#Polyester Coils

[sorbead-india]

Polyester Coils

Polyester coil is a petroleum product, belong to the polymer intimate with ester functional group. These are commonly used in soft gelatin capsule packaging as a filler due to it specific characteristics. https://www.sorbeadindia.com/product/polyester-coils

[pharmadesiccants]

Polyester Coil

The pharmaceutical polyester coil is non-fluorescent and man-made, with uniform length. Unlike cotton coils, rayons are non-absorbent. Therefore, it cannot extract moisture from the medicine bottles. The Pharmaceutical USFDA polyester coils are soft, odourless, and resilient material which comprises of 100%. Rayon coils are mostly used in soft-gel capsule bottles. For More Information, Please Contact or Visit - +91 9879203377 | https://www.pharmadesiccants.com/damage-solution/polyster-coil | pharmadesiccants@gmail.com

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. WOOOOOOOOOOO. Camprry. Aimed for 5K or less and managed to get wordy again. Reader insert and basically pure smut. This one was supposed to be vanilla with some praise kink (and exhibitionism if you SQUINT since it’s in a tent) but….. hahahahaha….. WEEEELLLLLLL.

CONTENT WARNINGS: oral sex, face fucking, exhibitionism-ish if you squint, choking-ish if you squint, light dom/sub, praise kink, daddy kink, intercourse

WC: 7.5K (whoops)

There is nothing remotely sexy about a camping trip. 

In fact, Y/N thinks that if she were to deduce a list of words upon first thought when it came to camping, sexy would be the furthest one from qualifying. 

There’s nothing sexy about reverting to caveman-ism, sleeping on the ground, sheathed by some paper-thin layer of nylon and polyester and plastic support beams. There’s nothing sexy about pit stains from the lack of air conditioning or its antithetical twin sister, the bumps that rise over chilly skin and trembling bones without the luxury of an electric heater. There’s nothing innately erotic about kindling fire like electricity doesn’t exist, and cooking hot dogs on skewers over the flame, and perpetually swatting at insects that incessantly stick to shins and calves like the flesh there is coated in sugar. 

There is something sexy, though, when it comes to the way Harry’s arms work as he pitches a tent, bi’s and tri’s intermingling in an alluring duet, pumping and settling with each motion. The sleeves of his tee ride up when he raises the limbs, and sunlight catches shadow in ridge and sinew of muscle. There’s something sexy in the way his back ripples, in the way that thin fabric does nothing to cover what she imagines — no, what she’s well aware lies underneath. The same traps and lats she’s scraped her nails over and dug into. The same shoulders she’s sunk her teeth into to bridle cries of bliss. 

There’s something hot about the cinch in his brow when he works, something alluring in the curl at the plush of his mouth when he turns his head and beams lopsidedly at something that their friend has said, too low for Y/N to catch. There’s something sexy in the way that his eyes skim her frame when she’s sitting in a fold-out chair with sunglasses. When his eyes glide over his shoulder. It’s in the most subtle way. There’s something sexy in the way he tears that gaze away. 

There’s something sexy in the way that no one around them knows she spends nights bouncing on his cock. 

This lustrous affair — this sneaky fling. This filthy, dirty secret that only the two of them share, slinking and sidling through the shadows. 

Really, it’s nothing more than a raunchy circumstance of friends-with-benefits, only kept on the down-low to evade prying questions from friends and the sickly confrontation of …feelings. Because it’d be easy to admit they’re fucking, that they’ve been hooking up for months after an impromptu, late night of drinking. But then it’s sort of cementing, right? At least, in a way. 

There’s a status that floats about when you confess you’re sleeping with somebody — when you admit that you’ve entangled them into your routine beyond one mishap of sex. In the eyes of your friends, admitting that you’ve upkept a sex buddy through the roll of the seasons is, like. Well, it’s basically admitting some form of something sentimental. 

They’re just fucking. They’re just friends that fuck. And the way that nobody around them has any sort of suspicion that he’ll most likely be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night for that... 

That’s sexy, the young woman thinks. 

They’re coiled around the campfire once the sun has ducked out and simmered off behind the trees, and Y/N thinks about it. She watches the shape of his features glow beyond the crackle of the flame, and she thinks about the way his nose bumps over her clit when he licks into her. She watches his mouth move when he talks, a muted strawberry that’s dimmed in the night, and she thinks about the cushion of it pressing open-mouthed kisses to her flesh. She’s in his sweatshirt, because she had to borrow one, and it smells like him. She’s coated in it — his scent. Warm, pleasant musk and remnants of tantalizing cologne. It reminds her of the way the same sweatshirt had been discarded and draped over the foot of her bed haphazardly one night, as he kneed his way onto the mattress and clambered over her, fingertips exploring and tongue trailing. It reminds her of the way he smells when he brushes past her in the company of others, just solid weight and warmth. He does it nonchalantly, but the green of his eyes is knowing and flirtatious. That’s when the same scent teases her senses. It reminds her of the way he smells when he’s up close and personal, when he’s rocking against her and groaning softly into the nook between her shoulder and her neck. 

She stares at his hands — the way they lay over the armrests of his fold-out, the way lengthy digits adorned with chunky rings cradle a can of beer. She imagines the same fingers wrapped over her throat, squeezing lightly, in that way that he does. 

Y/N isn’t panting into the chill of the air. The white of her exhales just surface …quicker. His hands, and his smell, and his mouth are entirely irrelevant to the matter. 

By the time they all retire to their respective tents, the young woman is pleased to get a breather from his hands and his …ludicrously plush, smiley mouth. At least in a public circumstance, so she can’t be caught fawning over his mannerisms from a distance. The smell …she can’t escape that. In all honesty, it should be shameful, basking in the scent of a sweatshirt. Instead, she coils up in it under the covers.

She’s turned on her side with gritty rock coursing through wire, chords of guitar and drums rippling out from the little speakers in her ears, entirely engrossed as she scrolls through what little apps can manage access without a durable station of wifi. 

Y/N nearly squeals when an arm slinks over her chest, when a palm nudges over her mouth. And then another hand is plucking at one of the earbuds, giving her leeway into the crinkle of the sleeping bag, crickets, and the sound of bated breaths behind her. 

A low baritone, hushed and teasing against the same ear where the earbud’s been removed, “Easy, baby.” 

The gentle murmur that his lips shape does, frankly, little to soothe the hammer of her heart. In fact, if anything, the muscle soars in pace behind bone with the way cushiony pink grazes her jaw, the way his warm weight presses up behind her. 

“Easy.” 

She’d sit up and turn over her shoulder if she had the opportunity, but the same inky, muscly arm she’d admired hours earlier cradles over, preventing the motion. Harry can tell too, evidently, based on his soft snicker. He’s pleased from the way her head juts to steal a peer back. He’s pleased when she doesn’t succeed.

Instead of letting up, he takes the same earbud he’d pulled out and presses it into his own ear so that they’re sharing the set, crooning, “What are you listening to? Hm?” 

He sponges another kiss to the side of her throat, a stray tendril flopping over his forehead. Y/N knows that he’s listening to it, too, then. She knows from the playful, little nudge of his head with the rhythm, from the way the cord of the earbuds grows taut, from the sound of mirth he muzzles to her skin when he drives his mouth over the side of her neck. The young woman wriggles her arm, just enough for his grip to loosen, and then uses the opportunity to raise her head to take her own earbud out. The motion jostles Harry from the nook he’s seemingly made homage in, and he nips at her earlobe in protest. Anyways, the whole thing sends a chill wracking down her shoulders. 

