#hand blender machine

[chocopotts]

I hate this stupid idiot I spent two days trying to get his head to work god

[badlydrawnbeastwars]

she should zap him forever ❤️

[seth-burroughs]

Yomi blue hair era doodles I like to have fun sometimes. he's like 18 in this. he should be griefing a minecraft server not joining the cops Yomi you need to listen to me boy you're gonna go down some fucking pipeline if- aaand he's gone. whatever i'll support him nonetheless, have fun lil guy hope ur life will be better/different somehow<33

[theatre-of-lies]

My Ultrakill renders, combined.

Self-explainatory, I think.

Here's me learning how to animate a walk cycle using the machines - my only two models with functional rigs at the time. V2 is the first attempt, V1 is the second. Few hours of work for two 1 second gifs. Sighs.

Florp!

GTFO MY PRIME SANCTUM BITCH, Sorry these two are so dark, I'm too lazy to re-render them.

Bonus. The first two renders are mine, the second two are my friend's.

Give me some more ideas if you want - it's been a while since I used Blender and my hands are itching.

[simmeringstarfruit]

Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream

A creamy rich dessert that's perfect for any time of the year! Inspired by the recipe from Stardew Valley, this homemade vanilla ice cream recipe offers dairy and dairy-free options. Make it with an ice cream machine, immersion blender or by hand!

Ingredients

2 cups heavy cream + 1 ⅓ cups milk (dairy version) OR 3 + ⅓ cups full-fat coconut milk (non-dairy version)

1 vanilla bean pod (or substitute 1 tsp vanilla bean paste or extract)...

(continued in post)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Okay, hear me out...

Sy as a mafia boss and reader who owns the coffee shop.

The Olde Bakery

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: mob!Syverson, plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Burly is most appropriate to describe the man. Tall, thick, looming. The door shuts behind him without a care as his eyes skim the small shop. In a town as isolated as Springfort everything is smaller; simpler. You can tell at a glance that this man is neither. 

His eyes pass over the specials board and fall on you. More virulent than desolation in a small town is gossip. You’ve heard about the man already, though his appearance still surprises you. A man like him would go to the lawyer’s office and throw his weight around or trash the liquor store, but what business does he have in a cafe. Your cafe. 

For as much as you’ve heard about the mysterious and mercurial newcomer, you know better than to ask that. Instead, you recite the usual. The boring daily routines are what make Springfort safe. Or did. 

“Hello, what can I get you today?” You ask as he nears the counter. You move to face him over the small till.  

There’s not much to the space; enough for you to work. Espresso machine, frother, blender, toaster oven, percolator... the basics and a little more. There’s the display case of your hand-crafted baked goods and not much else. It’s the only place in town beside the diner for locals to sit down, though there are only four tables inside. 

The man doesn’t answer. He stares back at you. You can’t read his expressions. His blues fall to your hands as you place them on either side of the till. 

He wears a quarter-zip with the tab pulled down. The collar folds over as chest hair peaks out unabashedly. His black cargo pants have a military cut to them and his fingerless gloves are a final peculiar accessory. He sports a thick beard but a shaved scalp, and his blunt brows give him a naturally angry affect. 

“Sir? We have a new butterscotch mocha as today’s special,” you suggest. 

“You.” He speaks at last. 

You blink and hold your calm smile. You try to process his question. You point to your name tag an introduce yourself. 

“No, you asked me what you can get me.” 

You nod but don’t understand. 

“I can help you, sir. Sure. What would you like?” 

He looks you up and down and plants his hands on the counter. As he does that, you pull yours offer and fold them over your apron. He leans in and licks his lips. 

“I would like...” he gives a crooked grin, “you.” 

“I...” You open your mouth dumbly. “I don’t...” your voice is brittle. Your throat tightens and you choke on a disbelieving laugh. 

“You laughing at me?” He challenges. 

You gulp and snap your mouth shut, “no, sir. Sorry, I’m just... confused.” 

“What’s confusing?” He bends until he’s leaning on his elbows and twines his fingers together. His knuckles bulge and whiten. You lean back on your heel, resisting the urge to flee. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. The look in his eyes fills you with icy fear. 

“So, I put my order in...” he drawls. 

“Um. I can’t... I... this is my...” you sputter and recall Sonia’s recount of Osborne and Meyers sacking. The older law partner ended up in emerge though his exact malady varied according the source. “I own the cafe so--” 

“You go on and lock that door,” he says. “Since you’re the boss, you can take a break, can’t ya?” You sway on your feet and stare back at him. He untangles his fingers and brings a hand up to pull at a tuft of his beard. “I don’t know, I was told the service here was speedy.” He sucks his teeth. “But you’re here dragging your feet, wasting my time.” 

You wince and take a cautious step back. He watches you, unmoving, though you brace yourself for him to lunge. You slowly come out around the counter and cross to the door. You twist the lock and flip the sign. 

His footsteps scuff as he grunts into a long groan. You face him reluctantly as he drags one of the chairs from the table and puts it in front of the counter. His attention hangs on the seat as he considers it. You stand where you are, frightened. 

