order of operations when putting together the lining. It's also a great tutorial in general for making a cloak from scratch, so please run with it if you'd rather do that.

I used the existing cloak as a pattern for cutting out four panels for the lining. I laid them out on top of each other, marked out the fabric, and cut it out (with the help of a friend because right handed scissors are the root of all evil).

I messed up a little while I was doing it because instead of mirroring the front panels, I cut two of the same side, so make sure to keep sides in mind! It ended up being mostly fine because the fabric was big enough that I could use it for a different panel.

I pinned, then sewed the four panels together with the sewing machine. My seamstress friend gave me the helpful tip of rolling up the sides of the fabric, as it starts to get really long and bulky, to allow it to go through the sewing machine more smoothly.

Once the four panels were together I pinned it to the main cloak, inside out, like the collar, then sewed it along three edges, doing my best to stay along the existing seam of the cloak. I left the edge where the fabric meets the collar open.

After three edges had been sewn, I pulled the fabric through the opening at the collar so it would be the right side out, with the seams on the inside. I then folded in the extra fabric, pinned it, and sewed it shut.

I ended up keeping the long ribbon ties, rather than replacing them with a clasp because I can tie them in front or thread them under my arms and around my back, which allows me to wear the cloak in a similar fashion to how they do in the show.

And that is how I made my cloak!

Thank you for reading, and I hope this is helpful for those of you interested in making your own phantom cloak. If you have questions or if something is unclear, feel free to ask in the comments of the post!