#Brass Electrical Parts

[brasselectricalcomponents]

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[lokipingmedia]

Empowering Connections: The Versatility of Brass Electrical Parts

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[seookengineers]

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[scoops-aboy86]

Music teacher Eddie and student Steve.

Like, someone told Steve that marching band is easy credits, and he’s athletic. His parents made him take piano and clarinet lessons as a kid. Clarinet is a pretty easy instrument to march with; not too heavy, doesn’t have to hold it at a crazy straight angle like flutes or most of the brass instruments. He’s not a great musician or anything, but it doesn’t hurt his feelings if he ends up with 3rd or 4th part. The halftime shows are fun and he was never really into playing football so it’s not like he’s missing out on anything; this way, he still gets to watch the games. Sure, the trade off is having to sit in stupid concert band for the second half of the year, but only half; any other elective would be for the full haul. And it definitely doesn’t hurt that the new band director his senior year, Mr. Munson, is the youngest teacher on staff and brimming with infectious energy. The kind of guy you can tell used to be stick thin before his teenage metabolism kicked the bucket, and now he’s got kind of a belly and a sweet tooth that everyone knows about. A lot of the band girls have a huge crush on him, so he gets a lot of apples and also a lot of baked goods left on his desk, and he lets students call him by his first name, and he’s always down to soak up flattery—with a grain of salt. Steve has never once seen him flirt back; his best friend, Robin in the trumpet section, can confirm.

It’s not until accompanying Robin on her first venture into the gay bar in the next or two town over (with fake IDs, obviously) that Steve figures out why. Robin is absorbed in talking to a pretty redhead, and Steve has just bought himself a beer when someone bumps into him hard enough that he drops it.

“Shit, sorry about that!” says Mr. Munson. And usually, at school, he sticks to black slacks and plain shirts, but here? Form-fitting jeans that are more rip than black denim and well-worn band shirts that were probably bigger on him years ago, but now are on the tighter side. Hair loose instead of tied back, and he’s wearing eyeliner.

Steve, who can’t stop staring, has never really seen what all the girls do in the guy before, but now he gets it. And so can Mr. Munson. Eddie.

The double take when he recognizes Steve as a student is pretty priceless, and Steve can’t help messing with him, smirking a little while saying, “So this is what you’re doing instead of grading our music theory tests.”

And, well. Steve is eighteen. Eddie is in his early twenties. What’s the big deal if he asks a hot older man to dance instead of taking him up on that replacement beer? It’s not like it’ll be for more than once dance. Not like the crowded dance floor jostles them closer together, Eddie flailing a little as he stumbles forward and Steve catches him, faces close and accidentally brushing. Not like they’ll kiss for real a few electric-charged seconds later, or end up in a more out of the way corner making out. And no way would that turn into Eddie turning into a flustered mess any time he makes eye contact with Steve at school, or a series of serupticiously passed notes, or Steve making sure they “accidentally” run into each other more often off campus.

Under no circumstances will they kiss again, or get carried away making out against a dark wall somewhere and both need a change of pants, or go on a tentative date where Eddie doesn’t let Steve do any underage drinking but does let him drive Eddie home and come inside for a coffee. Absolutely zero chance of falling into bed together and each of them confessing to real feelings that only Robin (who constantly makes cradle robbing jokes but is so supportive of Steve that he’d kiss her if it wouldn’t gross both of them out, it’d be like kissing a sibling) knows about until after graduation.

… Right?

Permanent tag list:

@hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @irishvampireboy @oatmilk-vampire

@wheneverfeasible @hamiltonswiftie @grtwdsmwhr @yesdangerpls

[proxycrit]

Elesa climbs to celestial tower to ring the bell. Emmet, stuck in between the distortion world, finds his way home.

Part 1/ Part 2

The conductor falls, down, down, down.

“What’s my name?” He calls to the abyss in terror (what is terror?)

He’s a singular being, right? (That’s not right. He’s one of a pair.)

The abyss gazes back. It has no answers to give, in its multitude.

Not to someone that’s so, so alone.

———

Somewhere else, one Elesa of Nimbasa rings the Celestial Tower’s Bell, over and over. Her companion, Chandelure, keeps watch.

Nothing happens.

Elesa’s stomach sinks. The reverberations of Celestial Tower’s brass bell mocks her in its echo. The vibrations of it’s distortion only makes the tears she tries to hold at bay worse.

In the blur of her failure, she sees chandelure’s flames suddenly die. Part of her panics.

The rest of her is apathetic and numb.

What’s the point? It didn’t work. Elesa closes her eyes. Tries to swallow, and fails. She’s so tired. She’s so, so tired. The deal with Azelf, the media storm she’s weathered, the constraints of her job, the almost loss of chandelure-

Emmet has been gone for three months. Ingo has been gone even longer.

They have gone where she can’t follow.

Elesa, the ghost whispers in her head. Elesa shakes her head in denial. She doesn’t want to plan right now. She wants to curl into herself, and disappear, just for a bit.

