#Full Threaded Rod

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

how to choose? 📌black oxide threaded rod have stronger anti-rust ability...

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[innocent-artery]

Kinktober 5th: Goldmine

aka hair pulling with Rodrick Heffley

2k words

Summary: Rod learns something new.

Pairing: Rodrick Heffley x reader

For the sake of avoiding spoilers, extensive warnings will not be given. This story includes sexually explicit material, reader discretion advised.

While reading, I recommend listening to the altar is my hips, a spotify playlist by me!

~

"Y'think I should get a leather jacket?"

Your shoulders shook under the weight of Rodrick's arm as you chuckled. "Why, you get an idea for a costume?"

"Absolutely. Even got the name for it." You could see the familiar smirk he wore even as your eyes remained on the screen. Smoke billowed in your peripheral, the smell of his near-finished cigarette long since clung to your clothes.

"It'd be a cute couples costume too," he continued, "you could be Tina Gray."

You turned to look at him. "Oh could I now?"

"Yup." He grinned as he put his cigarette out. "You've got the bedroom personality for it too."

You swung a pillow at his face, but Rodrick easily caught it and tossed it behind him. You huffed in false annoyance, falling back into your spot curled up under his arm.

His hand fell absentmindedly to your hair, gently twirling strands around his finger. The sensation makes your eyelids heavy, getting sleepy as he continued to soothe you.

Until you felt a sharp tug. Your eyes flew open, and you audibly gasped. Your entire body froze, and you curse yourself when Rodrick turns his head. A soft "oh?" leaves his lips, which are curled up into a curious smile. It had only been playful tug, but that was before he knew you'd react like that.

"That's not how you do it," you breathe, ghost of a grin teasing your lips.

"Yeah?" His voice was a condescending lilt. "How d'you do it?"

Instead of speaking, you take hold of his wrist, pushing it towards the back of your head. His fingers thread into your roots and he takes a fistful, tugging slowly. Your eyes flutter shut and your lips part in a deep sigh.

Before your eyes close, you catch a glimpse of your boyfriend's reaction. His eyes are wide and full of amusement, and he's smirking incredulously. His brows raise, and you can see the gears turning in his brain.

"That's interesting," Rodrick mumbled, almost more to himself. "I wonder..."

He climbs up over you, legs caging in on either side of your hips. His foot kicks the TV remote onto the floor but Elm Street is long forgotten. His hold on your hair returns, the tingling in your scalp pulling a weak noise from your throat.

"Now, what would happen..." Rodrick's thought trails off as his fingers ghost over your throat, touch only featherlight until the pads of his fingers find your pulse points and press. Your breathing is shaky and your vision begins to blur, but your hands still fly to his shoulders. You might have even been a little embarrassed at how your hooded eyes began to cross if not for the fact that it just felt so good.

"Aw, y'like that?" Rodrick lilts, his face pulling closer to yours. Heat creeps up your neck.

"Y-yeah," you attempt to nod, but you aren't given much room for movement.

"I like that too, baby." He murmurs against your mouth before he kisses you slowly, tasting of nicotine and gum. They were gentle, teasing kisses, but quickly gave way to a more desperate rhythm as his tongue glided over your lower lip. He hummed a deep note when you let him in, when you whimpered as he started sucking on your tongue.

You let out a disappointed noise when Rodrick lets go of you, rolling back to sit but it's forgotten when he pats his thigh. You quickly oblige, skin heated and brain frazzled.

As soon as you're sat on his leg, the friction to your clit has you gasping into his mouth. Almost involuntarily, your hips began to roll against him, so slowly but enough to make your head swim and heat boil in your gut.

"Oh, sweetness," Rodrick murmurs in between kisses, "so needy already? I've barely done anything."

He knows he doesn't need to do much. Just a few words- or a tug of the hair- and you'd be turned into a pile of mush. He knows you too well, and he loves having that effect over you.

Even though he's teasing you, you can't be bothered to care, muttering an mhm and rutting your hips faster. Your hands fall from his shoulders to his chest, then trail to his thigh to ground yourself.

"Atta girl, keep goin'." Rodrick murmurs in your ear, licking a stripe down the shell of it, planting soft kisses wherever his lips wandered. "'M right here baby, that's it, yeah, good girl."

Rodrick's encouragement was sweet honey to your ear, and a sickening contrast to the hand that hand re-found purchase at your scalp, tilting your head back so that he could teethe at your neck, soft plucks of skin turning into bruising. Deft hands made work of your top, leaving your chest bare.

Your rutting became increasingly frustrated; your thighs burned and you weren't getting any closer to your high.

"Rod... need..." your words were mumbled and breathless, and your brain was too cloudy to be fully coherent anyway.

"Hm? Couldn't hear you, bunny, say that one more time?"

"Need more," you cried, hands pushing into Rodrick's hair when his tongue laved over your nipple.

"More what, baby?" He lilted, cupping and pinching your other tit lovingly. He groaned when your fingers clutched his hair tighter.

"Need you, Rod please..." you sighed, tugging at his wrist.

Rodrick chuckled. "Baby, I don't think I can do that. Might hurt you if I don't get you nice and prepped, yeah? How about we start with fingers?"

"Anything, please," you babbled, nestling your head into the crook of his shoulder.

"Alright, alright, I got ya. Let's get these off, hm?" He tugged at the belt loop of your pants. They were off in record time, along with your underwear, leaving your entire body bared to him. You felt naked, more than just literally.

Once you were situated on his lap again you tried pulling on the hem of his shirt. "Off," you mumbled. Happily he complied, and you took the opportunity to lean forward and plant loving kisses to his neck, his collarbone.

You didn't realize when you'd risen up off your behind that it gave Rodrick the space to slip a hand between your legs, pulling a squeak out of you, muffled against his jaw.

"Aw, so messy baby. A little hair pulling did all this?"

You knew that it was a few other things, but you were so far gone you gave him a whiny 'yeah' anyway. Rodrick's fingers massaged your entrance, gathering slick and smothering it around your clit, making obscene noises- probably on purpose.

"So fuckin' wet, sweet, y'hear that?" Rodrick presses kisses to your pulse point, up to your jaw, then kisses you deep. Swallowing your moans into his mouth as the kiss turns messy.

"Please, Rod..." you're breathless and your pleas are barely coherent, but Rodrick knows exactly what you're asking for. You keel when you feel a finger glide into you, curling up towards your stomach.

"Yeah, good fuckin' girl." Rodrick's grin widens at your reaction when a second finger joins the first. "Always so eager, hm? That's my girl."

"Yeah, 'm your girl," you pant, hips canting to meet his hand.

"That's right," he coos, thumb tracing wide circles over your clit. "So proud of you, my girl."

"Rod," you whine, "need you."

"Hm?" He hums between nips to your collarbone. "You have me."

You shake your head vigorously. "Need you inside."

This gets Rodrick's attention. His fingers slow, while his free hand moves from your hair to his pants. He makes quick work of his pants, pulling his half-hard cock out from his boxers. You watch as he takes his fingers, soaked from your cunt, and wrap them around himself, stroking slowly. His head falls back against the couch, lips hanging open and you feel the sudden urge to bite them.

Before you get the chance, however, Rodrick is pulling you forward, lining himself up to take you. Slowly, so slowly, he runs the tip of his cock through your folds, smearing your slick around. You jerk when his head catches on your clit, sending electricity shooting up your spine.

"Rod..." you whine against his neck, "please."

"Please what?" You want to slap him for the knowing glint in his eye, but that was for another day.

"Please fuck me."

And who was he to deny you? Guiding your hip, Rodrick eased you down on him, guiding you but letting you set your own pace. The stretch set your loins on fire, but it was heaven.

