#I sold my first painting

[jujapaya]

Sketchbook entries — (end of) 2023-2024

[claypigeonpottery]

sold

this baby’s from 2019 I think

I don’t usually fully finish/colour a sketch but I needed to plan so much in this piece

I painted it with underglaze first, before adding the black lines with the mishima technique

I chose blackberries for death and grief, and poppies and forget-me-nots for remembrance. even the frogs that aren’t endangered are so few these days :(

[jojo-oliver]

paintings i did 🌅

[bedroompainting]

‘Bird Pot’, acrylic on loose canvas, 2022

[scribblingmuchlyrexan]

i didn't realize until last night that my weekly award will fall on Halloween AND be a Halloween Paint Brush!!! :D love that timing!!

[rosemage]

.

[flowerpatchhomos]

Recently kinda redid one of my already customized furbs Jolly rancher

I tried to make him look more like an alien!

The belly is more blue irl it looks green on camera and his little mohawk is also more blue

The one in the car was before I did the touch ups! It was just the most recent picture I could find c:

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

I rewatched Wendell & Wild recently and I have got to say...if you can possibly watch it, PLEASE, PLEASE WATCH IT! IT IS SO, SO, SO GOOD. 😭💗 And the selling point for me, which I will share here also in case it persuades anyone else to see it, too - THE SOUNDTRACK IS INSANELY GOOD. Also, if you've seen and enjoyed any other films by Henry Selick (like The Nightmare Before Christmas, James and the Giant Peach, and my fave of all faves, Coraline) or Jordan Peele, who both co-wrote and produced it, you should definitely see this one, too.

[hazzabeeforlou]

.

[spider-stark]

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.  

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.  

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.  

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.  

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.  

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”  

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.  

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”  

“I study!”  

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.  

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”  

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.  

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.  

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”  

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”  

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”  

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.  

Gods.  

You hate it when he’s right.  

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”  

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”  

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”  

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”  

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”  

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.  

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”  

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”  

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.  

An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.  

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.  

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”  

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”  

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.  

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.  

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”  

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.  

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”  

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”  

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.  

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”  

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”  

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.  

You miss home. Desperately.  

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.  

But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.  

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.  

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.  

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.  

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.  

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.  

He’s talented—you think, studying his form.  

Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.  

He didn’t move like other boys.  

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.  

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.  

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.  

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.  

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.  

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”  

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.  

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”  

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”  

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”  

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”  

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”  

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.  

Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?

A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.  

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.

Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.  

Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.  

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”  

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”  

“Southern?”  

Benji nods.  

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”  

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.  

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”  

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”  

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.  

“Why not?”  

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”  

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.  

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”  

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”  

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.  

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”  

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.  

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”  

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”  

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”  

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.  

“What of me?”  

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”  

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.  

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.  

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.  

But this was different.  

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.  

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”  

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”  

“A deal?”  

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”  

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”  

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”  

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.  

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”  

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”  

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”  

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”  

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.  

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”  

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent. 

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.  

“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”  

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.  

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”  

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.  

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.  

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”  

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.  

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”  

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

[jojo-oliver]

paintings i did :p

[snotgrl-02]

VPNs do not make you more secure

here's how they work!

first of all, most of your internet traffic is already encrypted via TLS (Transport Layer Security). Things that aren't encrypted are usually videogames or less important applications.

a VPN encrypts traffic between your computer and the VPN server you're using.

your Internet Service Provider (ISP) sits in the middle of that transaction.

cue the MS paint diagram

Without a VPN:

With a VPN:

the traffic between your VPN server and the rest of the internet is not encrypted any further.

things that VPNs are good for:

bypassing geo-blocking

bypassing website blocks set up by your ISP

obscuring network traffic from your ISP

things that VPNs are not good for:

browsing the internet without having your activity logged. every company that gives internet service logs the activity, it's half of how they make sure they're not being hacked.

hiding information from the government. VPN providers WILL bend to subpoenas, they WILL turn over logs of your network activity.

cybersecurity. VPNs can't save you once the traffic is between them and the final destination. they don't analyze your traffic to detect and stop hackers, they don't add any encryption where it matters.

