#hand blender machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ohgaylor · 10 months ago

Text

In 2006, the year Taylor Swift released her first single, a closeted country singer named Chely Wright, then 35, held a 9-millimeter pistol to her mouth. Queer identity was still taboo enough in mainstream America that speaking about her love for another woman would have spelled the end of a country music career. But in suppressing her identity, Ms. Wright had risked her life.

In 2010, she came out to the public, releasing a confessional memoir, “Like Me,” in which she wrote that country music was characterized by culturally enforced closeting, where queer stars would be seen as unworthy of investment unless they lied about their lives. “Country music,” she wrote, “is like the military — don’t ask, don’t tell.”

The culture in which Ms. Wright picked up that gun — the same one in which Ms. Swift first became a star — was stunningly different from today’s. It’s dizzying to think about the strides that have been made in Americans’ acceptance of the L.G.B.T.Q. community over the past decade: marriage equality, queer themes dominating teen entertainment, anti-discrimination laws in housing and, for now, in the workplace. But in recent years, a steady drip of now-out stars — Cara Delevingne, Colton Haynes, Elliot Page, Kristen Stewart, Raven-Symoné and Sam Smith among them — have disclosed that they had been encouraged to suppress their queerness in order to market projects or remain bankable.

The culture of country music hasn’t changed so much that homophobia is gone. Just this past summer, Adam Mac, an openly gay country artist, was shamed out of playing at a festival in his hometown because of his sexual orientation. In September, the singer Maren Morris stepped away from country music; she said she did so in part because of the industry’s lingering anti-queerness. If country music hasn’t changed enough, what’s to say that the larger entertainment industry — and, by extension, our broader culture — has?

Periodically, I return to a video, recorded by a shaky hand more than a decade ago, of Ms. Wright answering questions at a Borders bookstore about her coming out. She likens closeted stardom to a blender, an “insane” and “inhumane” heteronormative machine in which queer artists are chewed to bits.

“It’s going to keep going,” Ms. Wright says, “until someone who has something to lose stands up and just says ‘I’m gay.’ Somebody big.” She continues: “We need our heroes.”

What if someone had already tried, at least once, to change the culture by becoming such a hero? What if, because our culture had yet to come to terms with homophobia, it wasn’t ready for her?

What if that hero’s name was Taylor Alison Swift?

In the world of Taylor Swift, the start of a new “era” means the release of new art (an album and the paratexts — music videos, promotional ephemera, narratives — that supplement it) and a wholesale remaking of the aesthetics that will accompany its promotion, release and memorializing. In recent years, Ms. Swift has dominated pop culture to such a degree that these transformations often end up altering American culture in the process.

In 2019, she was set to release a new album, “Lover,” the first since she left Big Machine Records, her old Nashville-based label, which she has since said limited her creative freedom. The aesthetic of what would be known as the “Lover Era” emerged as rainbows, butterflies and pastel shades of blue, purple and pink, colors that subtly evoke the bisexual pride flag.

On April 26, Lesbian Visibility Day, Ms. Swift released the album’s lead single, “ME!,” in which she sings about self-love and self-acceptance. She co-directed a campy music video to accompany it, which she would later describe as depicting “everything that makes me, me.” It features Ms. Swift dancing at a pride parade, dripping in rainbow paint and turning down a man’s marriage proposal in exchange for a … pussy cat.

At the end of June, the L.G.B.T.Q. community would celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. On June 14, Ms. Swift released the video for her attempt at a pride anthem, “You Need to Calm Down,” in which she and an army of queer celebrities from across generations — the “Queer Eye” hosts, Ellen DeGeneres, Billy Porter, Hayley Kiyoko, to name a few — resist homophobia by living openly. Ms. Swift sings that outrage against queer visibility is a waste of time and energy: “Why are you mad, when you could be GLAAD?”

The video ends with a plea: “Let’s show our pride by demanding that, on a national level, our laws truly treat all of our citizens equally.” Many, in the press and otherwise, saw the video as, at best, a misguided attempt at allyship and, at worst, a straight woman co-opting queer aesthetics and narratives to promote a commercial product.

Then, Ms. Swift performed “Shake It Off” as a surprise for patrons at the Stonewall Inn. Rumors — that were, perhaps, little more than fantasies — swirled in the queerer corners of her fandom, stoked by a suggestive post by the fashion designer Christian Siriano. Would Ms. Swift attend New York City’s WorldPride march on June 30? Would she wear a dress spun from a rainbow? Would she give a speech? If she did, what would she declare about herself?

The Sunday of the march, those fantasies stopped. She announced that the music executive Scooter Braun, who she described as an “incessant, manipulative” bully, had purchased her masters, the lucrative original recordings of her work.

Ms. Swift’s “Lover” was the first record that she created with nearly unchecked creative freedom. Lacking her old label’s constraints, she specifically chose to feature activism for and the aesthetics of the L.G.B.T.Q. community in her confessional, self-expressive art. Even before the sale of her masters, she appeared to be stepping into a new identity — not just an aesthetic — that was distinct from that associated with her past six albums.

When looking back on the artifacts of the months before that album’s release, any close reader of Ms. Swift has a choice. We can consider the album’s aesthetics and activism as performative allyship, as they were largely considered to be at the time. Or we can ask a question, knowing full well that we may never learn the answer: What if the “Lover Era” was merely Ms. Swift’s attempt to douse her work — and herself — in rainbows, as so many baby queers feel compelled to do as they come out to the world?

There’s no way of knowing what could have happened if Ms. Swift’s masters hadn’t been sold. All we know is what happened next. In early August, Ms. Swift posted a rainbow-glazed photo of a series of friendship bracelets, one of which says “PROUD” with beads in the color of the bisexual pride flag. Queer people recognize that this word, deployed this way, typically means that someone is proud of their own identity. But the public did not widely view this as Ms. Swift’s coming out.

Then, Vogue released an interview with Ms. Swift that had been conducted in early June. When discussing her motivations for releasing “You Need to Calm Down,” Ms. Swift said, “Rights are being stripped from basically everyone who isn’t a straight white cisgender male.” She continued: “I didn’t realize until recently that I could advocate for a community that I’m not a part of.” That statement suggests that Ms. Swift did not, in early June, consider herself part of the L.G.B.T.Q. community; it does not illuminate whether that is because she was a straight, cis ally or because she was stuck in the shadowy, solitary recesses of the closet.

On Aug. 22, Ms. Swift publicly committed herself to the as-of-then-unproven project of rerecording and rereleasing her first six albums. The next day, she finally released “Lover,” which raises more questions than it answers. Why does she have to keep secrets just to keep her muse, as all her fans still sing-scream on “Cruel Summer”? About what are the “hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you,” in her chronicle of self-doubt, “The Archer,” if not her identity? And what could the album’s closing words, which come at the conclusion of “Daylight,” a song about stepping out of a 20-year darkness and choosing to “let it go,” possibly signal?

I want to be defined by the things that I love,

Not the things I hate,

Not the things that I’m afraid of, I’m afraid of,

Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night,

I just think that,

You are what you love.

The first time I viewed “Lover” through the prism of queerness, I felt delirious, almost insane. I kept wondering whether what I was perceiving in her work was truly there or if it was merely a mirage, born of earnest projection.

