#Copper Round Wire

[buckysleftbicep]

no sudden moves 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, mutual desperation, mentions of tight spaces (tw: claustrophobia)

summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! 💓

The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.

Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire. 

The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.

Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility. 

The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.

Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.

You sprinted.

Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison. 

Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your side—a sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.

Shit.

Bucky was just ahead of you—a dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.

He didn’t glance back, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodies—a constant pull. 

He moved with you in mind. Always.

The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didn’t recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.

"Comm’s dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.

"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled bursts—center mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulder—pain flared.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter. 

Old ghosts. Easy target.

But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.

The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waiting—armed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.

Another shadow lunged from the smoke—Bucky didn’t hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

“We need cover. Now.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick ground—a slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.

Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. “You with me?”

You nodded, panting. “Still standing.”

He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic. 

Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.

The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.

“They’re trying to bury this place,” you breathed.

“No—” he said, grim. “They’re trying to bury us.”

His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldier’s mind. A killer’s instinct. 

Then it landed—sharp, immediate.

“There.”

To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.

Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.

Just wide enough for two bodies, that’s if they didn’t mind pressing close.

Too close.

“In.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.

You stared at it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. “There’s no way we both fit in there.”

“Then I’ll go first,” he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. “But you’re coming with me.”

He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. “We don’t have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. We’re outgunned. Comms are dead. And you’re fucking hit.” His tone dropped lower. Rougher. “Get the fuck in.”

It wasn’t the words that made you move. It was the voice.

Commanding, steady and final.

You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.

Then he came in after you.

His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.

You could feel every inch of him.

His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.

His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.

“Don’t move.”

And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.

The darkness swallowed you whole.

It wasn’t just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.

A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.

You weren’t alone in it.

You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears. 

The space wasn’t built for hiding. It wasn’t built for people. It was a maintenance shaft,  narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.

Now, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin. 

His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.

You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.

No space. No choice.

And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you weren’t sagging into him completely.

You didn’t dare move.

Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.

But still, your body noticed.

It always had.

The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.

Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.

“I am quiet,” you hissed back, lips barely moving.

“I can hear your heartbeat, princess.”

The nickname landed like a sin—sharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.

Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.

The enemy was still close.

You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.

You stopped breathing.

Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Don’t move.

And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.

You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.

You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.

The light passed.

The soldiers didn’t.

But neither of you dared relax.

Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skin—the worse it got.

The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.

Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didn’t care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights. 

That you hated the man pinning you in place.

Because this tension? It wasn’t new.

It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. “Try not to kill each other,” she’d said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t already been written in the way you’d looked at each other.

You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs. 

You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirted—especially when it wasn’t with him.

And yet, in combat, you were perfect.

Seamless. Lethal.

He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.

Like muscle memory.

And maybe that was why this—now—felt so inevitable.

But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.

The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.

You blinked, heart stuttering. You didn’t dare look down. You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.

Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.

Like he was pretending his cock wasn’t pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.

Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.

Not fear.

His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasn’t.

You swallowed hard.

“Still think this was a good idea?” you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.

He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. “Would you rather be riddled with bullets right now?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Would hurt less.”

His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.

Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.

And you wanted him to move.

His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.

Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.

“You need to stop that,” you whispered. Barely audible.

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.

Too calm. Too close.

You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.

He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.

“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.

“You’re the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,” you hissed back.

Then—another voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.

You both froze.

The moment stretched. Tightened.

Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.

Silence.

Your eyes found his in the dark. 

Neither of you breathed. Neither of you blinked.

“I hate you,” you whispered, and it wasn’t convincing.

“Sure you do,” he whispered back.

His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.

And he didn’t move away.

It started small.

A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.

And you felt it everywhere.

His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.

But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasn’t hesitating, he wasn’t testing, he was deciding. 

His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.

His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.

Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.

“Bucky.” You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.

It should’ve been harmless.

But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.

Like gravity had shifted.

The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else — something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges — half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasn’t sure he wanted you to take.

“Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.

Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.

Because your body was already leaning in.

Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cock—hard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.

And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.

Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.

It was already too late.

His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.

Then his hand moved lower.

Over the waistband.

Past it.

Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.

He didn’t hesitate.

He found your heat instantly.

Skin on skin.

And groaned, low, guttural, like he’d found salvation.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. “Fuck.”

The sound of it—his voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didn’t even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.

You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didn’t recognise coming from your own throat.

He hadn’t even moved yet.

Just touched.

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?” he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him. 

“You think I haven’t felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far I’ll let it go?”

You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.

But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.

“Oh, fuck—” The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.

He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.

And then he added another.

“Don’t be loud,” he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. “You want them to hear you?”

You shook your head, frantic, flushed.

Another finger joined the first.

The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.

It was too much.

Too hot. Too deep.

He was wrecking you with just his hand.

Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.

His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didn’t kiss.

He breathed.

Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.

“You gonna come for me while they’re right outside?” he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. “Gonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?”

You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.

He could feel it.

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. “Don’t want them hearing how bad you need it.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.

The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.

You didn’t care.

You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it. 

Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.

He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.

You whimpered. He felt you tighten.

“Come for me,” he rasped.

And you did.

The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.

You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.

You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.

And he wasn’t done.

You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.

