#stitch upon a time

[ehgood-enough]

I also finished up my pooping unicorn set

All cotton lyrca main from shear madness bands from wonderground

[marisashinx]

NEWS FLASH: Tamashina-Mina has been delayed‼️‼️‼️

[mermaidfin]

RumBelle chipped cup cross-stitch, pattern of my own <3

[monbons]

Stitch Sunday

I've been back at work for a week and am already exhausted. The beginning of the year is always brutal (this one more so because I am training a new teaching partner), so time for anything outside of school is hard to come by. BUT! I was determined to finish BunBaz, so may I present ...

No Trauma Bun Baz!

Ready for the fall season, this bun is rocking his favorite sleeveless tee in the pumpkin patch. He was sipping on a pumpkin mocha breve earlier, but the photographer didn't capture the moment. He might play some pick up footie later, although Uggs aren't the best footwear...

After a long day of taking perfectly posed pictures for his Holiday cards, BunBaz heads home and is ready for bed. He loves his striped and collared PJs (only the best for this bun!) and his Paddington keeps him company all night long.

In all seriousness, I had a blast making this bun for the lovely @bookish-bogwitch. (If you missed my earlier post about him, he speaks!) I made the witchy tee based on inspiration pics Em sent over. All other clothing and accessories are American Girl Doll cast-offs, either repurposed or tailored to fit.

In other doll factory news, Rainbow posted the SnowBaz worry dolls I gifted her at the Slow Dance signing (last slide). I know the real artists in this fandom get reblogged and reposted all the time, but this literally made me cry when I saw it! Especially because these little guys were the first set of dolls I ever made in early-May. It blows my mind how far I've come in just a few months.

I hope to keep getting better and tackling more complex projects in the months to come. This fall alone I will be keeping busy with a possible COTTA collaboration with the amazing @iamamythologicalcreature. The idea, if it pans out, is super cool! I also submitted a doll concept for CORB and am excited for whoever my fic partner happens to be!

On that fandom high note, I am bidding you all temporary farewell since I plan to disappear through mid-September at least. Students can smell weakness, so I'm going to devote my time to planning kick-ass lessons and breaking 15-year-old spirits. Please keep tagging me so that I remember I once had a life.

Until next we meet, hellos and high-fives from the doll factory. 💖

@thewholelemon, @emeryhall, @raenestee, @roomwithanopenfire, @cutestkilla

@artsyunderstudy, @aristocratic-otter, @arthurkko, @best--dress, @brilla-brilla-estrellita

@rimeswithpurple, @run-for-chamo-miles, @supercutedinosaurs, @whatevertheweather, @mooncello

@shrekgogurt, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @talentpiper11, @larkral

@beastmonstertitan, @drowninginships, @valeffelees, @noblecorgi, @rbkzz

@thehoneyedhufflepuff, @messofthejess, @orange-peony, @blackberrysummerblog, @letraspal

@facewithoutheart, @ic3-que3n, @skeedelvee, @fiend-for-culture, @hushed-chorus

@martsonmars, @katatsumuli, @comesitintheclover, @stitchyqueer, @alexalexinii

@erzbethluna, @palimpsessed, @ileadacharmedlife, @theimpossibledemon

[artist-issues]

I don’t know if you ever talked about it, but did you like Once Upon A Studio? I’ve seen some people say that’s it’s better than Wish (which honestly makes sense, just remove Asha from the short and it’s wonderful).

I did! And I did love it! It’s better thanWish because it accomplishes it’s goal. Wish does not accomplish its goal. Even though they both have different goals, only Once Upon A Studio actually reaches it’s goal.

I especially loved seeing Aladar. I love Aladar.

[whimsicmimic]

sometimes you gotta take a break from working on your blanket by starting to make another blanket

[anoddrock]

Okay! Just realized there was a mostly blank spread in my recent sketchbook, so I glued a bunch of school doodles in!! Enjoy!!

Including the Once Upon A Time(In Space) twins(pre wedding assasinations), Amity(TOH), and a collection of Loose Stitches(by @nerves-nebula) fanart on the left page! Also some tortles bc of course there are.