Your head kicked back, and you let your voice have a mind of its own as you sunk down on him. Long and pornographic, and Rodrick matched it. You felt him throb inside of you.

"Fuck, sound so pretty." Rodrick started rolling his hips into you, and you cried out at the sensation. "Yeah, that's it. Moan like a fuckin' whore for me, c'mon."

And who were you to deny him? You had the house to yourself, and the name alone sent your brain into overdrive. He filled you up so nicely, and the drag of his cock inside of you made your skin tingle with delight.

"Rod, yeah, oh- just like that, ohmygod-" your voice was caught in your throat when Rodrick, with the usual knowing twinkle in his eye, takes a fistful of hair and tugs you forward into a sloppy kiss.

All of the sensations- that Rodrick was giving you- were sending you closer and closer to tumbling headfirst off of that ledge. The sting in your scalp, his tongue sliding against yours, the sounds of wet slaps and your combined moans. The smell of cigarettes and the heat of his skin under your fingers. The head of his cock piledriving into your cervix again and again and again.

"Rod I- oh god, I'm gonna- oh, so close- Rod please," you pant into his mouth, fingers raking down his chest and leaving faint red lines in their wake.

"I gotcha," he grunts, hand snaking between your bodies to press circles over your clit. You can hear it in his voice that he's holding back. You don't want him to. "That's it, baby, come for me. Make a mess on my cock, c'mon."

That extra pleasure is all it takes to have you diving headfirst into a mind-numbing orgasm. Your eyes screw shut, and all you can feel is Rodrick. Shaky hands rest on his shoulders, holding on for dear life as hot pleasure courses through you.

You're acutely aware of the hot spurts hitting your cervix, and the fluids seeping out of you, but your body is still tingling all over. Your voice has long since become scratchy, but that doesn't stop you from whimpering and crying as he coaxes you through it.

"Good girl, did so good for me, yeah?" His grip on your hair is no longer a grip, but gentle, soothing strokes, almost as if to apologize.

You hummed, dropping your forehead against his shoulder as you breathe. The smell of sex had permeated the air around you, and you were suddenly very aware of how sweaty you'd become.

"Think we need a shower, baby, c'mon." Rodrick nudged your head.

You wanted to, you felt sticky, but your body was on fire, this time with a less-than-pleasurable ache. Begrudgingly, you lifted yourself off of his now soft dick, hobbling down to reach for your clothes and then to the nearest bathroom.

The shower was peaceful, and the water was soothing on your muscles. You both worked in a comfortable silence.

"Well, I was right." Rodrick finally said.

"About what, the hair pulling?"

"Nope."

You turned around to face him, head tilted in confusion. His mouth was curled upwards and his eyes were lifted in a smile.

"You do have the bedroom personality of Tina Gray."

.

[itsblueflamebae]

If only I could

synopsis: if mac could, they would be there for you

wc: 675

cw: angst, hurt no comfort

notes: pre-game. gender neutral reader.

Mac doesn't have a mouth, but they do have feelings - if they could, they would tell you to take your eyes off them and please, please, rest.

Maybe they would cook something for you - you were looking for a pie recipe last week, and then you gave Arma a new trauma. You often eat in front of the monitor, and maybe Mac would awkwardly hold a knife because their fingers not used to do that, but they would try to make sure you get some sleep while they are cooking. Your old house was full of dust and sorrow – the yellow-flowered wallpaper turned into chrome, nauseating rods, covered with rattling corrosion. Mac will forever be grateful to you for taking them from your old apartment to your new, spacious home. You could have left them behind in those four walls for the new owners, you could have sold them, and Mac would have been disassembled for even more profit, but you value them – through laziness, you wipe between the rows of the keyboard with an q-tip, and Mac feels like you're stroking their shoulder.

Mac has never been fussy – they remember the move, waiting to appear on a new table. There were a hundred boxes packed side by side, squeezed by powerful slabs, compressed by concrete layers, studded with rebar, painted with beautiful colors, covered with the best wallpaper, and filled with empty Ikea furniture. You were radiant with happiness back then, but now it's the thirteenth hour of you staring at the screen.

If Mac could, they would make your day better.

Once, you pasted all sorts of stickers from different cartoons around your workplace and a dozen sugar-to-the-gritty pictures from Pinterest with motivation. A paradoxically ugly pile of phrases with the concept of productivity, as you would later mutter. Illusory, with beautiful photos of stage blogs, a hollowed-out culture of performance, biting like a wild, cautious dog, tearing through the fortress of flesh and skin.

If Mac could, they'd peel those stickers off, but you did it first.

And if only Mac could, they'd turn themself off and take you for a walk. They'd give you some water. Mac was looking for a way to help you, but you couldn't see. They searched a hail of kilobytes of information, awkward zeros, but they didn't find anything. If they could, they would cry. They would curl up in a ball of bare wires and threads with a thousand volts, trying to cry, but instead of eyes, they have bottomless, dry, salty lakes and zeros and ones on their sleeve and instead of their eyes. Machines, they say, are perfect in their own way – powered by the internet, with an iridescent current flowing through their veins of wires. Perhaps this is true, but now, without upgrade, without knowing that you are okay, Mac is powerless. The brightness of the screen slowly dims. It's not intentional, but you forget to blink, and you're sitting so close that Mac's motor starts running at an unseemly pace. For some reason, on a day like this, neither your fingers on the keyboard, traveling over the buttons like on the moles on the body of Mac, nor anything else brings them joy, absolutely no-thing. They begin to slow down slightly, as you are more likely to decide to turn them off and go to sleep.

One day it will be better, they believe with the remnants of their thoughts. Perhaps one day you will find a way out of your hibernation, you will be happy within these walls, alone or with a partner or partners. Perhaps one day, your screen time at the monitor will be less than thirteen, then ten, and then five hours a day. Mac will be covered with a crust of dust like ice. But if this means your happiness, then Mac will not hold you. They cannot. They are just your computer and a bunch of pixels, after all.

Mac would have sighed, but they don’t know how.

[barleyo]

Razor Tongue.

Curt and Rod X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: my favorite pair of sassy boys! i don't see much content for curt and rod, so i knew i had to make something. apologies for it being so short, but I hope you enjoy. comments and reblog are appreciated.

Tags: spitroasting, blowjobs, p in v, teasing, threesome, brat taming, established relationship

Wordcount: ~0.8k

Throwing shade was a quintessential part of your relationship with Curt and Rod. It was almost necessary. You held your own against the two, that's what they loved about you. They never had to worry about you getting your feelings hurt by a joke gone south or an especially snappy clapback, because you always had a response loaded and ready to go.

Your boyfriends weren't sensitive, per se. Truly, the could snark and joke around with the best of them. You, however, had a certain way of getting under their skin. Not to hurt them, but to tease.

You were quick. Probably too quick for your own good, considering the position your mouth often got you in. 

All of your teasing had an end goal. It was the love language between you and your boys. It was foreplay. A little taste to kick them into gear. 

So, when you decided to bring up how neither of them could last in bed, smug smile and raised eyebrows as you spoke, you knew you provoked them into action. 

As cool and collected Rod liked to act, he always snapped first when his abilities were challenged. Especially his sexual ones. His hands threaded through your hair quickly, gathering a handful and guiding your mouth over his length. 

"There you go," he said, dark eyes casting over your face. "See? Y'don't have much to say when your mouth's full like that, do you?"

You hummed with his cock in your mouth, unable to sass back. You shot him a playful glare. 

Rod sped up a bit, forcing your head down further. "You know what, you've been popping off at the mouth heavy, baby. I had to check that." He shot Curt a smirk. "Just 'cause he can't last doesn't mean I can't."