VPNs are not a shortcut to security. you cannot pay 15 dollars a month to forgo all responsibility for your own digital privacy. do your research, use a password manager, stay safe.

my friends i hope you find this information useful. you have been sold a lie. remember to show extreme skepticism to youtube sponsorships and journalism websites which sing their praises.

sources: i have a certificate iv in cybersecurity

[navybrat817]

All Dressed Up

Pairing: Biker!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky visits a gallery to support his best friend and unexpectedly meets the girl of his dreams.

Word Count: Over 2.3k

Warnings: First meeting, mild dirty thoughts, instacrush, swearing, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Okay, lovelies. A new AU. I'm sorry. @targaryenvampireslayer @tavners @starlightcrystalline @whisperlullaby @sgt-seabass @vesearlee , I feel like you all either heard me screech, encouraged, or helped me, and I appreciate you. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo and divider by the incredible @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t dress up for most people since it wasn’t his style. He would do so for any of his brothers though, especially Steve. His best friend since childhood, and his club’s president, he always had a love and talent for drawing and painting. And after working his ass off on his exhibit it would’ve been a crime for the vice president not to show up.

Steve promised if there was ever a day when Bucky’s writing became published he’d be by his side to celebrate too. As much as they liked to give each other shit sometimes about art and how they created it, the support was there through and through. The only catch for tonight was that he had to dress nicely to get into the gallery. So, instead of the usual leather jacket or vest he wore and jeans, he went with a plain black suit and white button up shirt.

He refused to wear a tie since it wasn’t a wedding. He had to draw a line somewhere. No one paid him any mind though as they walked around the gallery, and he was more than fine with that. This wasn’t his night.

“You should be proud, punk,” Bucky said, looking over the art lining the large wall, each piece crafted with care.

“I am proud, jerk,” Steve smiled. He hadn’t worn a tie either, and it made Bucky feel a little better. “And you know you don’t have to stay the whole time.”

Bucky knew that. He also knew members and prospects would be trickling in and out throughout the evening. “Not needed at the bar tonight, so I can stay as long as I want. But I might cut out early since I see your face enough between that and the club.”

Steve chuckled. “Still haven’t sold the place, huh?”

The brunette sighed. It wasn’t the first time Steve asked if he was going to sell the bar to focus more on writing. “Where the hell would you all hang out if I sold the place?” He liked the bar. It wasn’t just a great hangout for the club, but for his other regulars, too.

“There are other bars,” Steve teased. He said that, but he loved the bar, too. “You know I just want you to-”

“Follow my compass. I know. You’ve said that so many…” He stopped talking when he saw an unexpected angel walk into the room.

Well, angel was the word that came to mind since you were wearing a white dress and the light over your head illuminated you like a halo. But as his eyes swept over you, he wondered if there was a bit of a devil in you. He wouldn’t mind bringing that side out of you if you gave him the chance.

And here he used to think love at first sight was bullshit.

“Hey. Do you know her?” Bucky subtly nodded in your direction as you spoke to another woman, jealousy flaring up for a second at the thought of his best friend knowing you and not telling him. And if you knew Steve, that was that before things even started. While the blonde didn’t have much game growing up, he came into his own after his growth spurt, and everyone adored or wanted him.

Steve shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he said, making Bucky’s shoulders slump in relief before his friend scrutinized him. “Jesus, are you eye fucking her? You are, aren’t you?”

Bucky wasn’t the least bit ashamed. “And I’ll keep doing it ‘til she looks at me,” he replied, wishing you’d at least spare him a glance and get a look at him in his nice suit. Maybe you weren’t into guys with tattoos and piercings, but he was certain he could change your mind if that was the case.