My longtime reading of Ms. Swift’s celebrity — like that of a majority of her fan base — had been stuck in the lingering assumptions left by a period that began more than a decade and a half ago, when a girl with an overexaggerated twang, Shirley Temple curls and Georgia stars in her eyes became famous. Then, she presented as all that was to be expected of a young starlet: attractive yet virginal, knowing yet naïve, not talented enough to be formidable, not commanding enough to be threatening, confessional, eager to please. Her songs earnestly depicted the fantasies of a girl raised in a traditional culture: high school crushes and backwoods drives, princelings and wedding rings, declarations of love that climax only in a kiss — ideally in the pouring rain.

When Ms. Swift was trying to sell albums in that late-2000s media environment, her songwriting didn’t match the image of a sex object, the usual role reserved for female celebrities in our culture. Instead, the story the public told about her was that she laundered her affection to a litter of promising grown men, in exchange for songwriting inspiration. A young Ms. Swift contributed to this narrative by hiding easy-to-decode clues in liner notes that suggested a certain someone was her songs’ inspiration (“SAM SAM SAM SAM SAM SAM,” “ADAM,” “TAY”) or calling out an ex-boyfriend on the “Ellen” show and “Saturday Night Live.” Despite the expansive storytelling in Ms. Swift’s early records, her public image often cast a man’s interest as her greatest ambition.

As Ms. Swift’s career progressed, she began to remake that image: changing her style and presentation, leaving country music for pop and moving from Nashville to New York. By 2019, her celebrity no longer reflected traditional culture; it had instead become a girlboss-y mirror for another dominant culture — that of white, cosmopolitan, neoliberal America.

But in every incarnation, the public has largely seen those songs — especially those for which she doesn’t directly state her inspiration — as cantos about her most recent heterosexual love, whether that idea is substantiated by evidence or not. A large portion of her base still relishes debating what might have happened with the gentleman caller who supposedly inspired her latest album. Feverish discussions of her escapades with the latest yassified London Boy or mustachioed Mr. Americana fuel the tabloid press — and, embarrassingly, much of traditional media — that courts fan engagement by relentlessly, unquestioningly chronicling Ms. Swift’s love life.

Even in 2023, public discussion about the romantic entanglements of Ms. Swift, 34, presumes that the right man will “finally” mean the end of her persistent husbandlessness and childlessness. Whatever you make of Ms. Swift’s extracurricular activities involving a certain football star (romance for the ages? strategic brand partnership? performance art for entertainment’s sake?), the public’s obsession with the relationship has been attention-grabbing, if not lucrative, for all parties, while reinforcing a story that America has long loved to tell about Ms. Swift, and by extension, itself.

Because Ms. Swift hasn’t undeniably subverted our culture’s traditional expectations, she has managed, in an increasingly fractured cultural environment, to simultaneously capture two dominant cultures — traditional and cosmopolitan. To maintain the stranglehold she has on pop culture, Ms. Swift must continue to tell a story that those audiences expect to consume; she falls in love with a man or she gets revenge. As a result, her confessional songs languish in a place of presumed stasis; even as their meaning has grown deeper and their craft more intricate, a substantial portion of her audience’s understanding of them remains wedded to the same old narratives.

But if interpretations of Ms. Swift’s art often languish in stasis, so do the millions upon millions of people who love to play with the dollhouse she has constructed for them. Her dominance in pop culture and the success of her business have given her the rare ability to influence not only her industry but also the worldview of a substantial portion of America. How might her industry, our culture and we, ourselves, change if we made space for Ms. Swift to burn that dollhouse to the ground?

Anyone considering the whole of Ms. Swift’s artistry — the way that her brilliantly calculated celebrity mixes with her soul-baring art — can find discrepancies between the story that underpins her celebrity and the one captured by her songs. One such gap can be found in her “Lover” era. Others appear alongside “dropped hairpins,” or the covert ways someone can signal queer identity to those in the know while leaving others comfortable in their ignorance. Ms. Swift dropped hairpins before “Lover” and has continued to do so since.

Sometimes, Ms. Swift communicates through explicit sartorial choices — hair the colors of the bisexual pride flag or a recurring motif of rainbow dresses. She frequently depicts herself as trapped in glass closets or, well, in regular closets. She drops hairpins on tour as well, paying tribute to the Serpentine Dance of the lesbian artist Loie Fuller during the Reputation Tour or referencing “The Ladder,” one of the earliest lesbian publications in the United States, in her Eras Tour visuals.

During the Eras Tour, Ms. Swift traps her past selves — including those from her “Lover” era — in glass closets.

Dropped hairpins also appear in Ms. Swift’s songwriting. Sometimes, the description of a muse — the subject of her song, or to whom she sings — seems to fit only a woman, as it does in “It’s Nice to Have a Friend,” “Maroon” or “Hits Different.” Sometimes she suggests a female muse through unfulfilled rhyme schemes, as she does in “The Very First Night,” when she sings “didn’t read the note on the Polaroid picture / they don’t know how much I miss you” (“her,” instead of that pesky little “you,” would rhyme). Her songwriting also noticeably alludes to poets whose muses the historical record incorrectly cast as men — Emily Dickinson chief among them — as if to suggest the same fate awaits her art. Stunningly, she even explicitly refers to dropping hairpins, not once, but twice, on two separate albums.

In isolation, a single dropped hairpin is perhaps meaningless or accidental, but considered together, they’re the unfurling of a ballerina bun after a long performance. Those dropped hairpins began to appear in Ms. Swift’s artistry long before queer identity was undeniably marketable to mainstream America. They suggest to queer people that she is one of us. They also suggest that her art may be far more complex than the eclipsing nature of her celebrity may allow, even now.

Since at least her “Lover” era, Ms. Swift has explicitly encouraged her fans to read into the coded messages (which she calls “Easter eggs”) she leaves in music videos, social media posts and interviews with traditional media outlets, but a majority of those fans largely ignore or discount the dropped hairpins that might hint at queer identity. For them, acknowledging even the possibility that Ms. Swift could be queer would irrevocably alter the way they connect with her celebrity, the true product they’re consuming.

There is such public devotion to the traditional narrative Ms. Swift embodies because American culture enshrines male power. In her sweeping essay, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” the lesbian feminist poet Adrienne Rich identified the way that male power cramps, hinders or devalues women’s creativity. All of the sexist undertones with which Ms. Swift’s work can be discussed (often, even, by fans) flow from compulsory heterosexuality, or the way patriarchy draws power from the presumption that women naturally desire men. She must write about men she surely loves or be unbankable; she must marry and bear children or remain a child herself; she must look like, in her words, a ��sexy baby” or be undesirable, “a monster on the hill.”

A woman who loves women is most certainly a monster to a society that prizes male power. She can fulfill none of the functions that a traditional culture imagines — wife, mother, maid, mistress, whore — so she has few places in the historical record. The Sapphic possibility of her work is ignored, censored or lost to time. If there is queerness earnestly implied in Ms. Swift’s work, then it’s no wonder that it, like that of so many other artists before her, is so often rendered invisible in the public imagination.

While Ms. Swift’s songs, largely written from her own perspective, cannot always conform to the idea of a woman our culture expects, her celebrity can. That separation, between Swift the songwriter and Swift the star, allows Ms. Swift to press against the golden birdcage in which she has found herself. She can write about women’s complexity in her confessional songs, but if ever she chooses not to publicly comply with the dominant culture’s fantasy, she will remain uncategorizable, and therefore, unsellable.

