10 girls I keep in my heart

1. Beauty was never your goal. Your eyeliner is sharp, a blade, war paint. Your laugh is deep and unwavering, open mouthed to bear fangs. I remember when you cut your long hair off and streaked it with pink. Not like a fairy but like a fire. Yet water runs through your veins. You love your mother so.

2. Oh girl of the earth, you never liked poetry. I think you were carved from the mountains that you’ve never seen. The strongest winds cannot move you. Your hands never rub raw. Yet your edges are soft for stone.

3. Your house is full of beautiful things but you don’t see any of it. Nothing ever feels like home. Storms blow through you so often I think you gave up on rebuilding. And now you live among the rubble. Your anger broke my windows and cut at my cheeks. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

4. How does your smile always manage to reach your ears? So wide you have to close your eyes to make room. Your hugs nearly suffocate me but I don’t mind at all. You play nirvana on your guitar and you don’t understand the lyrics. I hope you never do.

5. I miss you everyday. The gentlest soul on earth. The world hasn’t given you half as much as you deserve. I can’t believe how many people don’t even know your name. Your heart is full of tulips and an angel sent you my way.

6. My first love. You opened my eyes. We spoke our own language and danced like no one was watching. I kept every drawing you made for me. I wonder if you remember me from time to time.

7. My oldest friend. We are holding hands underwater. We are hiding in bushes. We are spinning elaborate stories and pretending not to notice how they unravel. You used to fall asleep on my shoulder. I hope our paths cross soon.

8. You are so much made from so little. You radiate with the force of the sun your body can barely contain you. How you saw me through your own light I do not know. Your name is from the moon and Jupiter is in the art you make. Oh girl born to live.

9. I’ve seen 7000 sides of you. Multidimensional and deep as an ocean. And what lives under the surface bites. I’ve mastered the art of walking on water. I was never good enough to reach you. But someone will be. Someone is coming. I promise.

10. How is it that every song is about you? I wonder if you realize that I look for you everywhere. Your soul is in splinters they’ve flown up to space. They’re tangled in trees. You’ve sent them my way. Oh I’ve felt you exploding not in anger but in creation. Galaxy after galaxy. Oh nebulas light my way home. You are dandelions spilling over rolling hills. You are grass stained jeans. You are Ferris wheels at sunset

What’s on my mind is

that scar on the left side of your face,
right below the sharp edge of your jaw,
how it looks like an arrow. How I wish
I were brave enough to trace my finger
like a road on a map until I hit somewhere 

to call home.

When you drank your first beer, did you
pretend to feel the buzz just to make the
cool kids stop calling you a fucking loser?
Or maybe you were the cool kid. Maybe you
pressed cheap alcohol into the palms of kids
like me. Careful kids. Color in the lines kids.

Also, key lime pie. Specifically, my mom’s.
Would you eat it? I know you hate pie, but
how many girls’ moms’ pies have you eaten
just to please some girl’s mom? A lot, I’m sure.

Too many. But I like you. Even though you are
a raging republican. Even though you practice
dinner party talk in my bed. (Especially because
I think that’s you trying to impress me.) And

sometimes, when we dare to let the silence sit,
I wonder if the first people to get married
regretted it. Did they lie side-by-side five years
past their vows and rearrange letters of the
alphabet just to find the right word: Done.
Damaged. Different. Devoid. Divide. Divorce.

Yes, they thought, as they unlinked their hands.
Divorce. Because it burns something ugly on the tongue.
I wonder if we’ll ever get divorced before I remember
that we aren’t married. We aren’t anything. Then,
of course, I wonder, what the hell we’re doing.

And on that note: Hell.
Do you believe in it?
Because I do. I think I do.

At least I might.

Or do you make up stories about the girl over there
nose deep in the Bible or the man with no hair
who keeps nodding off. The people on subways and
street corners, half-awake. When you guess at their lives,
are they happily ever afters with green grass lawns
and dogs who don’t bark? Do they believe in hell?

And even if they do and you do and suddenly you see some
small fragment of yourself in the glass of her eyes, does that
mean you won’t bury her jagged pieces so deep she loses her
sharpness? And when she exhumes that grave and slips
idiosyncrasies back under her skin like splinters, will you stay
for something beyond the guilt? When she finally cracks open
her mind just to let you peek at the bone and raw edges,
will you even remember asking for all of this in the first place?

No. Of course you won’t.