Frantic. Desperate.

Your hand closed around him—thick, hot, leaking and you gasped.

“Jesus christ,” he hissed, teeth clenched.

Then he moved.

He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.

One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.

“This what you want?” he growled. “Here? Now?”

You nodded—wild, frantic, voiceless.

And then he pushed in.

You gasped, sharp and silent.

The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.

He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned against your shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.

Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

He fucked you.

Hard.

Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldn’t catch your breath—every thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.

His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.

He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.

“Gonna come for me again,” he growled. “Gonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.”

You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.

Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldn’t form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.

And then you broke.

It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.

You damn near collapsed.

Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.

That’s when he came, too.

A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.

His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.

You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.

His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where he’d been.

Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.

Then slowly, he pulled out.

You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where he’d just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.

He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now. Just… gentle.

You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple. 

His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadn’t yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering. 

He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement. 

“Next time,” you panted, shooting him a look, “maybe don’t pick the smallest shaft on the planet.”

He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth. 

“You complaining?” he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. 

“Define complaining.” His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for you—his hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently. “Before the rest start wondering where we went.”

You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking. 

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts 💌

[enterslicepvt]

Enamelled Round Copper Winding Wires

Elevate your electrical projects with our Enamelled Round Copper Winding Wires. Crafted for optimal conductivity and durability, these wires offer a seamless winding experience. The enamel coating ensures insulation, making them ideal for precision applications. Trust in the reliability of our copper wires for efficient and lasting electrical solutions.

[artcalledwrap]

The Whole The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square Tornado’s Hurricane Look into my eyes The Whole Earth is round And we build in square No crosses at all Eyes across my eyes The sky of weathered weathering weather And earthquake Toppled down boxes Toppled down stacked boxes I’m not play jumblr Just a writing on Tumblr The whole The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square I’ve smoked, it’s just walls man Justified money making again a building Helping tops earn there squares Over toppled neighborhoods Smoke screens from my viewing on tv in the 80’s screens we had knobs And building will be in square again for them I’ll take away the food and let the rats starve Or they just rebuild and move in a new territory, even kernels are cubed The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square

[kolibribeads]

1.0 mm - 18 GA - The Bead Smith Wire Elements Round Craft/Jewellery Wire - 3.6 m (4 Yd) - Dead-Soft - Non-Tarnish Gold https://www.kolibribeads.com/1-0-mm-18-ga-the-bead-smith-wire-elements-round-craft-jewellery-wire-3-6-m-4-yd-dead-soft-non-tarnish-gold

[alienskart]

We provide the perfect solution for your home

Alienskart.com is an online shopping site that enables you to explore different industrial & household electronics such as motors, ac drives, gearboxes, wires, leds, lubricants and many more. Our main brands consist of Havells motors by alienskart, Hindustan by alienskart, ABB by alienskart, Castrol by alienskart, Polycabs by alienskart and snpc motors, snpc gear motors only on alienskart which are most trustful names in industries. Please visit us to get trustful and quality products. Thank you for considering our site. For more queries: 8818081001

[saym0-0]

finished head shot of this silly little guy,,

i was going to do the full body but tbh i think i might ruin it if i go much further and i do like this a lot,,,

consider: copper wire hair & oxidised brass beard drumbot

[mediumgayitalian]

"It reminded me of you."

Will looks into his cupped hands. He purses his lips. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again.

"This is, uh." He clears his throat. "It, being this fish skeleton?"

Nico nods. "Yes."

Will waits for an explanation. With none forthcoming, he looks up, intent on asking for it directly, but his tongue does completely numb in his mouth, jaw softly unlocking. From the late afternoon sun behind him golden rays shine directly into pools of what has become spun copper and amber brown; spools of shining wire surrounded by shining white. It takes him time uncountable to register the wide, round soporifics in front of him are in fact Nico's eyes, cradled in the light, watching him.

"What," Will tries, mouth dry, "uh, what? Why. I mean." He holds up his hands. They're shaking. "Fish?"

"That's you," says Nico, crowding into Will's space. Will makes a noise that can be registered only by bats, dolphins, and bush crickets.

Nico's callused hands encircle Will's wrist and his soul ascends, exiting from his body, floating away gayly away until Will snags it by the ankle and yanks it back to his mortal body. Dad, if you can hear me, I cannot stress how much you owe me and how badly I am calling in that favor. SOS. SOS. SOS. SO --

"It's small, see. Delicate."

"I'm -- six two?"

"Yeah, physically." Nico pokes at the tiny little spine. "But you're, like." He makes a squishing motion with his hand. "Crushable, you know? You just go around feeling your feelings at full force. All over the place. Delicate."

Will is pretty sure he's ghasting. Is that what it's called? Flabbering one's ghast? When you just -- kind of stand there, slack jawed, wheezing like a doofus? Maybe he is a fish. "Nico, I've got --" He makes a swooping gesture in front of his nose, trying and visibly failing at indicating a plague mask. "You know? I could poison you."

"Yeah, that's why I picked one that died from whirling disease."

"How...thoughtful?"

"Thanks."

Nico returns to the fish skeleton. He points out the eye sockets. "See here? The fish had shallow orbits so it probably had big eyes like you."

"I have big eyes?"