“Come here,” he beckons with two fingers, his other hand on the back of the chair. 

You approach and stop a foot away. He tilts his head to look at you. The gleam in his irises swells over you like frigid water. He lets go of the chair and turns to you fully. He steps closer and you wince as he reaches for you. 

He loops his arms around you and tugs at the knot of the apron. It slackens and he brings his hands up to unhook the strap from around your neck. He pulls it away and drops it on the floor. 

“Sir, I... what did I do?” 

“Chh, chh, chh,” he tuts between his teeth. 

You seal your lips and peer up at him. Your eyes meet again. He brings his large hands to cradle your face and tilts your head. He gives you an appraising look over. 

“You just worry about what you need to do, sweetheart,” he growls. 

His hands drift down to the top of your blouse. You shiver as he plucks open the buttons one at a time. As he does, gritty noises rise in his throat. He pushes the fabric away from your shoulders and down your arms. The blouse falls to your feet. 

You turn your head away as he tugs at the knotted belt of your high-waisted pants. He unties it and stretches the elastic waistband, guiding it past your hips. You sniff as you focus on staying upright. Your pants pool at your feet, heaping over your round-toed flats. 

You gasp as he cups your chest with his large hands. Your nipples harden and poke him through your bra. He purrs and gropes you harder. You shudder and waver with his force. He lifts your tits, jiggling them, and pushes them together. 

“I was told you sell sweets,” he says, “but I wasn’t expecting these.” 

[thelostconsultant]

Just a machine

pairing: Max Verstappen x android!reader

summary: Max received an android as a gift, but he didn't expect to fall in love with her within a matter of months.

note: So this is something I started to work on, it sat in my google docs for months, but idk, something feels off. But I didn't want to leave it there, so here is all I have written so far, bon appétit. \\ PS: Kamski and CyberLife are from Detroit: Become Human. It's a video game if you're not familiar.

Every once in a while Max looks at her, notes that she’s the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and then he remembers that under this human disguise she’s just a machine. Keeping an emotional distance is the key, at least that’s what Kamski told him when he gave him this android. But even then something told him that the man wasn’t speaking honestly, that he thought differently and wasn’t one to keep a distance from his artificial children. 

It’s only been a few months since she became a part of his life. He picked her up in Detroit after the Las Vegas GP, going to the home of the CyberLife founder who wanted to give him one of the prototypes as a present in person. And in secret. Even though their androids have a small LED on their temple, they could cover them so no one would find out they’re not human. So she got on his jet and traveled back to Monaco with him, settling into her new life quite easily and without anyone finding out he now has an android companion. 

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks with a warm smile as she prepares his breakfast, even though he told her not to bother. 

But she doesn’t let him do anything around the house anymore, she took the lead when it comes to these things. At least he managed to convince her to leave cleaning to the woman who had been coming to his home for the past years. It’s a small win, but it means a lot to him. In return she insists on staying out of the way every time the cleaning lady comes over, so Max usually takes her somewhere nice for that time.

He leans over the kitchen island to take a closer look at the way she cuts the fruit for the blender, then his eyes move up to her face. Silence fills the room when the knife stills in her hand and she looks back at him. For a moment—just for a fleeting moment—he forgets how to breathe, but then he pulls himself together and goes, “I don’t know. We could get in the car and just drive somewhere far from here. Or we could go buy you some new clothes for next week,” he offers, his eyes carefully scanning her face to see if either of these options caught her interest.

Seconds pass in silence that’s only broken by a thoughtful hum. “We can do whatever you’d prefer, they both sound good,” she says in the end, her smile growing wider before she returns her attention to the fruit.

Max doesn’t let her get away with this, though, because he wants her to choose, to make a decision based on what she wants, not based on what he wants. “Pick one.” Her brows furrow as she glances up at him with a confused look on her gorgeous face. “I want this to be your choice.”

“But—”

“No but!” Max says with a laugh as he reaches out for a piece of strawberry. “Come on, make a choice. Driving or shopping?” he asks.

If the little LED was still visible, it would surely be red now, he knows that. It’s obvious that she doesn’t like the idea of being forced to choose instead of following her owner’s wish, but he wants to see how far she can go, how much she can bend her programming. After all, he doesn’t want a servant, he wants a partner, a companion, someone he can rely on and have fun with.

“Can we drive?” she asks hesitantly in the end.

Flashing an excited grin at the android, he walks around the counter and stops in front of her, his hand moving up to cradle her face while his thumb draws lazy circles into the artificial skin. “We can do whatever you want,” he tells her before leaning in to place a kiss on her forehead. 

The rumors don’t bother Max, even though he has seen several articles with photos of the two of them together, posts on social media where fans are trying to figure out who she is, and even hears his own friends teasing him on stream. Yes, he can be affectionate with her even in public, because deep down he yearns for more than just friendship.

But.

But, but, but.

She’s not human. Yes, she’s the perfect copy of a real woman, even though she can’t eat or drink, so it’s not like he can take her to a restaurant for a date. But it wouldn’t matter, there are many more things they can do. But what if he wants a child? What will happen to her after he dies? There are so many things he needs to consider. 