Elesa!

“I can’t do this,” she croaks. The sob in the back of her throat bubbles outwards. She wants Zebrstika. She wants Skyla. She wants her friends.

The paliphet Azelf forced her forward. It permeates her thoughts, drowning out logical thought.

(Too much willpower, and it will become an obsession, Azelf had warned her once in Ingo’s voice. And then, in Emmet’s voice: And when you fail, it willll break you. And finally, in her own voice: you will not have a choice but to move forward, with this curse.

I accept, elesa and told it back in the lake.)

I’m so tired, Elesa thinks now, two months later.

But she keeps moving forward. The bell rings again as Elesa strikes it, with all the hurt and rage and longing forced by her own hand into her soul-

-And that’s when chandelure screams, and there is a terrible rolling crack, and Elesa feels the sudden lurch in her gut as she looks up, her apathy torn into shreds as-

The sky tears open in a fractal wave.

Elesa gapes.

She can not comprehend the sudden black webbing across the sky. In the distance, sirens suddenly start wailing as people stop to perceive the impossible.

But Elesa does not care, because in that moment, the wrench in her gut is so great she almost staggers off the platform. Chandelure is by her side in an instant, her glass body a warm comfort to the sudden chill, because-

Something white is falling.

Elesa’s doesn’t know what she yells. But the tug in her chest feels like the beat of a drum, and she is helpless to the melody that calls for action.

Azelf’s blessed takes a leaping step forward, off the building. Chandelure lets out a panicked chime and the warmth of psychic cradles Elesa as she reaches out, arms outstretched, falling and flying and-

And Emmet, sparking with white electricity, reaches back.

NOTES:

AU’s Salvaging the Ship of Theseus! Everybody has a Bad Time. (Emmet and Eelektross go to Hisui and learn about the joys of the distortion world. Elesa hunts legends and makes bad deals. Ingo babysits some sneaslets.)

Backstory and explanation:

Prior this scene, Emmet was travelling Hisui with Eelektross before he falls through a mirror and becomes lost in the distortion world for a month. Elesa and Chandelure, meanwhile, refuse to give up on their remaining friend. (Ingo’s fine! He’s in Hisui right now trying to get fired so he can go searching for his memories. Eelektross is… less fine. We will Worry about That Later.)

Disclaimers: Everything’s a work in progress and subject to change!

Part 2!

[starry-bi-sky]

This is very inspired by @minnesota-fats post about Danny being Bruce Wayne's clone (which has been rotting in my brain for two days) but an au where danny isn't just Bruce Wayne's clone, but also not fully a ghost.

both ideas can be used separately honestly, the idea just came to me while thinking about the bruce wayne clone idea, and a lot of this idea is just "danny without his ghost powers. i might probably make a part two that delves into him being bruce wayne's clone.

Hear me out.

A Danny Fenton who has the ghost sense and the fangs and the pointed ears and the scary eyes and an increase ecto-essence, but does not have the ability to "go ghost". His accident occurred when he pressed the "on" button on the outside of the portal, and the button electrocuted him due to faulty wiring. He ends up miraculously surviving but not without some new additional abilities (and electricity-based trauma).

Since Danny no longer has a built-in alter ego with the invert wardrobe to match, he doesn't see the point to take ghosts back to the ghost zone. What the hell can he do anyways? All he has is a cosmetic add-in, a lower body-temperature with an impressive ability to hold his breath longer than a human realistically should, and a built-in ghost detector. Not very helpful if you ask him.

That is, up until he goes into the lab after his parents catch a relatively harmless ghost and sees them vivisecting it. He's horrified. He thought his parents were using hyperbole when he said they'd tear them apart molecule by molecule.

(Granted, he also believed that ghosts were unfeeling up until he saw this random ghost being absolutely terrified for its existence on the table.)

After an argument over his parents harming the ghost, Danny goes back up to his room and refuses to leave, not even for dinner. Later that night after his parents went to sleep, Danny steels his resolve and sneaks back down into the lab and releases the ghost back into the ghost zone.

This happens a handful of times, until, finally, frustrated, Danny tells the latest captured ghost to tell anyone inside that if they even think about coming through, he'll capture them and bring them back to the zone himself. It's for their own safety.

The ghost agrees, and goes back inside. Danny steals a "failed" thermos from his parents' stash of weapons. The next time that a ghost shows up, its the lunch lady from episode one. Danny manages to defeat her without being seen, but knows that if there's gonna be consistent daytime ghost attacks then he can't base his luck around fighting without witnesses.

So he fashions himself with a makeshift outfit. This really only consists of an old, nondescript hoodie and a plain black face mask. Its the best thing he can do at short notice, however. Later, for his nighttime ghost fighting, his outfit is only slightly better.

He considered using one of his parents' lab suits. But white sticks out at night and the material doesn't protect you from road burn. His outfit is pretty homemade, with knee and elbow pads under his clothes and multiple layers. A long sleeve shirt over a hoodie over a black denim vest he found on sale. He later on manages to make brass knuckles ghost-proof and manages to stitch them into his gloves. (he gets very good at sewing).