“How long has it been since you’ve been on a date?” Steve asked. “Just introduce yourself like a gentleman and see where that goes.”

“A couple of months? Something like that.” Tearing his gaze away to glance at his inked hands, he chuckled. “You think I’m a gentleman?”

He could be dangerous and downright dirty when the occasion called for it, but just because he rode a motorcycle and covered himself in tattoos and piercings didn’t mean he treated others poorly. He was raised better than that. Even with his ex-girlfriends, things never ended because he didn’t treat them well. They just weren’t the one.

“We both know you are. Sometimes,” Steve answered, smirking as a beat passed. “And she’s looking your way.”

Bucky’s head snapped up to find you looking right at him with a curious stare. You had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen. Which was nothing compared to your smile. It was like watching the sun slowly rise to meet the day.

Fuck, he was being sappy. You ruined him with a single stare, and he wanted to ruin you in return. Make it so you wouldn’t want another man.

You whispered something to the woman beside you before she nudged you forward and he realized Steve pushed him to move, too. It only took three more steps before he was right in front of you, the gentle smell of your sweet perfume filling his nostrils. Need slammed into his body as you smiled again, and he actually felt the blue of his eyes shrink as his pupils widened.

If Steve thought he was eye fucking you before…

“Hey,” he said, his voice raspier than usual.

“Hi,” you said. It was a voice he could listen to for hours and he wondered what it would sound like when you said his name.

“I’m Bucky.” He took a smaller step closer, trying his damnedest to block out any other man around him so you’d keep those pretty eyes on him.

You introduced yourself, too, and it was a name he would never forget. “I like your tattoos,” you added almost shyly. Almost.

If he had his way, you’d see the rest of them soon enough. “Thanks,” he smiled, holding one hand up to show you. “Dressed like this, I bet you think I’m part of the mob.” After getting dressed and adding the gold jewelry, even he thought for a split second he looked like a mobster.

“Are you or is that information I can’t be privy to?” you asked, making him chuckle. You didn’t skip a beat, and he liked that.

“Not part of the mob, but I am part of a motorcycle club,” he replied. He wore his patch with pride and that didn’t seem to scare you, which was good. “I also own a bar.” He didn’t know why added that part. You didn’t ask and he didn’t want to brag, but there he was.

“So, you ride a motorcycle, and you own a bar?” You glanced back at your friend to ask her, “Do you mind if I…”

“I’m good. You two talk,” your friend smiled, giving Bucky an encouraging wink. He looked back to find that Steve walked away, too.

You smiled as you faced Bucky again. “Well, I’m happy to hear more about either of those things if you have time.”

“Yeah.” A lopsided smile appeared before he could stop it. “I got time,” he said. All the time in the world.

Over the next hour, the two of you stayed close together and talked in between looking at Steve’s pieces. He told you he was there to support Steve and talked a little bit more about the bar he owned. A hole in the wall kind of place he fixed up. While he wasn’t a big drinker, he loved making them for his regulars, and his profession allowed him to get away with all the tattoos.

“I’ll have to stop by sometime,” you smiled before it faltered. “If that’s okay.”

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but his heart raced, and he wanted to see you smile again. “I’ll hold you to that,” he teased. “What about you? What do you do for work?”

You told him that you were a blood bank nurse and still fairly new to the area. While you didn’t have too many friends nearby, you liked your neighborhood and the one friend you had made invited you to the gallery since she was an art enthusiast. You also let it slip that you were single upon your move here, which he was happy to hear since he was, too, but he didn’t miss the note of sadness in your voice.

He could help fix it if you were lonely.

“I’m not seeing anyone either,” he stated.

You raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You don’t have an old lady?” His eyes went right to your lip when he bit it. “That is the correct term of endearment, right?”

“That’s right,” he said, his eyes soft. “Both of those things are right.”

You bit your lip again and he wasn’t sure if you were purposely trying to entice him, but now he wanted to bite your lip. “So, do you do anything for fun outside of riding and work?”