The right page and stuff I didn’t mention on the left is all original characters and stuff

Reblogs appreciated

[alphashley14]

Ashley’s art 2023! 👩‍🎨

(10 of my favorites anyway, thank you Tumblr image limit lol)

I love seeing how much I’ve improved this year and I can’t wait to get even better in 2024! 💪🎨✍️

[sysig]

I am attempting embroidery

So far?

This shit fucking rules

[asexualbookbird]

bookbinding is a lot of fun but GOD my stitches are so. messy. its embarrassing i dont want to share progress do NOT look at my stitches YOU WONT SEE THEM IN THE END ANYWAY DO NOT LOOK,

[walkman-cat]

i decided months ago that i am going to make a piece of the costumes i have to realise

i do not know how to sew

[elven-queen-of-the-ice-land]

Hades & Emma || 37 Stitches

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[deunmiu-dessie]

a paralysis demon plays with you at night, this time you're finally awake to see it.

you're not sure how it started. just that one day it did.

you'd wake up with sticky inner thighs and ruined sheets; the familiar pulsing of your clit, begging for attention almost overwhelming, and your muscles ached as if you had run a marathon the day before. tentatively you'd dip your hand into your panties, nimble fingers finding the hood of your engorged clit, eyebrows pulling together at the almost painful feeling it brought; then they'd drift lower, immediately sinking into creamy, wetness that pooled from your entrance and smeared your labia.

this perverse ritual had become your waking nightmare, weeks upon weeks of waking up to ruined panties and an insatiable hunger that couldn't be sated alone. frustration and tears intertwine, as your lithe fingers desperately caress and coax your clit but to no avail. it'd leave you cranky most days and unapproachable the rest.

what the hell was happening? at first, you believed it to be mere wet dreams, lost in the recesses of your mind. but the inability to find release, even with your touch or the mechanical hum of a vibrator, defied all reason. your sanity teetered on the edge, the constant ache and unrelenting wetness between your thighs, the demands of university, and the grueling hours at the fast-paced coffee shop on campus only exacerbate your torment.

breathe; you had told yourself. you just needed a day to sleep, in order to get back into the groove of your usual hectic life. and so, you make the decision to abandon your responsibilities, forsaking work and classes, seeking solace within the confines of your bed.

but that day you saw it.

as the night grew later, you found yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep your eyes open, you clung to the last shreds of wakefulness, determined to finish the movie that had lured you in with its promises of thrills and chills. the laptop, perched on your chest, emitted a faint glow, casting eerie shadows across the room. but despite your best efforts, the battle was futile. with a heavy sigh, you surrendered, closing the laptop and setting it aside.

that should've been it, you should have gone to sleep and woken up the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, no longer raging and horny, stressed and tired— just your normal self. yet, as if possessed by an unseen force, your eyes snap open, jolting your mind from the peaceful slumber you had so eagerly embraced, but not your body.

the room was cloaked in darkness, save for the feeble glow of a night light by the door. the time couldn't have been later than two in the morning, leaving you with ample hours until you needed to start getting ready for the day…so why were you up?

grunting you attempt to reach across to your desk and grab your water bottle, your throat suddenly dry and scratchy. but you couldn't move. in fact, your whole body felt numb, as if you'd been submerged in an ice-cold lake. you could feel the hair on your arms standing on end, your heart thumping painfully in your ribcage, desperate to escape from your chest and out the window just above your bed. frantic, your eyes darted around your room, flitting over the darkened corners and further on before subconsciously gazing upwards. it gazed back at you.

it was inky black, as if a void had materialized on your ceiling. barren of any discernible features, a foreboding presence emanated from it, sending chills down your spine. its limbs, neck, and torso twisted unnaturally, giving it a grotesque and elongated appearance. tears welled up in your eyes upon witnessing it, and you attempted to scream, only to find your mouth was sealed as if stitched with needle and thread.