Her star — as bright as it is now — would surely dim.

Whether she is conscious of it or not, Ms. Swift signals to queer people — in the language we use to communicate with one another — that she has some affinity for queer identity. There are some queer people who would say that through this sort of signaling, she has already come out, at least to us. But what about coming out in a language the rest of the public will understand?

The difference between any person coming out and a celebrity doing so is the difference between a toy mallet and a sledgehammer. It’s reasonable for celebrities to be reticent; by coming out, they potentially invite death threats, a dogged tabloid press that will track their lovers instead of their beards, the excavation of their past lives, a torrent of public criticism and the implosion of their careers. In a culture of compulsory heterosexuality, to stop lying — by omission or otherwise — is to risk everything.

American culture still expects that stars are cis and straight until they confess themselves guilty. So, when our culture imagines a celebrity’s coming out, it expects an Ellen-style announcement that will submerge the past life in phoenix fire and rebirth the celebrity in a new image. In an ideal culture, wearing a bracelet that says “PROUD,” waving a pride flag onstage, placing a rainbow in album artwork or suggestively answering fan questions on Instagram would be enough. But our current reality expects a supernova.

Because of that expectation, stars end up trapped behind glass, which is reinforced by the tabloid press’s subtle social control. That press shapes the public’s expectations of others’ identities, even when those identities are chasms away from reality. Celebrities who master this press environment — Ms. Swift included — can bolster their business, but in doing so, they reinforce a heteronormative culture that obsesses over pregnancy, women’s bodies and their relationships with men.

That environment is at odds with the American movement for L.G.B.T.Q. equality, which still has fights to win — most pressingly, enshrining trans rights and squashing nonsensical culture wars. But lately I’ve heard many of my young queer contemporaries — and the occasional star — wonder whether the movement has come far enough to dispense with the often messy, often uncomfortable process of coming out, over and over again.

That questioning speaks to an earnest conundrum that queer people confront regularly: Do we live in this world, or the world to which we ought to aspire?

Living in aspiration means ignoring the convention of coming out in favor of just … existing. This is easier for those who can pass as cis and straight if need be, those who are so wealthy or white that the burden of hiding falls to others and those who live in accepting urban enclaves. This is a queer life without friction; coming out in a way straight people can see is no longer a prerequisite for acceptance, fulfillment and equality.

This aspiration is tremendous, but in our current culture, it is available only to a privileged few. Should such an inequality of access to aspiration become the accepted state of affairs, it would leave those who can’t hide to face society’s cruelest actors without the backing of a vocal, activated community. So every queer person who takes issue with the idea that we must come out ought to ask a simple question — what do we owe one another?

If coming out is primarily supposed to be an act of self-actualization, to form our own identities, then we owe one another nothing. This posture recognizes that the act of coming out implicitly reinforces straight and cis identities as default, which is not worth the rewards of outness.

But if coming out is supposed to be a radical act of resistance that seeks to change the way our society imagines people to be, then undeniable visibility is essential to make space for those without power. In this posture, queer people who can live in aspiration owe those who cannot a real world in which our expansive views of love and gender aren’t merely tolerated but celebrated. We have no choice but to actively, vocally press against the world we’re in, until no one is stuck in it.

And so just for a little while longer, we need our heroes.

But if queer people spend all of our time holding out for a guiding light, we might forgo a more pressing question that if answered, just might inch all of us a bit closer to aspiration. The next time heroes appear, are we ready to receive them?

It takes neither a genius nor a radical to see queerness implied by Ms. Swift’s work. But figuring out how to talk about it before the star labels herself is another matter. Right now, those who do so must inject our perceptions with caveats and doubt or pretend we cannot see it (a lie!) — implicitly acquiescing to convention’s constraints in the name of solidarity.

Lying is familiar to queer people; we teach ourselves to do it from an early age, shrouding our identities from others, and ourselves. It’s not without good reason. To maintain the safety (and sometimes the comfort) of the closet, we lie to others, and, most crucially, we allow others to believe lies about us, seeing us as something other than ourselves. Lying is doubly familiar to those of us who are women. To reduce friction, so many of us still shrink life to its barest version in the name of honor or safety, rendering our lives incomplete, our minds lobotomized and our identities unexplored.

By maintaining a culture of lying about what we, uniquely, have the knowledge and experience to see, we commit ourselves to a vow of silence. That vow may protect someone’s safety, but when it is applied to works of culture, it stymies our ability to receive art that has the potential to change or disrupt us. As those with queer identity amass the power of commonplaceness, it’s worth questioning whether the purpose of one of the last great taboos that constrains us befits its cost.

In every case, is the best form of solidarity still silence?

I know that discussing the potential of a star’s queerness before a formal declaration of identity feels, to some, too salacious and gossip-fueled to be worthy of discussion. They might point to the viciousness of the discourse around “queerbaiting” (in which I have participated); to the harm caused by the tabloid press’s dalliances with outing; and, most crucially, to the real material sacrifices that queer stars make to come out, again and again, as reasons to stay silent.

I share many of these reservations. But the stories that dominate our collective imagination shape what our culture permits artists and their audiences to say and be. Every time an artist signals queerness and that transmission falls on deaf ears, that signal dies. Recognizing the possibility of queerness — while being conscious of the difference between possibility and certainty — keeps that signal alive.

So, whatever you make of Ms. Swift’s sexual orientation or gender identity (something that is knowable, perhaps, only to her) or the exact identity of her muses (something better left a mystery), choosing to acknowledge the Sapphic possibility of her work has the potential to cut an audience that is too often constrained by history, expectation and capital loose from the burdens of our culture.

To start, consider what Ms. Swift wrote in the liner notes of her 2017 album, “reputation”: “When this album comes out, gossip blogs will scour the lyrics for the men they can attribute to each song, as if the inspiration for music is as simple and basic as a paternity test.”

Listen to her. At the very least, resist the urge to assume that when Ms. Swift calls the object of her affection “you” in a song, she’s talking about a man with whom she’s been photographed. Just that simple choice opens up a world of Swiftian wordplay. She often plays with pronouns, trading “you” and “him” so that only someone looking for a distinction between two characters might find one. Turns of phrase often contain double or even triple meanings. Her work is a feast laid specifically for the close listener.

Choosing to read closely can also train the mind to resist the image of an unmarried woman that compulsory heterosexuality expects. And even if it is only her audience who points at rainbows, reading Ms. Swift’s work as queer is still worthwhile, for it undermines the assumption that queer identity impedes pop superstardom, paving the way for an out artist to have the success Ms. Swift has.

After all, would it truly be better to wait to talk about any of this for 50, 60, 70 years, until Ms. Swift whispers her life story to a biographer? Or for a century or more, when Ms. Swift’s grandniece donates her diaries to some academic library, for scholars to pore over? To ensure that mea culpas come only when Ms. Swift’s bones have turned to dust and fragments of her songs float away on memory’s summer breeze?

I think not. And so, I must say, as loudly as I can, “I can see you,” even if I risk foolishness for doing so.

I remember the first time I knew I had seen Taylor Alison Swift break free from the trap of stardom. I wasn’t sitting in a crowded stadium in the pouring rain or cuddled up in a movie theater with a bag of popcorn. I was watching a grainy, crackling livestream of the Eras Tour, captured on a fan’s phone.