When he lets up, Y/N twists in his grasp to her back. The earbuds splay over her chest, his own discarded, too. There’s still music seeping softly. She blinks, gaze tracing over his features, basked in shadow and soft amusement. 

“Hey,” she croaks, her voice catching on a crack with the effort to keep quiet. 

And Harry drags a thumb down her stomach, fingers meddling where the fabric of her (no, his) hoodie has rucked up. The ticklish sensation makes her shift a little. His mouth quirks, and he smooths over the same spot again. 

“Hey, you.” 

Her lips part and her tummy jolts when he slips the chilly pad of his thumb back over the line he’d run for a third time. She wants to bring her own hand up and trace the contours of his cocky mouth with her fingertips. It shapes the words, like baritone bathed in honey, “Ticklish?” 

When he brushes over a fourth time, her arm twitches, and her hand shoots for his wrist, squeezing lightly. Corners of muted pink spring up, dimples scoring softly. 

“Yes,” she gripes in a whisper, but the gripe doesn’t come out very gripey at all. Instead, it’s sort of small — that’s on account of his warm weight shifting onto her. Which is a new development, and it’s one that stirs something familiar and warm below the sleeping bag she’s nestled into, half-zipped and mostly just thrown over. 

His sturdy thigh slips in the empty gap between her own, and Harry ducks his head, the dimples deepening and the glint of white teeth escaping through the part of his lips. And then he dips lower until his face is nearly tucked into her hair. 

“I missed you,” his admission is soft-spoken. It’d be sort of tender if it didn’t come out so …hungry. 

Y/N takes in a little, shuddery breath. The same hand that's settled over her hipbone comes up to brush hair away from her throat, and a mouth stipples kisses over her pulse. His voice is a raspy, desirous tease, “Did you miss me?” 

Christ. She thinks that maybe if he were telepathic and had even a brief glimpse into the filthy things that’d cycled behind her skull for the duration of the day, then he’d only be more smug. 

That’s dangerous. 

She’s glad he isn’t. 

The young woman hums — an apathetic sound that feigns contemplation, like his touch doesn’t light every nerve ending in her system on fire, like she hasn’t spent hours staring at his arms, his mouth, his hands. Like she hasn’t been picturing expanses of muscle and skin hidden under his tee, imagining her tongue tracing through the vales of his v-line and her fingertips following the trail of hair below his belly button, slipping lower and lower…

“No?” Harry murmurs, lips bumping wetly over her flesh. What follows is a gentle exhale, and then his mouth is sponging another open-mouthed kiss, and his tongue brushes warmth against her, like he’s petting with it over her pulse. He caresses all the way back to her ear. Something dirty and thrilling slinks down the knobs of her spine when he mumbles, unconvinced, “I think you’re lying to me, little miss.” 

Her breath stutters. 

“I think,” Harry muses, fingers dipping beneath the shroud of the sleeping bag and smoothing back over her waist testingly, “that if I had a look right now, you’d be a drippy mess.”

Her throat bobs on a swallow. Petulantly, and so obviously feigning, Y/N tips her chin back and tells him, “…Not at all.”

Instead of smoothing tips of digits back over the naked, little expanse of skin again, they venture lower, teasing at the waistband of her sleep shorts. “I think your sweet, little pussy would tell me otherwise, wouldn’t it, pet?” 

Another deep breath rolls her chest under the cushioned sheet of fabric when fingertips dwell in. Just centimeters, practically. They retreat. Harry presses another kiss just below her ear. 

“Hm? It’s been so empty all day long. Achy, I bet.” Chills rise awake all over when he murmurs, purely condescending pity painting every syllable, “Poor baby.” 

He’s always had it — this gift of filthy, dirty gab. This ability to render her craving and wanting with his words like it’s innate, practically. She shouldn’t be surprised when he shifts over her, just enough for her to feel how hard he is, tips of his curls tickling at her cheek, “Could stuff it full. Make it all better.” 

Y/N sighs. Finally. Like it’s a release of the whole act, and the seams of it come apart to bliss when he nips with his teeth. She cranes her neck to give him more room to work. 

“Would you like that?” 

And she would, she thinks. Very, very much, and his lingering fingers — when they pull out and he hooks a thumb in and just tugs down a smidge — remind her of how hot she suddenly is. How hot everything is, despite the chill in the air. Instead of answering, the young woman nudges with her chin — a nod. An unsatisfactory one, evidently. 

“Words,” Harry mutters. It’s gentle, and quiet, and she hopes the polar opposite of the way he’s going to fuck her.

She cranes her neck more and splays her thighs what little she can under his weight. It’s kind of a plea. It’s also sort of pathetic. “Yes.” 

But it makes his mouth crook. His palm draws away. No. That wasn’t the intended effect. She curbs her sound of protest, but he can tell that it’s bridled in the chamber — she knows because the curl of mirth grows wider. He sits up a bit, bracing on his arms until he hovers over her, and then he sighs, jade sliding to the sector of the bag that’s zipped. Slowly, like he’s teasing, he grips over the notch and tugs. 

“What d’you do if you want me to stop?” Harry beckons, nearly a whisper but not quite, fingers skimming up under his hoodie. The same hoodie clings to her flesh, and every nerve sparks alive at the touch, striking her lungs to expand heavier. The air catches when the pads of his fingers graze up the vale of her sides and siphon a flinch. 

“Teacup,” Y/N breathes the safeword in response, and the fingertips climb her ribs like a staircase, pleased. 

“Good girl,” He tells her, and the pads sink back over, bumping over the ridges, and he tugs the fabric up over her chest. 

Her bra is red. It’s a nice detail, all lacy cupped over her chest. He draws the tip of an index over the edge and says, “Cheeky,” like his comment isn’t, “…Did you wear this to get fucked?” 

The young woman gnaws at her lip. Innately, it’s not an accurate statement. She didn’t wear it to get fucked — not when she knew he’d be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night and fucking into her regardless of the state of her underthings. But it’s a nice touch when he ducks, palm squeezing over one of her tits, and tacks on all low against her ear, like it’s praise, “Because you know I love you in red, pet.” 

The satisfaction of pleasing him buds in her chest, right at the core of her ribcage, warmth pitted deep, and it slinks out like beams of gooey sunshine, winding and seeping through the cavity until her veins practically thrum yellow. She’s buzzing beneath him, pulse thumping and fibers of muscle twitching. It makes his mouth curve — the way he feels her trembling under him like she’s a taut string, and he traces a thumb over her mouth. 

Then jade flits to her chest, and Harry takes the thumb away to hook fingers under the cups and tug. They settle under her tits, perking them, and the way the wire settles over her ribcage isn’t particularly comfortable, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when he shimmies down her body and draws a stripe down with his tongue, all the way from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the bra, settling in between. He kisses down her stomach, green salacious and twinkling up through shadow at her, and his tongue draws a circle around her belly button. His mouth quirks there, too, because it makes her flinch. Because he knew it would. Harry brushes with wet taste buds lower, settles on a side, low on her tummy, and sucks a pressing kiss. Her whole spine wrings and writhes, arching when he pairs the sensation with a dull graze of his hand over a nipple. It’s barely anything, but it’s a touch she longs for. And she doesn’t know why, but it always lights her on fire when the pleasure entwines with something that makes her want to squirm out of her own skin.  