So I smile. I stretch. You hold me like a question mark, quiet
and careful and waiting. There are things you’d like me to say,
but the silence is so much sweeter. Stranger hands wander down
my waist, and you ask, once more, “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I was just falling asleep.“

Silk dupioni dress with a silk dupioni overlay and silk dupioni trim. Did you know that I like dupioni?

Every panel of the dress and overlay is interlined with broadcloth to give the silk fabric more weight. This creates a more flattering drape and smoother seams. I also assembled an interior foundation layer which isn’t attached yet. Once that is sewn in, the raw edge at the neckline will be taken care of.

As of last Sunday, this whole dress was a pile of uncut fabric. I’m tired, but unstoppable.

i want this shot of like, 221b in the dark, okay, it’s nighttime and you’re in the sitting room and it’s dark, but the light is on in the kitchen and it’s spilling out onto the rug, just barely illuminating the silhouettes of their two empty chairs. so the shot moves forward and there’s the clinking sound of people moving around, and maybe john’s low voice coming through, nonsense words really, there you go and how is that, and the shot moves around the corner so you’re looking into the kitchen.

and in the kitchen only the light above the table is on so the corners are all still dark, but it’s sherlock sat on the table, his legs sort of hanging, his toes just brushing the lino because he’s tall, and john standing between his knees with a latex glove on and a look of concentration and he’s dabbing something on a wound on sherlock’s forehead, the both of them speaking very quietly like if they were to speak at a normal volume it might shatter something in the night, murmuring back and forth with that specific sort of humor that people use when they’re worried or nervous about something and trying to play it off, you know the one i mean, the kind of humor that seems a little too forced and too quiet but everyone laughs a little because they’re grateful for it, they’re grateful for this act of normalcy even if it’s just pretend. and john is leant a little too close and his eyes are worried, too worried, and sherlock shifts under his touch because the look in john’s eyes makes him unbearably guilty for all the worry john’s carried, for other head injuries john’s seen him bear and not been able to save him from, and it’s quiet and their gentle laughter sort of peters out as john puts aside the antibiotic and takes off his glove, still standing between sherlock’s knees. there you are, he says, right as rain, and sherlock dips his head a little to avoid those bright, worried eyes, and says thank you, and sorry you keep having to do this, and john blinks with a tiny smile and says you know i don’t mind, because he doesn’t, not really.

and sherlock just shrugs and looks up again, because he’s expected john to move away but john hasn’t, he’s still standing there, looking at sherlock like he means to be studying the scrape on his forehead but really just looking, in that kind of melancholy affection people get when they’re looking at a thing they love dearly but will never really have, that sort of fond resignation that this is the way things are, good enough but only because you tell yourself that, not because it really is, and sherlock looks up at john and john looks back down at him and their eyes catch and the room goes quiet, terribly quiet, more quiet than london ever really is even at night, so quiet john can hear it when sherlock swallows, so quiet sherlock almost hears it before he feels it: john reaching out and putting his hand over the back of sherlock’s where it rests on sherlock’s knee. 

and john steps closer, and sherlock doesn’t look away, and the light above the table is too bright and john thinks his eyes are too pale, too beautiful, the thin color of a creek swollen with summer rain, something lush and green just waiting on the edges but just barely out of sight, and john leans in and sherlock smells like antiseptic and the raw, tremulous edge of anticipation and fear but he doesn’t back away, he doesn’t pull his hand away

and it happens like a brush of fate, john leaning in and it’s not even a kiss, not really, it’s the corners of their mouths slipping against each other in a trembling breath, sherlock stuttering in an almost silent gasp, his lips barely parted as john just barely, just barely, touching the side of his mouth to the side of sherlock’s, and sherlock wants to reach out and grab hold of his hips but doesn’t want to startle this into stopping, and john holds his mouth there a moment, the both of them breathing in cautious sips against each other’s cheeks, and sherlock can feel john’s breath against his lips, impossibly intimate, as if john is sharing something with him, as if john is trying to share something with him that cannot be shared with words but only with this exchange of life

and when john moves away he doesn’t move away, not really, he just moves forward, mouths moving away as he presses his cheek against sherlock’s cheek, and his shoulders are shaking, and sherlock slowly slowly gently gently dares to raise his free hand to john’s waist, and he feels solid and sturdy and warm and gorgeous, and then it’s sherlock’s turn, it’s sherlock nose nudging over john’s cheek, leading the way to find his mouth and this time, properly, this time, lip to lip and sherlock can’t breathe past him because he’s there, all of him, his skin and his jaw and his fingers and his eyelashes, this push and press of mouths settling together like the plates of the earth, quaking into sherlock’s chest, underneath his ribs

and this one kiss turns into another, as softly as the sun rises into another day, and another one after that, and it’s john’s hand, protective on the nape of sherlock’s neck, the delicate press of tongues and the voices trapped in their throats under the weight of gravity, under the weight of time, under the weight of finally, until john pulls back and finds the shell of sherlock’s ear and figures out how to let it go, how to let it all go, how to lift all that weight into nothingness: i love you, sherlock. i love you. 