"Duh. You are ninety percent eye. Everyone looks at you and it's like bam. Blue. All you can see."

Will begs the red to recede from his cheeks. He can hear the echo of his father's cackling, all the way from his stupid dork ass nerd ass lame tryhard chariot, and the red continues to rise.

"You -- like my eyes?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Hey, look here. You can see its -- are you looking? -- you can see its heart cavity. Cool, right? Your heart is going really fast."

A high-pitched noise comes out of Will's throat, sourced from somewhere in his kneecaps, probably. They're wobbling enough.

"Yeah, I -- uh, best believe I noticed."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm vibing. Chilling, even. One could even say I'm maxing, relaxing, acting all cool. If there was a basketball net outside of a school I would be totally shooting right now."

"You're acting weird," Nico accuses.

Will laughs out loud. No, like, really laughs, it comes out of his stomach and then his knees give out and he barely manages to catch himself, hunching over, veins hot rod boiling and stomach writhing and face the color of a gently polished tomato. He may have passed.

"Oh, my gods, something kill me."

"Whatever, weirdo. Come back over, I want to show you why the rib cage is representative of your repression issues."

"Okay."

[sallysavestheday]

Contents of Nerdanel’s Strongbox, Preserved When Her Studio Burned

Fist-sized lump of malachite layered with copper ore, from a deposit in the hills behind Mahtan's forge.

Drawn silver wire in varying thicknesses: strings for an unknown instrument.

Six bone beads (deer, rabbit, and swan bones, with varying levels of quality finish, as if a learning exercise) in child's cup with bite marks of multiple sizes on lip.

Small chunk of hollowed black pumice, edges rounded but without determinate form, used as a needle-holder for bone and silver needles of various sizes.

Set of unbalanced but finely-edged chisels bearing a child's approximation of Fëanáro's maker's mark.

One child's shoe, red leather, well-worn. One child's shoe, red leather, scorched.

Plait of black hair, bound at both ends with leather forge ties, woven with stone and silver beads.

Eight smooth stones of various sizes, from the beaches of Alqualondë. Rounded to be held as blunt hammers. Chips and flakes on striking edges, as if from repeated use.

Betrothal and wedding bands, silver and gold filigree, misshapen as though beaten repeatedly with force. 

Various small pieces of heart-shaped stone.

***************************************

An angsty little list for @silmarillionepistolary

Also on AO3.

[sugxto]

I would like to hear. More thoughts on Girldad Eddie and Volt, if you have any spare.

You turn the lights of the bar off, throw the rag onto the wood as you round the corner to the stairs. Quietly, with a practiced care, you head up the steps, tired, but excited to see them, excited for bed. You'd drawn closing duty for the night, a somewhat welcome reprieve from the bedtime dance you all were still playing with Ally, now that she could run, and had perfected those puppy eyes that made her dads' circuits fry.

When you pass the door to the storage room they'd converted to the nursery, you pause, something unfamiliar tugging at your ear. With the gentlest touch you can manage, you push the door open, and the sight makes your own circuits melt.

Eddie sits in the rocking chair, a stock of copper and black curls in his arms, his fingers stroking slowly, up, down, up, down, Ally's arm. He doesn't see you at first, his silver eyes never leaving her face, and he's...

He's singing.

"And if that looking glass gets broke, papa's gonna buy a billy goat, and if -" he finally looks up, sees you, and pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Hey," he whispers, and your heart is bound to overload at how soft his gaze is.

"Hi," you whisper back, and you crouch in front of his legs. Ally is out like a light, her little chest making the faintest rises and falls as she breathes.

Eddie must notice the question you don't ask. "She woke up a few minutes ago," he offers, not stopping the small strokes on her arm. "Just wanted to make sure it took before I put her back down."

You smile, and put a hand on his knee. "I've never heard you sing before."

He lets out the smallest breath that you know is an attempt at a laugh. "Lyric gave me a book of lullabies. Lucky, too, 'cause it was the only thing that seemed to work."

"Well," you say softly, "I think it suits you."

He smiles, a touch of pink blooming on his cheeks even visible in the dark. "Come on, live wire," he says, moving to stand, and as you both find your feet, you run a finger through the small curls before planting a kiss on her forehead. Eddie does the same as he lowers her back to her crib, leaves her with the smallest "goodnight, Ally," and leads you back out to your room.

Volt blinks awake when you both enter, and he groans, though a smile tugs at his lips. "Darlings," he says, in that tired voice you know Eddie loves, "I was in the middle of the most lovely dream."

You laugh, finding some of their discarded clothes on the floor for you to change into for bed. "Don't worry, Eddie will sing you back to sleep."

"Mm, really?" The smile comes out now, along with half-lidded eyes, and he reaches out for Eddie's hand, which Eddie (reluctantly) gives. "Indulge me, my darling."

Eddie scoffs, and he leans over Volt's mess of white bolts, the pink still on his cheeks and a smirk on his lips. "Yeah? Want me to tell you how papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring?"

Volt positively purrs, his back arching like a cat as he shifts his legs, his other hand coming to cup Eddie's face. "I quite like the sound of that. Live wire and I would both like gold bands."

"That so?" he says, steel eyes flicking over to you as you crawl in beside Volt. "And how many carats?"