His favorite part of the entire outfit, is a Casey Jones-style full-face mask he found while thrifting. It allows him better breathability than the face mask he was using (calling Rule Of Cool law here), and he can use his scary eyes to make him look more intimidating. His gloves, his mask, and his thermos are the things he carries around with him constantly, and, later on, wears baggier clothing to hide the fact that he's wearing knee and elbow gear under his clothes.

Did I mention he has long hair? Danny has long hair (because GNC danny ftw, it goes past his shoulders) that he braids back. it's a bit sloppy but it keeps his hair out of his face well enough. He takes the fenton creep stick with him.

(He and Bruce have, ultimately, a more lean build than a bulky one. It helped Bruce with his Brucie Wayne persona big time when he had to look like a pretty skinny boy, he uses body language, optical illusion, and body armor to make himself look bulkier as batman)

He still goes by the name Phantom. He still has a bitter rivalry with his parents, who have no idea that its him. They think he's probably some other ghost with beef with the other ghosts (he still triggers their ghost sensors), and still want to capture him.

He doesn't talk around the living. He doesn't have any fancy voice changer and dropping his voice hurts and ultimately, he just uses ASL if he ever has to talk in front of people. The ghosts know his voice at night, but not during the day.

He hardly talks to the living. He avoids them like the plague actually. When he defeats a ghost and there's an audience, he barely sticks around to have a nice friendly chat. He tries to get away as soon as possible. He's paranoid over people finding out who he is. He doesn't have that ghost form to fall back on here.

Oh god this is getting so long, so i'll post another part soon.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 4.5 (Dani interlude) Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 7.5 (Dan Interlude) Part 8

[delicatebarness]

the manuscript | prologue

Summary: The first encounter.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: 18 in this part)

Word Count: 837

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A/N: Oh, hello Dr. Barnes. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list!

The university loomed before you, the ivy-clad walls and gothic spires stood as testaments to the centuries of academic excellence. Renowned for its rigorous standards, the prestigious institution drew in the brightest minds from across the globe. You stepped through the grand archway, the air humming with the energy of countless scholarly pursuits, each echoing through the hallowed halls. 

You haven’t long turned 18, now a freshman, driven by a passion for creative writing. Your nights were spent hunched over notebooks, pouring your heart into stories and poems. Determined to make the most of this opportunity, you reflected on your talent that earned you a place here. With the best and brightest. It was a new chapter of your academic journey, and it started today.

Dr. James B. Barnes is a brilliant literature professor yet, reserved. His reputation preceded him– known for his profound insights and standards, he was feared and revered by his students. As you approached his office, your heart began to race. 

Tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, stood a heavy oak door with a brass nameplate glinting in the dim light. You took a deep breath and knocked firmly. Creaking open the door, you revealed Dr. Barnes. Sat behind a cluttered desk, his gaze lifted from a pile of papers, meeting yours. Piercing yet thoughtful, there was a moment of silent assessment. 

You felt the weight of his scrutiny as you stepped inside. The room smelled of leather with a faint trace of whiskey. 

“Good afternoon,” you begin, trying to steady your voice despite the nerves. “I’m going to be joining your advanced English literature class.” 

“Ah, yes,” he responded, his tone measured. “You must be the freshman. Please, have a seat.” 

You took a seat in the heavy leather chair opposite his desk. The two of you exchange a few professional courtesies, keeping the conversation brief but charged with mutual respect. You could sense that he had recognized your passion, and you were determined to prove yourself. 

~

A week later, you found yourself attending his class, surrounded by fellow students. His presence was commanding as he stood at the front of the room. A masterful blend of critical analysis and profound insight, his lectures were delivered with authority. 

Your hand raised after a particularly challenging lecture, Dr. Barnes acknowledged you with a nod.

“Yes?” 

“I have to disagree with your interpretation of his work,” you say, your voice clear and confident. A stark contrast from your first meeting with him. “I believe his use of fragmented narrative serves as a challenge to the notion of a singular, authoritative voice, rather than to obscure meaning.” 

The room fell silent, all eyes turned to you. Dr. Barnes regards you with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. 

“Interesting perspective,” he replied, keeping his tone cool. “However, I would argue that the fragmentation serves more to reflect the chaotic nature of postmodern existence.” 

You don’t back down. “Isn’t that chaos a direct challenge to traditional narrative structures? He seems to be inviting readers to find their own meaning within the disarray.” 

Your heated debate ensues, intellectual electricity cranking the air. Your classmates watched, their gazes swapping between you and Dr. Barnes like they were at Wimbledon as you exchanged arguments. 

Initially, he was annoyed by your boldness, yet you caught a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. You thrived on pushing boundaries and testing limits, in particular, with those you found intellectually stimulating and authoritative. Leaving everyone, including Dr. James B. Barnes, captivated.

