#all threaded rods

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

⚙️🏗 thread bolt 👍Applied to various mechanical systems

[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!”

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

calling skz clingy headcanons ◦ ot8

Paring◦ ot8 x reader

Words◦ 3,578

Genre ◦ hurt and comfort

Warnings ◦ reader blows up at the boys a few times, mild cussing I think, hyunjin is lowkey toxic in this but the reader is more toxic, honestly all of our boys are pretty dramatic lmao, they keep getting lazier and lazier😭, I fucking hate y/n in this like fr I'm gonna kick her sorry little ass, seungmins is... suggestive...dirty talk and fingering only for like one line, so is hans lmao all happy endings because I am not sadistic... or realistic

Taglist ◦ @thetoastghost222, @ur-fav-lvr

A/N ◦ honestly this is my super random chaotic thoughts I had at 2am bc I was really hating the way I was writing a love lived between the stars and the sea so I wanted to take a small break and clear my pallet I hope you all like it even though it lowkey sucks lmao <33

Also im lowkey fucking with making headcannons this is kinda fun...

~cookiecreates 🍪

chan

I feel like Chan would be the most emotionally mature about the whole thing, especially when he sees the storm brewing in your eyes before you even spit those venomous words.

"Fuck Chris, do you have to be so clingy all the time?" You shout, your mouth curling in a disgusted sneer. 

You've never flinched away from him like that, never been so mean-

He's first hurt then he sees it-

There are cracks in your demeanor; large gashes in your heart; he could read you like an open book; the stories your soul wished to tell resided in your glassy eyes.

Hurt people hurt people.

You didn't think he was clingy; no, you loved his touch. You were simply overwhelmed, overflowing with so many simmering feelings—his love did not have room to shimmy through.

So he makes room-

He tilts your chin up with a sincere voice and asks, "What's the real reason why you are shutting me out?"

The unadulterated dedication in his words leaves you in shambles. 

Chan would tear open his heart before your eyes just to prove that there are openings for your soul to pour all your pain into him.

and he would still find a way not to spill a drop

"It’s so hard,” you sob. “They told me you were too good for me, that I wasn’t enough. They said I should shut you out, run away before I got too attached. I had to make you hate me so that I could never weigh you down again."

Chan is fuming.

He wants to ask who said that? He wants to ask where they live? He wants to ask if you want to witness their destruction? He wants to ask if he should use a knife or a gun?

But instead, he says, ‘Darling, you would have more luck breaking the bounds of the moon than untangling the way you are threaded into my soul."

what. the. fuck.

Chan the next William Shakespeare up in here

...was this based on something I wrote for my new series...yes. am I ashamed... no.

I'm a hopeless romantic who wants to marry a poet.

Sue me.

You never thought the apocalypse would be so rewarding, because you are reeling, spinning out of orbit, a meteor spit out into space, hurling towards unknown destruction—destruction that tasted like fresh morning dew.

Chan was perfect.

what the fuck were you thinking?

He holds you through the night, chasing away the whistling of the cold winter wind, his warm arms creating a home around your heart.

lee know

do not ever ever ever ever ever ever ever call Lee Know clingy unless you are willing to dedicate your life into creating the next wheel of time because after you plant the seed in his head, he will blossom a garden of newfound insecurities.

"Can you please not be so clingy right now? I'm having a really bad headache," you whisper through the thick fog clouding your brain; you have been living with a red hot rod skewed through the back of your brain all day. You didn't mean to say the word clingy, but it is futile to search a thesaurus from a blurry page, and right now the world seems to be nothing more than a piece of abstract art.

He just wanted to hold you and you call him clingy??

To others, the sentence would be like water rolling off their backs, but to him, it was a ragged shard of glass stabbed straight into his chest.

Lee Know is extremely inexperienced in the world of intimacy, often clumsy with his actions—hesitant with his words, so why would you say such a thing?

Knowing how insecure he is??

You would only ever say it if you meant it fully and completely??

Honestly, in his head, he would be lowkey, really dramatic, but he's so beyond hurt, feeling like you're just picking at a gaping wound.

like I said, dramatic.

justified. yes.

dramatic... also yes.

I am a firm believer that his tough-guy act is only that.

an act.

He was pretending like he didn't care what you said, but when he gets into the other room, it takes everything in him not to shatter into a million different pieces, feeling so overwhelmed with how many emotions are coursing through him.