He almost groaned when you said “riding” and he had to shake his head to keep his mind from drifting. He couldn’t think of you being on his bike with your arms wrapped tight around him or you riding him or anything like that. “Well…”

He explained that he wrote a bit in his spare time outside of work and the club. It was a hobby mostly, but it would be a dream come true to get his work out there one day. If not, that was okay, too, because he had a decent life and didn’t need much. His bike, his brothers.

But to have an old lady…

“Maybe I could read…” you frowned when you saw the time. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. I should get going,” you said, disappointment filling both of you.

“Oh.” He scratched the back of his neck. The two of you were having a nice talk, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask about your hobbies yet. “It’s still kinda early. Do you really have to go?” he asked, realizing just how desperate he sounded. God, if the prospects could hear him right now… He just didn’t want the night to end.

“Yeah, I do. I’m actually working a blood drive tomorrow and could use the rest,” you said, smiling sadly. He felt like an ass for asking you to stay when you had work to do. “I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about it, but you’re welcome to stop by if you want to donate. I always have this fear that people won’t show, which I realize sounds ridiculous.”

Bucky mentally kicked his ass for not knowing about a local blood drive. He was usually more on top of those sorts of things. “Where’s it at?” You gave the location and time, which was all he needed. “I’ll be there,” he promised.

And every single club member would be there, too, if they knew what was good for them.

“Really?” you smiled, your hand bumping his when you turned to face him. “You’ll go?”

He let his fingers brush yours and he smiled to himself when he felt the light shiver. “Of course, doll.”

“Doll?” you giggled. He hoped he didn’t offend you. “I hope you show,” you added in a small voice, your gaze focused on the ground.

Frowning a bit, he wondered if you didn’t believe him. Did someone let you down before? “If I say I’ll be there…” He lifted your chin, so you’d look into his eyes. He needed you to see the truth in them. “I’ll be there.”

You exhaled, staring deeply into his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you whispered.

He grudgingly released you, knowing he had to. Besides, if he kept touching you, there was a good chance he’d pin you against the wall and show you what a work of art you were. “Good night,” he whispered, watching you go back to your friend. She linked her arm with yours as you glanced back, keeping your eyes on Bucky until you were out of sight.

He exhaled, mentally kicking his ass again. Why the fuck didn’t he ask for your number? You two hit it off, and you wanted to see him at least in some capacity beyond the blood drive, right?

Steve made a beeline for him as he stayed rooted to the spot. “It looks like you two hit it off. You know you didn’t even say hi to Chris or Sam or-”

“We’re going to a blood drive tomorrow,” he cut in. He hoped people would show, but he gave you his word he’d be there, and the club was all about giving back to the community.

The blonde’s eyebrows pinched. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Blood drive. Tomorrow. Everyone,” he said, giving his friend a hard stare. “You’re the president. Make it happen.”

“You’re the vice president, which means you supervise plans for club events or gatherings. That includes last minute things,” he pointed out, his eyebrows shooting up as Bucky got his phone out and typed quickly. “You’re serious about this?”

“Is it too much to say, ‘You better fucking be there or you’ll pay for it later’?”

The blonde grinned. A shit-eating, knowing grin, and he wanted to smack him. “This is all for her, isn’t it?”

Bucky sighed. He hadn't expected to meet someone so perfect tonight. “She’s a nurse and I wanna help. Besides, it’s good for the community and you’re all about that shit.” And he had to make a better impression after not asking for your number. “Will you at least promise you’ll be there?”

“To watch my whipped best friend fawn over a pretty nurse? Hell yeah.”

“Beautiful,” he corrected him. “She’s beautiful.”

And while Bucky would fawn over you tomorrow, he also hoped he’d get your number.