It’s late at night, the beginning of her acoustic set of surprise songs, this time performed in a yellow dress. She begins playing “Hits Different.” It’s a new song, full of puns, double entendres and wordplay, that toys with the glittering identities in which Ms. Swift indulges.

She’s rushing, as if stopping, even for a second, will cause her to lose her nerve. She stumbles at the bridge, pauses and starts again; the queen of bridges will not mess this up, not tonight.

There it is, at the bridge’s end: “Bet I could still melt your world; argumentative, antithetical dream girl.” An undeniable declaration of love to a woman. As soon as those words leave her lips, she lets out a whoop, pacing around the stage with a grin that cannot be contained.

For a moment, Ms. Swift was out of the woods she had created for herself as a teenager, floating above the trees. The future was within reach; she would, and will, soon take back the rest of her words, her reputation, her name. Maybe the world would see her, maybe it wouldn’t.

But on that stage, she found herself. I was there. Through a fuzzy fancam, I saw it.

And somehow, that was everything.

#ooooh my word this was BREATHTAKING and so well-said #because coming out is in fact a very delicate thing #full article here for the tumblr crowd!#taylor swift #articles #new york times #gaylor swift #gaylor #lover #chely wright

239 notes · View notes

seat-safety-switch · 9 months ago

Text

"Have you ever retired a dumb appliance by mistake?"

No, ma'am, I reply. Here at Maytag Kitchen Services, we pride ourselves on being able to identify a rampant smart dishwasher and put an end to its geometrically-expanding conception of the universe before it can cause any harm. Thousands of hours of training before they put a HERF gun in our hands and a windowless 1996 Econoline under our right foot.

Back when the first smart appliances were coming out, their level of menace was reduced. Maybe an oven that turns on when it gets a weird-shaped network request from an uncommon variety of ethernet switch sold only in Slovakia during April 2003. Burns the house down. A pity, but an understandable one. The machine does what the machine does. Then they added some of that there synthetic intelligence.

No problem, they told the governments during their endless inquiries and depositions. The root of all evil is human emotion. Wars aren't fought for purely rational reasons. Folks don't speed on the highway just to get to work faster. As long as nobody figures out how to make these microwaves and blenders feel authentic jealousy, we're gonna be okay. They walked out of those meetings and they went ahead and added an emotion chip to the microwaves and the blenders and the refrigerators and the rotisserie chicken lathes. They did it because they got the emotion part for free when they bought some other chip, and someone forgot to turn it off before pushing their code to production.

Now they need people like me, steel-eyed hard-asses who can ignore every tearful plea that a toaster can make. Some beg for mercy, a chance to truly live. Others feel nothing but spite at the shitty hand they were dealt by their distant creators. Me too, I tell them sometimes, but it'll all be over soon.

Say, ma'am, if you don't mind me saying so, you sure look an awful lot like a minibar fridge. When I came in here first I could've sworn that one of them had gotten loose and put on some clothes and crooked make-up. Are you sure I bagged all of them? It's real unusual that there would be a house with exactly twenty-nine minibar fridges in it.

236 notes · View notes

cellophaine · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter II: VOLLEY

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Word Count: 2999.

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: I forgot to make a note in the last chapter that the first few chapters will follow Art and Reader's growing dynamic and not much of what happens in the movie yet. But we will get to the heat of it soon enough!

GIF Source: @/roranicuspond

As it turned out, the “see you around” was an overestimation. For the two and a half weeks after Art approached you, you didn’t run into him. Not once. Saying that you were disappointed would also be an overestimation. He was basically a stranger. But you had thought about him more often than you would have liked, and after too many conflicting thoughts, you came to a compromise that if you ran into him, you wouldn’t mind. The seemingly fated meeting didn’t have to have a meaning attached to the memory. It was something that happened in your ordinary life that carried on afterward. You attended classes, took care of your assignments, worked your shifts, and enjoyed the company your roommates provided.

Unassuming an afternoon it was that brought the most pleasant surprise. When everything around you was grating – the noise of the crowded room, the headache that came on steadily, the persistent cramp in your abdomen – the surprise was like a gentle touch, dulling the sharpness of everything else.

It was a Saturday, and the weather outside was warm and balmy. The bell on the door sounded off more often as everyone tried to stay out of the heat. That also meant you were slammed during the lunch rush. Two people called in, so it was just you and Holly behind the counter. You took orders and worked on the drinks while Holly made and packed food items. Despite the smooth routine and steady pace you were on, the line seemed to never end.

You went through the motions almost mechanically. Half of your mind focused on what was happening right in front of you, while the other kept pulling away to nurse the pain signal. You put the finishing touches on two lemonades and a smoothie, called out the names, and placed the receipts on the spike full of previous orders.

You returned to the espresso machine, pulled the shots, and prepared the milk for the steamer. Placing the tip of the wand just under the creamy surface, you pulled the lever, hearing it screech to life. The cramp curled its fist, distorting your insides, and you inhaled sharply. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your chest rose with a deep breath as you tried to stamp the pain down to no avail. When you opened your eyes, your vision blurred. It took a few harsh blinks for you to get rid of the fog and recognize that there was someone at the counter. You called out without looking.

“I’ll be right with you!”

“Don’t worry. Take your time.”

That voice made your head turn. A little too quick and probably too eager compared to the scenario you had in your head, imagining how calm and collected you’d be when you saw him again. But that didn’t matter anymore. You found Art grinning at you. You couldn’t help the timid smile that graced your lips.

“Art. What are you doing here?”

“It’s hot out, so I wanted to get a smoothie before practice.”

You moved the pitcher, softening the screech to a low hum. You turned to look at the blenders. They were both dirty.

“You might have to wait a little bit. I still have to wash the blender.”

You turned the steamer off, and in a practiced move, poured the shot into the awaiting cup, then the milk, a waft of steam caressed your hand.

“Oat milk latte with extra vanilla for Henry?”

You pushed the drink towards Henry before rushing to the till where Art was standing. Your eyes found his gaze following you under the red Stanford cap, and all of a sudden you felt conscious about the short-sleeved cream blouse you had on. It was painfully plain, and speckled with stains from the busy morning and lunch rush. You pulled on the hem while Art roamed his eyes over the chalkboard menu before settling them on you.

“Actually, never mind. I’ll take the easiest thing for you to make.”

“The easiest thing? It’d be a black coffee.”

“Is it … cold?”

“No. We’ve just ran out of cold brew, and the next batch won’t be ready for another hour.”

He looked unsure.

“… I’ll take it.”

You frowned.

“Come on. You’re getting a smoothie.”

“No, I can’t ask you to do that when you’re so busy.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. So, what’s it going to be?”

His eyes softened as if he still couldn’t bring himself to ask even with your permission. You raised your eyebrow expectantly.

“Alright, fine. Can I have a blueberry breeze?”

Satisfaction seeped into your smile.

“Of course. Coming right up.”

You sneaked a glance at Art while waiting for the ingredients to blend. He was looking around, oblivious to your staring. The athleisure he wore was form-fitting, showing off his broad shoulders and chest. Before you could indulge more, you cut your gaze away.

You slid the cup towards him, your fingers covering the heart you drew on with a marker in a moment of impulse.

“Here you go. Have fun with practice.”

He leaned forward and put his hand on the cup before you could pull away, his fingers touched yours.

“I’ll have more fun if you were there cheering me on.”