Avantgarde · Art Brut · Dada · Black Tattoo Art                    

Baer_ Tattoo Artist. Illustrator.

From music and philosophy, to illustration and tattoo, his fascination with life – the different stories and its mystical is expressed through his creations. He creates concepts and contemporary pieces of tattoo art based on stories given by the client, and intuitive. The designs are raw, hard-edged and expressive.

“Tell me your story – tell me your life.”


etsyfindoftheday 3 | 4.4.17

live edge floating desk by 32belowdesigns

this gorgeous, rustic wood slab desk has a raw, live edge — love the way it’s paired with the industrial pipe wall attachments. you get to choose from four wood options: cherry, walnut, maple, and ash.

Killian is always excited for Opening Day. Emma helps him expel a little bit of that pent up energy. Some smut/fluff set in the Put Me In Coach universe.

opening day

She wakes gradually, fingertips stroking up and down her back and the brand new, extra soft, extra plush comforter he bought from the Home Shopping Network pulled low around her hips. She idly wonders how long he’s been awake as she sinks into the calming motion of his hands against her skin, his fingertips considering the freckles that form constellations along her shoulder blades, his thumb tracing the dimples at the base of her spine.

“Swan,” his knuckles dig into the swell of her ass and she bites back a groan, kicking her leg out to press her toes against his shin, edging herself closer to him. “Swan, do you know what day it is?”

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Your absence made a hole in my heart and as time passes, it keeps growing. Drinking makes the edges raw. Another’s arms makes it blister. Ignoring my feelings makes it desolate. I don’t know how to slow its progress, so for now I’ll just have to accept my heart as wild, weather-beaten, and windswept.
—  Me, 14.1.17, “Me and the Hipster”
stress fracture

pairing: harry potter x pansy parkinson

setting: modern, non-magical, getting back together au

Honestly, it’s–

It’s a series of bad decisions. Just. All around. Start to fucking finish. 

It’s a bad decision when she stumbles through her parents’ front door at fuck o’clock in the morning–her parents’, god, she’s twenty-five years old–reeking of firmly middle-shelf vodka and the menthols she used to chain smoke in high school; and it’s a bad decision when she can’t quite twist the cap off a miniature bottle of Fiji water because her hands are sticky with sweat and lip gloss and grenadine and so she digs through her mom’s meticulously organized kitchen drawers to unearth the can opener and it doesn’t even fucking work; and it’s a bad decision when she trudges upstairs to her childhood bedroom, steeling herself for the onslaught of baby pink walls and leopard print bedding and a frankly morbid desk collection of expired designer perfume samples; and it’s a bad decision when she goes to brush the lingering metallic taste of canned pineapple slices out of her mouth and reaches unsteadily for the tube of Aquafresh and catches sight of the jagged fucking Robbins Brothers tan line she still has on her ring finger–

A sad, lonely little chirp echoes from the pocket of the hoodie she’d stolen from one of the wide-eyed, too-eager frat boys outside the bar, and she blearily fishes her phone out. She has one (1) unread message from ***DO NOT CALL*** Harry Potter ***DO NOT CALL***:

(2:11) u up

Pansy squints at her reflection in the obnoxiously sparkling bathroom mirror. It smells like Windex. Everything in this house smells like fucking Windex. She types out her response as she strips out of the dress she technically eats way too many carbs to ever properly fit into again and turns on the shower:

(2:14) i’ll come over if you promise not to talk

It’s a bad decision.

She knows that.

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Late-Night Escape

I just wanted to write some smooches and play with that headcanon of mine that Hanzo just likes kissing a lot  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The room is dark, lit only by the gentle glow of the TV on the far wall. The clock next to it says 3:02 AM. There is a movie playing on the television screen, its sound dimmed to a low murmur, but Hanzo has long since lost track of the plot. His eyes are heavy with drowsiness, but he can’t bring himself to get to his feet and go back to bed.

