I’ve been in this fandom for over a year now and it took me that long to get a t-shirt ; w ; As soon as I saw wristbands were back and there was a new pin I decided to order everything. My brother got a wristband, too. We match~
(PS - I am officially going to buy every SPG-related pin I possibly can. I love pins.)
My first ever quilt! The top is hand sewn cotton and the quilt was finished by hand tying. It measures 78" x 108". Sorry for the wrinkles; I still need to take it to the dry cleaners. There are captions on each pic, if anyone is interested.
Heres a recap video of some awesome outfits and cosplays from SPWF by Beatdownboogie! I really love the shots they got from the Steam Powered Giraffe of the walter girls dancing to turn back the clock. Plus its also pretty damn cool that wheelsandgears, amalgamofbees, iamnotcupid, warlockrobot, and I are all in this starting at about 3:08!!
So there was this prompt a while back from a list of “AUs
for when your OTP are both assholes”: “Shouting match over the last
Thanksgiving turkey at the grocery store AU.” Which would, in the natural
course of things, lead to…
“Blame Typey,” I believe a common expression goes. More-appropriate
words were never spoken, as it’s Typey’s fault that these two ideas were put
together, and thus it is also her fault that I give you:
“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” Myka muttered. Some kind of
supermarket theory probably dictated why you always had to hike all the way to
the back of the store to get to the meat department. Some kind of annoying supermarket theory that didn’t
take into account the fact that it might be Thanksgiving and you might have,
oh, eight people showing up at your place in not very many hours, and you would
have been ready for that if you hadn’t been held up for almost thirty hours in the Phoenix airport and
just got home this morning. Anyone with any sense would’ve just rented a car
and driven home to Colorado Springs (only a twelve hour drive!), or bought a
new ticket and flown to Denver and then driven (an hour and a half!). But oh
no, she’d been stubborn. In an airport on the day before Thanksgiving, she’d
decided to be stubborn.
Fine, then: now she was going to keep on being stubborn,
keep on and make Thanksgiving dinner at my
house like I said I would. She added a “damn right I am” at the end of
that, as mulish punctuation.
And there at last was the big freezer, shining like… like
the extremely shiny thing it was. No time for flowery language; she was on a
mission. She looked down into the case, and just for her, wedged all alone in
the back corner, forlorn and most likely freezer-burned, was Myka’s turkey.
“Thanks for waiting,” Myka told it. Finally, finally, finally, she was going to be able to get this holiday back on
track. She reached down for her prize, this turkey that had so steadfastly held
its position, watching its friends bought by happy holiday shoppers over the
past week, knowing perfectly well all the while that Myka was on her way. And
so now, home to defrost, then cook, then serve (slightly late, but excusably
so, given the airport situation) this sine qua non of the holiday meal. She
would show everybody, particularly her mother and father, that she was perfectly capable—
“I beg your pardon,” she heard, right next to her ear: a
woman’s voice, low and extremely appealing, and was that a British accent? Myka
could have sworn she could even feel breath on her neck. A voice, and warm
breath, and she dropped the turkey, which landed with a crunch back into the
veritable snowbank of ice crystals in the bottom of the freezer.