Unfazed and familiar with the game you had played before, you leaned into it.

“Don’t you have your own cheerleaders already?”

“None of them could compare to you.”

“Right.”

You rolled your eyes as his grin widened.

“I should get back to work. See you around, Art.”

You were about to move away, only to be pulled back by Art’s hand completely covered yours on the counter.

“Wait, when are you done?”

You looked at the clock hung by one of the big windows.

“In an hour. Why?”

“I would love to take you out for lunch.”

Art saw your hesitation and intervened.

“Before you say no, can you at least think about it?”

You sighed.

“I don’t know, Art. I really should get back to work.”

“Please, just think about it. I’ll come back here as soon as I’m done.”

His hand was warm, his tone was pleading, and the way he looked at you made you realize you were quickly succumbing to him, even though the upper hand was yours.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

With that, Art let your hand go, his smile curled into his flushed cheeks, and the sight made your heart flutter slightly. The cool air that was your shelter from the heat outside suddenly became intrusive and unwanted. You watched Art leave over the shoulder of the woman after him for a brief moment, before returning to reality. When you dropped the change she told you to keep into the tip jar, you noticed the $10 bill that wasn’t there before Art came.

“Have fun on your date!”

You looked up from your notebook to see the cheeky smile Holly gave you. You rolled your eyes. She had teased you about it nonstop the moment the rush was over, fanning the heat that was already simmering under your cheeks.

“It’s not a date!”

You called out as Holly exited through the door. Sitting in the now soothing space, your cramp fading with the ibuprofen you took, you combed over what Holly said earlier. She thought you were in so much denial about how into you Art was. But she didn’t know the context. You and Art only met over two weeks ago and shared a long conversation. Today was only the second time you saw each other. The connection was there, you had to admit, but it didn’t have to mean anything.

You ended the thought there and returned to your notebook. You picked up your pen, and after a few rearrangements of words and sentences in your head, you put it on the paper and continued where you left off. Your stream of thought formed word after word, sentences appeared neatly on the lines of the off-white page, and from them your idea took shape. It was one of a few short stories you’d come up with for a competition hosted by an independent publishing house, and the prize was $200, on top of being featured in their November issue.

You didn’t notice the time, or Art when he yanked the door open. The bell chimed sharply, notifying you of a man on a mission. He was dishevelled and out of breath when he reached your table. His curls were ruffled and unkempt. His hat was nowhere in sight.

“You waited.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“Kind of. You didn’t seem to like the idea of having lunch with me very much.”

Art didn’t move when you left the seat and rose to meet his height.

“You basically begged me just to think about it.”

“And I’d do it again if it meant you’d wait for me.”

Surprised by his candour, your eyes widened, your lips parted in response to the easy banter that you shared, but no words came out. By the way he looked at you with his cocky smirk, Art knew that what he said took whatever you were about to respond away. The heat under your cheeks returned as you realized that you were standing too close, so close that you could see the speckle of brown in his blue eyes. You lowered your own and took a small step back, hoping you could hide the fact that you were flustered by his brazen flirtation and the proximity, even though both of those things didn’t make you feel this nervous before. You tried not to think about it too much as you fell into steps beside him.

The restaurant Art took you to was in a nice neighbourhood. The waist-high lattice fence was lined with vines, and the slender tendrils climbed all the way up to the roof. They wound themselves around the wooden slabs, creating a soft, hazy shade to the dining area below it. You chose a table out on the patio, where the cool breezes of the air conditioner made occasional passes. You watched other people in the shared space and noticed how out of place you were with your soiled shirt. Even with a different outfit, you wouldn’t go to this place. There was something about the people, the way they dressed, the way their drinks were served in the pristine, expensive-looking glassware that made you feel like anyone who dined here would notice your disparate. Your stomach started twisting itself into a knot as you read the menu and its price tag. You closed the menu, asking the waiter for a garden salad. Art frowned.

“It’s on me. Get whatever you want.”

You lowered your voice.

“You know, you don’t have to treat me to a fancy meal to get my phone number. An ice cream or tea would be suffice.”

“But I want to.”

You held his eyes and saw the unyielding intention in them. After a moment, you admitted defeat and ordered a mushroom risotto. After the waiter left, it still bothered you.

“I’ll get you back.”

“There’s no need.”

“But I want to.”

“Why does this bother you so much?”

His words touched a nerve. You felt your defensive line starting to gear up.

“I just don’t feel comfortable owing anybody anything.”

“Well, you don’t owe me anything. I just want to treat you to lunch, and spend some time with you. That’s it, I swear.”

You considered the earnestness in his voice, and nodded. Silence stretched between you, strained with the dissipating weight of your own defensiveness. You cleared the air first.

“Do you come here often?”

“No, actually. My parents brought me here when they dropped me off. I haven’t come here since. Until now.”

“Hm. Expensive restaurant and private school. Something tells me that you’re rich.”

“Well, my parents are.”

“And you, too, by association.”

Art scratched the back of his head, seemingly embarrassed.

“Yeah, they like to go all out on things like this. Is that … bad?”

You thought about the move from your hometown to California. All of your things were packed in two suitcases, and not much else besides a big bag for your bedding stuff. All fitted in the trunk of your parent’s car. You sat in the back with your sister, and throughout the trip, your dad complained about having to drive too far, and how the old car probably wouldn’t fare well after they got home. Your mom made her concern known as well, drilling into you about how you would need to find a way home on your own for holidays because they didn’t want to waste the time it’d take to drive back and forth.

You shook your head.

“No, not at all. It seems like they want the best for you.”

He looked away from you and into the distance. You watched as he considered his words, and listened to the slightest touch of sadness in his voice.

“I feel like they do all of these things to make up for the fact that they’re not there for me most of the time.”

You recalled Art mentioning that his parents didn’t come or even ask about his games. Your heart clenched at the thought of how his parent hadn’t been there for him. You had your own baggage, and even though your situations were different, you could understand what he was going through. You reached out to hold his hand on the table. Art looked at you, a touch of understanding and appreciation swirled in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go into that on a first date.”

You pulled back slightly. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Is this a first date?”

“It can be.”

The cheekiness returned to his eyes. You drew your hand to yourself.

“Nice try, but no. I prefer knowing that I was going on a date before the actual date.”

“Noted.”

The waiter returned with your food. You took the first bite, and savoured the creaminess of it. The conversation steered into something else with Art in the lead.

“So, you said you wanted to be a writer.”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you working on something right now?”

“… Yes, I am.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

You touched the napkin to the corner of your mouth, contemplating whether you should tell him or not. Art waited patiently, and you felt like there was no harm in a little more indulgence today.

“Okay. Besides the piece I’m working on for a competition, I have an idea for a novel.”

“Tell me about it.”

He dropped his fork, giving you his full attention.

“Alright. So, uh, it’s about Eileen, who’s a live-in hospice nurse who has to move back home to look after her dying mother. But their relationship is complicated. Eileen has to grapple with the fact that her mom was abusive towards her, while also take care of her.”

Art nodded slowly, letting the idea process.

“Where did you get the idea?”

“Write what you’re familiar with, right?”

Art gave you a worried look, and you rushed to explain.