Beside him, McCree sits, gazing absently toward the TV but looking likewise unfocused. His head is propped in his hand, his body turned toward Hanzo but attention elsewhere. Between them, their hands are joined and resting on the couch, and McCree’s thumb strokes idly over Hanzo’s skin. McCree had been too on-edge, too raw from his own nightmares when he stumbled into the rec room to handle any other contact, but they had both needed that grounding touch. For Hanzo, it is not quite enough, but he will not push McCree’s boundaries.

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Work Comes Home - Part 9

Summary: You work for the company that publishes Hamilton: The Revolution.

Words: 11K+ (I genuinely wasn’t planning on writing this much, it just happened.)

Author’s Note: I’M SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER. But thank you for being so amazing and patient with me while I wrote this and dealt with all my life things that have been happening recently. 

SPECIAL THANKS to the people who helped me get through this and read through the rough drafts of my ramblings: @secretschuylersister, @ourforgottenboleros, @letsgiggletogether, @adothoe, and @iwrotemywayto-revolution. This wouldn’t be here without you. 

Disclaimer: Artistic liberties taken regarding the publishing world and timeline. I’ve put the warnings below and tagged them as well just in case. As always, let me know if there are any glaring mistakes. I always love feedback!

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Alcohol

Askbox | Masterlist | Previous Chapter 

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Fanfiction - The Teacher II

I had no choice, really. If you missed it, here is part I.

The Teacher II

Claire hesitated in front of the door, the incrusted bronze plate shining with the letters “Professor Fraser”, beckoning her to dare and knock. She breathed deeply and raised her fist to announce her presence.

“Yes?” A voice answered inside, in a lilt that made her stomach explode in a frenzy of millions of bubbles. She half-opened the door in order to peek inside, realizing that he was accompanied by a student, sitting in front of him in what could only be called “the hot seat”. “Ah, it’s ye Miss Beauchamp.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Professor Fraser.” She said in a respectful tone, watching as her colleague – another Health Management student - looked at her with a cry for help in his brown eyes – slightly hazed from too much weed -, his shoulders slumped in mortal shame. “I have some questions about the essay I still have to write for your class. I was wondering if I could go over them with you, sir.”

James Fraser gave her an uninterested look – which could clearly be interpreted as annoyance with her presence – and finally nodded.

“I’ll be with you presently, Miss Beauchamp.” He said dryly. ”As soon as Mister King here understands that copying a page from Wikipedia is not acceptable as an essay. You do realize I have access to the Internet, Mister King?” His eyebrows were raised above the rim of his black eyeglasses, enhancing his disappointment at his student poorly conducted machinations.

“Yes, Professor Fraser.” The boy furiously nodded, a sinner in repentance, his neck slowly disappearing between his shoulders as he tried to bury himself away, escaping those piercing blue eyes. “I am very sorry, sir.”

“I’m sure ye are.” The teacher gave him a lopsided smile, neatly pilling the sheets of paper crossed out in red ink and pushing them in his direction. “You have until tomorrow to deliver a corrected version of this paper, Mister King. I’ll have to grade it for a maximum “B” after this mischief, but it’s certainly better than the current “D” – from disaster.”

He pursed his lips and waited patiently as the student collected his belongings and made the walk of shame towards the door of his office. Claire could barely contain a smile as her colleague grimaced to her, rolling his eyes in despair, his back turned to the punishing master.

“Come in, Miss Beauchamp.” Professor Fraser urged her and, quickly patting Arthur King’s back in comfort, Claire moved inside the office and closed the door behind her. “How can I help ye?” He asked in a dark tone.

He looked serious and poised, his forearms resting on the mahogany table in front of him. His office was clean and discrete, fairly organized with stacks of paper and folders thoroughly aligned and labelled. He had a shelf filled with books behind him, silently complaining with copious overweight – Claire recognized titles from classic economy books but also lots of poetry and historical tomes. Over the years – both in nursing school and now as medical student –, she had been inside many teacher’s offices. There was a tendency for hoarding and to accumulate trinkets and photographs, as they spent so much time working inside them. However, Jamie’s office spoke of order and contention, only a photograph of himself with a dark haired woman – the same blue slanted eyes smiling to the photographer, betraying their kinship – and a small statue of a leaping stag.

“I was wondering if you could explain me again some concepts.” Claire said in strong voice, locking the door from the inside and slowly moving towards his desk. “I’m not sure I’m truly enlighten about them – in spite of our class yesterday.”