No matter how much you apologize after that, no matter how much you prove what you said was nothing more than your head foggy and in pain, it still will take lifetimes for that scar to fade.

and he will only ever get over it with a million reassurances and a thousand conversations

which you are willing to do as long as he needs it

changbin

Honestly, I dont really have a clue with this one, but I am definitely leaning towards him being more like Chan in the emotional mature way he handles it, but instead of comforting you at the drop of a hat, he just leaves the room and lets you stew on your sorrows.

"Your so clingy," you groan, shoving his arm off; rolling your eyes as the mattress shifts with his weight. You just want to be left alone. You weren't sad. You weren't mad. You were just tired and did not want to be touched.

In perspective, could you have handled it better? Yes, but what can you do now? I'm going to punch this bitch in the face I swear I hate y/n and I'm creating her

He's first very confused, then the hurt hits like a falling star crashing into his chest.

What do you mean he's clingy??

"Fine," he states, still dizzy from the utter whiplash you were giving him.

like what the hell?

Sleeps on the couch that night (bad idea don't do this)

He stews about it far past the dreams in his head

That is, until you trudge out of your bed in the morning with red-rimmed eyes and a face filled with regret.

After a shitty nights sleep without the heat of your boyfriend's arms, you realized very quickly what it would feel like if you were to never feel it again, and all of a sudden, you never want to be left alone like ever again.

The grudge he was previously trying to hold drained out of him, and in that instance, he jumps up, pulling you into his arms.

He is very quick to forgive you, when you voice your reason for snapping at him, was nothing but compressed frustrations manifested into the wrong source.

hyunjin

hyunjin. hyunjin. hyunjin.

I feel like in a fit of both hurt and the toxic trait of self-isolation, he would be petty and stay at the boy's house for a few days.

He had tried to give you a good morning kiss that day, but you were stressed and late for work, rushing to put on your clothes. The way he whined about wanting to be touched ground your gears beyond belief. You got stuck in your shirt, which was too tight after you shrunk it in the dryer, and your firm has yet to give you another one. Hyunjin's flighty hands wrapped around your waist, trying to help you untangle yourself from the mess of fabric, only for the button to get caught in your hair, pain ripping through your scalp.

"Stop it hyunjin!" you shout, attempting to unthread the way your hair has meshed into the slits of the button. "You're so fuckin' clingy."

It was all a mess—your heap of shifting fabric and jerking limbs, hair sticking up at every angle. His heart was crushed somewhere in a pulp on the floor in front of him.

He just wanted to help...

Your red-hot anger quickly bled into a tightening anxiety that pulled underneath your ribs as you imagined the look on your boss's face when you came in disheveled and late.

"I just wanted to help," Hyunjin sniffles, bouncing his eyes around the room, filling with tears. You heartlessly roll your eyes.

"Here come the waterworks," your voice is steady, flaming with annoyance mixed with a sickening tilt of mockery. His jaw drops.

you're being so mean

His ears burn when you glare at him, disgusted by the tears streaming down his cheeks. He desperately wipes his emotions away with the back of his hand, suddenly embarrassed to even be showing you the cracks in his soul.

He runs away, like, quite literally runs out the door, sprinting to his car and driving straight to the group's house, collapsing in a fit of sobs in Chan's arms.

He stays there for a good 3 days, ignoring all your calls and texts.

No matter how much it hurts his heart not to talk to you, he shuts you out in a weak attempt to show you what it would be like to live without him.

But this tactic is short-lived when you arrive at the boys' house, snot sobbing into his chest.

"i-im so sorry," you repeat over and over and over into his skin, hoping the further you dig into his chest, the closer the words will hit his heart. 

He's not going to lie; no matter how much you cry, a little bit of pettiness will still stay during the conversation, a small scar of his hurt dictating his choices.

"Why didn't you come home? I thought we were over?"

"I thought that asking to sleep in the same bed as you would be too clingy"

Your heart cracks. He sees it, immediately regretting all his words.

"I'm sorry!" he yelps, pulling your head straight into his chest again.

You shake your head remorsefully, "No, I deserved that."

Even though so much of him still wants to be petty, his love for you trumps the feeling.

(I'm not forgiving you though wtf)

han (this one is long asf)

Han is freaking out.

I mean like the devil's bony hand gripping at the base of his spine, stale breath wafting down the skin of his neck type of freaking the fuck out.

You had a job that required you to go on-site, on-call often, like Han’s—that’s why you were so understanding about his busy schedule; yours was just as bad.

Today was a nightmare. Your coworker, the devil in disguise, didn't show up for the presentation she had created, and since she threw you under the bus saying you helped her (you didn't), you were forced to come in and present it.