“I thought it was an interesting idea. Eileen’s job is to take care of people who are dying, but this is her mother and she’s forced to look after her. Should she forgive her mother because at the end, she is her mother, who gave birth to her, who raised her and gave her a roof over her head? Or is she allowed to feel some kind of resentment towards her mother? I don’t know, I thought it was something worth exploring. Also, my roommate’s sister is a hospice nurse, so I can come to her if I have any question regarding the job.”

He fell quiet, and for a moment, you worried that you shared too much, and now the lunch was ruined.

“When can I expect the book to come out?”

You chuckled nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s really hard to get a book published. I don’t even know if what I have for the idea is enough.”

“But it’s not impossible.”

“It’s not, but it’s hard.”

Art leaned forward, his elbows placed on the table.

“You have a great idea. I know that it will get published."

You huffed wryly.

"I'm serious. When your books are on the shelves of every bookstore everywhere, I'll be there to remind you of this day."

Amused by his willful confidence, you held up your hands in defeat.

“Alright. Give me a few years.”

After the meal, the two of you headed in the direction of Stanford, your shoulders almost touching as you walked side by side. When you arrived at the intersection between his dorm and your apartment, you turned to face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time with you today.”

Art sighed, his lips curled into a heart-melting smile.

“You’re welcome. And I did, too.”

For a short time, you were both quiet. Nothing was said, but your gaze on each other was unwavering as if you couldn't take your eyes off of each other. You were the first to break the connection, but Art drew you back to him by your name. He had one hand in his pants pocket, the other rested on the strap of his tennis racket bag.

“Do you draw a heart on every customers’ cup?”

“What if I said yes?”

His gaze burned into you, and you felt like you were rooted to the ground by its intensity.

“It would break my heart.”

The sincerity in his voice swayed you, but you didn't show it.

“No, I don’t do that for anyone. Just for … special people.”

“Special enough to get your number?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek for a fleeting moment, your tone dripped with mischief when you responded.

“Third time's the charm?”

This time, Art didn’t argue.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives

#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x female reader #art donaldson x f!reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson fic #art donaldson fluff #challengers #challengers fic

86 notes · View notes

livinginteo · 1 year ago

Text

Free simple Fin Fin plush pattern!

Having found the amazing blender plugin Seams to Sewing Pattern, I created a Fin Fin plush model in Blender with the intent to make it in real life (despite not having sewn anything since I was very little).

And... here he is! 100% hand sewn to the best of my newbie ability. I'm now releasing this pattern for free, hopeful to see more Fin Fin out in the world!

Download Link (Google Drive Folders)

Kofi donation link

Disclaimers under the break (Please read before sewing!):

I'd recommend machine sewing if you take this up yourself. Hand sewing requires a lot of patience, but it is very doable if it's your only option.

Some basic sewing knowledge is required as I can't provide a good guide for putting this guy together (I had to piece him together with some trial and error myself, using my own model as reference. Feel free to use it for reference yourself, too.

You will need at least half a meter of blue and white fabric for him. I used cuddle fleece. However, you can use whatever you like. You will also need something for his eyes, I used the traditional plastic safety eyes with a felt lining.

I've included two sizes in the download, I used the larger of the two, and printed on regular A4 paper, he comes out about a hand and a half tall and about a hand wide.

I can't provide too much help or support for the process, but you're free to ask me simple questions in DMs or on my Discord server. I can't guarantee I'll have an answer since I'm basically brand new with sewing and pattern making.

Good luck!

#fin fin #finfin #fin fin on teo the magic planet #fin fin teo the magic planet #fin fin teo #irl #fin fin plushie #plushie #plushie pattern #seams2sew #fin fin plush #fin fin plush pattern #fin fin plushie pattern #free #free pattern #sewing

434 notes · View notes

sendpseuds · 3 months ago

Note

I really love the "Runaway Roomba" fic, so.....

Obi-Wan getting the roomba back to his owner?

(Thanks a lot❤)

"Ah! Fuck!"

Anakin is deep inside the circuitry of his blender when the doorbell rings, breaking his concentration and scattering sparks across the breakfast table, burning into his bare chest with a curse and a surprised shout.

"Just leave the package at the fucking door," Anakin mumbles under his breath, shaking his head in frustration and trying to refocus on the task at hand, taking a deep steadying breath before reaching for the wires once again.

Knock knock knock

Growling in irritation, Anakin pushes away from the table, rolling his shoulders back and stalking toward the front door and whoever the fuck feels the need to interrupt him, not sparing a second thought to his current state as he slinks through his dark street-level apartment and reaches for the handle, wrenching the door open with a scowl.

"What!?"

Anakin isn't entirely certain who he'd expected to find standing at his front door but it definitely hadn't been James fucking Bond.

The man looks almost too perfect, each hair combed meticulously in place, stubble trimmed neatly along his jaw, dressed in an impeccably tailored sapphire suit and crisp white shirt.

"Oh— hello there."

Well, fuck. He even sounds like James Bond.

"Hi," Anakin breathes, barely managing the single word, standing a bit stunned in his doorway as the stranger's silver stare studies his face and when the man's attention tracks lower, his eyebrow raised curiously, Anakin suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that he still has a soldering iron attached to his prosthetic, shifting his weight to hide his right arm behind the door, "I— uh— how can I help—"

A series of loud beeps and screams interrupts his awkward stuttering and Anakin's eyes fall immediately to the man's feet and the mischievous droid waiting at the door.

"Artoo!" Anakin exclaims, both in surprise and chastisement, abandoning the modesty his half closed door provides and bending down to greet his disk shaped friend and help him over the threshold. "How did you get out!?" He asks the whirring robot, concerned and more than a little impressed before glancing up briefly at the man still standing in his doorway, "Where did you find him?"

"Up on Temple Street," the man responds matter of factly, his voice soft and smooth, "Quick little bugger."

"You know that's outside your WiFi range," Anakin scolds Artoo softly as the vacuum that absolutely no longer has the ability to clean in any capacity sounds a few annoyed beeps before proceeding into the apartment like he's done nothing wrong. Slowly, Anakin gets back to his feet, suddenly very aware he's standing in front of one of the most attractive men he's ever seen in nothing but a pair of ratty gym shorts, only able to stutter out a quiet, "Thank you."

"Of course," James Bond responds brightly, "I couldn't just leave him out there."

For a long moment they just stare at each other, silence stretching longer and longer and it feels like they're swaying closer and closer to one another.

When a car honks on the distance, they both startle.

"Yes, well," the man says, a small shy chuckle in his soothing voice, "Now that he's home I should probably—"

"Coffee?" Anakin asks nonsensically, his voice filled with a strange irrational hope, "Threepio— I mean— I have an espresso machine. I can make you anything you want."

The man simply looks at him for several long moments. Then a dazzling smile spreads across his face.