“Your argument is well-crafted,” he concedes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I look forward to more discussions like this.” 

As the weeks passed, Dr. Barnes’ class quickly became the highlight of your week. A battlefield of ideas in each session, a place where you could push your intellectual prowess. Dr. Barnes, though initially reserved, seemed to relish the debates as much as you did. 

One chilly autumn afternoon, you lingered after another stimulating class as the other students left. The room fell quiet, as though itself was in thought and reflection. Dr. Barnes noticed and approached you.

“Good work today,” he said, his tone less sharper than usual. “You’ve brought a new energy to these discussions.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, a rush of pride coursed through you. “Your classes challenge me in ways I never expected.” 

He nodded, “To challenge and to inspire, that’s the point of academia. Keep questioning, you could go far.” 

You smiled again, your cheeks becoming flushed. “I’m glad you’re not tired of my questions yet.” 

“On the contrary,” he said as he leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that caused your heart to race. “I find them… refreshing.” 

The flicker of something unspoken passed between you, a deeper connection yet to be explored. His words echoed as you left the lecture hall, the promise in his eyes lingered. 

What were the boundaries between student and teacher? And, could they transform into something more profound? 

- - -

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[levisrations]

Tw: none? Pure fluff. Modern Levi. Gn reader

Why am i thinking about you and Levi buying a home together, it’s old and needs a lot of love. So you both blow through your savings to make your dream house. You both start taking things out and down yourselves before you get to more complicated parts and that’s when you hire professionals to keep things going. You both spend HOURS and late nights planning everything, meeting with your contractors to tell them your vision to see if it’s possible.

Then when everything is rebuilt and refurbished the more exciting part begins and that’s ordering furniture and appliances. You both already had an idea of keeping things looking like the house was meant to since you both hate modern houses and white beige gray colors. Your house has a brick fireplace, intricate designs throughout the house that people just don’t do anymore. It looks like a house straight out the 1920’s but with better plumbing and electrical. And a more stable foundation.

Anyways you in particular are going nuts looking up stoves, fridges, couches, bed frames and Levi is also very much part of the decision but he lets you have a final say because of how happy you are. You’re best purchase is your classic gas stove. It has brass hardware and you’re in love. Levi loves it too. Also you get a claw foot bath tub, that’s Levis favorite thing (other than your state of the art washer and dryer WITH an agitator).

Your house feels complete. Years of saving, months of hard work, and some time sleeping and sitting on the floor and eating on trays meant to eat in front of the tv while furniture was being delivered. Oddly enough the giant L shaped couch was the one piece that took months to arrive! Levi was fed up and put his foot down and demanded it be canceled and to refund your money. But surprise that couch was then delivered in two days and got a discount. Salesman didn’t wanna lose that commission I guess.

You both created a beautiful home ready to be filled with all types of memories. Maybe you’ll start a family or maybe it will just be the two of you and your 5 cats (what a nightmare moving them in the house that car ride was filled with so much crying). Who knows what could happen in there! But you’re both 100 percent sure you’re gonna grow old in that house together.

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Treat You 1

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, violence, mentions of abuse, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (Tall!reader)

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You stumble out into the hallway, nearly colliding with the dingy and peeling paint on the wall. The door slams with the force of your frantic exit, nails bending painfully as you let go of the brass knob. Your heart pulses in your ears as another crash bangs from inside the apartment and your father's tirade blazes on.

You untangle your bag, the only thing you could snatch as you stepped halfway into your shoes. The doorknob twists again and you quickly flee down the hall, your father yanking at the door as it jams. You quickly veer down the staircase and only stop at the top of the next flight to pull your shoes on all the way.

You catch your breath at the front door, aware of how Mrs. Davis’ door snaps shut when you pass. You continue outside without a destination in mind. You could hide out at the library again, no one notices you there. It is a bit far to walk.

You sling the crochet bag over your head so it hangs against your hip. You reach inside and find your change purse. You don't have much after the electric bill. Two bucks, it's three to get the bus.

You huff and tuck your hand back in your bag. Your feet carry you as you wind down the street. The apathetic rush of traffic makes you feel invisible. You don't mind that, it's more dangerous to be seen.

There's nothing remarkable about you. You're taller than most girls but that's more worthy of ridicule than admiration. You wear second-hand clothing, some of it your dad's handmedowns, and hunch until your spine hurts. An elephant trying to play fawn.

You chew your lip and stop by the vintage shop. Not the Goodwill but the expensive place with the designer houndstooth and Louis Vuitton logos. In another world…

Across the street, a night club stands desolate and eerie in the daylight. A few times you passed during opening and it was rowdy and flashing. Just on your way to the bus station to spend a couple hours on a bench.

On the next street, a cafe. The place that closed then opened only weeks later. New ownership but everything else the same. The prices aren't as steep as the Starbucks kiosk near the station.

You ponder it, stopping outside as you see a woman behind the counter. You're a bit relieved it's not the usual barista. That guy with reddish hair and warm brown eyes. He likes to talk, too bad you don't.