"Hey!" Curt pouted from behind you, still teasing at your hole. He had been at this for a while, just barely sliding his tip in before pulling out just as quick. "Don't worry about what I have going on over here, focus on you."

"Oh, I'm not worrying about you, panicking for you," Rod joked. "You haven't even gone a full stroke yet and you're shaking. Now, if it was me..."

"You—"

"Minute man."

Curt placed his hand on his chest, beyond offended. "Minute man?! What the hell is that supposed to mean, Rod?"

Through a rough sigh, Rod spoke with clenched teeth. Fuck, your mouth felt good. "Means you cum on contact, like you haven't been in pussy since the day you came out one."

"Don't quote J. Cole at me right now, you bastard!" Finally taking the plunge, Curt pushed into you. There was a familiar sting at the stretch, but it quickly melted into pleasure. 

You curved your body downwards, pushing your ass in the air. You heard Curt groan at the sight of your back arching for him. He was easy like that. So obsessed with every movement you made. It was sweet. 

The sounds of your slick cunt were only matched by Rod's heavy breathing. He was getting close, way too close. He wanted to last longer than both you and Curt, but your throat felt too good. When he saw the way you looked up at up, eyes glossy and half-lidded, he lost it. 

"Fuck—wait, no," he gritted his teeth, eyebrows furrowing as he came. "Ugh. You're too good." He stroked your hair slowly, eyes darting over to Curt. He wasn't in much better shape. 

Poor boy was holding on by a thread. 

"Gonna cum?" you asked, feeling his hands gripped together around your hips.

"No!" he said, not sounding the least bit convincing. "I'm not some one-pump chump."

"Actually," Rod said, "I called you a minute man."

"Oh whatever! I'm not that either." 

You stifled a laugh a pushed your hips back, fucking back on your flustered boyfriend. "I believe you," you said, "but I think you deserve to let go. For me?"

Curt grumbled a bit, speeding up his pace with an embarrassed look. He felt your walls start to grow tighter around him, milking him for his spend. He tried to fight it off, but he really did want to cum. One final stroke and he was gone.

He stayed inside, keeping you plugged with his cum. 

"I can last," he mumbled to himself with a grumble, shooting you and Rod a dirty look. 

"Right," Rod said, snickering. "Totally."

"Why don't we try again, since you're so confident?" you asked, slowly starting to pump at Rod's dick.

[scealaiscoite]

.☽༊˚ a hundred assorted prompts

¹⁾ raspberry lip gloss

²⁾ pajama bottoms

³⁾ a silver lighter

⁴⁾ fresh honey

⁵⁾ flushed cheeks

⁶⁾ a fogged-up mirror

⁷⁾ the imprint of a belt buckle on skin

⁸⁾ helium balloons

⁹⁾ a broken cocktail glass

¹⁰⁾ old playing cards

¹¹⁾ chipped green nail polish

¹²⁾ a brown leather wallet

¹³⁾ bullet holes in a wooden wall

¹⁴⁾ seashells lined up along the curve of a spine

¹⁵⁾ beaded curtains

¹⁶⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁷⁾ a carabiner heavy with keys

¹⁸⁾ fresh-cut orchids in a pottery vase

¹⁹⁾ vending machine cigarettes

²⁰⁾ an out of date map

²¹⁾ a creaky wooden gate

²²⁾ a minifridge stocked with budweiser and paracetamol

²³⁾ snapdragons growing between pavement slabs

²⁴⁾ smudged yellow eyeshadow

²⁵⁾ slept-in braids

²⁶⁾ library books that’ll never be returned

²⁷⁾ a pink-tiled shower

²⁸⁾ a honeybee on a linen shirtsleeve

²⁹⁾ burnt popcorn

³⁰⁾ watching an eclipse from bed

³¹⁾ a black lace bralette

³²⁾ a tattered patchwork quilt

³³⁾ blue raspberry bubblegum

³⁴⁾ a rusted fishing rod and a dried-up lake

³⁶⁾ the taste of whiskey on someone else’s lips

³⁷⁾ rose-scented candles burned down to the wick

³⁸⁾ crescent-shaped coffee stains on a wooden tabletop 

³⁹⁾ odd socks 

⁴⁰⁾ a loose thread on a jumper sleeve

⁴¹⁾ warm sheets on cold skin

⁴²⁾ amber-tinged perfume

⁴³⁾ gold jewelry 

⁴⁴⁾  a calloused palm against a soft cheek 

⁴⁵⁾ a busted headlight

⁴⁶⁾ sunrise from a jail cell

⁴⁷⁾ hand tattoos that weave around fingers

⁴⁸⁾ coconut shampoo

⁴⁹⁾ a doorbell sounding in the middle of the night

⁵⁰⁾ ladybugs crawling across a headstone

⁵¹⁾ grass stains on blue jeans

⁵²⁾ a loaded saddlebag

⁵³⁾ a dusty wine cellar

⁵⁴⁾ a bikini top draped over a bedpost

⁵⁵⁾ snow in july

⁵⁶⁾ dirt-red mountaintops

⁵⁷⁾ goosebumps in a heatwave

⁵⁸⁾ an empty dinnertable

⁵⁹⁾ a fresh manicure and bruised knuckles

⁶⁰⁾ zombie movies

⁶¹⁾ bitten lips

⁶²⁾ dark eyes full of tears

⁶³⁾ a soft cast in summertime

⁶⁴⁾ stale coffee in paper cups

⁶⁵⁾ frozen peaches on a black eye

⁶⁶⁾ acrid smoke

⁶⁷⁾ bound hands

⁶⁸⁾ animal tracks

⁶⁹⁾ unwound vhs tapes

⁷⁰⁾ cartoon plasters

⁷¹⁾ lipstick marks on shirt collars

⁷²⁾ silver bangles

⁷³⁾ sharing a coat in a downpour

⁷⁴⁾ fields with grass at waist-height

⁷⁵⁾ daisy chains up to your forearm

⁷⁶⁾ rolled-up shirtsleeves

⁷⁷⁾ the smell of bleach in a dark room

⁷⁸⁾ a shared sleeping bag

⁷⁹⁾ a new haircut

⁸⁰⁾ swimsuit tanlines

⁸¹⁾ perfume clinging to a pillow

⁸²⁾ lollipops dangling between lips

⁸³⁾ a badly-timed grin

⁸⁴⁾ old books

⁸⁵⁾ tongues stained from slushies

⁸⁶⁾ waking up in a hailstorm

⁸⁷⁾ dying sunflowers

⁸⁸⁾ colourful sunglasses

⁸⁹⁾ the last pew

⁹⁰⁾ tall, rattling windows in a storm

⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

⁹²⁾ sticks of incense burned down to the last

⁹³⁾ bunk beds

⁹⁴⁾ matching sets

⁹⁵⁾ ruined mascara

⁹⁶⁾ a boxing ring

⁹⁷⁾ stained glass windows

⁹⁸⁾ fairy forts

⁹⁹⁾ a cluttered bedside table

¹⁰⁰⁾ a hangover in the evening

[kabr0ztrousers]

I really like your transformation work

would you do a doll transformation one?

maybe you encounter a kind fae but accidentally insult them, so you offer to remedy it with your body and you get turned into a doll

or an orc finds an abandoned toy and decides to try and fix it up idk i really like terato

Kabr0z Writes episode 52: Doll

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: transformation; dubcon; noncon; immobilisation; loss of agency; PIV sex; doll transformation

A/N: there's one problem with fucking a doll: dolls are rigid and generally speaking, quite smooth in the nether regions... Although, rubber solves most problems.