"Oh, all of them, darling."

He laughs, and pecks Volt's forehead, then your own, before he pulls at the sheet and -

And a cry echoes down the hall, and he sighs. "I'll be back," he breathes, before giving each of you one more kiss.

You settle into the nook of Volt's shoulder, sigh with contentment at his warmth, his fingers stroking your arm the way same Eddie stroked Ally's. If you really listen, you can make out the melody he hums, lulling you down as well.

--

Okay so showed this to a friend and she had never heard this lullaby before, so - Eddie's singing Hush Little Baby. Apparently it might be a southern thing. This is what my dad would sing to little me so I thought it was cute

[luciacaminoz]

for the kiss prompt. trail or shoulder pretty, please, if you haven't gotten one of them yet

Cicatrix (2.2k, nsfw)

March 2021

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

The hacienda crouches like a gutshot animal, bones aching, in northern Nuevo León’s Great Plains.

Cracked adobe walls are bleached silver under the new moon, terracotta roof tiles shattered by cartel gunfire, the courtyard trashed and overgrown. A tiny outbuilding is in the process of caving in on itself, periodically huffs rust-colored stucco dust up into the blue night air. Two fountains dry-choke on bougainvillea and sun-baked snakeskin across the way; meters more from that, Elena finishes securing a tarp over the Camaro and Datsun, lit Marlboro dangling between her lips.

Inside the villa smells of moldering drapes, rat piss, bat shit, the cloying rot of marigolds left too long in a crypt, and Kindred barbecue.

There’d been a cell of SI keeping eyes on the US side of the Laredo borderplex, DAAE heavy all up and down on the Mexican—a dragonsbreath round had kissed the meat high on Julian’s left shoulder, shredding tacky guayabera into ashen lace, holy fire cooking flesh to sinew within seconds.

Vitae crusts the gape now, hours later, like molten obsidian. It’s a cratered mess of blackened tissue, bone shards, winking buckshot. Blood bubbles where blisters have peeled back at the edges, muscle fibers knitting and unknitting grotesquely in real time.

Faith’s a bitch when it’s seared into your spine.

Nadia’s voice crackles over the comm:

“Perimeter’s clear, for now. No drones. SI’s still chasing ghosts in Laredo.”

Julian strains to keep his voice steady.

“And the DAAE fuckers? They had to be waiting for someone with a line-up like that. Ping the Denver hub. Tell them we need satellite thermal of—“

“Already done,” she says. “I’m watching the feed. Elena’s going to rig motion sensors at the entrance too. Then—” A pause; mumbling in the background. “Oh. She said you owe her tacos.”

“Put it—fuck, Sol, gentle! Look, if we get to Monterrey in one piece I’ll buy you and Elena a fucking buffet every night we’re there, Nads—each. Just keep me posted if you see anything. Closing comms.”

Sol’s nails—precise, claw-sharp, but not yet fully distended—pluck another phosphorus fragment free. Smoke mixes with the scent of scorched-copper sweat. She works methodically, scraping holy rot from muscle, tendon, the jagged gap where his scapula should be. Julian’s knuckles bleach. Her left hand’s poised infinite with a pair of surgical tweezers, ready once the bulk of the larger debris is finally dislodged.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses. His face presses rigid against the moth-eaten chaise. He’s sweat-slick and shirtless and sickly, lying flat on his stomach, Sol sitting solid on his back. Her thighs bracket his sides, keeping him mostly still as she leans over the wound, penlight between her teeth, but he trembles like a kitten beneath her.

Looming behind are two portraits of a dead hacendado’s family, faces scratched out, one riddled with bullet holes. This room is mostly bare otherwise, apart from a termite-split side table, scattered shell casings, smashed liquor bottles, and the chaise.

A small effigy of Christ crucified, plucked from the chapel, leans crooked at the far wall, thorn rusted to scabs on his brow, plaster ribs cracked open. Chicken wire cradles a fat black kingsnake in His chest. Some fuck sprayed ¡Viva la Muerte! across the talavera wallpaper.

“One more,” she says. It’s mumbled around the plastic in her mouth. It’s also a lie—there’s at least three that she can see, cruel and glittering.

She pries out a dense shard of silver-coated fletchette engraved with Psalm 91; tosses it onto the floor with a plink. Julian’s fingers dig into the guts of the upholstery, tearing at rancid stuffing, fangs punching through his bottom lip to stay quiet.

His skin sizzles like bacon grease.

She winces.

“…Two more.”

“Oh my god, fuck you, Sol.” He’s half-laughing, half-crying, eyes rimmed red.

His muscles twitch and spasm wherever she touches—shock or hunger, probably both. Part of the shoulder continues to blister and knit, blister and knit, over and over, curse fighting consecration. The skin on his back’s fever-hot, thrumming with the effort of Blood-forced regeneration.

Her claws retract with a snickt. She flexes her fingers, then the tweezers, then removes the penlight.

“You’re lucky they couldn’t aim. A few more inches and this would’ve severed your neck. Shit. Can’t grow back a head—especially not one as big as yours.”

He mimics her voice, pitch-perfect:

“Oh Julian, who’ll fuck me through server racks now—”

She flicks his ear.