Because when he turns the graze into a pinch and a roll, when he hones on the drag of his tongue and the suckling of his mouth, when he skirts featherlight fingertips up her side like he’s plucking invisible strings, the yellow thrums red, and hot, and hungry. When his mouth lets up and he drags wet lips to curl over the opposite nipple and the featherlight turns more purposeful, squeezing at sensitive flesh, this knocked-out unph escapes her, like a bridled grunt he’s punched from her. Like a half-laugh, like a moan, like a mottled gasp, like discomfort and please-don’t-stop enmeshed, curbed out of desperation. It makes the red fucking neon. 

Harry withdraws with a pop from the bud, and the air bites onto the wet to replace his mouth. The ambiance of rickets and cold reminds her that they’re kind of, sort of, definitely in public, only really shielded from said public (and the intrusive presence of their friend group) by thin sheets of nylon erected with plastic poles. Her eyes say it all then — this hesitation sparking, lashes bouncing and bounding from the nervous shift of her pupils, working from his eyes to his plush mouth and back as he rises to settle over her more. 

“They’re asleep,” he promises, a hushed murmur he seals to her own mouth in a sloppy half-kiss. His top lip ghosts over her cupid's bow, and he smooths a hand back over the vale of her waist where he’d squeezed a second ago. Her chest rolls under him, and her mouth parts, just a little to let a mottled little sound escape, like a wheezing gasp she’s muffled. 

And he muffles it more with his own lips, pressing against her. The sleeping bag rustles, and it’s quiet beyond the stilted sheets barring the wilderness. Harry’s hand skims down. 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Harry murmurs into her mouth, palm trailing until it stills at the waistband of her shorts, fingertip lingering over an expanse of skin below her belly button that he’s well aware will have her squirming. Y/N jerks. “Here? Or… maybe…”

The young woman practically does a squished, weighted version of a body roll beneath him when he moves his hand to her inner thigh, dragging the pad of his index over the sensitive skin higher up. “Maybe …here? …No, I don’t think so…” 

His tongue licks into her mouth when she opens wider for him, desperate for the taste of him on her tongue, and she nearly gasps over that same tongue — loudly — when his palm cups unceremoniously between her legs. “…I think you want me here. That’s about right, isn’t it?” 

Y/N makes a little noise — it’s something between desperation and wordless agreement, and it quirks the corners of Harry’s mouth, carving dimples in beside his smug beam. The hand withdraws so suddenly she wants to melt into the hungry soil. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweet thing,” he declares, voice hushed, a bass-deep admission soft-spoken and colored with teasing.

Instead, he presses up until he’s hovering over her and then knees his way back, and then his fingers tuck up under the waistband of her shorts. When he discards them into the beginnings of a pile of clothing beside them, coaxing her hips to rise up enough with a soft word, blood teems into her cheekbones, like it’s all new and foreign. 

It’s not. 

It’s the most comforting and familiar when he traces a fingertip over the cleft at the crotch of her panties, the most familiar when he shimmies his fingertips under the sides of the fabric at her hips and tugs those off, too. It’s familiar when he holds a leg up, fingers gentle at her calf, and sponges kisses up her leg from her ankle to her inner thigh. It’s familiar when his tongue dances over hot, slick, flesh in craving, when it rolls around her clit and circles back. When he’s amused by the proof that he was right, that she is soaked, and his ego inflates like a hot air balloon. It’s familiar in the draw of his tongue, in the brush of his lips, in the way his fingers brush over her thighs, over her hole, over the sensitive areas in between. It’s familiar in the way that she watches stars speckle in the darkness behind her clenched eyelids, in the way that Harry doesn’t let up even as she pants and wrings her own fingers into his curls. In the way that he only responds with a moan against her at the rough treatment of his scalp.  

It’s somewhere between heaven and hell, teetering on the wire, when he laps over her pulsing cunt. His irises flicker up when she shudders, when Y/N makes a futile attempt to clasp her thighs over his head and prevent the light drag of his tongue over her oversensitive button. Instead, he tucks a palm against one of her legs and holds it down, plush lips curling around an ‘o’ and sucking. Every muscle seizes, her fingers twitching and struggling to curl into the thinly stuffed fabric of the sleeping bag. She bridles a whole-body thrash, neck straining as her breath stutters. 

“Please— plea— it’s too much—“ Y/N swallows midway her begging to avoid choking on her own spit, and that’s cute, Harry thinks. 

Aw, Y/N thinks he’d coo up at her from between her thighs, if his mouth wasn’t occupied at her core, those are pretty words. They don’t sound like a safeword, though. 

He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say anything, humming quietly over her clit (honestly, she can’t tell if it’s in protest or agreement) and rolling a slow circle over nerves that are spent and nearly raw post his caress. 

Her chest is still rolling when he clambers his way up onto her, kneeing around her sides and then coaxing her arms up into a stretch. Harry cages those with firm thighs at the roots of the limbs, kneeing his way higher until he’s hovering over her chest and admiring her, all pliant and worn out and obedient beneath him. He sniffs, head cocked and eyes glimmering, and then sighs when he tucks fingers into the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers twitch, outstretched above her. And he’s weightless, and steady, and careful over her, but despite that, filth from his tongue punches her breath out like he’s sat directly over her lungs.

“Gonna suck my cock, baby.” 

It’s not really a question — not in tone. It’s a coo, a declaration, insight before Harry digs his fingers further past elastic and discards two layers of fabric with one tug, and his cock bobs free, glistening with a bead of precum at the head. 

Y/N swipes out over her lips with her tongue, and the sheen of spit over pink nearly matches the glimmer on the pink of his tip. The man cradles his free hand over his base and tucks the waistband lower on his hips, just until it rests under his balls and a glimpse of inked laurels and milky expanses of a bare tan line are on show. Bracing himself with a hand planted on the ground, Harry leans over her and aims his shaft, daubing over the plush of her mouth. When her tongue peeks out to swipe over the silky skin, she thinks he’s going to chastise her for her lack of patience. He doesn’t. Instead, he ogles down at the motion like she’s a goddess, cracks in otherwise apathy morphing; a light crease between his brows, a twitch in his lips. The same lips part for a shuddery breath like he’s trying to reign in his composure. And with every drag of his head over her slippery, hungry taste buds, a slow, side-to-side swipe that seems to lose precision with each motion, those cracks in his control give more. His jaw sets and he takes a long breath in through flared nostrils, and then shifts the palm that’d settled on the ground to rest over her wrists. 

“M’gonna fuck your mouth,” Harry tells her, pupils scoping carefully from her lips to her own eyes in finality. “What do you do if you want me to stop?” 

Y/N blinks. Her fingers twitch. She bends the digits over his grip and squeezes, flexing and unflexing over his own fingers like code in a tempo of frenzy. His gaze doesn’t even flicker from the aim of his tip, and he draws it over her mouth like he’s in awe of the sight.

“Good girl.” 

The young woman takes in a breath, mouth parting over his head slightly, all doe-eyed. He smushes his cockhead to the open seam.

“Open up for me,” the soft croon is accompanied by the tilt of his head, and a stray curl dangles over his forehead when he swipes the tip over her lips, “Nice and wide. Show me that pretty tongue.” 

And it slinks from her mouth as if on mindless command. Harry smears his tip over it like a filthy greeting, and then he feeds his fat cock in, guiding it up until the point to where he’s able to shift his weight onto the hand that doesn’t coat her wrists, careful not to cause the confined joints any discomfort.

“That’s it,” his praise seeps out all breathy, barely over an awed whisper as he sinks in and her tongue flexes to encompass the drag towards her gag reflex, “That’s a good girl.” 