###################################

Your teacup clattered to the ground. The forest around you, so previously verdant and full of life, was dead and dark, the illusion fading, showing you the real. The toymaker stood up from his seat, still holding his teacup in a many-fingered hand.

"Don't you know it's rude to point?"

You don't remember pointing at him, or anyone really, all you could do was back away from the oncoming Fae, trying your best to apologise. "I am sorry, I hadn't realised, I'm sure there's some way for me to make it up to you?"

The toymaker smiled, showing far too many teeth. "I'm sure there is... Hold still, my doll"

You stopped backing away. That's when you realised your mistake. You'd told it to call you Tess. You'd just answered to a name that isn't the one you'd made safe for yourself.

You tried to run. Your feet wouldn't move. Your body stood, statue-like as the toymaker approached and started running his fingers over your skin.

Where he touched felt cold, you could only move your eyes to look. You couldn't see your flesh transmuting to painted cedar, your bones to threaded metal rods. You could feel your joints stiffening, turning to hinges and ball joints which he delicately squirted a little oil into before testing the smooth movement.

The wood spread across you, replacing flesh, changing bone. It reached your heart. A keyhole formed in the middle of your back, a clockwork motor replacing where your heart was. You could feel the mainspring, loose and idle. Lethargy flooded you. You couldn't move at all as your eyes became glass and your brain turned to straw. Your thoughts clouded. The fear left you, the memory of who you used to be becoming more distant. The toymaker stood in front of you, looking over his work as you stood in your dress, arms held slightly away from your body. It stepped around you, grasping the key in your back and giving it a few brisk turns.

The governor in your chest started up, balance spring setting a perfect rhythm, the faint ticking echoing into your head, clearing your thoughts. Your limbs loosened, life filling them.

You ran. The toymaker laughed as you went, until he was out of sight. Behind a tree, you took stock. Wooden, now. You'll probably want to avoid naked flames in future. Your hands slid across your body. Touching your glass eyes didn't hurt, which was a plus, all your joints worked, but you could feel the mainspring in your chest getting weaker as it lost tension.

You stretched to reach it, reaching around your back, sticking out your wooden chest as you did. You fell to your knees, fingers scrambling to turn the key as it ticked down moments.

The spring ran out. The governor stopped and so did you.

Your arms stopped in place, joints stiffening. Your thoughts stopped too, calming to a stupid placidity. You saw the toymaker coming towards you, felt his hand fix your hair, heard his footsteps as he walked away, continuing down the path.

Time didn't have meaning any more. You knelt on the ground, your petticoat was getting dirty, but you couldn't move.

A figure approached. A big lumbering man carrying a club. His green skin covered by by furs. The orc saw you, walking over. He grabbed you in one hand, lifting you by an arm. He looked into your eyes. Without clockwork power, you couldn't speak.

The orc pushed a hand up your skirts. You felt his hand brush against your rubber cunt, slipping a thick finger between the moulded lips and into the hole. Despite being wood, metal and rubber, you felt yourself producing fluid. His hand came away wet, a thin film of your pussy juice on his finger.

He ripped off your skirts, exposing your finely carved thighs, shining white wood exposed to the outside. Your body hung limp from his hands as he pushed his cock into you.

He thrust into you, holding you at his waist as he did, using your body as your head lolled and your limbs hung limp. You could feel yourself stretching around him, feeling so close, but unable to move, to even make a peep.

His pumping got harder, fucking you harder. You felt him twitching and throbbing in you before pumping out a load of his cum, grinding his hips into yours, forcing himself as deep as he could.

Pleasure flooded your mind, the world reducing to hazy shapes as the orc filled you. The euphoria only deepening as he slung your body over his shoulder, your leaking cunt dripping his cum onto the ground behind him as he carried you off. You were made to be owned.

After all, the purpose of a doll is to be played with

######################################

Thanks for the request, anon! Hopefully it's everything you wanted

If you have a request, please send a DM or an ask, and I'll see what I can make out of it! There's a bit of a wait, bit it's still projected to be less than a month (though I can't promise how long that'll last)

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: tender moments pt. 2

WORD COUNT: 1.8K

SUMMARY: kindergarten teacher AU! It’s a lovely day with just a hint of stress, but that’s how life is. Caleb is always there to lend a hand and make everything easier ◡̈ but what if you’re on your own when a wanderer attacks???

TAGS: Caleb x MC, fluff

AN: I like how in game there are lots of tender moments ◡̈ I think I might keep more going! maybe more AUs if you have requests ♡

WARNINGS: fighting, disaster at an elementary school (no death), weenie bit of yandere Caleb

AO3 caleb masterlist

The morning is a hush, a breath held between night and day. A sliver of time untouched, where the world lingers along the line of dreaming and waking. The air is thick with quiet, the kind that softly streams through windows, weightless and warm. Light drapes itself in long, golden threads, stretching across the floor, as if hesitant to disturb the stillness. For a moment, everything is suspended, unrushed, unbroken, waiting.

You wake to the comforting scent of breakfast, the softness of Caleb’s presence moving through the kitchen. He’s always up before you, his body already warm from his morning workout, his hair still damp from the shower. He doesn’t say much at first, just gives you a smirk when he catches you watching him.

"Morning," you mumble, still groggy as you step toward him, stealing the toast off his plate before sinking into your chair.

His thoughtful care is everywhere, the way he makes sure your plate is full, the way he watches, making sure you eat, making sure you’re cared for. It’s in the way he puts lotion on your hands for you and in the way he reminds you, "You call me if anything happens, okay?" His voice firm, but laced with something deeper.

You promise you will.

Your classroom is warm, sunlight spilling through the windows as your students work through their assignments, their soft murmurs filling the air. You love this, the way their minds spark to life, the way they look to you for guidance, for understanding. It’s what you were meant to do.

It starts with a distant rumble. The sound is low, thunder trapped beneath the ground. Then, the entire building shivering. A sickening lurch, followed by a deafening roar. The lights flicker. The security alarms blare.

Panic tightens around the school in an anxious fist.  

Through the window, you only see its shadow. A Wanderer. A thing born from deepspace, all wrong angles and shifting mass. It’s hulking darkness warping the light. Its eyes burn, sickly and bright.

The world erupts. An explosion tears through the hallway, shockwaves slamming into the room. You’re airborne before you register the force, spine colliding with the far wall. The floor rumbles. Screams fracture the air. Debris falls in jagged sheets.

Through the ringing in your ears, you barely register your own voice, telling your students to stay low, to move toward the emergency exit.

But something blocks the way. Its smell hits you before it’s in sight. The Wanderer is close, too close.

You can’t even think. You just act.

With shaking hands, you grab a metal rod from the wreckage, your body moving on instinct. If you can distract it, if you can buy enough time for the hunter unit to arrive, maybe your students will have a chance.

The last thing you remember is the sharp, searing pain as the creature’s energy pulse knocks you to the ground.

The security feeds go dark.

One second, he’s watching you. The next, the screen is static.

His heart stops.

The reports come in, Attack at the school. Heavy damage. Casualties unknown.

He’s on his way out before he can hear anything worse.

Emergency crews swarm the wreckage, voices barking orders over the wail of sirens. The building is half-collapsed, broken steel and shattered glass jutting from the ruins. Smoke rises in thick, choking plumes, staining the early morning sky. His pulse pounds in his ears as he shoves past responders, ignoring shouted warnings. His eyes scan the chaos, searching, and so incredibly desperate.  

In the distance, he hears a frantic child’s voice talking to the emergency crew. “My teacher is still in there! You have to find her!”

The world tilts. Sound warps and muffles shoving him underwater. Someone is still talking, but he can’t process the words. Can’t breathe past the freezing fist closing around his ribs.