Next shard’s lodged deep in the posterior deltoid. Sol worms it loose with the tweezers, trying to ignore how his groans hitch. Her free hand braces his hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone.

“Almost.” She says it softer than she intended.

Another short tug and the shard pops free. Julian sags, panting and babbling.

“Fuck the SI,” he rasps. “Fuck their… fucking mall ninja… holy hand grenade bullshit—fuck, Sol, I’m not even Christian—”

“Shh.” She keeps drawing circles on his hip, soothing him a moment between torture.

The snake uncoils, sinuous, tongue flicking when she drops sanctified shrapnel to the saltillo tiles. Sol watches it, then Julian’s wound.

His back gleams moon-pale under the gore—taut, silk-smooth, untouched by time or sun. The rest of him is all soft, milky skin; lean frame, corded muscle, a slight dusting of babyfat that stayed into his mid-twenties. He’s perfectly unscarred, she knows, except for an old dog bite on his right thigh when he was a ten year old in ‘79.

Sol traces the wound’s ridged edges.

Julian turns his head, cheek pressed to grubby velvet.

“You’re shaking. Want me to hold the tweezers?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cállate,” she snaps.

Julian grins, all teeth, clumsy fangs.

“Say that again.”

“Cállate la boca.”

He closes his eyes and faux-moans theatrically.

“Now say it dirty.”

She doesn’t. Instead, her mouth finds his cheek, his jaw, the strip of neck just under his ear, her nose brushing piercings—trailing featherlight kisses that make him still.

“Last one,” she murmurs.

The final fragment glints near his spine—jagged, thumb-sized. She braces one hand on his lower back.

"Do your worst."

"Bite down, princeso."

"On wha—”

She rips it out.

Julian's snarl shakes dust from the rafters, the chaise, Sol on top of him. His veins stand ropey—the tendons in his hands could cut fucking glass. Then he chokes a gasp, body falling limp, sweat beading at the corners of his jaw.

The kingsnake tenses where it’s begun curling around Christ's neck.

"Fuck. That one was deep.” His voice shakes.

Sol inspects her handiwork, chest flat against his back—up this close, the wound pulses heat like a second mouth. His insides aren’t actively cooking anymore, at least.

Her tongue flicks a swollen vein on impulse. Julian's hips jerk, a wet sound punching out of him.

Sol hesitates—then gouges into her tongue.

Her own vitae oozes syrupy thick onto the crater and she spreads it along, lapping around bitter, burnt edges.

“Sol—” Julian arches, spine bowing.

It isn’t healing, not really, but it clots the worst of what she’s torn out, sealing capillaries, cleaning tissue, puckering skin—a small stop-gap for Blood and Curse stitching meat and flesh stop-motion later, once Julian has properly fed.

Fuck, it tastes like ash and battery acid. Sol gags twice, but she’s spent a decade controlling the compulsion to purge. She spits a wad of black viscera onto the floor. Charred fibers squirm like maggots.

Again, her tongue drags vitae up the seared canyon of his shoulder, tender. Julian's good arm reaches back until he grips her thigh. His hips are grinding into the chaise, cock trapped against velvet, a low whine building in his chest.

"Solona—"

She continues wordlessly; her lips brush a half-healed tendon, but her hand slips beneath his weight, slides under his waistband, snakes between his legs. She palms him in time with her mouth mapping ruin.

Julian’s head drops forward. The noise he makes is obscene, rattling loose in his throat. She tightens her thighs around him.

The kingsnake watches, unblinking.

At the deepest fissure, Sol sucks—gently—until his own blood runs sleek; just vitae, just him; ozone-sharp, monsoon-rush; charged-manic-overclocked.

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

A whimper escapes him when she grasps tighter, strokes faster. His hips stutter, fucking up into her fist with a broken rhythm.

Sol’s mouth doesn’t leave his wound—she laps like something starved.

The kingsnake coils tighter around Christ’s throat, eyes reflecting the glow of the penlight where it’s rolled to the floor. Its tongue flicks, tasting the air.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck—Solona, please—” Julian’s voice cracks, high and desperate. His fingers dig into her thigh. “I can’t—I can’t fucking think—”

Aila’s gone, but the memory of tearing into her—the Elder’s vitae cold, clumped, thick as tar, bitter as bile; the hint of sumac and soaring—

Sol pulls herself back from drinking—barely.

Her fangs are suddenly uncomfortably large. She feels dazed; hand on autopilot as she unlatches and stares down at his shoulder. It’s still a fucking mess—spiderwebbing black—but the edges are angry, glistening, pink—no longer smoking and sloughing away.

Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing vitae-slick down the shaft. She presses her stained lips to the shell of his ear.

“All this big talk about collapsing the Masquerade, and you’re gonna come in your pants like a fucking teenager?”

Julian’s laugh is half-choked.

“Fuck—you’re evil—”

She twists her wrist, nails scraping lightly along his balls, and his hips slam into the chaise hard enough to splinter the frame.

She can feel his orgasm building—the way his cock jumps, the way his thighs tremble, the strangled whines he’s biting into rotten velvet.

The kingsnake—Chisme, Sol has idly named it—drops from the effigy with a soft thud.

“Sol, wait—wait—”

Her teeth close on his earlobe, sharp but not breaking skin. She sucks—hard.