So, what do we think so far? Part of this writing style was slightly different for me, but I like how it turned out! I still need to give this reader a nickname and the AU a name, but this is a start. I can't wait for the whole club to show up at the blood drive. I also have something silly and cute planned for these two. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[inkskinned]

every week someone else is new on the internet and it can be you and it could save your life and it could make you money and it could have corporations in your comments calling you cute and sexy and beautiful and isn't that lovely?

i had a nightmare of a future where at red lights and stop signs, an ad would play across the stoplight. advertisers had sold it as "encouraging drivers to pay more attention." i woke up covered in thin sweat, grateful i don't live there yet.

i am playing video games with my girlfriend, make a twitch stream. i am good at makeup, make a youtube. i am good at crafts and mildly funny. tiktok and instagram and brand deal paid partnership.

commodity! make yourself a commodity! in this economy if you land the dehumanization of advertisement that's a godsend. get that bag! chase that coin! good luck paying off your student loans! make yourself a billboard. karl marx crawling in his grave, paint yourself as capitalist hellscape. show your followers. be terribly alone. build an empire of bone.

run, rat! run! but first, check to see if your fur is sleek. for that all-natural glow, check the link in bio.

[cursedyuri]

a blurb in which ellie’s a sex shop worker you’re becoming very, very well-acquainted with <3

18+ mdni! shoo!

you’re on the verge of what would be your most earth-shattering orgasm to date when your vibrator betrays you.

your naked body, painted with a thin layer of sweat, sprawls over the wrinkled sheets of your bed, the damp fabric clinging to your skin as you gasp for breath. you’re working the vibrator over your slick folds, through the creamy spend of your previous orgasm, and every sensation below your waist is pure ecstasy. it hasn’t taken long to bring you right back to the edge - your back arches of its own accord, your eyes squeezing shut as a flurry of daydreams passes through your head.

all of them, it turns out, involve the very person who’d sold you the vibrator buzzing between your legs. ellie.

her hands on your hips, your ass, your throat. her mouth on your neck, her tongue on your clit. you can almost feel the warm puffs of breath she’d huff down at you as she fucked you, splitting you open with her strap and leaving you empty-headed and spent.

the mental images alone are enough to send you reeling, and right as you’re about to pass the threshold into the white-hot, blinding pleasure of another orgasm, the persistent hum of your vibrator abruptly cuts off.

you could throw up. you could cry. you could exercise sound logic and just charge the damn thing, but instead of any of the above, you find yourself rummaging through your drawers for whatever clothes you can find. sweats and a band tee, a mismatched pair of socks. nothing else.

ellie’s behind the counter again when you pull the door open. the shrill chirp of the entrance sensors draws her eyes to you, and you’re unsurprised to find her smoking a cigarette, body huddled over the edge of the counter. her brows lift in surprise when she sees you.

“back already?” she asks, putting out her cig leisurely. “must’ve gone really well. or maybe really poorly?“

you don’t miss the way her eyes roam over your figure, lingering on your chest; you’re not wearing a bra, and the peaks of your nipples are visible beneath the thin fabric. your back straightens.

“it died.”

“oh,” ellie says. “did you… charge it?”

“no, i wanted to—i thought maybe i could try something else.” you chew at your lower lip, casting a glance at the wall of toys from which ellie had plucked your vibrating bullet the first time you’d come here. you turn back to ellie just in time to see something dark glimmer in her eyes. she nods.

“yeah, of course. think you’re ready for something more intense? c’mon.” she nods her head towards the toy section, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulder. you follow her and watch as she surveys the wall of toys, the sheer volume of packages just as overwhelming as last time. ellie reaches out for a hot pink box, shiny lettering spelling out Boss Lady across the top. you grimace.

“what kind of name is that for a sex toy?” you quip, reaching for the package. ellie snatches it out of reach.

“ah-ah, sweetheart, don’t doubt the Boss Lady. she packs quite the punch.”

“really, now?” you ask, cocking a brow. “you know from experience?”

ellie just smiles, dimples in her cheeks. “if the name is just too cringy for you, we can find something else. but i recommend her—i think you’ll have lots of fun with her.”