The pointed little end grazes over his balls. 

“Eyes up here, pretty thing,” Harry encourages, ducking his own chin. There’s something pretty in the dance of her lash line, in the way her pupils flit up to his shadowy face, the way her lips tuck over her teeth to cushion his shaft. The way her tongue stays stuck out, flexing under the welcomed intrusion, “…Wanna watch them get all teary.” 

It’s like she tries to appease him. It’s as if on instinct to his words, that her lashes flutter as she tries to peer up, the beginnings of a ready sheen glazing the pretty color there as her tongue twitches and her throat bobs in an attempted swallow.  

And Christ, does it feel good when she does that. 

Harry’s own neck cranes, the muscles there flexing and veins swelling there like little ropes pulled taut under his skin. He groans, and it makes her do it again. His brows are furrowed when he risks a glance down at the picture-perfect view, and his hips nudge forward a smidge, only for him to bask in the sight of her irises lolling back and her lashes batting. A hiss lips through gritted teeth like rain through a gutter, and his head cocks further as he smooths an index to rest over her palm. She doesn’t have her digits balled — not all the way — not until his forefinger rests in her reach. She squeezes over that, almost like it’s an anchor. Something grounding to tether her. 

“Shit,” he manages out, barely over a whisper to bite back a throaty groan, hips rolling and brows furrowed in pleasure, “Shit — you’re good. You’re so good—“

And it makes the twitch of her lashes melt into a flitting bat, the color there rolling back and hiding behind the flutter. She can’t exactly hum in acknowledgment, but Y/N makes this garbled sound around him — this desperate kind she’d only make with his shaft stuffed down her throat, and it’s loud. Too loud. He squeezes over her wrists with his thumb, hips slowing until he’s wedged in to the hilt, stilled with the tip of her nose pressed to the light dusting of his pubic hair.

And Y/N thinks she’s going to implode. She’s going to implode if she doesn’t suffocate over his cock first. 

“Shh, shh,” Harry wriggles the index she’s gripping until her touch loosens enough, and he’s able to stroke the tip over her palm, “Shh.” 

Her pupils flit up to him in this deliciously delirious way for air. Harry tips his head down, the shadow of another curl flopping over his forehead. His cock twitches. Y/N makes another sound over him, this one lower. More pleading. More distressed. Her lashes flutter, cheeks puffing. Just when she’s about to clench and unclench over his fingers, he pulls out. It’s nearly all the way, but not quite, and she wheezes oxygen into her deprived lungs, muffling a fit of coughing. When she turns her head to take in more air, his tip slips out and draws a wet streak of saliva from the corner of her mouth across her cheek. 

“So pretty,” Harry murmurs. His tone sounds distant, and absentminded, and awed, like her mouth is divine and his voice is sort of full of worship, “You take me so well.”

Y/N blinks up at him, lips swollen post his ministrations and parted, slick with spit. Harry adjusts his grip, balancing his weight, and curls his lengthy digits over the base of his cock, aiming it back to that pretty, pretty mouth. 

Her jaw practically unhinges at the implication, tongue sticking out to daub at his cockhead when he croons, “And you’ll take a little more for me, sweetheart. Won’t you?” 

The sultry plush of his mouth curls up, all smug like when the tip of her tongue prods at his head, and then he feeds himself back into the warmth of her mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips rolling slow and cautious as he guides himself in, “Yeah, you will.” 

He settles back into a pace of shallow, jutting thrusts, slow, and calculated, and testing. But then those melt and meld into something smoother, something deeper that brushes the back of her throat. Her fingers stretch wide and open and curl helplessly, never quite squeezing over his own digits, and Harry basks in the wet, pornographic sounds that envelop his shaft. Even as she tries to dim their volume, the sound of her sputtering around his cock isn’t something she can exactly mask when he brushes her gag reflex, again, and again. With every prod forward, every second she spends with her jaw wide open for him, that flame in her core kindles higher and higher. When he pulls out, jaw clenched and tummy flexing, ridges of his abs caught in the shadows, it’s like he pours kerosene. 

“Suck,” her friend tells her, soft-spoken as he nudges with his hips. His palm cradles his cock, fingers curled under the base. But her range of motion is limited, and Harry tips it up from her wanton, slick lips. Almost like it’s purposeful, because it definitely is.

A tentative tongue slips out to draw over his balls, and the way his front teeth lodge against the plush of his bottom lip, head cocked to indulge in the innocuous peer of her eyes beneath him — that’s a pretty sight she can make out even through the lack of light. She takes a million mental snapshots with her pupils, all of him in his all, curls dangling from the angle and the sharp line of his nose, his panting mouth as her tastebuds drag, sinew of muscle at his abdomen flexing, a rise and fall. The barest shape of the dark anchor etched into his wrist, his long, ring-clad fingers, the way they curl over his cock. The shape of it hovering over her face. 

A low groan squeezes past the door he’s made with his teeth, and then he says, “Yeah. There. Go on.” 

Her tongue morphs to her mouth, lips latching over lightly and sucking, just as he’d directed, and parting teases paste to him like doting kisses. Her lashline bounces as her eyes attempt to make his responses out through the rough angle and the dark that coats them. His head craned back there, his tummy rising and falling in pants there, his face tipped down over her to watch. The most insightful — and frankly, the most satisfying — are the sounds. 

The hisses of air he sucks in through his teeth, the way huffs fall out from between his open lips. They’re slow, and they come out like he’s trying to control them for the sake of the decibel, but they shake as they escape, and that’s a telltale. And then there’s the moans. 

There aren’t many of those to indulge in, but there’s a couple, one that Harry can’t seem to curb, despite his seemingly best efforts, when Y/N rolls her tongue over him all slow-like and comes off with a pop. And then another, later, that has him hanging his head when she stipples kisses to the sensitive skin there. 

“Christ, you’re gonna kill me.” 

The young woman hums, maybe in agreement or maybe goading, lashes batting innocently beneath him as she draws her lips over his sac aimlessly. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and then he stifles and clams up like he’s contemplating. When her tongue drags over him again he seems to make a decision, tearing himself away and kneeing his way back until he’s hovering over her thighs, his cock bobbing and wet with spit, “Sit up. Take this off.” 

Do this, do that. A shudder climbs up the knobs of her spine, slithering its way up the bone as she basks in the dominating note plucking at his tone. The sweatshirt catches on her hair and tugs strands, but it’s frenzied, somehow fond, the way his hands rove up her sides and slip up her back, roaming over hot skin to toggle at the back of her bra.

Then it’s, “Roll over,” with the last of her clothing discarded into the darkness, somewhere beside them in the same, sloppy pile with her shorts and her underwear. “Gonna—“ she thinks he sheds his t-shirt then, imagines his muscles rippling and flexing as he pulls it off, over his head from the back, “—fuck you like I want your snug cunt wrapped around me forever.” 

And then go his shorts, judging by the way his weight dips and balances, the shuffling from behind as he kicks them off and they’re flung somewhere by his ankle. He presses up onto her, grappling her by the hip, all warm weight and everything brushing together. 

“You wanna bounce on my cock, baby?” Harry murmurs, pink lips grazing her temple. A curl tickles at her cheekbones when he ducks to skim his teeth over her earlobe, to ghost a breath of promise — of foreshadowing against her neck when he tells her, sultry low and smooth like honey, “Be a good girl and ask Daddy nicely. Maybe then I’ll let you.”  