Right now, it’s for the best to push these thoughts aside. He wants to focus on today, the way she’s sitting next to him in the car, watching the city through the window as if she hasn’t lived here for months now. He wants to start a conversation, but no topic comes to his mind. All he can think about is how beautiful she is, how amazing it is that they programmed her to be this kind. 

Then, as they cross the border to France, he finally takes a deep breath and glances over at her. “You never asked where we’re heading,” he notes.

She finally turns to him with a slightly tilted head. “Where are we going?” 

“It’s a surprise.”

“Then why did you want me to ask?” she wonders, sounding confused.

Without thinking much about it, Max reaches out to take her hand. “I was just surprised that you weren’t curious, that’s all. So… I’ve been meaning to ask you… How are you? Do you like living with me?” His voice is hesitant, and when he looks over at her, he notices the surprise in her expression. 

“Of course I do,” she replies, but he can hear it in her voice that it’s the kind of answer she was probably programmed to give.

Letting out a sigh, he speaks up again. “Okay, now let’s hear your real opinion. If you really like to live with me, what do you like the most about it?” 

Her eyes move to her lap where their hands lie, fingers intertwined. After what seems like an eternity, she finally speaks up. “You don’t treat me like I was an object. And… you’re always nice to me.” The corners of his lips curl into a smile upon hearing this, because that’s what he’s been aiming to do since the beginning. ��Also, I like how passionate you can be about things you like.”

A part of him wants to ask more, but a voice in the back of his mind keeps telling him to give her some space. One step at the time, he has to focus on this. She will open up, she will learn how to interact with him in a more natural manner, without making it obvious that there is a power imbalance at the end of the day. 

“Are you ready for next week?” he asks eventually. She nods, but he can tell there’s something she’s hiding. “What is it? I can see something’s bothering you.”

Before answering, she untangles their fingers and pulls her hand away. “It’s just… Won’t it bother you if people start talking about you showing up with an android? I mean, we’re going out together already, sure, but there are more cameras and fans at race weekends,” she says quietly.

Max lets out a sigh. “Your LED isn’t visible and you’re a prototype, there’s no other android out there that looks like you. Kamski won’t tell the truth to anyone,” he assures her. She nods, then her eyes move to the window on her right, clearly avoiding his gaze. “What else?” 

“People think I’m your girlfriend,” she says quietly.

He hums at first as he thinks about what to say. “Is it a bad thing?”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Would you like to be?”

“I wasn’t programmed for that.”

“Are you sure?” She hesitates, so Max takes a deep breath and looks for a good spot to pull over. Once he stops, he turns off the engine and twists his body to look at her. “Listen, I need to know something. Are you only tolerating the way I treat you because that’s what you were designed to do? When I hold your hand, when I kiss your forehead, when I hug you… I need to know if… You know, if they mean anything to you.”

She doesn’t respond. Not with words anyway. But he’s patient, he can wait for her to finally decide what to say, how to answer this seemingly easy question. And then, after several minutes of tense silence, she finally turns to look at him. “I would like to go back to Kamski.”

This sentence makes Max feel like he was hit by a bus. This statement comes out of nowhere, especially after she said she liked living with him. And now she wants to go back to Detroit? Gulping, he thinks about what to say to that. Sure, he could take her back there, but he doesn’t want to leave her behind, he doesn’t want to lose her. “Why? You just told me you like living with me, so I don’t understand what’s going on,” he says. 

As her eyes move down to her hand, she bites on her lower lip. “I just… This… I don’t know, I just need some answers, and–”

“He’s the only one who can give them to you,” he finishes for her, finally understanding where she’s going with this. When she nods, he takes a deep breath and turns to the screen of the car to open the list of his contacts. “Let’s call him now, shall we?” She looks hesitant, her eyes are fixed on the screen where her creator’s contact is open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

But then she gives him a pleading look. “Please, let me talk to him alone. I don’t want you to hear it, it’s… personal, I think.”

“All right, sure. Does this mean you’re not coming with me to the race?” There’s a guilty look on her face, and he lets out a long sigh of defeat. “You’ll have to fly a lot, if you don’t mind. We’ll go to Australia together, then you can take the jet to Detroit until I need it again, okay?” 

She nods, and he nods as well. These will be the longest few days in his life for sure. 

[adrienneleclerc]

Where Is It?

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Hispanic/Latina! Reader

Summary: Y/N gets tired of Logan asking where things are

Warning: Spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: Inspired by a scene from The King of Queens, this is my first Logan Sargeant Fanfic

Logan has been dating his girlfriend, Y/N, since his Formula 2 days, he has been living with Y/N since he started Formula 1, moved into her apartment, and yet Logan keeps asking where things are. At first it was fine but it started getting out of hand.

1st Week Living Together

Logan wanted to make Y/N breakfast but he didn't know where anything was. He didn't want to mess anything up so he went into the living room.