“okay, fine. you pulled my leg.” you reach for the box again, and ellie lets you grab it this time, her gaze on you as you flip the package over and read through some of the metallic pink text adorning the back. the only rabbit vibrator you’ll ever need, it reads. powerful dual stimulation will keep you satisfied!

it occurs to you then, as you follow ellie to the register and dig in your pockets for some cash, that you should probably be embarrassed. here you are, a week after your first ever vibrator purchase, ready to fork over some hard-earned cash for a second one—one with a questionable name, no less. your cheeks warm as ellie regards you from the other side of the register, the heels of her hands pressed to the counter. there’s a knowing look on her face, her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, that dark look from earlier still dancing in her eyes.

god, she probably thinks you’re a sex addict. she totally thinks you’re a sex addict.

“is it weird that i’m back so soon?” you ask, before you can think to filter yourself. ellie’s brows knit together in confusion.

“huh? no, no, not at all—we have plenty of regulars, you know.” she types something into the register, eyes still fixed on you. “i’d say it’s weirder that you’re here at two in the morning.”

you blink. “two?”

“two twenty-one, to be precise.” ellie nods at the clock on the wall, the hour, minute, and second hands made of three different flesh-toned penis cutouts. “but hey, i get it. your vibrator died.”

you clear your throat. “how much do i owe you?”

“hm. well…” ellie drums her fingers on the cash wrap’s countertop. “i’m feeling generous tonight. answer one question for me, and Boss Lady is yours for free.”

“i’m awful at trivia,” you confess.

“trivia? jesus.” ellie barks a surprised laugh. “i’m not—it’s not trivia.”

narrowing your eyes, you shuffle up to the counter and nod. “okay, fine. ask away.”

ellie moves in closer, too, head dipping ever so slightly to allow her to peer down at you. it takes everything in you to keep your eyes from lingering over her frame and drinking in every inch of her: the bold lines of her forearm tattoo, the burn-holes in the collar of her shirt, the faint kiss of freckles on the bridge of her nose. but while you attempt to reign in your wandering gaze, ellie doesn’t hold back. she takes her time looking you over. bites the plush, pink swell of her lower lip.

then: “what were you thinking about?”

“huh?”

“earlier, when you were touching yourself. before the vibrator died. what were you thinking about?”

“that’s your question?” you chew on the inside of your cheek. embarrassment roils in your stomach; she has to know that, while your body writhed in the center of your mattress, cunt twitching and gushing, you’d been thinking of her.

ellie smirks. “you don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

“no, it’s… it’s okay,” you murmur. your palms are clammy and you force your gaze to Boss Lady, waiting patiently on the counter for her chance to help you see god. “i was thinking about, um… you, actually.”

you’re still staring at the gaudy pink package on the counter, hands squeezed into fists at your side. you can feel the half-moon indents of your nails digging into your palms, and just as the silence stretches a bit too long for your comfort, ellie laughs.

it’s a wicked thing, a biting sound. all self-satisfaction and enthrallment. you dare to steal a glance at her, and she’s grinning like a maniac, her cheeks tinged the prettiest shade of red.

“can i tell you something?” she asks, stuffing a hand into her pocket and pulling out a wad of cash. her fingers glide over the cash register, clicking at a few buttons, and she slides the money into each respective slot before pushing the drawer closed with a satisfying click. “i’ve been touching myself to the thought of you, too.”

mouth going dry, you gawk at ellie like she’s got four heads; she simply beams at you like she didn’t just admit that she’s thought about you with her hand between her legs. she leans over the counter, one strong hand reaching towards you to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“you seem nervous,” she says.

“i’m—i don’t…” you trail off, cheeks positively flaming.

“tell you what,” ellie begins, retracting her hand. she moves back from the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. your eyes flicker over the whorls of ink that decorate her skin, biceps flexed just so; your cunt throbs. “you can go now, if you want. i won’t stop you.”