Shit. Fucking Shit. That little word teems down her ears and hikes all the way down her nervous system and back up, lighting everything in her alive.  

Quietly, barely over a whisper, Y/N beckons, “Please.” And when Harry doesn’t immediately move, she licks out at her slips, swallows, and pleads, “Daddy. I need you. Need you inside.” 

In response, her friend cups a hand over a love handle and guides his cock to press against her. But he doesn’t breach. 

“Better, but not quite,” he sighs. There’s leaves rustling outside in the gentle breeze, but Y/N doesn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood in her ears when she begs more, and it doesn’t get any quieter when Harry rewards her by tucking himself inside and pumping forward, just about halfway. 

It’s a crying shame when he doesn’t make any motion to keep going. And then it’s quiet besides their panting breaths intermingling. Eventually, though, he does talk.

“Fuck yourself on it,” Harry instructs, cadence ludicrously controlled given that half of his cock is tucked into her. Y/N peers over her shoulder to catch glimpses of his furrowed brows — the rip in the stitch of semblance. She can only manage to see so much. He ducks his head and nips at the shell of her ear, coaxing tingles down her neck, her shoulders, all the way from her nape. “Go on. Don’t pretend to be shy about it.” 

Fucking fuck. How can she not be, she thinks, when he talks like that? 

There’s a heat that seeps over her the crest of her cheekbones where he can’t see, and she squeezes over him in response to the filth. Harry settles back up. From the corner of her eye, Y/N notes lines of muscle shaping his arms as he hovers over her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she arches her hips up a tad and nudges back. It’s not enough — it’s maybe an inch, and she rocks forward by pressing her hips down and then repeats the motion. Just as there was a lack of control over her shame when he spewed dirty, brazen, filth, there’s also a lack of motion when she’s rolled forward with her tummy pressed to the ground. There’s only so much — so many inches she can ride back on when she’s rendered immobile. 

He knows it, too — it’s obvious by the poorly muffled note of mirth in his tone from behind, “Good girl. But you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

Helplessly, Y/N grits her teeth, fingers tangling into the fabric of her sleeping bag as she rolls her hips back in another attempt. It’s stuttery, and awkward, and not really a seamless, Shakira-esque roll at all. It’s a poor shuffle, hips raising more than traveling back. 

“Come on,” Harry goads, tutting like her tries are half-assed and she’s not currently exerting her body into creating motions that are simply unrealistic, “Take it proper. You want it? Then take it. Show me.” 

Camping is supposed to be wholesome. Camping is supposed to be laughter, and deep, pure breaths of air that scrub out the tainted glaze of city life from the walls of your lungs, sticky like cigarette smoke residue on the walls of a house. It’s hiking boots stuffed with the thickest socks. It’s marshmallows on twigs over curdling flames that lick up, it’s flashlights, and spooky myths and legends verbalized, and more laughter. 

Instead, Y/N is camping, and she’s currently barely grinding over inches of Harry’s cock. 

“I can’t,” she grits out, frustrated, but it sounds more like a whine than anything with bite.

“You can’t? Sure you can, pet,” Harry grapples over her hip, bracing on one arm in, honestly, an impressive showcase of athleticism, and manually rakes her hips back over him. It allows for more — more of him, more of his cock, more of his touch. More of him splitting her open and spreading her apart over him. “Just like this, right?” 

She’s sure he must be meeting her at least a quarter, if not halfway, though. It all feels like a devious ploy. Y/N whines. He makes this amused sound then, one of those puffs expelled through his nostrils like a half-laugh, accompanied by a hum. And then he pulls out and pumps his hips forward, until he’s flush to her backside, and then reverses and repeats. Three times. He gives her three, good, long, full thrusts, smoothing out to the tip and in to the root until she’s stuffed, just like he’d promised. Then, he presses in all the way and just basks in her heat. 

“Better?” Harry asks, but his tone catches on a quiet grunt and wavers in its prior composure. She squeezes over him, really squeezes, and he muffles a groan with the seal of his mouth. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all, and then the filth spills again. It’s odd how patronizing he can sound, despite the way her cunt so obviously affects him, “Need Daddy to do all the work, is that it?” 

Y/N hums. There isn’t much she can say to disagree because it’s good. At some point, his slow rolls morph into sharp juts, and the brace of his arms bends and gives until his chest is flush to her back. 

“Please, please, please, please,” Y/N croaks out the mantra, muzzled by the smush of her cheek to the ground with the pressure of his hand palming at the side of her skull. 

“Shh,” Harry rocks forward, fingertips twitching into her roots like a meld of petting and admonishment. He rocks into her until he’s flush against her backside, splitting her over him to the hilt, “Shh …don’t need to beg, sweetheart. You can have it. Have it all.”

He’s warm weight over her, hard muscle like hot, sticky stone as he works into her from behind. He’s a welcome stretch, a pleasant burn, inches of bliss that her spongy walls cling to in a warm hug. He’s tips of curls brushing over her cheeks, filthy words in a murmur flush to the shell of her ear, little, repressed grunts and shuddery exhales as his hips rock. He’s a headlock that squeezes over her throat deliciously and keeps her neck craned back. It’s in this perfect way that almost has her gasping for breath. 

The young woman practically bites into her tongue to curb a nearly animalistic groan that climbs from the depths of her chest and squeezes out past her detained windpipe. She doesn’t need to try as hard when his opposite arm shimmies up over the poorly-cushioned sleeping bag, when his hand clamps against her mouth, palm smushing over her lips. Instead, her high whimper catches on his skin and muffles out. Her nostrils flare over his digits when Harry shushes and chastises through grunts. 

“I know, baby. I know. Need you to be — shit — a good, quiet girl for me, though.”

Her irises nearly loll back into her skull, fluttery for the ceiling of fabric in their sockets at the dominating tone of his cadence. 

“Gonna be good for me? Make me—“ his words taper off when he muzzles a groan with the seal of his own lips, and what comes out is hushed, and masculine, and obviously bridled. But it doesn’t make her as hungry as when he beckons, “—Make me pleased with you?”

Because she wants to please him, wants to be good, wants his digits to press harder over her tongue when he slinks them into her mouth. It’s not her fault when the motion siphons a whimper. So Harry does — press harder that is, an inclination for her lips to wrap over his fingers, his chin tucked over her shoulder. His mouth presses to her temple, gracing her with puffs of air through his nose as he rocks into her.

“There we go,” Harry coos, soft and barely over a whisper when her mouth seals over the intrusive digits, “There’s a good girl. Let’s keep those pretty sounds to ourselves.” 

He rocks into her until she’s whining into his hand, until they’re really slick with sweat, and he’s grazing at his own peak, working until it unravels him from the inside out. She’s still making hushed sounds against his palm when he groans all low into her hair and his motions melt into something stuttery, when he empties ribbon after ribbon as she clenches over him and milks him through it.

He’s probably going to rifle through the dark for some discarded fragment of fabric to clean the mess. It’ll be haphazard on account of the night, and she’ll still feel the sticky remnants, dried up at the peaks of her inner thighs in the morning. But it won’t really be gross. Sort of a sordid, morning-after keepsake, sort of a dirty thrill as they pack their stuff among the others in their cohort. Sort of, probably, an excuse to fuck later in the day when they have a moment alone to themselves, reminiscing on the night before. 