“Do ye now?” Jamie quirked a brow, his voice low and dangerous. “I thought I was fairly clear.” He rose from his chair and came around the desk, nearing her like a graceful predator.

“Some things benefit from repetition.” She licked her lips and, smiling widely, sat on his desk – her floral dress hiking up as she went, exposing her fair legs to his eyes, soft and creamy.

“Christ, Sassenach.” His mask of tight control fell – exposing his raw edges underneath it. He moaned and strode towards her in a heartbeat, placing himself between her parted thighs, his mouth punishing hers for the teasing, his hands grasping her curly hair. “I just had ye yesterday, but I want ye so much it hurts already.”

“I want you too.” She panted, as he touched her breast with his strong palm, her nipple already painfully aware of his proximity. “I couldn’t help myself – I had to come. I had to see you, to feel you.”

“When I saw ye standing at my door, I almost lost it.” He groaned, his hands brushing the soft skin inside her thighs, as he kissed and suckled her neck. “And ye – wearing this dress, ye wicked little vixen. I thought I’d throw ye into my desk and take ye, there and then, right in front of Mister King.”

“You’re a very good actor.” She laughed, her hands fumbling with the zipper of his pants. “I could swear you didn’t even like me – least of all wanted to shag me in your office.” Claire yelped as he kneeled in front of her and bit the sensitive skin, moist and heated from his attentions.

“This is madness.” He nuzzled her, his hands gripping her arse to bring her closer to him. “If we behave like uncontrolled teenagers someone will find out. We need to stop seeing each other here.”

A month before they had started seeing each other – meeting for dinner away from campus and taking long walks on secluded parks and on the coastline, where they could hold hands and kiss, languid and carefree. The underlying attraction had been there from the start, they were forced to admit – and their mutual feelings had bloomed into full spring, nurtured by hours of solitude and touches. At first the idea of sneaking around was fun and certainly arousing – but soon enough the burden of pretending indifference had become a permanent struggle and a source of unhappiness.

“You can stop.” Claire suggested teasingly, her lips tasting the hollow of his throat – skilfully undoing the first buttons of his shirt – the pulse of desire emanating from his skin. “I won’t force you, I promise.”

“I canna refuse ye.” He said in a hoarse voice, his accent made more evident by lust and strong emotion, as she struggled to free him from the constraining underwear. “Not today – nor ever, mo ghraidh.”

He played her like a violin – robbing her lips of moans and sobs that echoed in his heart like notes of the purest music, his eyes fixed on the way her beautiful face almost shattered, so close to be undone. Jamie touched her until his own body hurt – a desire so powerful it bordered on excruciating pain -, finally ready to take her. As he adjusted his body to hers, her head lulled back as she surrendered to the eminent joining, a knock on the door sounded – menacing and real, like a sudden tear on active muscle.

Their eyes locked in terror for a moment, their bodies almost fused together, their breathing ragged and superficial.

“Who is it?” Jamie questioned, struggling to compose his voice. He kissed her swollen lips one final – desperate – time and pulled her out of the desk, quickly helping her to adjust her clothes.

“Fraser?” The voice of Professor Raymond came from outside. “I need to discuss with you the program for the summit. May I come in?”

Mallaichte bas!” Jamie cursed, gritting his teeth. “Just a second!” He shouted through the door, composing his own clothes and brushing his hair with trembling fingers. Like two actors in a comical play, Claire launched herself into the chair, searching for her best concentrated and slightly bored look, as Jamie hurried to adjust the crumpled papers on his desk. When everything seemed to be in natural order, they nodded to each other and Jamie opened the door with a pleasant smile plastered on his lips.

“Ah.” The little man, with silver hair and dark all-knowing eyes, noticed Claire sitting like a student in best possible behaviour. “I hadn’t realize you were busy, James.”

“Miss Beauchamp and I were merely discussing her last paper.” Jamie explained, adjusting his glasses. “She had already started it before she transferred to your class.”

“No doubt.” Professor Raymond smiled, clearly amused. His eyes drifted through the room – in spite of their best efforts, Claire’s lips were clearly swollen and her hair even more unruly than usual. Jamie, although composed, had the look of a man battling a cramp in the belly – his eyes wild and fiery, his smile a bit too tense. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your…work.”

“That’s alright, Professor.” Claire raised from her chair and headed to the door, her neck still flushed. “I think I have everything I need for now. Thank you, Professor Fraser. I’ll be sure to deliver my complete work later.”