"Baby, where's the waffle iron?" Logan asked. Y/N looked at him

"Oh, it's in the pantry, here." Y/N got off the couch, walked into the kitchen, and opened the pantry. "So i keep the pancake mix on this shelf next to the syrup, the waffle iron is in this drawer along the base of the blenders if you wanted to make yourself a smoothie. The blenders should be on this shelf, okay." Y/N said, pointing to everything, showing Logan where everything was.

"Okay, thank you, breakfast will be ready in a few minutes." Logan said.

"Aw, thank you, mi principe." Y/N said, kissing his cheek.

2nd Week

Logan was tryng to open a package but he couldn't find scissors.

"Honey, where are the scissors?" Logan shouted from the living room.

"Check the cupboard in the living room! should be in the drawer next to my sewing machine!" Y/N yelled from their bedroom.

"Thank you!" Logan shouted when he found them and opened his package.

6 Months

Logan came back from his morning run (I’m guessing) and he wanted to make a smoothie. He took a quick shower and entered the kitchen where he slaw Y/N making herself eggs. Logan kissed her and started pulling out the protein powder, frozen fruits, milk, but he was missing something.

“Babe, where’s the blender?” Logan asked, Y/N flipped her egg, and turned around to look at Logan.

“Where do you think it is, principe?” Y/N asked.

“I have no idea, that’s why I’m asking you.” Logan said, Y/N rolled her eyes and pulled it out for him. “Here you go.” Y/N said, going back to the stove to serve the egg on her plate.

Present Day

Y/N was in the dining room, using the table to make a custom corset that someone ordered from her. When she finished pinning the pattern to the fabric, she got out her fabric scissors to cut it when Logan came in.

“Honey, where are the…? Oh, can I use the scissors when you’re done?” Logan asked.

“No! These are my fabric scissors, use the other ones.” Y/N said.

“That’s what I came here for, to ask you where the scissors are.” Logan said and Y/N just stared at him incredulously.

“No puede ser, we have been living together for 1 and a half and you still don’t know where the scissors are?” Y/N asked. Logan shook his head. “The scissors are in the same place they have always been, I have never moved it once, and yet you keep asking me where they are. Not to mention the blender, the waffle iron, the pens, your keys. I’ll tell you what, cariño, I have been a tour guide in my own apartment long enough. Too many precious moments have been wasted showing you where things are, just learn! Learn! Or at least actually look for them before you ask me. I mean, what if I was on vacation? How would you make your protein smoothies? How would you make waffles? How you cut anything ever again? Would you just sit here weeping and soiling yourself until somebody came in to help you. No you wouldn’t, you would *gasp* remember where something is. Now, just this once, find where the scissors are, come on, I know you can do it, you’re a smart boy, Amor.”

“I’m not a golden retriever, Y/N.” Logan said.

“TikTok disagrees. Now again, where are the scissors?” Y/N said. Logan stopped for a second, trying to remember where Y/N said they were before. He walked into the living room and Y/N followed behind him observing. “Well, you’re on the right room” Logan nodded, he was off to a great start. He walked to the cupboard and opened a drawer.

“I got ‘em.” Logan said, showing Y/N the scissors.

“You got ‘em. That wasn’t so hard, right, mi vida?” Y/N asked him.

“Not really, no.” Logan responded.

��Good boy.” Y/N walked into the dining room to cut the fabric and Logan followed her. As Y/N was cutting the fabric, she felt Logan staring at her. “What do you need now, Logan?”

“Tape.” Logan responded,

“Oh que la…” Y/N said rubbing her temples. “Just look for them.” Y/N responded as calmly as she can. Logan left and she continues to cut the fabric. When he finished cutting out the pieces, Logan came back with tape in his hands. “Finally!”

“I’m sorry that I keep asking you where things are.” Logan said.

“I accept your apology. Now leave me alone for the next few hours, I gotta sew this together.” Y/N said,

“You got it.” Logan said, kissing Y/N before going to their bedroom.

The End

Hope y’all liked it, let me know if you want more! @r0nnsblog @charli123456789

[ifwebeinrealfics]

context- you and luigi are roommates in hawaii

warning- making out, fluff!

“blue or navy?” luigi asks holding up two shirts that look nearly identical.

“what’s the difference?” you laugh looking at him from the communal kitchen where your adding ingredients into the blender. “I don’t know” he sighs. “I really like this girl and..” he begins to rant about the new girl he’s been seeing but you turn on the blender and drown out his talking with the sharp and loud sounds of the machine.

“Thanks for listening soph” he says sarcastically. “Oh any time!” You mock. You pour the yellow liquid into two bottles. You walk over to luigis room handing him one of the cups and taking the other for yourself.

“Oh thank you” he says reaching out to take the cup. His fingers brush yours for a split second and you look up to meet his eyes. “of course”.

You walk back into the kitchen and slip your sneakers on getting ready to go for a run in the late afternoon sun. Before you walk out the door you call out, “hey luigi”

He steps out of his room furrowing his thick brows. “Yea?” You bite your lip “wear the lighter blue, it makes your eyes pop” and with that you leave.