Julian comes undone hot in her hand with a punched-out moan. She pumps him slow through it, thumb caressing his tip.

The hacienda breathes for them—rotted wood creaking, Chisme’s scales rasping over split saltillo.

When she finally releases him his hips jerk once, sensitive. Sol sits back and licks her fingers.

Julian lies boneless under her weight, face buried in the chaise.

She can’t help herself:

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs, stirring dust motes.

“Oh, for the half-dead hand job? Yeah, gracias mamacita.”

Sol actually laughs, bright and real and unguarded, as she shifts off of him.

Julian rolls onto his good side, sitting up with a wince, then drags a hand down his face. He’s grey-limned, pupils blown black and glassy with pain and hunger, but he’s smiling.

“Worst time and place to do it, too. Fucking… Splinter Cell level.”

“Someone needs to keep you humble these nights.” She holds a lukewarm O-neg against his lips. “Drink.”

He does, greedily, throat bobbing, wild eyes never leaving hers as she stands between his thighs. Her pinky brushes a thin trail of blood at his chin; Julian suppresses a shiver.

Once he drains it, she tosses it aside.

Chisme strikes towards the wrinkled plastic—and Sol immediately changes her mind.

“No,” she snaps, bolting to flick the snake’s snout. It recoils, hissing, and she bares her own fangs until it retreats.

Julian’s grinning while he watches her snatch up the empty bag and shove it back into the kit for decidedly later disposal. He chews his lip, fangs still sharp; looks like he’s about to say something��� but then he shakes his head, black hair falling over his eyes.

His hair’s a disaster, by the way.

Sol pulls baby wipes, a change of clothes from the duffel—throws them at him. She takes the gauze and begins wrapping his shoulder in the meantime. Lupine country isn’t the place to heal agg.

His skin’s cooler now. She ignores the relief that brings.

“The safehouse is about an hour away—just inside Monterrey,” he says, more to fill the silence. “Small underground server farm we can run ops from for weeks. Cold storage. Even a jacuzzi.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Nope. Rented an apartment in the city for scouting, too.”

She snorts. Ties off the bandage.

“Monterrey’s got a night market. We could hit it after the bunker. Get churros. Sneak into a lucha libre match.”

“We’re not tourists, Julian.”

“We could pretend.”

Sol pauses.

He catches her wrist, thumb circling the scorpion tattoo.

Elena stomps in.

Julian doesn’t let go.

“Hey, we need—” Elena looks at Julian. “Jesus, put a shirt on, Zuckerberg.” Back to Sol. “We need to get moving—two DAAE SUVs headed this way, ETA forty minutes.”

“Shit. Give us five.”

“I’ll prep the cars. Again. Hurry, fuckers.”

Julian laughs a little, stirring Sol’s baby hairs.

She moves away to start gathering whatever she can find back into the kit—gauze, tweezers, penlight, the most intact piece of shrapnel in a ziploc bag. Julian’s already on the comms ordering Nadia to reroute signals. Sol grabs a baby wipe from his pack and scrubs her face.

Once they’re packed and Julian’s dressed, he shrugs on his go-bag, hissing when the strap bites his wound. Sol steps close, adjusting the weight slightly.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He presses their foreheads together. “And thank you. For… earlier. For being here.”

It hangs between them, frail and awkward. Julian never thanks. Not even after all the bullshit in Tucson. Julian asks: what do you want, kid?—transactional; gratitude deployed like a phishing scam.

She doesn’t respond.

She fists his new shirt, pulling him into a hug—too desperate, grasping. He stiffens, then arms circle her waist. He dips slightly, turns his face against her cheek; lips graze her scar, trailing it mouth to ear. Her nose brushes his ruined shoulder.

She kisses him there, once.

That already says too much.

[ previous prompts ]

[bekkathyst]

Custom Wire Wrapped Necklaces

These are the stones I have available for wire wraps, for those of you who are interested!

If you would like to claim one, please be sure to read this entire post!

So here’s the rundown. Below is a picture with each stone numbered, and below that is the name of each stone, along with the price.

The price includes the following: the stone wrapped in the metal of your choice (sterling silver, 14k gold fill, 14k rose gold fill), an 18″ chain finished with a handmade clasp, and it includes free shipping worldwide! 

You will choose the style they’d like it wrapped in. There are three example pics below. 

Payment is due when the stone is claimed and all the options are chosen (metal, style, etc). PLEASE NOTE - these will be completed by the end of NOVEMBER 2024. There’s always a possibility that something comes up that causes a delay, but I do try to get them done early. They take a long time to make, please make sure you’re okay with the wait before ordering. I put the utmost care into this and have extreme attention to detail, and when that combines with my busy schedule, it means that it can take a while. 

To claim: send me a message over the instant messenger with your email address, the country you’re in, the stone you’d like to claim, the metal you’d like it wrapped in, and the style you’d like it wrapped in. I’ll then send your invoice and get started on your pendant! :) 

If you'd like to purchase just the plain stone without any wire wrap, remove $100 from the price.

Here are all the stones:

Old stock Persian turquoise - $155

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130

Old stock Persian turquoise - $140

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130 Sold Out!