Leaving Han at the restaurant waiting for you to arrive-

You forgot-

It was debatably the biggest presentation of the year, showing off her new design to multiple new investors, and yet your phone kept buzzing.

You told Han this was important

You never sent the message

You don't think you have ever seen your boss so furious

From Han's point of view, he's been sitting here for 2 hours, and you are still not here.

There are so many scenarios flying around in his head—

Are you okay?

Did you stand him up?

Are you breaking up with him?

Did you get kidnapped??

Han got tunnel vision when he was scared, his restless brain shooting out dire scenarios faster than he could decipher the impossibility of them. It was overwhelming. The walls were closing in on him. Nowhere in the world was safe. His head was swimming, the room was spinning, the earth was popping through space.

He keeps texting and calling and voice mailing. The icy anxiety crystallizing in the pit of his core turns his fingers brittle, creaking as he jams them into his phone screen.

He can't breathe.

Too many possibilities.

Untill-

Your boss got fed up with your phone ringing, screaming at you to go answer it since it was clearly more important than your job.

he was a prick

You answer it, the heat of your building anger curdling a deadly brew inside your soul. Without looking at the 200+ messages Han had sent you, you answer the 50th call of the day, immediately hissing into the speaker, "Do you know what you just did, Han? I got yelled at by my boss in the middle of a presentation because your clingy ass can’t exist without constantly needing my attention for more than 5 minutes. Stop texting me." Your finger smashes the end call button before unruffling your skirt and walking right back into the room.

Han feels like he might just melt straight into the seats, the way his whole body burns.

The whole world stops for a moment, the earth bleeding down the walls, swirling into pools of muddy color. He was sinking, lungs filling with the ink of a million different sweltering elements.

He ruins everything.

He was so wholly overwhelmed he could barely crawl into his car, desperately gripping the steering wheel while the earth collapsed in on him.

He ruins everything.

It's almost impossible to get to his house the way his tears blur the road.

(that's actually fr dangerous don't drive while crying)

He ruins everything.

He doesn't cry when you walk through the door.

He doesn't touch you when you run to him, standing over him, huddled on the floor.

He doesn't breathe as you cry over his body, twinkling in and out of consciousness.

He ruins everything.

Your makeup runs down your cheeks as you try to shake him awake.

He fainted in the kitchen. It wasn't uncommon when he was alone during his panic attacks, the anxiety ripping harsh bouts of oxygen from his lungs.

You squish his cheeks together, forcing his lips into a pout, shoving your faces together, pouring unadulterated passion into his system.

He short c i r c u i t s.

"I'm so sorry," you sob against his lips. "I didn't mean to be so mean. I didn't mean anything I said. I was just stressed, and I thought I sent the message telling you not to text me, and I didn't. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Your voice is high and wet, pushing his mouth deeper into yours.

It would be sceintifically impossible for your lips to get any closer-

and yet his tries.

He pulls your trembling body into his lap, fireworks exploding from the ashes where your words had lain.

"So you don't think I'm clingy?" His voice cracks, fresh tears collecting on the outer corners of his eyes. You have never shaken your head so adamantly in your whole life.

"No, never, never ever."

"Then come here."

You two have never been so close before in your life, hearts tangling in your chests as he presses your body into his.

You were going to prove just how much you loved his touch.

:D

felix

Oh Felix, my kind sweethearted boy that deserves nothing less than prince treatment. He’s so kind, even though he’s so hurt. He’s actually scared he’s annoying you, so he makes himself more distant so he doesn’t bother you.

""Fuck, Felix, can you not see I am clearly just trying to relax? I mean, you don’t always have to be up my ass all the time," you snap, curling back up into the sheets Felix ripped off. You were exhausted—there was no excuse; you were just really tired. Felix, being the loving boyfriend he is, wanted to hold you while you slept, but of course, you being the dumb idiot you are, shouted at him.

are you stupid like fr cause like THE LEE FELIX WANTS TO HOLD YOU AND YOU SHOO HIM AWAY

you deserve federal prison

Felix is so many synonyms for destroyed that it should be physically impossible to still be alive with a heart that lies shattered in the pit of his stomach.

Felix doesnt know how to feel sad, angry, hurt, upest, embarrassed.

He just clenches his jaw, trying to keep his bottom lip from trembling.

Felix has always been secretly self-conscious about the way he expresses his love toward people, often being very touchy-feely. He understands that this isn’t everybody's favorite thing and how it can get fairly annoying.

He’s already so terrified you’re going to leave him; he overanalyzes every interaction.

But this interaction did not need to be analyzed to know what you meant. You were very direct about that.