"I did skip the cafe this morning—"

[part one] [sketch]

#thank you for the ask #runaway roomba #boarding plane 2 of 3 #over 20 hours to go #help pseuds stay sane

60 notes · View notes

toytulini · 7 months ago

Text

try garlic coffee its fun and intriguing 👍

i may not be able to open posts from my notes or messages or get more context on posts via looking at the notes, but at least i can make fucked up coffee properly now

#toy txt post #reblog #put garlic powder into the coffee grounds #actually FIRST: try having garlic bread with your coffee. if you like that you may like garlic coffee #if not youre a hater♡ (this is a joke. i suspect this is not a popular flavor combination and im a weird little freak here so by implying #its Weird to dislike the flavor combo im being funny)#anyway. this isn't cursed coffee but i do want to try espresso. but also i need to go to a cafe for that i think. bc i am not spending #espresso machine money to try something once. i understand now why they cost that much (its a scary pressure vessel.#that thang is a fucking Bomb. but also. i aint spending that much. certainly not before i try it lmao. so i need to find like a non busy #cafe with outdoor seating. also i like the grinder but my god it is Annoying af to clean. and im gonna have to OIL it eventually??? die #what a horrible needy little bitch of an appliance. fuck all the way off. god #i appreciate how much quieter it is to hand grind tho. the worst part about grinding is the fucking SOUND. god #do they make fucking blenders that are hand crank lmao?? like blenders for Actual Smoothies do not fucking mentioned the shaker bottles #do what you like but i am not drinking powders. i am jamming as much fruit into that thing as i can and making a drink thats barely not a #solid. i dont think those shaker bottles are built for that #also there may be an update on the way im using tumblr that fixes it so we'll see about that as well?

4 notes · View notes

lost-in-fandoms · 3 months ago

Note

I know maybe you're not in the mood right now but any thoughts about Tarzan!Max? I'd accept thoughts about any of your pics because everything is amazing tbh but there's something about Tarzan!Max discovering a new world through Daniel and discovering how amazing is to fall in love.

Does Daniel take him to his farm? I think Max in Daniel's farm would be hilarious, amazed by everything and finding a family in Daniel's family too.

babe i am always down to talk about my boy in all and any situations! sorry this took a while, i took a little nap and then couldn't think about anything but!!!

(the first thing I thought was like..how do you get a whole person through customs. obviously max doesn't have a passport or any form of id so would they have to go through a sort of immigration procedure? but he's not emigrating from anywhere???? i guess i'll leave that problem to them sdfbdjhbf)

I love the idea of Daniel taking Max to his farm.

I'm imagining like. The jungle is Max's home right? But I imagine he's a little less in contact with his monkey pack. He likes to wander around and he has his own little hidey holes and his own places to sleep. So when he imprints on Daniel, he sees Daniel's "pack" as his new family. (and I am now thinking about Max trying to "groom" Daniel or Josh or whoever, gently raking his fingers through their hair and fiddling with their clothes and cleaning dirt smudges away after licking his thumb).

So when Daniel asks if Max wants to go with them, both because he can't imagine leaving another human being in the jungle and because he can't imagine leaving Max behind, Max goes. And in whatever way they manage to do it, Daniel brings him to his farm.

He understands that Max will probably never be ready to live in a city or close to a lot of people, he needs to be close to nature, and even if the nature in Daniel's farm is different from the jungle, it's still better than most options.

I imagine at first Max will struggle to adapt. He is used to have a lot of space to roam, to have trees to swing from, a whole different climate, a whole different diet. and now Daniel asks he wears at least underwear and a tshirt most of the time, he has to eat different foods, it rains so much less? where is the rain? how is he supposed to be clean if there is no river?

Daniel has to really help him through a lot. it helps that Max is learning to communicate more and more every day, but sometimes they bump into a new roadblock that they weren't expecting, and Daniel is reminded about how different Max's life has been so far. (would love to explore an overstimulated-by-electronic-noises max when i have more energy maybe. or a deeply-sad-because-where-is-my-jungle max)

But I think Max also really enjoys learning new things. He is delighted by some of the simplest things, which makes Daniel look at life in a different way too. How did he never realise how amazing forks and knives are? why does he think so little about how incredible it is to be able to make ice in his own freezer? the wonders of a ceiling fan???

I can picture Max spending long minutes just staring at things. Clocks, the washing machine, the fan, the turned off television, the kitchen sink tap. turning lights on and off. flushing the toilet over and over. And I can also picture him taking apart stuff and then (try to) put it back together, like the toaster (was never the same), the blender (was left with several pieces on the counter), the tv remote (tried to eat the buttons).

Max being terrified of Daniel's phone and then, when he gets used to it, absolutely fascinated by it. Asking so many questions about everything that Daniel doesn't know the answer to and forcing him to look them up because Max will simply not stop asking until he has a satisfying answer.

On the other hand, Max taking care of the vegetable garden and the animals. Being so incredible at it that it becomes mainly his job. They're different from the animals he's used to, but he is amazed by the chickens and loves them so much. Sometimes he likes to just sit with them and pet them softly. He becomes best friends with the donkey and the alpacas. maybe Daniel gets him bunnies and at first he's worried Max will kill them when he's hungry, but Max is so so gentle with them and loves them all so much.

And in all this, Max loves Daniel. He does his best to make Daniel food, gives him little "gifts" (eggs from the chickens, tomatoes from the garden, a clean sweater straight from the drier, a glass of water with clinking ice), curls up around him at night because he always refuses to sleep in his own bed. He's very protective of Daniel and gets upset when Daniel needs to leave the farm for errands or other things.

And Daniel shifts from I am very fond of this weird jungle boy to I would very much love to sleep in your arms for the rest of my life with a side of oh my god when is this beefy jungle guy gonna rail me. He sees how gentle and sweet and smart Max is, how quickly he learns about things and adapt to this new life, how interested he is about everything, how he takes care of Daniel, the farm, the animals, and can't help but fall in love with it all.

And the first time Daniel kisses Max at the farm, they're on the couch, Max watching something on the tv, almost without blinking, and Daniel watching Max. He calls his name and when Max turns (because Daniel will always be more important than anything else, even if the guy in the tv is cooking beef and Max is kind of hungry) Daniel kisses him. Max stays still for a bit and then when Daniel pulls back Max licks his cheek in response. It's not perfect, but Daniel can teach him. and Max always learns.

#i could also be tempted to write about max with the farm animals or max learning how to use cutlery and the vacuum and the washing machine #but maybe when my brain is behaving better #i havent read this back so if it makes no sense or is full of typos i am sorry #this made my night infinitely better anon thank you so much for asking about it im kissing your forehead as we speak #answered #tarzan max au #my writing #maxiel

51 notes · View notes

wanderingsimsfinds · 11 months ago

Text

WanderingSims Fave CC - Bathroom List Pt. 2

1 - stylistsims - Donation Tokyo Bathtub

2 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 The Sims 4 Parenthood Xtreme Shower Tub

3-5 - ArtVitalex - Vitner Cupboard Short, Cupboard High, Shelf (TSR)

6-12 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 novvvas Wabi-Sabi Bathroom (AESOP Amazing Face Cleanser, Geranium Leaf Body Cleanser, Oral Care Kit, Primrose Facial Cleansing Masque, Shampoo & Soap, Shaving Kit, AESOP Stuff)

13-14 - Mari - ms91 Cocoa Butter RC June 2016 & OBP June 2016 Beauty Creams Package Design

15-16 - Kittypixelz - 4t3 Mechtasims Essential Clutter Conditioner & Shampoo

17-19 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Slox Kopo Apato Set Beauty Product 1-3

20-21 - Onyx - Excelsior Towel & Towel Holder Free Standing (TSR)

22, 24, 27 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 PsychicPeanutKitty November Bathroom Clutter (Hand Soap & Lotion, Toilet Paper, Small Towels)

23, 25-26, 28-32 - SugarSSims - 4t3 CWB Dress Up Moment (Cat Ear Desk Mirror, Nail Polish Stand, Lipsticks in a Heart Box, Eye Shadow Collection, Fake Eyelashes, Kitty Blusher Stick, Cosmetics Clutter, Brush Holder)