But before that, he’ll probably clean his mess and run a hand down the vale of her side in a praising caress, like he normally does. Probably lay next to her for a bit before sneaking off to his own tent because, even though they’re just friends that fuck, he’s never been weird about cuddling — aftercare is sort of a must. He’ll probably say goodnight with another searing kiss, the kind that burns deep inside, because every time he leaves is kerosene actively poured into the pit of a bonfire. Because every time he leaves, she wants him more.

Tomorrow they’ll still be friends. 

Just friends that fuck.

[maleficentmrsofallevil]

There's a fine line

between melting the fabric and setting it on fire. I crossed that line a few times this evening.

Last project of the evening: shaving the hair on my polyester fabric (I wish I was kidding) and running the raw edges through a candle flame.

I have learned 2 things:

Death to polyester fabric. Get your affairs in order, Polyester. Say your goodbyes. Yes, I know I'm normally against the death penalty, but for you, I'm making an exception. You unravel like a Stephanie Meyer plot, and you shed like a Siberian husky. It's time for you to shuffle off this mortal coil and never be sold again.

I need a different candle. These nice-smelling candles are no good for melting fabric edges.

Oh, and 3 I guess - polyester fabric burns like lint once it catches fire. It melts QUICK.

This is what happens when polyester sheer fabric sits in the same silicone reusable bag with other fabric.

This is the hemmed edge.

[aealrizen]

(Dehumanization warning)

To put a visual to the sensation, Whip only approached Midas’ mind first, but stayed hovering at the edges of it. As though he were standing on the outside of a door, waiting to be let in. He hadn’t been expecting Midas to figuratively reach over through the barrier and yank him past instead of cracking it open. A blur of flashing colors before cascading into a pit of blackness. Consciousness rushing past in streaks of faint pastel green as they fell into the deeper parts of Midas’ mind. Memories hoarded in carefully contained safe boxes amidst the loose extra data that lacked a personal touch. The oldest still looking fairly new, but smothered in a haze of inky black emotions warning onlookers to stay away. It wasn’t a smooth transition. Midas cracked open the box with a sledge hammer and threw Whip in before he could second guess revisiting the core source of his discomfort. Green to black, to blurred bluish, off white grey hazing into view as nothing more than a blanket of color before Whip could recognize it as a plain ceiling viewed from waking eyes.

…

…

…

|Generic world database accessed. Vocabulary reestablished. Knowledge base updated.

Midas’ thoughts sounded like a computer responding to input commands, causing Whip to grimace as he heard them echoing in his own head. Suddenly the lack of common, inherent knowledge that everyone gained from childhood that Midas seemed to have forgotten made sense. And Whip’s gut coiled tight at the thought.

As Midas’ vision cleared from sleep induced blur everything came into sharp focus as though a dial had been flicked straight into hyper awareness. The lines in the panels of the ceiling, the constant beep and hum of machines, the feeling of cottony fabric on his limbs. An IV was stabbed into his arm and taped in place. A heart rate monitor velcroed around his hand. Nasal cannula under his nose. But also wires stickered to his shoulder, thighs, calves, feet. A metal band around the back of his head was being pushed into his skull as it held a state of the art cybernetic brain monitor stable at his temples and near his cheekbones.

|Present machines and systems in place are typical of patients whose health has declined and is in need of constant monitoring. Fluids and oxygen are provided to ease the body’s physical burden as well as provide essential nutrients for sustained living. Heart monitor in place to ensure record of consistent rhythm. Electrodes placed across the body to detect nanite presence and stability. Cerebral analysis device in place to track cybernetic integration with the patient's neurological system is functioning without degrading biological function.

|...Self evaluation reveals nothing to be amiss. Movement is not expected to be detrimental to current health.

It took Whip a moment to realize Midas had been assessing himself for injuries that would deem it unwise for him to sit up. Only when Midas shoved himself upright did Whip fully understand the gibberish that has streamed through his mind, the light blanket falling off his chest to reveal generic Cerah hospital clothing. He stared absently at the fabric, registering its material, feel, scent… but nothing registered as familiar to him. It was a blanket. Used to keep body temperatures at ideal levels. Nothing less. Nothing more.

There was a small click, and soft hiss from a door opening to his left that pierced his brain, his auditory senses cranked up too high. The pain caused him to subconsciously adjust this hearing to accommodate the volume of the woman’s voice as she entered. He was listening, but his eyes were also taking in every aspect about her. Tan skin with a moderate amount of melanin, a bracelet made of 14 karat gold around her wrist, and matching earrings through pierced ears. Clothing made of a cotton and polyester blend, stained with various dyes to achieve colors other than the natural hues of the fibers.

“Hello…,” the woman greeted, stopping to stand a short ways away from the bed, a tablet in her arm and her other hand in her white coat pocket. A name tag was snapped onto the breast pocket, her picture and details about her personage and employment were stenciled into the plastic with ink. She seemed uncertain. “Do you know where you are?” she asked, tone prodding for information more than care for an ill patient.

Midas didn’t seem to notice, or care at all about her behavior.

“... I do not,” he answered. His voice sounded emotionless. Blank. Empty. Just answering a question with facts as his brian provided him with explanations unnecessary to another of his age.

|A doctor. I woke up from presumably an extended period of unconsciousness, so she is checking on my physical, mental, and emotional state. Standard practice for patient care.

“This is Holilan. A science and medical facility owned by C-Tech, in the city of Cerah,” the woman explained, watching Midas carefully for his reactions to her words. She didn’t sound like the stereotypical sweet voiced doctors trying to keep their patients calm and soothed in a generally distressing environment. She spoke with purpose, digging for information. “...Does any of that mean anything to you?”

Midas was quiet as he considered her question. The words were not unknown. But they didn’t mean anything to him other than being labels for a physical location.

|Holilan. A state of the art facility in the center of the largest remaining city of purified environment.

|C-Tech. A leading company in science, medicine, and some political affairs. Full of world renown intelligences of most subject matter, and original sponsor of cybernetic medicine.

|Cerah. The largest encapsulated city in the presently known land masses of Sendais. 

|Everything is ‘top of the line’ and known to currently dominate all aspects of their chosen fields of expertise.

|But does any of it matter?

“... It does not,” Midas answered, his gaze finally leaving the woman to examine more of the room. It took him seconds to process the information in his mind. Analyzing the data as though it were nothing more than a digitized encyclopedia to be used for research purposes. Dry. Uninteresting. Common facts.

The woman watched Midas examine the rest of the room with a slight purse to her lips. It wasn’t what she had expected. Simple, empty responses to otherwise, almost antagonistic questions. Almost like a responding machine being directed by programs. “...Very well. Let’s begin your examination. You’ve been asleep for quite some time. I imagine the new hardware might be causing you some difficulty since you’re not used to having a body in such a state.” As stool was pulled over with a heeled shoe foot, and the woman lowered her tablet into sight as she sat down.

Midas’ gaze returned to her, ready to answer her further questioning with easy answers. He wasn’t sure why she was speaking as though he would be unused to the state he was in. Aside from feeling strangely, slightly disconnected from the place he was in, nothing felt odd or otherwise out of place to him. His body felt completely normal. To the point he wasn’t sure why he was in medical care at all.

The examination was done with strange precision, and included questions and tasks that Whip had never known from a medical practitioner. Even the ones that had dealt with him for his rehab were a lot more caring and personal. This woman treated Midas like a program executing tasks. But to be fair Midas responded as such. She would request him perform a motion, and he would do it without question. Raising his arm, rotating his feet in circles, arching his back, opening his mouth. All of her recordings reflected that he was physically healthy. If it were a test, Midas would be scoring almost perfect marks.