You enter and approach the till. The woman greets you brightly, her eyes look tired, and she points out to the specials. Nope, you can only afford a tea.

You pay for the green tea and way for her to pour the hot water. As you tap your fingers on the counter, another figure appears from behind the espresso machine. It's that guy. Dang.

“Hey, done break, your turn,” he chirps, quieting as he sees you standing there. He smiles, “oh, hi, you been helped?”

You nod and look down. The woman places the cup of steaming water in front of you. You thank her and take it, turning to claim the seat in the corner.

You sit and settle in with your bag in your lap. You don't have much to do so you stare out the window. Pedestrians pass by, with purpose, some even happily.

The cafe is quiet. There's a couple nesr the opposite wall, on a date, maybe. The ambiance holds even as people come in, ordering and leaving with their drinks.

You blow on your tea and sip. You tug the string of the bag and dip it up and down. Your dad will tire himself out soon. Maybe two hours. You can't make one tea last that long.

You put your arm on the table and curl your shoulders. You trace a finger on the tabletop. You usually keep a book in your bag but you took it out to read last night.

You frown. It shouldn't be like this but that's just how it is. You don't have much of a choice. Your dad is your family, your only family, all you have.

You wiggle your nose and swallow back your self-pity. No use crying. Especially here.

“Hi,” the voice frightens you as the barista approaches with a cinnamon bun on a plate, “uh, I'm Peter, remember? Saw you last week?”

You blink. You press your palms to the cup and feel the heat threaten to blister. He's short, his shoulders broad, and his posture straight.

“Er, you want a cinnamon bun?”

“I… no, I don't have the money,” you rasp and sip your tea.

“On the house,” he insists, “really, there was a mix up this morning and we made a batch too many.”

“That's nice but… no thank you.”

You know what it is to accept favours. They always come back to debts. You lower your head again.

“You don't like sweets? We have quiche–”

You shake your head. He hovers, waiting. You turn to watch out the window again. You wince as the plate clinks onto the table. He leaves the bun there and goes back behind the counter. You ignore it.

Maybe you won't come here anymore.

[shiraishi--kanade]

Subjectively rating everyone's instrument match ups from this official art for Sekai Symphony 2024

Without individual pictures because I'm on mobile.

Leo/need:

Ichika (electric guitar): sigh... Girl why are you like this. Unfathomable. I'll let it slide because it's Ichika. Rating: electic guitar/10.

Saki (violin): Saki does not give me violin vibes at all but I'm sure she'll kill it if she actually wanted to learn. 5/10

Honami (oboe): I'm deeply offended Honami isn't in the percussion section. 2/10

Shiho (trombone): the most non-brass player brass player known to world. I don't see how it fits her. 1/10

Overall rating: they don't get you like I do girls I'm so sorry

More More Jump:

Minori (trumpet): absolutely incredible. Yes she's a trumpet girlie. I can totally see that. 10/10

Haruka (flute): yes. Oh my god yes. She is so flute-coded she can rival only Mafuyu. 10/10

Airi (viola): very mean. Let her in the violin section. That said I can already see at least three interesting story lines connected to that. Carry on. 10/10

Shizuku (harp): need I say more? 10/10

Overall rating: they would carry the entire orchestra on their backs, 10/10

Vivid Bad Squad:

Kohane (saxophone): the mental image is hilarious and I can totally see Kohane falling in love with the sax but she gets points taken away from her because saxophone is so not a protagonist instrument. 8/10

An (double bass): ...well someone needed to be a bass player but An is not that someone. She's not even tall enough. Free her. 3/10 because at least she looks like she's having fun.

Touya (trombone): hehe funky slide go brrr. Yeah I can see that. 8/10

Akito (violin): I've told you he has violin vibes. I told you so. Absolutely perfect pick. I think Akito would be a good concertmaster as well. 10/10

Overall rating: decent picks but An was done dirty and should have been a cellist. 7/10

Wonderlands x Showtime:

Tsukasa (cymbals): my condolences to all the percussion section but also yeah that makes sense. 10/10

Nene (cello): itty bitty cellist her instrument is almost as tall as she is. I definitely see the image though. 10/10

Emu (tambourine): she will insure her part will he heard. That said I think she'd do better at the marimba or other percussion instruments. At least it's not a triangle? 7/10

Rui (viola): I did not consider that option before and now I'm considering it. I'm considering it so hard. Incredible. 9/10

Overall rating: they're thriving. 9/10

Nightcord at 25 am:

Kanade (viola): yes. Yes. I can see that. Go forth my child. Make the viola gang proud. 10/10

Mafuyu (flute): that's a flute player if I've ever seen one. 10/10

Ena (violin): oh her having the same instrument as Akito would destroy both of them and me in the process. I could write a novel about it. 10/10

Mizuki (trumpet): they're just having fun and being silly. 10/10

Overall rating: truly Sega's favourite child. 10/10

No VS rating because they have different enough personalities between units that I have no idea how to rate them! Sorry!