As you run on the hot pavement through downtown Hawaii you start to think. Luigis been going out with this girl for a few weeks now and he constantly talks about how much he likes her. The other roommates went as close to him as you so your always stuck listening. You think about how you always felt this little attachment to luigi. The way you banter back and forth all day, but when one of you needs something the others always there. All those times your fingers brushed or his eyes lingered too long when you were freshly out of the shower in your towel. It clearly didn’t mean much to him, but you always wondered. Now that hes with another girl you had to stuff those feelings away.

You approach the door and walk into your apartment about an hour after you left expecting no one to be home. You walk in greeted by Luigi standing in the dining rooms . “What are you doing here?” You question. He doesn’t answer. “Hello? Earth to Luigi” you walk into the kitchen.

“She canceled” he finally says. “Shit I’m sorry lu” you fill up a cup of water. “What was her excuse?” You ask. “She said we should stop seeing each other because she thinks I’m in love with someone else.” Your taken aback by his statement. “Oh?”

You turn around from the sink to be met face to face with Luigi. You didn’t hear him come up behind you. “Holy shit you scared me” you slap his arm walking past him, but he grabs your wrist spinning you back to face him.

“You know she’s not wrong” he says. “What” you bring your eyes to face his, your body’s only inches apart. “Soph…” “yea?” He brushes your hair behind your ear “can I?” He asks placing his finger on your chin closing all the space between you two.

You give a soft nod and with that his lips come down to meet yours. His lips softer than you expected letting out a soft moan onto them. “What took you so long?” You laugh softly still drunk on that feeling of releasing all the pent up tension between you two.

He just laughs and pulls you back in to another kiss. This one more rough and needy. He tugs your hips and you jump into his arms wrapping your legs around him fitting together perfectly. He walks to the nearest wall pressing you against it gently.

you continue to make out savoring each kiss and the feeling of his lips finally being on yours after so long of only dreaming about this moment.

[ironicsoap]

What I've learned from making 2 fursuits!

I've learned a TON from the process of both of these suits, making my 2nd suit I improved on a lot of stuff I had learned from the first! Here's stuff I would've liked to know before I started either of these

For reference, the white cat suit's name is Sophie and she was made first. The blue one is Raine, and she was made second! I'll be referring to them throughout this.

I've learned nearly everything I know about sewing and these types of craft projects from making these 2 suits, I haven't had any prior experience. This is all very much advice From a beginner TO beginners, experienced makers may say some of this is wrong, this is just my lived experience written down. I figured I'd write all this now while it's fresh in my mind! When you get experienced at doing stuff, you tend to forget what problems you faced as a beginner.

Fur Bulk

Fur bulk is REAL and a MASSIVE PROBLEM when making your sculpt. Regardless of what method you use to make your base, 3D printed or foam. Depending on how short you can shave your fur, fur bulk will add about 1cm - 0.5cm of thickness to your base

Look how much her mouth closed up from the base sculpt! I ended up still loving the end result, but it was a bit unexpected. (Despite learning about fur bulk from my first suit, and ALSO testing fur bulk in Blender with a fur particle system when I was making the sculpt for this head.)

Raine's ear is an unfortunate victim of fur bulk still, but I didn't have time to remake it how I wanted it. I even tried to make it slimmer on purpose since Sophie's ear ended up so stupidly thick 😭

Seam Allowance & Stitches

(Talking PURELY about hand sewing, I've never used a sewing machine, I cannot give any advice for that)

You should be using a blanket or whip stitch for most of your fursuit, in terms of speed and seams, they are the most effective! Whip stitch for most of your face, it's going to be glued down.. so truly you just need the fabric together and not SECURE since it'll be glued. Use the blanket stitch for things like paws or stuff that's more likely to pop a seam (ears? tails? etc)

More experienced suit makers might say use blanket for everything, that may be more correct 🤷‍♀️ Whip/Blanket are nearly the same stitch, blanket is just more secure than a whip stitch, takes a little longer, and uses slightly more thread. I haven't timed other stitches, but the blanket takes me about 5 minutes per inch to do.

On Sophie, I had made up my own bizarre version of a backstitch that was stupidly strong.. but also took a million years to do. It also made my paws near IMPOSSIBLE to turn inside out. Sewing raines face together with a whip stitch was way quicker!

For your face pattern, use next to no seam allowance for the cleanest look. The areas that I added seam allowance on Raine, I really regretted the bulged out look they had. If you aren't confident in your pattern making ability, some seam allowance does give you some wiggle room in terms of how easily your pattern fits onto your base

Designing your suit for airflow

This wasn't actually a problem for me, I did this from the start. But I've worn suits that weren't designed for proper ventilation, and it really just makes suiting a very unpleasant experience. You want to have a mouth hole that is right in front of your own mouth, so you can easily get fresh air in your suit. I'm not saying you HAVE to do this, as not all designs can accommodate this, but it's absolutely something to think about for your comfort!

Another thing I've learned, is the roomier your suit is around the mouth hole, the more overall airflow you get! I tried on my friends head which I sculpted, and they printed in TPU, significantly roomier than Raine, and much more breathable! Raine is still comfortable for me to wear even masked underneath, since I made her ventilation so good!