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130

Old stock Persian turquoise - $115 Sold Out!

Kunzite from Pakistan - $175

Kunzite from Pakistan - $145

Kunzite from Pakistan - $130

Natrolite from Russia (video) - $165

Natrolite from Russia (video) - $160

Azurite from Peru - $140

Azurite from Peru - $145

Rainbow pyrite from Russia - $135

Rainbow pyrite from Russia - $135

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $125

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $130

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $130

Lepidocrosite in quartz from Brazil - $160

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $150

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $155

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $150

Fire quatrz from Brazil - $160

Fire quartz from Brazil - $145

Fire quartz from Brazil - $140 Sold Out!

Copper agate from Indonesia - $165

Super 7 amethyst from Brazil - $170

Leopard aquamarine from Brazil - $195

Leopard aquamarine from Brazil - $145

Ethiopian opal - $165 Sold Out!

Ethiopian opal - $170 Sold Out!

Rare pink covellite included quartz from Brazil (video) - $240 Sold Out!

Mystery stone from Siberia* - $170

Mystery stone from Siberia* - $160

Purple labradorite from Madagascar - $165

Purple labradorite from Madagascar - $155

Blue apatite from Madagascar - $150

Blue apatite from Madagascar - $150

Rainbow moonstone from Madagascar - $145 Sold Out!

*This is a "mystery stone" because I cannot find the name of it. It came from an older Russian miner who I had a language barrier situation with but he did confirm it's from Siberia. I wish I could find the name! It's shiny and almost metalic, reminding me a little bit of sphalerite. It's gorgeous.

These are the styles you can choose from (I do very minimalist wrapping so the stone really shines through! And the wrapping is super sturdy!) 

Style #1 (prongs): 

Style #2 (symmetrical): 

Style #3 (asymmetrical):  

I will cross out each stone as they are claimed! 

Extra little note: I have some square wire if you prefer that to the round, just let me know!

Thanks, everyone :) 

[teaboot]

Out of curiosity, how does one start making jewelry themselves? You mentioned it in your hobby list and i was always kinda interested but never knew where or how to start.

One of the easier and more accessible types of jewelry you can make is wire-wrapping! Here's an example from an etsy account linked HERE

All you really need for this are some beads or stones, wire, wire cutters, and a pair of rounded pliers. If you have a wire stripper, you can even recycle copper electrical wiring ! (I used to do this to make chain.)

I personally don't wear a lot of these, but I am IN LOVE with making wire-wrap bead chains like THIS

Again, not too expensive to get supplies, and no fire or torches needed.

Although if you DO have access to a propane or acetylene torch, or a soldiering gun, some liquid Flux, and copper soldier, you can do some pretty awesome shit as well!

Like I said, I used to LOVE making industrial-style chain necklaces out of electrical wire that ended up looking like THIS

I also used to love making flowers, rings, bracelets, etc, because again, they were relatively cheap and easy to make out of recycled materials

Highly recommend, it's all so super fun!

[quotelr]

You are God. You want to make a forest, something to hold the soil, lock up energy, and give off oxygen. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to rough in a slab of chemicals, a green acre of goo? You are a man, a retired railroad worker who makes replicas as a hobby. You decide to make a replica of one tree, the longleaf pine your great-grandfather planted- just a replica- it doesn’t have to work. How are you going to do it? How long do you think you might live, how good is your glue? For one thing, you are going to have to dig a hole and stick your replica trunk halfway to China if you want the thing to stand up. Because you will have to work fairly big; if your replica is too small, you’ll be unable to handle the slender, three-sided needles, affix them in clusters of three in fascicles, and attach those laden fascicles to flexible twigs. The twigs themselves must be covered by “many silvery-white, fringed, long-spreading scales.” Are your pine cones’ scales “thin, flat, rounded at the apex?” When you loose the lashed copper wire trussing the limbs to the trunk, the whole tree collapses like an umbrella. You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder around the entire pine…and pour wet plaster over and inside the pine. Now open the walls, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air. You are a chloroplast moving in water heaved one hundred feet above ground. Hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen in a ring around magnesium…you are evolution; you have only begun to make trees. You are god- are you tired? Finished?

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

[kayawolfhorse]

Day 2 — On the Edge of a Knife

—☾—

Etho idly paces around the froglight shop’s lobby; the day as sweet and slow as molasses as each hour trudges by in an uninspired march.

There’s plenty he could be doing, sure—the shop’s exterior is begging to be built, though the glory in an inside-out base is that the outside is merely a suggestion.

He could rework Ravager Rush’s wiring to accommodate four-digit scores, or he could build the farm that’s been itching at the back of his mind ever since he finished the game. He could even work on his base to appease the endless teasing over his (perfectly adequate) roof.

His mind churns with ideas but his motivation to act upon any of them lulls. He counts the lily pads as he steps over them and fidgets with a zipper on his vest.

Eventually, after a tick or a minute or a day, the unmistakable sound of someone taking a landing too steep against the grass outside cuts through the silence.

“Etho! Etho-ooooo!” Gem’s voice, even less mistakable than the tumble Etho assumes she took, rings out.

“In here,” Etho says, and Gem meets him at the top step of the right wing. Her hair is messy around the edges of her bandanna, and there are fresh grass stains on her knees, almost invisible against the dark fabric.