[brasselectricalcomponents]

Benefits of Choosing Brass Electrical Parts Manufacturers in Jamnagar

Here are a few instances of choosing brass electrical parts manufacturers in Jamnagar, India. The brass manufacturer offers competitive prices for production, maintains strict quality control, provides on-time delivery, produces items based on custom requirements and provides the best after-sales service.

[zablife]

i loved Ode to Brass Knuckles 🫶 maybe a part 2 where reader uses the brass knuckles gifted to her on Johnny 😉 he thinks she's crazy at first (or he got caught off guard when she takes it out) but he ends up really, really enjoying it 🫣

Oh, this is such a sinful thought, my love! By all means, let's add to the first part...

I can imagine Johnny's surprise the first time he's lying back against the couch cushions, a haze closing around the corners of his vision from the blows he sustained, darkened by the beer Benny's given him to stave off the pain.

"You did good tonight, baby. Sit back and relax now,” you tell him in a soft, soothing voice, cheek pressed against his thigh, as you nestle between his wide spread legs.

He tilts his chin back, forearm resting over his eyes as you free him from his trousers. A soft grunt emerges from his parted lips as you take his semi erect cock in your hand. Then he moans at the softness of your fingertips, laced with a distinct firmness to your grasp. Brow twitching at the tantalizing new sensation of smooth metal, he can't help but notice how good it feels.

He has an idea what it could be, smirking from beneath his arm, but his breath is stolen when he pries one eyelid open to watch you lick the precum from the shining gold of the brass knuckles you wear, tongue eager to chase every sticky drop from between the glistening rings.

As you add the warmth of your mouth to the equation, the combination of sensations sends him into the throes of ecstasy, head thrown back and hips bucking wildly for more. Perhaps it's the fog clouding his brain, but tonight he gives over to your need for dominance.

The sight of him aching for you is all you need to proceed with your plan, pushing his limits the way he's done to you so many times before. Taking a moment to survey his heaving chest, you slowly move a hand lower along his pelvis, a hum of reassurance against the head of his cock to keep him calm.

As you rest your weapon beneath his balls, he shudders slightly and the feeling of power sends a charge of electricity down your spine. It gives you the courage to begin circling your wrist lower and lower until you're resting against his ass and as the pressure intensifies, he bears down on it without thinking, chasing a high like he's never known.

[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 1, Part 2: The Slave Quarters

⚠️CW: Institutionalized slavery, degradation, dehumanization, objectification, emotional whump, blood/licking blood, food whump (starvation/poisoning), sadistic whumper, cold calculating whumper, multiple whumper, sensory deprivation, fantasy whump, Bullying.

As always, a HUGE shout out to my tumblr bestie and beta reader @3-2-whump.

Story under the cut

⏮️ Previous

None of the other slaves were up yet, so the mutt moved silently so as not to wake them.  Quickly, he got dressed in the tattered clothes he was allotted. At least they were a slight improvement against the autumn cold over the thin shorts they were given for sleep. He grabbed a candle from a shelf under the non-glassed window headed to the tiny bathroom to finish getting ready for the day. He lit the candle after closing the door and began straightening himself up for the day. He ran a brush through his unkempt hair, taming it only marginally, then washed his face with cold water.

Everything was always so cold, he tried to summon his dream and imagine the warm hands again, but unfortunately the leftover sensations were fading fast. To be honest so was his hope of feeling them again. That day was almost 5 years ago now, and he’d never felt them since. Realistically they probably had decided they didn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame them. He was stunted- not as strong or as tall as other Drar. His body also held on to injuries. Unlike the others with smooth, perfect skin, his body was marred by every mistake he had ever made, a lattice work of layered scars. He couldn’t possibly be good enough for that warmth.

Once the mutt was reasonably presentable, he settled down at the desk to study until his master unlocked the door to the building they were kept in at night.

He was supposed to study whenever he wasn’t actively being used. His master expected him to memorize everything about the poisons he was forced to consume and there was around a hundred of them in all, so it was a constant process.

After about an hour or so, he other slaves started to wake, some earlier than others.

“Reading again?” one of them scoffed, pulling the book out from under Dog. No surprise, it was Zan, someone Dog had never gotten along with. “Why do you get to know how to read but we don’t? What makes you so special?”

Zan was an owned slave that was brought to Master for training. He was the only one that actually wore brass bands, signifying he was owned by a commoner. The rest that were called brass bands actually wore silver like him, they were being trained for brass roles though and thus referred to as such.

The dog grabbed the book back without a word. Corvius would skin him if any damage came to it. It was very rare and very old, containing information on every known poison in not only Tallis, but all of Devros.

“Oh right, I forgot, you aren’t allowed to talk to the rest of us,” Zan sneered. “You’re too good for us humble brass bands. Better than us.”