“or,” she says, voice dipping low, husky, “you can lock that front door, and i can show you how much fun you can have with your new toy.”

she reaches a hand out and taps the box for emphasis, and you’re struck by how at ease she seems. how comfortable she is with your mutual attraction and the opportunity to act on it. it lights a fire in you, one that engulfs every last trace of doubt.

you lock the front door, of course.

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Because I was asked about this today:

The reason I don't have rag quilts listed is because I have no closet space to store them. They take up more space because they can't be folded completely flat. This is due to the nature of the rag side. We have no closets in this house. Just two standing wardrobes and several plastic boxes for storage. All the smaller finished quilts and all finished quilt tops are stored in my standing wardrobe. Coasters and mug rugs are in a small plastic box I use for storing some of my loose patterns. Quilts larger than 40x40 inches are stored in a larger plastic box. All this is to avoid dust and prevent my cat from gaining access to them.

Storing rag quilts can be tricky. The one I have for myself is on the back of my armchair because it's simply easier than trying to fit it in a plastic box. For buyers, how and where you store you quilt(s) is entirely up to you, though I do advise keeping them out of direct sunlight because it bleaches the colors out of the fabric.

If you have a rag quilt, would you mind sharing how you store them?

Quick question about a quick quilt...

I can finish a lap size rag quilt in less than a week, twin size in about a week, queen size in two weeks. It's three layers of fabric, quilt-as-you-go, minimal piecing, and they are heavy. Excellent for cold weather and folks who like the weight of blankets but not weighted blankets.* These quilts aren't as hot as layers of fabric plus beads/pellets, and they breathe much more effectively. For a heavier rag quilt, it's a layer of denim and two layers of quilting cotton or flannel. I have a rag quilt for myself that's three layers of quilting cotton. My house is drafty and winters are full of rain, which means the cold sinks into your bones with the humidity. My husband keeps stealing my quilt because his man-cave is the coldest room in the house. He doesn't care that it's very feminine colors "because it's warm."

As for why it's called a rag quilt, here's a sample:

The top is the fluffy side with the exposed seams. Instead of a quarter inch seam allowance the seams under the fabric, it's a one inch seam allowance and the seams are exposed. Said seams are then cut at one inch intervals. With every washing, the seams get fuzzier and softer. They're fun to touch and feel really nice. It's also why these must be dried ALONE or all the strings will end up on whatever else is in the dryer. Three layers of fabric also means two rounds in the dryer on high heat (which is why I like using flannel rather than quilting cotton) or one round of high heat and hanging to dry for a couple hours.

The back looks like a more traditional quilt top and is often the side with denim on it if denim is used. The one is three layers of flannel and was a giveaway prize earlier this year, to celebrate meeting a ko-fi goal.

These are a delight to make and excellent for cold winters and drafty homes. Did I mention they're pretty heavy? The one I have, once all folded up, weighs about six pounds, and knocks my husband out within about ten minutes of him laying over himself. It's why I plan on making a rag quilt for him. He keeps stealing mine.

For context regarding prices, these take significantly less time to make. This one, a lap size, took just 14.5 hours, and that included the quilting. A traditional style baby quilt starts at $2125 because I have a lot more cutting and sewing, and I do the quilting by hand (though it will soon change due to soon having a machine I can use on my Cutie frame and do all my quilting on it), and can take 70-80 hours start to finish. I charge $27/hour + cost of materials to come to the final price.

*A PT I know hates weighted blankets because they cause a lot of injuries. People rolling in bed with a weighted blanket on them have ended up in physical therapy because of soft tissue tears. Most especially dangerous for people with EDS and other connective tissue conditions. Other injuries they've seen are from the pockets with the beads/pellets in them tearing open. Pets and small children have been known to choke on those, and folks who are heavy sleepers can also be injured if the pockets near their face tear in their sleep. When the beads/pellets get all over the floor, people fall and end up with serious injuries from that. Not to mention overheating under all of them because the material doesn't breathe well.