Until they got to the questioning.

This woman was searching for something in Midas’ responses, but she wasn’t getting it.

“Who are the council members of Cerah’s governary force?”

“Patrick Solares, Crenia Jueves, Somaria Luniper, Francis Dumaine, and Contence Halipur.”

“Are you scheduled to meet with any of them?”

“No.”

“When is the next public conference at which any of them will attend?”

“I am unaware of any upcoming conferences warranting their attendance.”

“Who is the current head scientist in Cerah’s corporate office?”

“Luna Mornifer.”

“Are you in contact with her?”

“I am not.”

She thinks Midas is a mole planted by someone to infiltrate either Cerah’s government or C-Tech, Whip realized. Many more questions were asked, becoming less and less veiled in their intent, until finally the woman concluded their session. Midas’ memory held each question and answer in uninterested clarity, not concerned at all with what she was asking him. His answers didn’t even feel like his own. As though he were disconnected from wherever he was, and only puppeting a dream. The woman left, telling him to stay where he was, and Midas remained motionless.

It was hours before he began to move. Unconcerned blinking became stirred emotions causing him to look around the room once more. Facts and streams of unconcerned data started to become questions.

|Present location is Holilan, Cerah….. For an unknown reason.

|Cause of current condition is unknown.

|Location of origin is unknown.

|Social designation is…. Unknown.

Midas began to reach out for answers. His eyes sliding closed as his consciousness traveled up the connecting wires. To the monitors. Down to the storage harddrives. Bypassing the security with near silent precision. Whip had seen him work through programs before, but it was still slightly terrifying how easily Midas broke code apart and rewrote it. As if he understood computers better than organics. Eventually his route led him to the only familiar voice he knew. Observing the doctor woman from before by listening in on her conversation in another room.

“It's behaving similar to the results of the experiments to resurrect deceased humans. There is no person in there. Merely machines piloting a corpse.” The woman’s voice reflected how she had been when she’d left. Disappointed. Disinterested. Dissatisfied. 

“A zombie, then.” A man’s voice for the one she was reporting to. He seemed mildly interested, but only to voice some partial amusement.

“Essentially,” the woman confirmed.

There was a stretch of time as the man considered the report. And his mild interest soon gave way to practicality. “…We have no use for reanimated dead. Regardless of if it’s a sleeper cell or not, the end result is the same. Dispose of it.”

____________________________

First

____________________________

hhhhhhhh this one ended up so long but I didn't know what other pic I could do to break it up |DDD

[wordsandmorewords]

Two-Footed Scarecrows

Swearing to myself, at myself, for there were no birds on my walk. Cussing, with my teeth gnashing on the polyester collar of a coil-knit sweater that I've grabbed to above my chin with my teeth. A full two miles. Not even a pathetic, lonesome song through the branches of bare, deciduous trees. No cowboy lament. No broken-hearted diva. Not a goddamned song. I listened with intent. No birds. Plenty of two-footed scarecrows, plenty of flat-faced curs; all howling our hollows raspy no matter the volume.

Border walls built of yellow paint threaded down a black asphalt needle eye; checkpoints red-yellow-green. Fractured angles of light reflecting from windows acting as suppressive fire. Army tanks rolling at the speed of F-16s. If they'd known an isolated forest, this was a cursed bombardment; and if not, just another Wednesday hidden with the high-school-sweetheart husband drunk off his ass and left holding broken-bottle shards, cardinal blood seeping from his palms, smudges of bright red staining down the legs of his jeans.

The elder owls were surely looking down, incomprehensible disdain, furrowed brows cemented in place; evolutionary traits. Frustratedly patient, waiting for curfew to take effect and for us to return to our boxy wooden nests. "Hallelujah," they would echo. "Hallelooooojah." But all through the day, the sparrows were quiet. The hawks did not cry. For once, the jays withheld their complaints. What to make of the quiet from those whose homes we've invaded, drowned out by arrogant, ignorant, oblivious noise?

[whennnow]

Making a Regency Soft-Crown Bonnet

April 22, 2021

[Image ID: A blue soft-crown bonnet with white ribbon and a white feather displayed in profile on a foam mannequin head. A blue and white drawstring reticule and a pair of white leather gloves are displayed next to it.]

With the underthings and classic white dress for my Regency wardrobe done, I can focus on expanding my wardrobe with accessories! Several years ago I bought maybe a yard or so of a silk-like polyester in a lovely shade of blue. I've already made an embroidered Regency reticule out of it, so I decided to make a matching bonnet!

I opted to get the Zenobia Regency bonnet pattern and kit from Timely Tresses, since this is my first foray into millinery, and chose brim 1 with the 8-piece crown. The kit comes with everything you need to make the bonnet except for thread, fashion fabric, and trim.

I started by prepping the brim as the instructions say - cutting the brim out of buckram, attaching the millinery wire to the brim, and then covering the edge with crinoline tape. Attaching the wire was a bit of a struggle! The edges of the buckram kept catching on my sleeves and the wire was jumping all over the place. Thankfully that was the hardest part of the whole process.

I decided to interline both sides of the brim with the netting that came with the kit by using a running stitch to attach the net to one side at a time.

Binder clips came in handy on this project! Buckram is stiff and hard to pin into, so I used the clips to "pin" the crinoline tape in place, then the netting, and later the brim fashion fabric, which I'll get to in a moment.

The brim then gets traced onto the brim fabric and cut out with a half-inch seam allowance, which I sort of eyeballed. The outer edge of the brim gets sewn together, then you turn it inside out (and you should probably press it, but I didn't) and put the brim inside. I used the binder clips again to hold the fabric in place securely so I could baste the inner edge of the brim closed tightly.

With the brim prep done, I cut out the crown pieces from my fashion fabric and the linen lining from the kit. I chose the 8-piece crown, so I pinned two pieces together, sewed those four "pairs" together, then sewed two pairs together which left me with halves that could be sewn together. A complicated explanation of a simple process.

Those seams then get pressed open and you can sew in the center circle. That took a bit of fiddling, but I got it done and pressed the seam. Then the seam allowance at the outer edge of the crown (on both the outer and lining fabric) is supposed to be pressed in but I didn't do that. After that you can insert the lining. The instructions say to use a slip stitch but I decided on a whip stitch instead and found that the curved millinery needle included in the kit helped with stitching into the brim fabric without having to warp the buckram and wire in the brim.

I actually added a step before I attached the lining! I had some leftovers of the white cord I used on the embroidered reticule that perfectly well along the seam of the brim and crown, so I attached that before the lining so I could hide my stitches and the ends of the cord. The cord was actually a few inches too long, so I coiled it up at one end and am using it to hold the feather in place and hide the end of the feather.

Once I went back and attached the lining I could finish the decorating. I had two yards of 1" wide white silk ribbon that I had left over from the straps of my 1920s combinations. Based on some fashion plates (like these from May 1800, September 1800, 1801, 1803, 1804, 1808, September 1808) I decided to attach the ribbon toward the back of the bonnet, tack it down at the ends of the brim, and leave the ends loose to tie either below the chin or wrapped back up to tie on top of the head.

And then I was done!

Making a bonnet was way easier than I expected and I'm in love with the results! I do wish the pattern instructions had included more tips (like when to use the curved needle or how best to attach the circle in the crown), but I was able to figure it out. There weren't really any new skills needed for this, any difficulty just came from how fiddly some steps were.