He doesn’t wait for the rescue team. He doesn’t trust them to find you fast enough. Not when every second could be the difference between life and, No. He refuses to think it.

Smoke constricts his lungs, dust coats his skin, but none of it matters. Not when you’re still in there. Somewhere beneath this wreckage of a school.

His voice is raw from calling for you, so desperately. He claws through debris, shoving aside broken desks, shattered glass, anything that stands between him and you. His fingers are bleeding, his body screaming, but he won’t stop. Not until-

There. A glimpse of fabric. A hand, too still.

Panic slams into him as he drops to his knees, pulling away chunks of rubble until he reaches you. His hands shake as he presses two fingers to your neck. The longest second of his life. Then, a pulse. Weak but there.

“Hey, I got you,” he breathes, barely able to hear himself over the pounding in his ears. “Stay with me.” 

The world is hazy when you wake.

Your head aches, a dull, pulsing pain, but it’s the warmth that you notice first. Caleb, his body pressed close, his breathing quicker than you can remember. His hand is grasping yours, refusing to let you go.

The ground beneath you is rough, uneven. Ash clings to your skin, the air thick with the scent of burnt metal and dust. The ruins of the explosion stretch around you in silhouettes, even the ceiling is caked with dirt. 

Your body protests as you try to move, every limb heavy with exhaustion. The shift is small, barely more than a breath, but it’s enough.

Caleb stirs. His grip tightens around you, his arms wrapped protectively as if shielding you from a danger that has already passed. His head snaps up, eyes wild, frantic, he’s been waiting on the edge of a nightmare.

“She’s alive,” he rasps into the phone, his voice rough with relief. “But she’s hurt. We need evac now.”

You blink sluggishly, your vision swimming, but the warmth of him, solid, grounding, keeps you tethered. His hand still in yours, squeezing gently, reassuring.

“No, she’s conscious, but barely,” he continues, jaw clenched, his voice tight with contained urgency. “I don’t care how, just get here.”

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, dry and raw. There’s no telling how much debris you inhaled. He must sense it, because his attention snaps to you instantly, his free hand brushing over your hair, careful, reverent.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, the phone still pressed to his ear. “Stay with me, okay? Help’s coming.”

His thumb strokes lightly over your knuckles. Even through the chaos, even with his voice sharp and commanding as he barks coordinates into the receiver, his touch remains gentle.

“I’ve got you.”

You want to tell him you’re okay. That you’re still here. But all you can do is squeeze his hand back, faint but certain.

His other hand brushes over your hair, careful, reverent, avoiding the bruises and cuts along your temple. There’s something fragile in the way he touches you, afraid you might break.

"How do you feel?"

You blink, the world still tilting around you, a dull ache thrumming behind your temples. "Like-I got- hit by a spaceship."

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, he huffs out a breathless, almost-laugh, but it’s shaky, frayed at the edges. His fingers tighten slightly around yours, he’s reassuring himself that you’re still here. That you’re still in this existence with him.

"You almost did."

Memories flood back in fragments, the attack, the students, the Wanderer. You try to sit up, but his hands are there instantly, holding you steady.

“Slow down,” he stutters. “Don’t push yourself.”

“My students, ”

“They’re safe,” he assures you quickly. “You kept them safe.”

You exhale, relief washing over you. But Caleb… he’s still tense. The weight of what he didn’t catch is still heavy on his heart.

"You should quit."

Your eyes snap to his. “Caleb, ”

“You almost died.” His voice is quiet but firm, the words heavy between you. “I swore I’d keep you safe, and I, ” He stops, jaw tightening, his hand curling into a fist at his sides. There’s something so exposing in his expression, something he’s barely holding back. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The words hang between you, fragile and heavy all at once. You reach for his fisted hand, your fingers brushing against his, warm despite the cold bite of the night air.

“I love teaching, Caleb.” Your voice is steady, but there’s a plea woven into it, a truth you need him to understand. “It’s not just a job. It’s who I am meant to be.”

His gaze flickers along the fleeting shadow falling on his face. A shallow breath escapes his lips as his shoulders sag. He watches, helpless, every moment you're out of his reach—able to care for you from a distance, but unable to protect you the way he wants. It's something you love, but it’s a choice he can't bear to see you make.

And maybe that’s what terrifies him most. The thought that he could hate you, if something happened, because it was your choice. But that’s absurd, isn’t it? Because he could never hate you. Not really. Not ever.

"Fine," he mutters. "But what about when we have kids?"

You freeze.

“Kids?” You stare at him, caught completely off guard. “Plural? And soon?”

His lips twitch. "I'm just thinking, "

"You are not just thinking,” you cut in, eyeing him suspiciously. "You mean it."

There’s a beat of silence. Then, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, maybe I do."

Your head is still spinning, from both the injury and this conversation, but you can’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escapes.

“Caleb,” you say, voice softer now, “we’re not there yet.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, resigned. "I know." Then, his hand tightens around yours. "But if this is what you love, if this is what you have to do... I’ll do everything I can to keep you doing it."

The weight of his words settles into the depths of your worries. You feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, desperate, something fragile, something slipping through the cracks of a broken world. Something he cannot afford to lose.

“That’s all I need,” you murmur, the words small but certain, steady in a way the ground beneath you isn’t.

Around you, the world stirs. The rumble of stone being torn from stone. Voices calling through the dust. The distant wail of sirens, growing closer. The city stitching itself back together, blind to the places where you have come undone.

But here, in this breath, between before and after, there is only Caleb. His arms around you. His breath against your temple. The quiet, steady beat of his heart, as if willing yours to do the same.

[batbetbitbotbut]

Finishing off the fine thread warp with a small and messy sample (not fixing the various loops and inconsistencies, or the missing warp thread which I only just noticed right down the centre of the first photo)!

This structure is "shadow weave" which is normally woven as a colour effect with 2+ colours, as seen in the draft (source: The Enigma of Shadow Weave Illuminated by Rebecca Winter). Woven in just one colour, you have large sections of "plain weave" (the most basic over-under-over-under cloth) with tiny points/lines of texture where the colourful stripes would switch direction. The third photo is the view up from underneath the loom - if the warp threads were set further apart, then the whole thing would look kind of lacey, but I set them too close for that.

I very much don't feel like I understand shadow weave, it's a mystery and completely unintuitive to me, but that's why we try things out! I think this was a poor choice of pattern for a single-colour shadow weave - I don't like how the straight lines of texture show up and I think the whole thing just looks blobby and ill-defined. I plan to make a full sized scarf or shawl with this technique so I will choose a bolder pattern with lots of diagonals. That is also why we try things out!

To make this little sample: normally I don't cut and tie the warp onto the rear apron rod, I just loop it around the rod. So after cutting off my previous finished scarf with a bit too much warp left to want to throw away but too little to do anything with, I took out the apron rod, unfolded the warp, and tied it on to make another warp twice as long and half as wide.

This cloth will probably end up donated to @lottiefairchildbranwell for yet more notebook covers, if fae wants it. I keep promising you things and haven't got around to posting any of them! Sorry!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest & @steddie-spooktober.

My Own Version of You

CCF Prompt: Pride & Spooktober Prompt: Frankenstein Friday | Word Count: 1313 | Rating: M | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | CW: Mild Gore, Body Parts, Consent/Ethics (it is a take on Frankenstein) | Tags: Monster AU, Mad Scientist Eddie, His Henchmen, Reanimation, Steve Was Dead and Now This?, Crack Taken Seriously, Spooky Season Fun

Eddie leaves another morgue, another monastery, his bag full of perfect body parts growing fuller every stop. He's going to do this. He can do it. He knows it. 

Eddie hands his spoils off to his assistant.