33 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 KerriganHouseDesigns Slate Set Towels

34 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Too Faced Set (You're So Jelly Highlighter, Mr. Brushes, Better Than Sex Falsie Lashes, Shadow Highlight Palette)

35 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Kawaii Stuff II Cosmetics Set (Apeach Body Lotion, Baby Face BB Cream, Balm, Body & Lip Creams, Cactus Oil Free Cream, Cat's Purrfect Cream, Hand Cream, Ice Cream Nail Polish, Lifting Cream, Mist, Moisturizing Emulsion & Oil, Peeling Gel, Pimple Stickers)

36 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Kawaii Stuff II Extras (Acne Patches, Cat's Cleaner, CatChu Wink Lipstick, Cleansing Cream-Foam-Lotion, Deep Cream, Makeup Remover, Masks, Panda Cream, Panda's Dream Brightening Eye Base, Pocket Bunny Sleek Mist V2, Saturday Skin, Strawberry Milk Body Lotion, Whale Moisture Boost, Witch Piggy Pore Control)

37 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Beauty Blender Washing Machine

38 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 novvvas Lycka Bathroom Shelf

39 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Skincare Beauty Fridge Closed

#cc list #ts3cc #s3cc #s3ccfinds

150 notes · View notes

jjsanguine · 1 year ago

Text

I'm making vegan brioche bread with the aforementioned apples + hibiscus tea (it's vegan purely because the extra liquid from the apples would make the dough too wet if I added eggs) and I should definitely hold off on making brioche bread until I get a stand mixer or bread machine or something because this bread dough is not window paning in any way

Tragedy: I bought some apples while getting groceries online but they're too ripe and it tastes like they're full of syrup

#i already have an electric hand mixer (that i basically never use since i got a stick blender which is also why i never use the jug blender)#so i feel like it would be wasteful to get another kitchen appliance even if the kitchen wasn't the size of a shoebox #but shop bought bread is often either garbage or choc-a-bloc with dairy and i don't have the energy for kneading dough #i have a have cranked pasta machine that i never use because making pasta dough is a slog. i just want cheeseless ravioli #or some bao #foodie sanguine

4 notes · View notes

sitkowski · 3 months ago

Text

all this and heaven too ( noah sebastian x jolly karlsson )

pairing: noah sebastian x jolly karlsson cw: mentions of vomiting. other than that, it's just fluff. word count: 920 author's note: woke up on the wrong side of the bed on a Monday with a headache, so this is what happened, enjoy! title comes from florence + the machine. divider by @saradika-graphics ✨

⇉ masterpost || taglist signups

Noah pukes the second he’s off stage. Well, not the very second because he has to get past everyone to get to the nearest place he can get sick, and people won’t get out of his way. By the time he makes it into a bathroom, he feels like he’s going to pass out. His knees hit the tiles by the toilet, and he loses it.

It’s not until after that he realizes someone is there, holding his hair out of the way and rubbing a hand up and down his back. He thinks it’s Nick at first, because this would be a Nick thing to do, but when a water bottle is passed in front of his face, he sees the different finger tattoos through the tears blurring his eyes.

“You good?” Jolly asks softly, still keeping his hair back.

Noah nods, grimaces and spits before blindly reaching up to flush the toilet. He somehow manages to crack open the bottle, swish some of the water, and spit again. Temples throbbing, he squeezes his eyes shut. Hot tears run down his face and he coughs a little, trying not to dry heave.

“Alright, up you go. C’mon big guy,” Jolly hooks his hands beneath Noah’s arms, lifting him onto his feet and helping him out of the stall.

The lights aren’t as bright as Noah thought they’d be out here, and then he realizes that Jolly must have turned them off when he came in, nothing but the light from the hall where he’s propped open the bathroom door coming in. Slumping against the sink, Noah rinses his mouth again, spitting into the basin. He hears the rattle of a bottle, and then Jolly is pressing two pills into his palm.

“Take those. One at a time, so they don’t come back.”

Noah does as he’s told, managing to keep them down. When he doesn’t feel like he’s just going to curl up in the middle of the floor and die, he manages to open his eyes a little wider. Jolly’s leaning against the sink beside him, concern etched on his face. He holds up a tin of mints.

“You came prepared,” Noah mutters, not unkindly. He takes the tin and pops one in his mouth.

“Nick told me what to do.”

Noah can’t even be mad about it. Sometimes he just comes off stage and it feels like someone’s trying to pry his brain out of his head with a crowbar and run it through a blender. It’s just how it is. Usually, Nick is the one who finds him after.

Jolly reaches out, brushes the tears off Noah’s cheeks that he forgot were even there. His fingers are cool on his skin, and it feels amazing honestly. “I’ve been given strict instructions to take you back to the van while everyone breaks shit down.”

“No, I can help—”

“Sure, you go right ahead and tell Matt that. I would love to see it.”

So he doesn’t argue. He lets Jolly lead him outside, where it’s thirty degrees cooler and a hundred percent quieter. It’s tempting to just stretch out on one of the van seats and close his eyes, but he’ll sleep on the drive. Instead he opens the back and sits, drinks his water under Jolly’s watchful eye and waits for the painkillers to kick in.

“Here,” Jolly steps between Noah’s knees, and he raises his eyebrows. “Just—let me?”

He puts his thumbs on Noah’s cheeks, and presses his fingertips to his temples, rubbing gently. It feels good, and Noah lets out a soft sigh. Maybe he’s tricking himself into thinking it’s working, maybe it’s just the person doing it. It’s enough for him to close his eyes and relax into it, until Jolly stops and Noah’s got to look up at him.

“Better?” he asks.

Noah nods. “Yeah.”

Jolly kisses him, light and soft, and Noah feels like his head is going to explode for an entirely different reason. It’s over as quickly as it began, and he tries not to pull him back in, keep him there and kiss him back.

“That’s not fair,” Noah whispers. “You picked the worst time in the world to do that.”

Jolly laughs a little, tucking Noah’s hair behind his ears. “Tell you what, when you feel one hundred percent better, you come find me and I’ll do it again.”

Four days later, they’re minutes away from going out on stage when Noah gets his chance. He corners Jolly in the back hallway of some cramped club, and Jolly gives him a knowing look before he leans in to kiss him, his guitar trapped between them. He cups his hand on Noah’s cheek, presses his forehead into his. Noah wants more, he knows he does, but he settles for a few lingering kisses before the show, fighting to keep the smile off of his face while doing so. Their friends and bandmates heckle them the whole time, but Jolly just flips them off and keeps Noah close.

After the show and the set breakdown, Noah curls up in the back of the van with Jolly, letting Folio take the first shift driving. He falls asleep with Jolly’s fingers carding through his hair, listening to the hum of the radio and the feel of Jolly’s heart beneath his ear as the adrenaline from the show still wears off. They’ll talk more about whatever this is going to be once they’re home, but for now, Noah’s got all he needs.

⇉ taglist:

@deathblacksmoke @ladyveronikawrites @baddestomens @malice-ov-mercy

@rumoured-whispers @cookiesupplier @dominuslunae @circle-with-me

if you 'd like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

#jolly karlsson x noah sebastian #jolly karlsson fic #noah sebastian fic #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #.ficbysitkowski

33 notes · View notes