But if you give a girl a matching bonnet and reticule, she might want a bodice to go with it, so stay tuned ;)

Stay warm. Stay safe. Stay healthy.

[henry-jwell]

TPO Waterproof Sheet Extrusion Line

Jwell company adopts the solid roll for combining multilayers, this new technology make the TPO sheet having a good function against wind uncovering.TPO waterproof sheet is a new type of waterproof product, which is produced with thermoplastic polyole-fin plus antioxygen and plastifier and so on, the middle layer is polyester fabric for reinforcement, the surface is laminated with textile fiber and aluminum foil. This kind of TPO waterproof sheet has the features of good weatherproof and suppleness. It is mainly used for house, tunnel, basement architecture and other waterproof fields. Used for different kinds of plastic material, such as PVC, TPO,etc.Being able to produce below sheets: Plastic roll sheet (model: H): without coating with inner reinforced material or outer material. Roll sheet with outer fiber (Model: L): coating with fiber or non-woven fabric. Inner reinforced roll sheet (Model: P): Inner layer coats with polyester mesh. Inner reinforced roll sheet (Model: G): Inner layer coats with glass fiber. Features of TPO waterproof coiled material 1. Ethylene propylene rubber and polypropylene are combined by advanced polymerization technology, which has both excellent weather resistance of ethylene propylene rubber and weldability of polypropylene. 2. The special formulation technology does not need to add any plasticizer that is easy to make the material brittle, does not produce the embrittlement of general hot welded coiled materials (such as PVC) due to the migration of plasticizer, and maintains the long-term waterproof function. 3. Excellent high and low temperature resistance. Like rubber materials, it still maintains flexibility at - 50 ℃ and mechanical strength at higher temperature. 4. Chemical resistance, acid, alkali, salt, animal oil, vegetable oil, lubricating oil corrosion, algae, mold and other microbial growth. 5. It has excellent root puncture resistance and can be used as root puncture resistant coiled material for planting roof. 6. Heat aging resistance and good dimensional stability. 7. The light colored surface dominated by white has smooth surface and high reflectivity, which has energy-saving effect 8. The lap joint is constructed by thermal welding, which can form a high-strength and reliable sealing waterproof layer. 9. The reinforced TPO waterproof coiled material is sandwiched with a layer of polyester fiber fabric in the middle, which provides the coiled material with high tensile performance, high tear strength, fatigue resistance and puncture resistance, and is more suitable for mechanically fixing the roof system. 10. The backing TPO waterproof coiled material is the fabric on the lower surface of the coiled material, which makes the coiled material easier to bond with the base layer. 11. Homogeneous TPO waterproof coiled material has good plasticity and can be processed into various shapes after heating to adapt to the practice of complex nodes Main technical specification Model SJP130/36-SJZ92/188-3400 JWP130/26+JWP130/26-2400 Product structure TPO+(Net)+TPO PVC+(Net)+PVC Products width 3200mm 2200mm Products thickness 0.8-3mm 0.5-3mm Extruder model SJP130/36-SJZ92/188 JWP130/26+JWP130/26 Capacity 1200kg/h 1500kg/h Read the full article

[goldbabygoddess]

Selecting your mattress

There's nothing even worse than a mattress that's past its sell-by day. You keep rolling into the centre, you awaken rigid from head to toe, you're tired constantly. Sound acquainted? Well, mattresses must be replaced every 6 to 8 years, so maybe it's time to get a new one. We have actually streamlined a couple of meanings to help you reach grips with the essentials. Air vents: These are positioned on the side of mattresses to enhance air-flow and keep fillings fresh. Fillings: There is a variety of various products used for mattress fillings: cotton (breathable as well as moisture-wicking), woollen (extravagant and also durable); foam (body cushioning), polyester (hypoallergenic) and also a lot more. Gauge: You might hear people discuss the 'gauge' of coils, which is the density of the cable. The lower the gauge number, the thicker the cable and also the stronger the mattress (so a 12 gauge mattress is firmer than a 14 gauge one). Hybrid: A hybrid mattress utilises a combination of pocket springs and memory foam. They're good for people that like both the assistance of pocket springs integrated with the body-moulding and pressure-relieving residential properties of memory foam. Memory foam: Made of polyurethane, memory foam moulds to your shape to target assistance. It's often combined with other materials to guarantee air-flow and also breathability. Mini-springs: These are used to boost the spring matter of a pocket sprung mattress. They are layered on top of anything over 2,000 pocket springs for additional convenience. Open up coil: A widely-made, conventional type of mattress with interlinked coils. A little stronger, a lot more inexpensive and lighter than a pocket spring mattress, but the springs are all attached which can suggest extra 'jump' for resting partners. Pocket spring: Each spring is wrapped independently with product to ensure that they relocate separately of each other. This gives your body assistance where it requires it, and also indicates when you move you won't disrupt your companion. Can be extra costly as well as heavier than open coil mattresses. Tension: This suggests the suppleness or gentleness of the bed. It's a personal choice, but the basic guideline is that larger individuals need a stronger tension as well as lighter individuals require a softer tension. Just as, back sleepers might intend to opt for a stronger tension, and side sleepers might require a softer tension to maintain the back aligned. Don't neglect, the convenience layer and also fillings of the mattress will also influence exactly how 'soft' or 'firm' it feels. Ticking: This basically implies the cover of the mattress, which can be made in a range of materials like cotton or viscose. The type of product utilised can impact durability and also air flow. Some ticking can be treated to make it anti-bacterial, waterproof, anti-static, and also fend off allergen. Tufting: Tufting is when tapes are pulled through the mattress at intervals and also secured on each side. It maintains the filling of the mattress in place so the mattress doesn't shed its framework.

Pick a stylish lamp for your bed room including arc, torchiere or tripod tall floor lamps with shelves in gold, black, brass and more at https://www.contemporaryfloorlamps.org.uk/

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: The North Face CAMPSHIRE PULLOVER HOODIE Size large.

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Shiva Fasteners | Zipper Manufacturing Company in India

Shiva Fasteners is a well-known zipper manufacturing company in India, offering high-quality zippers for many uses. We specialize in making durable and smooth-operating zippers, including polyester coil and CFC zippers. Our zippers are perfect for fashion, sportswear, luggage, and more. We use top-grade materials and advanced technology to ensure that every zipper meets high standards. Shiva Fasteners is proud to provide reliable and long-lasting products to our customers. Whether you need zippers for clothing or industrial gear, we have the perfect solution. Our commitment to quality and customer satisfaction makes us a trusted name in the industry.

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Pharmaceutical Coils

Pharmaceutical Desiccants is the official supplier of Pharmaceutical Coils from ‘CAROLINA’, used in bottle packaging. These pharma damage control coils confirm the stability of the pharmaceutical products while shipping and storage. For More Information, Please Contact or Visit - +91 9879203377 | https://www.pharmadesiccants.com/damage-solution/pharmaceutical-coil | pharmadesiccants@gmail.com

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[neha24blog]

Coil Coatings Market Segment Analysis By Resin, Application, End-use, Region And Forecast Till 2030: Grand View Research Inc.

San Francisco, 5 Sep 2024: The Report Coil Coatings Market Size, Share & Trends Analysis Report By Resin (Polyester, Siliconized Modified Polyesters (SMP), Plastisols, Other Resins), By Application, By End-use, By Region, And Segment Forecasts, 2024 – 2030 The global coil coatings market is anticipated to reach USD 4390.9 million by 2030, exhibiting a CAGR of 4.0% during the forecast period,…