"Carry this, Igor," Eddie says, slinging the heavy bag over his hunchback.

"Gareth," Igor says, and Eddie sighs.

"Igor Gareth," Eddie says. Yes, yes, always with the full name, but Eddie's not really paying attention to him. He never is. Eddie's too blinded by his own brilliance. Only his own thoughts matter. Not whatever Igor thinks. If he can think. 

This is going to be an innovation unlike any other ever known to mankind. And it has come from his own outstanding brain. Some may call him a freak for even trying, but they'd be wrong.

Because he's a genius, mastering this. 

Well, to be honest, he's never done anything like it before. But he's still certain he's more than capable. He knows his brilliant mind has been stifled by the lack of advancement of technology. That's the only reason he's had an inability to bring things to fruition.

Well, he'll just have to force the world to get up to speed with his brain. He's been working on his contraption for years. Eddie's Ladder. The staff of the castle, working to meet his every whim.

Jefferson and The Freak. Igor Gareth. He's gathered a band of henchmen, and they're there to follow his orders, to bend to his every whim.

If they'll only follow his instructions, precisely and perfectly, Eddie can bring someone to life. Someone that feels as he feels.

They've had so many dry runs that haven't met Eddie's standards. Dead animals, brought back feral. A heart kept beating for weeks. And they've produced at least a dozen inarticulate, snarling monsters that Jefferson, Freak and Igor Gareth have had to put down and bury on the grounds. It's quite unfortunate that their failings have snuffed out Eddie's dreams before they've become a reality.

He's certain he can create a full-fledged reanimated human. Not just an electrified corpse.

Eddie pets the hair of the head he's chosen as his, hopefully, final subject. He's handsome, this one. A rich kid that died of dysentery. Or something. Eddie doesn't know, or particularly care. But Eddie was careful this time. He didn't just grab any old corpse from the boneyard as he'd done before. No, he selected the best parts from all over the countryside. Because this time, it'll be perfect. 

Eddie will be perfect.

He threads the large needle, and slides it through the skin, carefully stitching together his creation, his monster, his masterpiece. 

He looks perfect. This one, a man.

"Igor, the cap," Eddie demands, holding out his hand.

"Gareth," is the response, and Eddie rolls his eyes, snatching the metal contraption.

"Igor Gareth, yes," Eddie replies. Jesus Christ. Eddie doesn't understand why this kid always needs to be referred to by his full name.

Eddie attaches the electrodes, the cap, and stands back, ready to pull the lever that will control all the electricity that he's certain will be able to jumpstart his, hopefully final, creation to life.

Freak has installed a lightning rod on the tower, and now Eddie must wait for the storm to roll in, reach a crescendo, and then he'll get to finish his life's work this time.

The storm is finally blowing in, and Igor Gareth is stationed in the tower, waiting near the bell. He's to be the final alarm. The go ahead.

Then, it's finally happening. 

Eddie hears the thunder. The rain. The lightning cracking across the sky. 

And then the bell rings out, the loud clanging from the tower his notification to pull, and Eddie yanks down the lever, sending the current through the wires, creating the arc, the spark, to jumpstart his creation, his invention, his monster.

The body jolts, and shakes, and shimmies against its leather restraints. Bucking wildly as Eddie watches, eyes wide, enthralled. 

Finally his eyes open. Golden flecks over brown, and Eddie wonders if he's all there. If he's been able to finally bring back actual consciousness, or if this one's just another in a long line of reanimated corpses destined to exist in a zombie-like state until they're dealt with.

Eddie snaps his fingers in front of its face, and its eyes dart towards Eddie's hand, then Eddie's face. An improvement from the last one at least, for sure.

"What the fuck?! Ow!" his creation yells, and Eddie claps his hands in delight. He's done it. He's really done it. It's alive! It's a real man. 

Of course, he had no doubt he could do it.

His henchmen gather, and look at the naked, strapped down man, who seems very rudely ungrateful. 

"What shall I name him?" Eddie ponders aloud, stroking his chin.

"I'm Steve," his creation says.

"What does he look like to you, Igor?" Eddie asks.

"Gareth," he answers.

"I'm not naming it after you, Igor Gareth," Eddie answers, and Igor raises his hands to his head, pulling at his curls. He's an odd boy. 

"Hmm, other thoughts? Jefferson? Freak?" Eddie asks.

"Jeff," Jefferson says.

"Goodie," Freak replies.

And Eddie shakes his head. It's like these fools only know one word each.

"Perhaps Wayne. I always adored my uncle," Eddie says.

"I'm Steve. You're not naming me anything else, you asshole," his creation snaps, and Eddie just laughs.

"You're a bossy one," Eddie declares with delight, then concedes, "Fine. Steve."

"Great. Now untie me."

Eddie really doesn't want to do that until he can run more tests. Make sure he hasn't made something homicidal. That has happened a time or two. Maybe three.

Four, tops.

"Well, Steve, let's just put a pin in that," Eddie says, and Steve clearly doesn't like that, as he lunges, rattling the restraints. He's a strong one. This one is not feeble of body, or mind.

Or cock, from the looks of it. 

Eddie could work with this, as long as he can tame this pissy creature he's formed with his own two ultra-talented hands. 

"If I release you, are you gonna run?"

"From the mad scientist that's chained me up? Um, yes," Steve snaps, and Eddie laughs. He picked a good brain this time. Feisty.

"Then, I guess you'll stay tied up," Eddie insists, and if looks could kill, Eddie'd be dead. Luckily they cannot, and Steve can't move.

Too bad for him.

Eddie keeps watch for days, feeding him, taking care of him. Talking to him. Getting to know him. Trying to convince him to stay. To be Eddie's. His companion. His second. His lover.

Finally, after days, Steve agrees.

So, Eddie undoes the buckles, one at a time, the straps falling loose, and once the last one around Steve's ankle comes loose, he does just as he'd promised days ago. He runs. 

And Eddie watches in disbelief.

His henchmen will capture him.

They don't. He was too fast, too athletic, for those nincompoops, and now he's gone. 

Eddie rages. He cannot believe his own masterpiece would be so ungrateful. He was dead. And now he's not, because of Eddie. 

What an asshole he made.

He'll just have to try again. Tomorrow. 

When he leaves the castle, his body part collection bag slung over his shoulder, he sees Steve sitting against the gate.

He's relieved. He doesn't want another, he wants Steve. 

"You're still here."

"Where else was I gonna go? I'm naked."

Eddie laughs, he likes this creation. He likes Steve.

"Where're you going?" Steve asks.

"Nowhere," Eddie says, tossing the bag aside, sitting down next to Steve. He shrugs off his cloak, handing it over. "Here. Now you're not naked. You can leave, if you want."

Steve looks at him. Then says, "I think I might stay."

Eddie smiles. He made a masterpiece, the perfect man. 

The perfect Steve.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on all the Seven Deadly Sins, or to offer up your own!

For more Spooktober, pop on over to @steddie-spooktober to follow along with the fun!

Notes: The title and inspo come from the Bob Dylan song of the same name, My Own Version of You.

Eddie's Ladder is a play on Jacob's Ladder. If you've seen old horror/sci-fi flicks, you know what this is. It's that arc of electricity we've all seen a billions times on screen. It wouldn't reanimate anyone, but it sure looks like it could.

The Poor Corroded Coffin boys. Eddie didn't know any of their names, lol.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

fasteners from china fixdex & goodfix anchor bolt manufacturer

[themalhambird]

@malkaleh an angry pile of seaweed stopped playing on the beach and....