My future suits I make, I'm going to be looking into TPU due to the sheer weight and breathability difference from my PLA suit!

Non-Fur Supplies

I highly recommend getting hand sewing needles and EVA foam at Daiso if you have one! Daiso has lots of little sewing kits, and I got both of my main needles there. The little circle disks of needles you can find at other stores didn't have needles that were the right size and shape for my hands to comfortably use. Daiso also sells EVA foam in the smaller amounts that you'd need for a suit, unlike hardware stores which usually sell giant square packs of 5

For handsewing, I noticed going for the slightly thicker thread lead to stronger seams overall.

For what you should have in a sewing kit for fursuit, here's what I have (ranked by importance)

Multiple handsewing needles you're comfortable with, just in case you lose one

Pins

Wonder clips (the little plastic rainbow clips) ABSOLUTELY necessary for suit making honestly, they work better than pins in most situations

Seam ripper

Soft measuring tape

Some generic white and/or black thread, as well as your fursuits thread

Safety pins

Overall helpful fursuit supplies

Velcro patches

Masking tape

Duck/Duct Tape

Have garbage shitty scissors, and separate scissors JUST for fabric. Your fabric scissors will remain sharp for much longer if you don't use them on other stuff. (3rd pair of scissors that's not used on tape/sticky stuff, but thread and paper also is helpful. The garbage scissors can get gunky when cutting tape, and your medium scissors remain sharp enough to easily cut other stuff)

Xacto knife + LOTS of new blades. The blades go dull FAST when cutting fur and foam. If you're having to use a lot of pressure to cut through your fur's backing, that means you need a new blade

Box cutter + LOTS of new blades for box cutter. I have a Kobalt box cutter, it's nearly as sharp as my xactos. I use it for cutting out big sections of fur and foam.

I get my eye mesh from Curlworks! I love the visibility on it ^_^

Fur Brands

In terms of my fur company quality rankings, it would be this (I've tried fur from a million different companies on my sample hunt for Raine)

1. Howl Fabrics 2. BigZFabrics 3. MofuMofu.shop

Howl overall is the most dense, relatively soft, and best to shave out of all 3. (Canfur is of very similar quality to Howl, except it has a mild crayon or carpet smell. The smell wears off completely after around 6-7 months, at least on the small sample I got)

BigZ is kind of like a middle ground, but shaves HIGHLY powdery compared to the other 2. As well as shaves a little worse/choppy compared to better quality fur.

MofuMofu is the least dense out of the 3, but I would consider the softest. Best if they have a niche color you need. The fur tends to clump together when it is shaved like sheep wool, and is less powdery than BigZ.

Random furs from etsy are usually LQ/MQ and patchy on their density, not great for shaving super short

Fur Shaving / Length

If you're going for a high quality look on your suit, you want SHORT fur for the face, full-stop. Every suit I've seen that's truly made me go WOW has always had VERY short face fur. Shorter fur shows the look of your sculpt better, instead of hiding it all behind any lumpy fur bulk or unbrushed sections. (Brushing fur doesn't last very long after a suit's been put on haha)

If you can buy your fur in shorter lengths like teddy/beaver, ABSOLUTELY do so. It'll make your shaves much shorter and cleaner. The longer your fur is, is the harder it is to get it to a "HQ" shave length. I personally couldn't get Raine as short as I wanted her to be 😩 But her colors are niche, so I couldn't locate them in shorter fur lengths

Once your suit is complete, don't be afraid to go in there with scissors and your clippers to clean up the fur+markings as well! Raine's mouth opened up a LOT more when i trimmed it down to shape with my scissors

Pattern Making

Avoid putting any seams down the middle of your face, it is noticeable! This is roughly how my pattern for Raine worked, I think the eyebrows helped disguise that horizontal middle seam really well! (the fur from the "eyebrow" piece covers the seam to the forehead piece as it is brushed over it!) I also made the nose bridge it's own piece, to utilize the visible seam to create a crease for it.

I also recommend avoid making any + shaped intersections on your seams if you can avoid it, it's really hard to sew cleanly😭 Sometimes they're unavoidable, but I try my best to avoid doing them.

Wearability

I'm not sure how much this applies to foam suits, but I really recommend using some elastic, a parachute clip, and some velcro to make an adjustable strap to keep your suit on your head! I tried to use foam on Sophie to get a snug fit, it did not work and made her struggle to stay on. The elastic strap on Raine is way better and more secure.

Misc / Random

When making your ears, you don't necessarily need to sew the minky/inner ear onto the fur parts! You can get a much flatter look on your minky if you just glue it on seperate, and have the fur not connected to it

(Specifically for beginner suit makers making personal projects) Not everything has to be perfect! No one will notice your little imperfections, and you don't have to make a nice product for a client. You can leave some things unsewn, you can have tiny bits of foam show from weird angles. You can hot glue some things instead of sewing them to save time. You can have small accidental bald spots. You can have little unsewn holes in corners if it's too hard to sew around those parts. Take it easy on yourself!