“Etho! Wonderful, yes,” Gem says, with an odd expression that smooths itself away almost immediately. “Are you busy?”

“Nah, did you need something?” he asks, scuffing his sandal against the copper stair.

“Up for some sparring?”

Usually, they spar in the evenings, swords glinting in the reflected sunset until the bugs that gather around the edges of Gem’s river become unbearable.

Etho considers his productive day leading up to this point. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

—☾—

Gem dumps Etho’s sword into his outstretched arms after he respawns for the third time with a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Five hearts,” she informs him, and Etho groans.

“You’re too fast! It’s hard to get hits on you,” Etho complains, but beneath his mask, he’s smiling too.

“Looks like you’ll just have to try harder,” Gem says, before widening her stance and steadying her blade. Etho mirrors her, and a slight shift of Gem’s boot against the sandstone of the beach is the only warning Etho gets before she’s racing up on the offense.

Etho parries her first blow; her second. Her third swing slices through the fabric of Etho’s left sleeve, and the gash stings, but not enough to stop him from lunging forward, closing the opening Gem leaves by lifting her arms too high and catching her in the side.

Gem grunts, but leverages ahead, pushing into Etho’s space in a furious whirl of movement that has Etho stumbling back a step. He snakes in more hits than he had in their previous round, but has no time or space to get in crits; most of his efforts are concentrated in avoiding Gem’s blade.

It’s over in a second. Etho’s vision goes black, and then he’s sitting up in the respawn bed nestled within a faux-shipwreck.

“Again?” Gem asks when Etho’s sword is back in hands.

Etho shrugs. “Sure.”

Gem’s fighting style is quick, cutting, and brutal; her movements leave no room for hesitation and her strikes land true a considerable amount of the time. Despite that, she maintains a fluidity that twines through her limbs like how waves break apart the sea’s surface, and she’s smooth as she transitions from one move to the next.

Tension strings across her frame now, in the tilt to her shoulders and line of her mouth and too-tight grip on her sword. Her swings are sloppier than usual and she brings them down harshly, almost desperately.

Sweat beads on Etho’s brow; he can see how it similarly runs down Gem’s face. An aching tiredness seeps into his limbs, but he’s not about to call it quits; Gem needs the company at least.

In a twist of sheer luck, Etho gains the upper hand, and he uses it to crit, before slashing again and driving Gem back. In a flash, she’s pushing ahead and twisting to the side with the ferocity of a cornered animal, and the set of teeth she bares is the edge of her blade suddenly pressed against Etho’s throat.

They both freeze. Gem’s hardly one for headshots.

The cool press of metal is gone before Etho has the chance to speak against it. Gem sheaths it at her side, looking troubled.

“You okay?” Etho asks, putting away his own sword.

“Yeah, I’m just… suddenly really tired,” Gem says, and her voice is pinched in all of the wrong places. “Thanks for sparring with me.”

Etho waits a couple ticks to see if she’ll continue. He wonders if he should press further, but she doesn’t look like she wants to talk. Gem turns to collect her stuff.

“It was a good session,” he says.

Gem tugs on her armor and equips her elytra. She offers him a tight-lipped smile before taking off.

He touches a hand to his neck. The blood there has already started to crust. Etho stands alone on the beach and watches Gem’s figure disappear over the horizon.

[ancat-dubh]

Two Meetings on the River, Three Days Apart

good day today? I ask the man rambling eastwards on the river and he shows me, hefting with a pause to see if I know. Tudor brick! he explains when I peer, and tells me how he knows. it's the shape; it's the colour. this one – he points – is Roman. fired at a lower temperature, see – he scrapes across riverstone. old-new Roman blood spills beneath the road, the wall, the temple. you've got good fucking eyes-! but he shrugs. the eye, maybe. a wake comes and he steps forward without looking, breathing like the river.

I'm from round here, another man tells me beside the river. this one's the little sister, skipping north from lime and salt. she cuts a more precise tack like her narrowboaters, defter, no less bloody than her big sister's ships. born and raised. all me life. his stories take fist-flurry shapes from old fights: here he nicked copper wire. there he beat up skinheads. proper gangsters like – his chin dips, shoulders square remembering. proper hard men. we're Irish, right, he says. old-school Cockney blurs his dad's R's. so round here – we look out for each other.

I ask the first, what's your favourite thing you've found? and he tells me: one day the river lifted up to his good eye Theseus in miniature, fresh from the labyrinth. Roman again. he hefts aloft expectant and teacherly between the telling – Bronze Age, this – what he calls a sherd. here's how you tell. Theseus lived astride some Roman's finger. one day he got a better offer from the river and slept, fitless sub-mariner, under-keel anaerobic til the tide tugged him up to this man's palm. two millennia gone: here's how you tell.

I ask the second, where's your family from then? and this man tells me the name of my own family's town. a pleased roll back on heels, blinked recognition, always the same – cousins. all Irish round here. shoulders square again, repeating. and Blacks, West Indians. we're all together round here – it's not like – he says names of places I know he's been once, twice, not forty minutes' walk downstream. not like here, chin to the river. this is a good place. out here – his inhale rattles, drops his shoulders and his story-talk – a man can breathe.