This, then, is Maglor son of Fëonor: tall and immovable and fragile as a pillar of stone stood out in rough waters: the last remnants of a cliff worn to a cave worn to arch worn to spire that knows that it too will crumble at last- but before that it will stand, and it will not bow. This is Maglor, whom Adar's child calls Atya: this being with a young face worn by years of sorrow, silver threads shot through dull, coal black hair and smelling faintly of seaweed, and of salt spray.

...Adar is reasonably sure that's Cirdan's tunic that Maglor Fëanorion is wearing. It is too clean, to whole, for a wanderer, and too large for the elf's slender frame besides. It is Cirdan who has brought him thus far into the Halls, who sent for Adar to come forth and has bidden Maglor wait until the shipwright returned from speaking with Elrond and Celebrimbor, ascertaining if they wish the kinslayer to be admitted or no. Adar suspects Lord Cirdan asked Adar to stand guard much like men use their great dogs to protect more docile livestock. To scent for danger, and if danger there be- slay it before it can harm his children. Well, that Adar will gladly do. He plants himself before the door that leads to elves' quarters; he folds his arms, and he sharply stares down Maglor's queer, eldritch gaze.

At length, the Fëonorian speaks. "Tell me of them. My Elrond. Tyleprinquar, my brother's son. Tell me of them."

It is a quiet voice, a voice that rasps with grief and over use, a voice that humms with power and snakes out like tendrils, grasping at Adar's own tongue and coaxing it to life, to tell Lord Mauklaure of the gentle warmth of Elrond's smiles, the endless movement of Celebrimbor's fingers-

Adar jerks his head in defiance. "No," he growls, bearing his teeth; Maglor hisses. Actually hisses, full throated and deliberate like an angered swan issuing half a challenge, half a warning. The tree-light in his eyes scorches into cold and endless burning.

Adar is neither cowed or impressed. "What right have you to either of them?" He asks coldly. "The youngling you abandoned to strangers? Your nephew, who rejected his sire and you and your litter-mates rejected him in turn? They are both risen far above thee, cursed son of a curséd father : if they ever had need of thee it was long before now- when Elrond might have kept one father, though the other slayed himself; when the Song of Maglor Prince of the Gap might have torn treachery in Eregion out by the root ere it sought to seed. You are come too late."

"And who art thou, to determine that? " Maglor replies, just as coldly. "Think you that I sent my children from me because I wished it? The Valar were come to Middle Earth. Better my little stars be amongst those the gods favoured, than those they despised and might brush away at any moment. As for my nephew...I thought, more than once, of seeking Ost-in-Edhil, for more than once I heard that the Lord Celebrimbor welcomed all, and was loved by all, and that kinslayers and the survivors of kinslayers, and dwarves, and men, all lived in peace together . Tell me," Maglor's eyes pierce Adar's own gaze, and his voice is bitter now with self-loathing. "Do you think that would have held if I, too, had been welcomed there? Kinslayer and traitor; murderer, thief, and stealer of children am I: if Lord Celebrimbor welcomed me, how think you that Þauron would have used it, once he decided he wanted the city for himself? How think you that any who envied Eregion's splendour and wealth and thought to tear it apart for their own purposes, would have been able to use it? I would have been a rod to beat him with, any time Gil-galad and he had a disagreement."

"You think you endanger them," Adar says, lip curling. "That is your justification for staying away. Justify your presence, then. Since you say yourself, it can only bring harm-"

The door behind him opens. Cirdan reappears- and with him, Gil-galad. Maglor's eyes narrow, just for a moment. And then, in one fluid moment, he drops to his knee. "High King. "

He does not bow his head. He does not speak further. Gil-galad looks down at him, lips thin with displeasure. "Maglor Fëanorion. For the love I bear those who still, it seems, love you, you have my leave to remain in Lindon. You do not have leave to depart and we will discuss, later, the very narrow limits under which your presence will be suffered."

Now Maglor dips his head. "The High King is gracious. I am at his disposal."

He rises. Gil-galad looks to Adar. "Take him to Elrond and Celebrimbor, please, they're waiting for him. If he distresses them in any way by all means feel free to drag him back out again by his hair." The King stalks away. Maglor graces Adar with a sardonic smile. As they head in the opposite direction to the King, the Fëonorian says:

"If you do decide to seize me be the hair, warn me first. I cannot promise not to startle and do you harm."

"You might attempt it," Adar returns.

***

Given the way Elrond launches himself into Maglor's arms the moment he sees him, Adar begrudgingly honours Celebrimbor's request for privacy, and joins Galadriel, Celeborn, and Finrod, who are discussing this development with varying levels of unease. Galadriel, it seems, has never forgiven Maglor for how she found Elrond after the young Peredhel had tried to leave Gil-galad's camp and work his way back to the Fëanorians. Celeborn's thoughts are with Elwing, his kinswoman. Finrod considered Maglor a friend, and grieves that his friend chose not to surrender to the Valar when he was given the chance, certain that something could have been worked out...

Adar thinks Maglor and Maehdros had the right of it, so far as trusting to the Valars' mercy goes, but he keeps that to himself.

The hours pass. At length, Maglor reappears- a silent, solitary silhouette stood in the margins of the doorframe, body turned to the side so as not to look out into the little garden where Galadriel, Celeborn, and Finrod went purposely to avoid him.

...Adar refuses to acknowledge any sort of feeling of gratitude for the gesture.

"They are sleeping," Maglor says quietly as Adar comes to him. "Elrond and Tylepë both, I-"

He seems softer, than before, his angles less sharp, his bearing less fey. And then, completely to Adar's suprise, Maglor Fëanorion drops to his knees and bows his head. His dark hair falls, brushing Adar's boots. "My thanks," he says softly. "My endless gratitude, Lord Adar, for protecting my children. For saving my children, where I failed." He rises again, exhaling softly, and drags a hand through his hair. "I must go to the King," he says. "Elrond and Celebrimbor are sleeping...my thanks, Lord Adar. I will leave you peace." He bows. He smiles. And he turns and slips away.

[secretflourish]

⚠️ Warning: lots of words and some thoughts about S03E08 ⚠️

Like some other viewers I was extremely upset by Siuan's passing in the season finale. In addition to the brutality of act itself, this event will inevitably affect Moiraine's personality and her further development as a character. From another perspective it even seems paradoxical: why would Siuan start her defensive speech with declaring love towards Moiraine when she could at least try to reason with facts about Dragon Reborn, Forsaken, etc.? One last attempt to sway minds within White Tower's walls — wasn't it her misssion all the time? Certainly undeserved and too "simple" demise for such a powerful character. However, most of all, it undermined some inner expectation of happy ending looming on the horizon for all those who fight on the side of Light. As is often the case, protagonists go through various stages of hardship, suffering and pain in order to find semblance of peace and harmony. And this is what we are all used to and, perhaps, subconsciously expect: the harder the path, the greater the reward.

Moiraine and Siuan were on the top of this list — they sacrificed their personal happiness and dreams day after day for abstract greater good, so it was kinda logical to expect that a quiet life away from Tar Valon would be the climax of their suffering. This is not going to happen now, not at all, since any hints at Siuan's return are likely to be in the form of flashbacks or hypothetical future/past in other turns of the Wheel. Siuan's death is obvious, it cannot be disguised, given the bloody scene after and Moiraine's strong reaction. By the way, something in the shot piqued my interest: threads of One Force hovering around Moiraine when she realized the loss of her beloved — were they a consequence of her vow on Oath Rod disintegration or something more? Was it implied that these two were connected by fate itself, by eternal bonds in each of their lives?