You may spring for fleece to save some money on buying minky, I honestly recommend not doing this. Minky feels significantly nicer, and minky from Howl is really not that much more than some fleece, for small pieces like inner mouths, noses, ears, etc, all you need is a "Fat Quarter" sized piece. It's more than enough! And only $6.50 (if you want fleece specifically, ignore this haha. I just regret going for fleece instead of minky on Sophie!)

Carving a foam base, to me, is the hardest part of suit making. So much so, that I never plan to do it again :P It's some people's thing, definitely not mine. If you've been frustrated with how your foam results turn out, consider 3D printing! Or buying a base from someone.

When looking for fursuit advice and tutorials, beyond the obvious places to look (matrices, youtube, google), I genuinely recommend Tiktok! A lot gets posted there for small niche problems you may have

Use this method for tying a knot on your thread when hand sewing, it's extremely fast https://youtu.be/LWWhRtxl6eE?si=AEt2HDiwp09AigOS

When making a 3D printed base, do not go too thin. I'd do test prints to see what thickness feels right to you, raine was about 0.5-0.7 cm but I wish she was a bit thicker because I worry a lot about her shattering 😨

Removeable eyes are very useful, if i get hair in my face I'm able to pop out Raine's eyes to move it out of my way x)

[carolmunson]

love language eight

on a tuesday! love language set list a collection of short blurbies of you and eddie in the 90s, no real plot. (though, this one has a couple call backs) cw: very soft, not really anything bad. sort of implies that reader's dad died? sort of? not really?

“Hm,” he mumbles when he gets home, work boots left at the door, doe eyes half closed. The gray tank he wore under his cover alls dips in tone where it caught all of his sweat from the garage. The blow of the air conditioning wraps around him like a cunning snake, beckoning him further in where he knows you’ll be.

You haven’t been feelin’ good and he knows it, meeting you in the kitchen to kiss once, twice, three times on the center of your forehead before he even speaks. Dinner plates full, just like your hands. Just like your head.

At least it’s not storming tonight.

He takes his time, rough hands on each cheek, nose to nose. He leans in to kiss your lips, appreciating you for dinner, for being here, for being you. In the hot hot heat over the stove while he’s in the hot hot heat under hoods.

Plush pink lips have their final landing on the fat of your cheek. He pushes in, curls tickling your face, enough for you to giggle.

“I got us some ice cream,” you say, “For later.”

He knows you only wanna make milkshakes when you’re not feelin’ good. They remind you of the carnival with your dad — humid nights and sugared air, all the lights twinkling to make up for blocking out the stars. He wonders what you were like when you were a kid. Did you like the Ferris wheel? Did your dad ever rock the cabin? Eddie’s dad did. It always made him scared. He wonders if you ever get scared. If you do, you never say it.

“I’ll make ‘em,” he murmurs back.

You turn the lights off a lot when it’s hot, even with the AC on. Always mumbling that the lights are hot too, so you eat in the glow of the stove light — cast in a grayish green. He stares at you while you sit there, staring down at the plate. It’s not storming but something is wrong, something’s on the brink.

Eddie swallows his bite, pushing away from the table to the freezer where the ice cream is. Silently, he takes out the blender, casting glances over at you while you poke and prod at your food. He wishes you’d eat it, it’s delicious. Pretty girl in his kitchen, pretty girl that makes him dinner, pretty girl who will have a pretty ring on soon. Pretty, pretty, pretty.

The half smile he gets from you when he pushes your plate away to replace it with the milkshake is as bright as the carnival lights you used to stare at. He sits across from you with his, passing you a straw from the junk drawer.

You look down at the cup and then up at him, sizing up the offering — you always make them, and you always make them the best. His words, not yours.

Cold and thick, pooling in your mouth — it tastes better than the sugared air and the Tilt-a-Whirl and your dad’s wheezy laugh mixing with yours. It tastes better than the roasted candied peanuts and the way your dad would rock the cabin on the Ferris wheel.

Eddie looks at you eagerly, eyes shining like the sign on the Zoltar fortune machine. You wonder for a moment, with the shake in your mouth, if anything you wished for ever even came close to him.

You guess nothing ever could. All the quarters in the world couldn’t add up.

“Hm,” you nod in approval, on your way to your second sip.

“Hm.”

[loveandleases]

I'm laying awake at almost midnight and was hit by a thoughtTM

If I play a chef MC then thinking since those bitches had the audacity to fuck in my KITCHEN OF ALL PLACES, I'd lose my shit. YOU FUCKED IN THE MOST SACRED PLACE OF THE WHOLE HOUSE, THOSE COUNTERS MUST REMAIN PRISTINE YOU DUMB COW.

You bet your ass I'd take every single kitchen gadget, doesn't matter how many boxes it takes me. Juicer mixer slow cooker you name it, you'd be lucky if I leave you the coffee pot and toaster as a courtesy. I bought those things with my hard earned (read: not Daddy's) money, slaved myself on the oven for hours to make you food filled with love and care. YOU DONT DESERVE MY FOOD. STARVE LIKE THE STREET DOG YOU ARE CHRIS.