Both men stared as she waved and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“Your fly is open, James.” Raymond warned him in an amiable tone and laughed like a content toad, to Jamie’s utter dismay.


“Have you asked for me, Professor Mackenzie?” Jamie announced himself, standing on the threshold of Colum MacKenzie’s - the dean of faculty - office.

“Ah, James – yes.” Colum’s calculative gaze turned to Jamie, as he invited him to sit with a brief hand gesture. He was silent for a while, studying Jamie’s cordial face, his hands entwined in thoughtfulness. “I asked ye here because a pressing matter has been brought to my attention.” He finally said, leaning back against his leather covered office chair.

“How may I help?” Jamie furrowed his copper brows.

“Ye can stop seeing Claire Beauchamp.” Colum said in a cutting voice, which froze Jamie’s insides – was he fishing for the truth, expecting him to confirm his suspicions; or did someone actually see him with Claire? He was certain Raymond knew after their encounter in his office, but was confident the man wouldn’t tell a soul due to their friendship.

“That is hardly possible.” Jamie smiled, trying to look relaxed and uncompromised. “She attends this school and I am a teacher here.”

“I was wondering if I had to remind ye of that exact fact.” Colum admonished, harshly. “Someone informed me that you have been involved in some kind of affair with the lass. I couldna believe it. That a teacher – my nephew, no less – would be sae foolish and careless.”

“Who told ye that?” Jamie gripped his fist, hidden bellow the desk, barely containing the anger in his voice.

“It doesna matter.” Colum shook his head, his eyes demanding and judgemental. “Will you deny it, Jamie?”

Jamie endured the assault of his eyes, his own stormy and strong. Eventually, he sighed and shrugged.

“No, I won’t deny it. I’m in love with Claire and I’m dating her.” He confessed, tilting his chin in defiance. Colum hissed like a harassed animal and pursed his lips in discontent. “I’m a professor here but she isna my student – we only got involved when she quit my class. Nothing happened before!” Jamie guaranteed, tapping his fingers on his leg.

“I had hope the girl was lying.” Colum brushed his thinning hair. “How could ye be sae stupid? How could ye overlook what screwing the lass would mean to this school?”

“What we have,” Jamie hissed, adamant. “Is much more than screwing, uncle. Claire is the woman I waited for all my life. I won’t forsake her – not even for yer precious reputation.”

“I see.” Colum breathed through his nose, like a resentful cat. His eyes searched Jamie’s, as they battle their unwavering wills. “In that case ye have a decision to make – let go of the lass or yer days of teaching are numbered.” And with a magnanimous nod of the head, he dismissed him. “Professor Fraser.”


I decided to make my version of Robbi Joy Eklow’s “Steampunk Sublime” larger than the original, because I love the gears and I didn’t want to lose any of them in the border. Of course, that means I also need more pieces to fill in the next ring.

For the loopy arcs, I was going to use a seamed strip of yellow and orange hand dyed fabrics, but they were part of a strip set, so I only had enough to make the 20 or so arcs of the original. Now I need 50.

This Laurel Burch print is one of my favorites accents. I usually use it for binding and piping, and it’s too loose a weave for raw edge applique, unless you cover the edges.

I am using hand dyed cotton braid from YLI, which I’m holding down with a thin line of Elmer’s glue, and then zig zagging with monofiliment (My personal favorite is Sulky invisible thread, because it’s polyester instead of nylon and handles so much better). I’ve also been very careful to not fuse down the edge of the blue inner circle, so I can tuck all the edges under it.

One arc down, 49 more to go

For @yoursummerfrost , who asked for weather witch Nursey.  On AO3 here.

There’s something about the spring wind that always gets to Nursey, in a way that winter doesn’t.  It’s softer than winter, more coaxing than sharp.  It carries petals and rustles leaves and breathes life.  The wind in spring feels like the world waking up again, to Nursey, like the sky heaving out a sigh of relief that the winter has passed.

Or maybe that’s just Nursey heaving a sigh of relief.  The spring winds speak easier to Nursey.  The winter winds have always frozen him out, from when he was young, too hell bent on maintaining their sharpness.  Nursey has never been sharp a day in his life; at least, not in the way the winter winds are.  He’s jagged edges, sometimes, raw nerve endings exposed more than he’s ever been comfortable with.  But he’s never been a wall of ice, and no amount of “chill”s have endeared the winter to him.  

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