Putting emotions aside, I think I'm particularly disappointed that producers had deliberately placed an important emphasis on relationship between Siuan and Moiraine from the very first season, and now they turn a wonderful feeling into an abyss of despair. After all, there was no obligation to create such tremendous magnitude of feelings that surpassed decades of separation, burden of expectations and even overcoming partner's betrayal. Judging by some tidbits, their relationship is not clearly confirmed in the books and each has another partner (God forbid, to get an imposed love line with Thom Merrilin now, of all things). So, why was it necessary to create something so immense and fundamental, specifically aimed at the broad support from a certain audience, only to annihilate it all at once? I may sound cynical now, but wouldn't it be better (more reasonable) for confrontation and violation of will in Cairhien to end their relationship? Of course, Moiraine would still be in pain but at least she wouldn't lose forever her only love, whom she promised to always wait for, no matter what. Now their reunion in Tel'aran'rhiod seems like a bittersweet pill, as there's nothing more cruel than false hope.

Sooner or later, you have to say goodbye to characters you like, alas, everyone cannot survive simply because a deep and thoughtful plot doesn't exist without a full range of emotions. I have to admit, there have been deaths during three seasons that upset me: Loial, Agelmar and Amalisa Jagad, even Geofram Bornhal and yes, the Hopper. But Siuan's death stands alone even though she couldn't be classified as a major character. However she was an important part of Moiraine's life, concentration of her fragility and humanity, beacon of all personal hopes. And while the latter will certainly be able to survive the loss, I don't think it's a positive message for an audience that wants to see echoes of their own lives in their favorite storylines. And we all partially identify ourselves with fictional characters, set boundaries of the "deserved" and expect a happy ending. Especially for those who suffer a lot, like some kind of compensation and justice that we wish to come true.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Medusa and The Blind Woman

Act I

~~~~~~◇~~~~~~~~~◇~~~~~~~~~◇~~~~~~

She crashes in on an easterly wave. 

One that threatens the bare spindles of a long dead port. The wind bites at stilts gnarled by sea salt and the negligence of time, threads of frayed twine whipping in retaliating lashes against the onslaught versus sturdy grecian wood. 

Lexa watches from on high, eyes on mastheads and white sails in the distance when she takes a moment to admire her only non-hissing companion, the sea. She stands an eagle in her nest of serpentine thorns, as the speck of a sailor draws near from the horizon, boat marching on the back of winds that carry it onward. The ocean howls of intruders long before they arrive, the swishing churn of embattled rip tides announcing the threat among rustled gusts and spits of algae foam. 

It's all become so painfully predictable. 

Lexa sighs at the sight of them marching on toward her fortress. 

A sinking weight floods her stomach, weary resignation presses heavy against her throat.

The grip of her spade reminds hers they mean nothing to her morning, to her unforgiving schedule that must be kept. What with the chill slipping through the cracks of a waning afternoon sun setting on the intruder's horizon. 

She doesn't bother to watch their approach further, instead keeping her thoughts to steady hands that churn earth and crumble stone, driving her blade against charcoal and turning it to soot. She checks her moorings to the west and fells a few fresh saplings for kindling. Nuisances in that particular corner of her nest of thorns, ones she's been waging a losing battle with for ages.

Her thoughts scatter like the seed and silt that pour through the calloused cracks of her fingers, wondering—

A sharp whine fills the air below, followed by a screech and crash of splintering wood. A thunderous boom echoes along the rockside loud enough to shake the very gravel under her feet followed by a full chested bellow.

"Gods damn it all!"

Lexa straightens from her work at the cry of anger, loud enough to have her dropping her tools where she stands. Loud enough to send a shiver across her scalp that hisses and spits its welcome in return. 

She slips past brambles and thickets of overgrowth. Moves between boulders and shrugging aside the hang of vine, winding her way to the edge of her oasis. The sweet scent of honeysuckle mixes with sea water as she moves close to the rocky ledge of the cliff shore. 

Careful to stay hidden, tucked neatly in the shadows, she lifts a few leaves on the tips of her finger to see her would be… captors…

Or. Captor.

The waters are littered with floating bits of dock and warped wood, now useless and broken into a thousand tiny shards that bob their way back out into the wild. 

In its place is a boat. 

A rather pathetic boat, Lexa notes at the feel of a nose nudging her cheek. A vessel of one lonely single seat, barely a rod for a mast, with two matching oars on each side. The sight of its paltry build makes her frown, her lips slackening in shock as she looks past the debris of the wreckage to the fleeing white sails receding into the burgeoning twilight distance. 

Another screeched caw from a circling bird above makes Lexa jump, ignoring the snap and hiss in her ear at the same time the air fills with a strained, "Oh shut up!"

Well.

This is certainly not what she had expected. 

Because…

She's blonde. 

Her apparent assassin is blonde. 

And a woman.  

Altogether a decidedly less muscular figure than Lexa had become accustomed to seeing her would-be heroes in the making that washed up on her shores. Not the type bearing rippling muscles, or the thuggish brawn born of beating one's own chest.

In fact, this assassin is downright dainty.  

~~~~~~◇~~~~~~~~~◇~~~~~~~~~◇~~~~~~

Read on AO3

[creations-by-chaosfay]

A foundation paper pieced wallhanging with autumnal blocks depicting two leaves, corn, pumpkin, and an apple.

Made using scraps leftover from previous projects, this measures 15x57 inches. Machine quilted with white thread, and a hanging sleeve on the back. The hanging sleeve is great for a rod to hang this from, but it also lays flat. You can hang this on a wall, door, or lay flat on whatever surface you put it on.

Machine wash cold and tumble dry low or hang dry to give this a long life. Keep out of direct sunlight to prevent the colors from bleaching.

If you cannot afford to pay the full price upfront, I accept 50% to reserve this for you, and monthky payments thereafter. When the final payment is received, I'll ship this off to you.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

The great Outdoors

character: Choi su bong/Thanos X fem!reader

Summary: Su-bong, not quite understanding the concept of camping, insists on being the one to set up the tent, even though he's never done it before. It ends up a hilarious mess, but he’s determined to make it work. You both end up sleeping under the stars on a pile of blankets instead, laughing at the disaster.

Warnings: none 🦑🦑

“You know, I’m pretty sure that pole doesn’t go there,” you say, watching Choi Su-Bong wrestle with the tangled mess of fabric and metal rods that was supposed to be your tent.

He grunts in response, determined, brows furrowed in concentration. “I got this,” he insists, threading a pole through what is definitely not a pole sleeve. “Camping is just like...building something. You just follow the steps.”

“You didn’t read the instructions.”

“I don’t need them.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh as he tugs on one side of the tent, only for the opposite end to collapse like a sad, deflated balloon. The whole thing looks like a crime scene. You’re not even sure how he got it this tangled—it was a simple pop-up tent.

Su-Bong sighs, placing his hands on his hips, surveying the disaster. “Okay,” he says, nodding to himself. “New plan. Maybe… we don’t need a tent.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And where exactly are we sleeping?”

He gestures dramatically at the sky. “The universe is our tent! The stars are our roof!” You snort. “You just don’t want to admit you lost to a tent.”

“I didn’t lose,” he says, full of pride despite the clear evidence of failure. “I just chose a different path.” The “different path” turns out to be a pile of blankets laid out in the open air. You stretch out on them, the crisp night air cool but refreshing, the sky above glittering with stars. Su-Bong plops down beside you with a satisfied sigh, hands behind his head.

“This is actually nice,” you admit, turning your head to look at him. “Maybe you were onto something.”

He smirks. “See? I’m a genius. No poles, no zippers, no weird instructions. Just us and the great outdoors.”

A beat of silence passes before he adds, “Also, I think I broke the tent.”

You burst into laughter, and he follows, his deep chuckles mixing with yours as you both lay there, beneath the stars, in your very own Su-Bong-style campsite.

🦑🦑🦑