the creature descended from above with erratic movements, settling above your figure and menacingly bringing its face closer to yours. this couldn't be happening, it must be a dream and in a desperate attempt to escape, you tightly shut your eyes and began counting backward from ten, gasping for air with each haggard breath.

however, a phantom graze on your thigh startles your eyes open. the creature was still there, its taloned, inky black hand slowly trailing along your clammy skin. even without a face, you could feel its gaze upon you, sinister and scheming. swallowing thickly, goosebumps follow in the wake of its touch, like tiny flames igniting your skin.

and almost as if accustomed to its advances, your body ignites with a dizzying heat, pussy weeping and your clit throbbing eagerly, readily despite your heart skipping and restarting all in one second with fear. its touch is tantalizing and deliberate, momentarily vanishing underneath your oversized night-shirt before returning to the heat of your thighs, talons pricking your flesh.

the creature's game finally comes to an end as it finds your fattened clit, which eagerly presses against the fabric of your panties, craving any form of touch. its assault is steady but firm and the touch immediately sets you off. your body, needy from weeks of being unable to orgasm, finally reaches its limit. you can feel the knot tightening in your tummy, a sharp, zinging pain in your lower abdomen, and the tensing of your thighs.

however, just as you approach your climax, the creature abruptly stops, shifting its touch to your slick inner thighs, face pressing closer to yours, leering and mocking. without the constant stimulation, your orgasm subsides, leaving you with a throbbing ache in your hips, cunt drooling with your arousal profusely.

your eyebrows cinch together, tears staining your cheeks before you're hit with a realization. the constant feeling of never being satisfied and not being able to cum, was because of this…creature.

its pitch-black visage suddenly splits into a sinister grin, revealing rows of serrated teeth gleaming with viscid, thick saliva. its voice is otherwordly deep, it's guttural, and raspy; fingers returning deftly to your clit to rub circles. "do you remember now?"

[gingersnapcookie89]

Although, my friends (there's three of us) and I do cook together. We each have our assigned tasks and that goes relatively well. I only added the "relatively" because two of us *squints @kitsunekage88 * are very accident prone and and it's very likely one of the two of will end up injured, possibly bleeding, by the end of it.

[morganbritton132]

Look, should you beat up the least shadiest drug dealer in Hawkins? No. Do people do it anyways? Unfortunately.

This is what Hopper happens upon driving home from the station. This is also how Eddie finds himself sitting in the passenger seat of the Chief of Police’s truck with a probable broken nose and three undoubtedly bent joints in his pocket, saying, “Well, you know, can’t really afford the hospital so.”

Then Eddie finds himself in the passenger seat of the Chief of Police’s truck driving pass the hospital thinking, wow. Jumped by jocks and murdered by the police all in one day.

He mourns all the times he could have been more annoying, and follows Hopper out of the truck to a little cabin sat back from the road. Hopper tells him to watch for the bear trap and Eddie thinks, what the fuck. He’s about to voice that when he sees it.

Sees him. Sees, “Harrington?”

Steve is tucked into the corner of the couch, messy haired and clearly wearing Hopper’s clothes. He looks beat half to hell with his face bruised and the row a stitches disappearing into his hairline.

Actually, “What happened to you? You look like dog shit.”

“Dog shit,” repeats from behind him and Eddie turns to see a girl with curly hair standing in the doorway of a bedroom.

“Hopper doesn’t like when you teacher her things like that,” Steve says, moves his feet off the cushions so she can sit on the couch with him. “Also, I was kidnapped.”

“You weren’t kidnapped,” Hopper grumbles, having disappeared into the kitchen and returning with a first aid kit. “I don’t like you enough to kidnap you.”

“So, i can leave?”

“You got a parent at home to make sure your brain doesn’t melt out your ears?”

Steve huffs and Eddie is being lead to sit down on the coffee table. Hopper hands him a dishrag and then before Eddie can properly take it, grabs his nose and yanks it back in place. “Ow! Fuck!”

“F-“

“Oh, don’t say that one,” Steve says, shaking his head at El. “Wait until you hear it from Henderson.”