Better? Hardly. Dog kept his gaze on the floor. He knew looking the other slave in the eyes would cause punishment from the metal around his neck and limbs. It was true. He was forbidden from speaking, or making any noise really, from evening to morning. The rule was depressing enough without it being rubbed in. He longed for the warmth the rest of them had in the evening, laughing and telling stories. Corvius said he didn’t want the slave distracted and that he needed to spend his time off studying. He took a breath, conjuring the comforting scent of his future master once again. ‘It’s all for them,’ he reminded himself. Even as he told himself this, he knew he should give up on the idea, though.

“Why is it you are so special? Huh? Why do you get to learn to read while the rest of work hard all day?” Zan spat.

Dog didn’t respond, he couldn’t, if he made a sound the silver bands of metal around his neck and limbs would make it feel like electricity ripping through his body. He wanted too, though. He deeply wished he could talk and joke with the rest of them. Being a slave was hard, but being alone was so much harder.

Dog would much rather be working with the rest of them than studying what the poisons he was forced to take were doing to his body. The other slaves had friendship and comradery; Dog had nothing. ‘What do you want from me, I don’t even have a name,’ he thought pitifully. His only consolation was the gentle thrumming warmth his bands sent through his body for resisting the impulse to speak. A reward for obeying Corvius’ order of silence. The warmth he always pictured a hug to have. Though he’d never had one, he desperately wanted one, they looked so warm.

Smack! A loud sound echoed off the stone walls. Dog’s head violently whipped to the side with the force of the other Drar’s blow.

Zan laughed loudly, “Not going to do anything about it are you little cur? You never do. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

Dog continued to look at the floor, his face still turned to the side. The other Slave was right, he had no intention of defending himself.

“Pathetic,” Zan spat, “You are an embarrassment.”

Zan’s loudmouth drew attention of other slaves, and Dog could feel eyes on him.

“Zan! Knock it off. He has a hard enough time without you adding to it,” Ruby cut in, scolding her fellow brass band. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready before you’re late anyway?”

“Oh, screw you, as if I need you to tell me what to do,” Zan mumbled in response, walking off.

Ruby gently ruffled Dog’s hair, causing him to involuntarily lean into her soft touch, savoring it. Her voice was gentle, “Please don’t take his words to heart. It's just……” she paused, her voice going soft. “It's just, he’s just afraid of becoming you, we all are to be honest.” He could feel her concerned gaze on him, before she walked off to get ready herself.

The dog kept his usual neutral expression on his face. He didn’t blame them, if he had the choice, he wouldn’t want to be him either. Broken, personality stomped out, body ruined by poison, none of it was wanted.

@whumperofworlds, @skittles-the-whumpee, @whumpsandbumps, @wounds-seen-and-unseen, @generic-whumperz

@emptycalories-splitlip, @pigeonwhumps, @i-eat-worlds

As always, if you would like to be added to my tag list or I forgot to properly flag something, please just let me know!

Master List

Next ⏭️

[thumpypuppy]

oo! your last ask was really interesting! do you have anything to say on the relation between the various Loop related tracks?

it’s very cool that you’re talking about your music in such a way, thank you for engaging with this community!

So Loop's theme is just kinda silly weird mysterious. There's a chromatic walkup at the beginning of the melody because weird and silly.

Loop's hangout is one of the few tracks written by Alice Liston, who is no longer with the studio, but she's an incredibly talented composer who took a lot of the fundamental aspects of the original song and turned it into something dreamy, which I emphasized with some unique instrumentation.

Spoilers ahead:

The Loop fight is yet another one of my MEGA BATTLE compositions where I go ham because it's a fight song and I have to do way too much.

We start with that chromatic walk up in our classic title theme synth and immediately launch into Sandra's intense drums backed with Spitfire Audio's Albion ONE strings to fill out some space.

There are a couple of wild synth solos here written again by Alice Liston, and the drums move into a standard time with a staggered syncopation before jumping back into double time on the riff. Toward the end we build into a kind of combination prog rock EDM drop, and then…

Lo-fi! We take everything down here to a more sonically simplified version using some synth guitar designed in MASSIVE, a couple of simple wave forms, and some bit-crushed drums. We also introduce a new simple counter-melody here with a fairly straightforward motif we repeat while the exact notes change depending on the chord. We're still riffing on Loop's theme at this point, but we're adding some more context.

(Side-note: If you're interested in emulating vintage consoles of a particular era, one of the most important things to look up is the system's sample rate and bit depth! I'm 37 so "vintage" in this case is like… Commodore 64, NES, SNES, PS1, Sega Genesis, Neo-Geo, etc. It's also important to look up for something like the N64 where a lot of the sound design came from, like a lot of DX7 presets.)

Now with a powerful fill from the live kit we come back to our normal instrumentation, restating our previous section. Toward the end of this section we slowly build in our strings ramping up to a half-time breakdown that will lead into a totally new part.

The strings build intensity while also taking the responsibility of playing our main Loop melody, and we throw in a Dormont-style counter-melody to add to a sense of nostalgia as we ramp up our heart-string tugging.