Sorry I think Gordon Ramsay possessed me for a bit there. Anyways-

Imagine poor Cam and cabinets full of machines he doesn't understand lmao

���� The counters will never be clean again. Forever sullied by that transgression. You won't have to worry about having someone to carry it at least. The cabinets in the shared apartment will be so full (worth it). ---

Cam reaches into the cabinet, pulling out what he can only assume is some sort of weapon.

“What the hell is this thing? Why does it have all these... holes?” he asks, holding up a cheese grater like it’s a cursed relic.

Before you can warn him, he presses a finger to one of the sharp edges. He yelps, pulling his hand back to examine the reddening cut.

“It cut me!”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the point,” you reply, struggling to keep a straight face.

He glares at you, the look on his face almost enough to make you feel guilty. Almost.

But then, something shiny catches his eye. He dives back into the cabinet, pulling out a stick blender, a serrated knife he dramatically dubs “for thine enemies,” and a whisk that he immediately uses as a makeshift sword.

“You know,” he says, striking a pose with the whisk, “I could use some of these to make us dinner—”

“No!”

His mismatched eyes widen as he meets your gaze, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout.

“But—”

“You’re banned, Cam.”

“I can do better!” He clasps his hands in front of you, as though pleading for his life.

His gaze flickers to a new blender still in its box, and his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Where are you looking?” you ask, suspicious.

“Wha—ah... nowhere.” His eyes dart back to the blender, betraying him instantly.

You sigh, already picturing the chaos that would ensue. Maybe you should invest in some cabinet locks—for both of your sakes.

[27dragons]

Countdown to 2025: Dec 8

Coffeeshop AU / Marvel - Winteriron / Fur Coat

Thank god for the mid-morning lull. It gave Tony time to clean out the assorted blenders, mixing cups, spoons, mugs, and other paraphernalia that had built up during the morning rush. Usually they worked in a rotation that kept on top of it, but Clint had texted in sick that morning, and it had thrown off their whole rhythm.

The door jingled to announce a customer, and Tony called over his shoulder, “Be right with you!” He stacked the last of the mugs in the rack to dry and turned.

Tony’s favorite regular, Bucky, was leaning against the counter, face looking red and windblown. His jacket was balled up in his hands.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming today,” Tony told him. “Why aren’t you wearing your coat? The wind chill is like fourteen out there!” He started a cup of espresso, operating the machine on muscle memory alone.

Bucky slid onto a barstool, putting his bundled-up jacket on the counter in front of him. “You got any breakfast sandwiches left over?”

Tony glanced over at the pastry case. “Yeah, there’s a couple left, though I’m going to have to reheat them in the microwave. You oversleep or something?” Bucky didn’t usually order breakfast.

“Egg an’ bacon, if you got it,” Bucky said. “Don’t need to heat it up, just throw it on a plate.”

“Uh. Sure, I guess.” Tony got a plate and reached for the tongs. “You okay?” he asked. “You’re being a little weird.”

“Yeah, sorry, I just, uh.” Bucky looked around the shop like a spy checking for a tail, then carefully unfolded the top few folds of his jacket, and a head popped out.

Tony started, then leaned closer. Wrapped up in Bucky’s coat was a kitten, small enough to curl up in the palm of Tony’s hand. It had white fur that was filthy and matted, and huge blue eyes. It gave Tony a suspicious look, then opened its mouth wide and let out a squeak that was barely even audible.

“Oh my god,” Tony breathed, “it’s so tiny. I can’t stand it.”

“Found ‘im half frozen to death in the trash,” Bucky explained. “Someone had dumped him, I guess. I couldn’t just leave him, could I?”

“Of course not,” Tony agreed. He reached in with a finger to try to pet the kitten’s head, and got bitten for his trouble. “Ow! Those teeth don’t look like much but they’re sharp as fuck.”

Bucky grimaced. “Sorry. He’s scared and at least half-feral. An’ I know pets ain’t allowed in here, but--”

“Yeah, we should get him out of here.” Tony pulled off his apron and threw it onto a hook, then ducked into the staff room for his own coat. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“We’re taking him to my place,” Tony said. He hung a “Closed - Back Soon!” sign on the door, then beckoned impatiently at Bucky, who was still sitting on the stool, looking confused. “He can’t stay here,” Tony repeated, “and my place is close by. Because unlike your friend there, you don’t have a fur coat. Let’s go. My neighbor has a cat; she can probably loan us a few drops of cat-safe shampoo and a tin of food. You can hang out while he dries off and you both warm up, watch a movie or something, and I’ll be back when my shift ends, right after lunch. And then we’ll figure out what to do with him.”

Bucky kept staring for a long moment, but then shook himself and stood up, his jacket and the kitten cradled in his arm. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, that sounds great. And maybe, uh. Maybe I can take you to lunch or something, to say thanks?”

Tony grinned. “Sounds great, hot stuff. Let’s go.”

[ohgaylor]

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.

[seat-safety-switch]

"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.