Next, we bring in lead guitar-style synth to double our Loop melody that's playing in the strings to add an extra helping of epicness because come on, an electric guitar playing over the soprano part of a string section is like pique epic/dramatic.

Meanwhile the drums are still going in half-time to give it a breakdown feel (especially leaning on that china cymbal to give it a classic death metal breakdown feel), but at this point we're starting to get more embellishments and double kicks to make use of the space left to build further intensity until we hit that 80s metal crash mute and pause for emphasis, and then tom roll into our next section.

With the break into a new section we're saying NO MORE! We're getting serious now! We have a lovely riff written by Sadie Greyduck, which has a really uncomfortable and tense progression built into it that's emphasized by the strings that have moved to the very high soprano range to keep tension.

Then on our next repeat we jump into yet another solo! This one was partially written by Alice Liston, but ultimately I ended up fitting it into context and completing it. One thing you'll notice here is that there are a lot of passing tones and chromatic walk-ups to emphasize the Loop-ness of the situation.

Now we're jumping into yet another me(n)tal breakdown! This is more riffing on the Loop melody, but then we hear that brass section jump in! We're moving forward and doing a little more light riffing while the rest of the band takes us home in a slightly stronger and more triumphant fashion.

Finally we pick up the pace and we're back to our old classic, the title theme, but it's add odds with the context it exists in and starts to move in a spacier direction, eventually morphing back into Loop's theme.

For the album version we put a cap on it with a piano restatement of the beginning of the song!

(Also I finally looked it up and the other piano I used besides Spitfire Labs "Soft Piano" is Native Instruments "The Gentleman".)

Honestly I love fight/boss themes so much and they're always so fun to work on because I can go ham and the people I work with can do some of their more extreme work, plus it's always an excuse for Sandra to go nuts on the drums.

Thank you so much for sending in your ask! We're always so happy to get these and to hear how much our work has affected so many people! 🐶💙

[melodiousmonsters]

"Wubbox (Divina Mechana) average around 22ft/6.7m tall. The Wubbox are mysterious monsters that were discovered in an underground vault between all the natural island’s locations. There was one already activated named Wub. It seemed to know a lot about its species and was fairly happy to give out certain information, but would clam up at other requests like asking who made them or what their purpose is.

They are activated by placing living single elemental eggs into specially made cavities in the interior of their boxed form. Once that is done they activate. They start off able to talk and do basic things but they have virtually no personality like a hatchling. After a few days it starts to rapidly mature and starts acting more like an adult monster. They’ll start messing around with their environment and running experiments on things they are curious about.

Wubbox are made of an alloy of brass and bubblerite called steptanium. It’s a strong substance with a plastic-y finish that’s outstandingly conductive, the extent of said conductivity would not be elaborated on. Steptanium can also shrink and grow and “dissolve into pure energy” which allows for the Wubbox to box up. A thin enough plating of another metal or other substance can be put over steptanium without interfering with its properties. That information was asked for by another Wubbox named Machin who wanted to paint itself pink. Wubbox like to customize themselves, except for Wub, it says that it’s for “sentimental purposes”.

Wubbox are made up of four main parts, the head, body, arms, and legs. The head has a mouth, eyes, and a base. The base holds the eyes in cups and the mouth is attached at the front. On the back of the base is a button that allegedly (thanks Wub for the information) causes the Wubbox to box involuntarily, I say allegedly because none of them will let me test it on them.

The body is a cage that surrounds their core. Their core is the power source of the Wubbox and holds their consciousness. It has a rubbery texture and is incredibly sturdy. It can squish a lot without breaking.

The limbs are very basic other than the fact they have perfectly safe exposed electrical currents running through them. The electricity has been manipulated to only flow through special disks that their limbs are made of. Even if you touch the disks right where the electricity hits them it still won’t shock you as you are not the disk so the electricity can’t flow into you. The forearms and feet also have the same properties of the disks except that they can be replaced with anything, it’s a mystery how that works, but it does."

To expand on the customization, a Wubbox can do a lot to themselves as long as they keep their basic body plan and primarily steptanium composition. I have only one example as i have been very busy as of recent (I'm on vacation and will be for every summer), it's the water island Wubbox (there's one wubbox per natural island not including Wub, making 6 Wubbox total) an it doesn't have a name yet as usual for the more individual monsters.

As for variants, well at least at the time this was made in universe Wubboxes didn't have variants, customizing themselves doesn't fundamentally change them as monsters so those aren't counted as variants. The epic Wubbox do exist but are too integral to how important things work in the monster world so I can't talk about them yet.

I'm going to probably switch to doing one of these every two weeks instead so I can put more time into them as I haven't been too happy with the quality of the recent ones. Also there isn't a lot here because it's Wubbox, they're lore important. I also changed out the egg waking up mechanic from the monster boxing because 1. the wublins don't use the egg mechanic anymore they just get shocked, and 2. there are only very small populations of monsters in the contemporary monster world in this au so boxing monsters would decimate the population.