The way your venomous words attached to his stomach, pumping him with poison that swirled his stomach sick.

You don’t apologize when you wake up, not believing you need to justify yourself. He was being clingy, and you had every right to express your opinion about it.

im going to punch this bitch in the face

As surprising as this is, he actually doesn’t cry about it. He doesn’t cry about it because he is so worried that him crying about it would annoy you, so he would rather let his sadness seep into the back of his brain than show you emotions that could potentially turn you off.

Like I said, destructively kind.

He really takes what you said to heart, trying his best not to give you any skinship unless it’s to guide you through a crowded room or pull you away from the bustling activity of the road, holding your hand until you get to your destination.

He actually feels like he can’t function without your touch, but he muscles through it, relishing in the small actions he can get.

He tries to show his love in other little things that aren’t physical touch. It gets to the point where he is so deep in his head he shies away when you try to initiate skinship, terrified he’s going to get back into the habit of the joy of touching you and make himself seem annoying again.

He’s so beyond scared of being a nuisance.

It’s been two weeks with this flighty physical touch, and it all finally starts to click when you notice his smile isn’t nearly as bright anymore and some of the stars in his eyes have faded away.

"I want you to be clingy again, please, please, please. I mean, cling wrap, Kola. If you ever think you’re being too clingy, please hug me a little tighter. I’m an idiot, a complete and utter moron. Really, I should be evaluated on why I am even able to exist in society."

His heart literally bursts so relieved he can finally touch you again.

He gives you the most dopamine-coddling, brain-boggling cuddles known to mankind that night.

Your skin is so close together it feels like there isn’t a part of your body Felix doesn’t occupy.

He has created a home in your heart that no other man will ever stay, where he will rest until the day you fade away.

seungmin

Oh bro is pissed

"You're so clingy," you deadpan as his arms wrap around your waist. You had seen a stupid TikTok prank on your For You page and had the brilliant idea to try it on your boyfriend. But the way his whole body tenses against your skin, muscles rippling underneath your fingertips, you know you are so beyond fucked. "What did you just say to me, baby?"

well you just signed your death certificate

So many ideas brewing in that beautiful head of his-

Like, your ass will be red, your stomach will be painted, your mouth will be filled, and you will be descending into the grave. Like all the rest are lovey-dovey 'I’m sorrys,' no—your sorry will be told on your knees.

He will edge you intill you are teetering on the ledge of oblivion

"You want to cum, baby?" He's so condescending, easily lifting your waist from the sheets, his sticky fingers creating bruises when he pins your legs down to gain more access to ruthlessly abuse your g-spot.

"Yes, Yes, Yes, please," you beg, body trembling on the bed, large qaukes of pleasure rushing through your bones as his mean fingers plunge into your messy cunt.

"But that would be too clingy wouldn't it?"

oh how i want his fingers

(this one is really short bc i hate writing smut but i feel like this would be smutty)

jeongin

I honestly have no clue. I feel like he’d be more confused than anything because, like, me?

clingy?

mf I barely touch you?

Honestly, kind of annoyed more than sad—like pissed that as soon as he wants to touch you, you think he's clingy. But he's like Chan in the fact that he sees past your words and into the anger brewing in your eyes, allowing both you and him to cool off before he says something he will regret.

He just walks out of the room and lets you calm down.

I am also a firm believer that this man is healthy as hell.

He could tell that his heart was starting to beat a little too hard and his head was getting a little too fuzzy with all the raging words he wanted to say. But instead, he just walks away and lets you calm down, then talks to you about it before you go to bed because he is also an extremely firm believer in the fact that you should NEVER go to bed angry.

this one is shorter bc like I'm lowkey running out of motivation and ideas

did you like this? check out my new series a love lived in between the stars and the sea here

or maybe read doomsday here

[peachdues]

THE DIVINING ROD — PROLOGUE

Obanai’s Tell Me to Stop

A/N: the prologue to Obanai’s installment of Tell Me to Stop, first teased here.

CW: canon setting AU • Reader is the Vine Pillar • blood • angst • scars • mentions of past torture • panic • this fic will be HELLA NSFW so MDNI

From the first day he drew his sword, Obanai Iguro knew life within the Demon Slayer Corps meant accepting two, twin truths.

The first was this: a career as a swordsman of the Corps means one’s life expectancy is cut drastically short. Few make it to adulthood; even fewer to retirement.

The second truth is that your time within the Corps is marked by one or two events: either you live to see another day, or you do not. There is no in between; it is either life or death, and more often than not, the Slayers themselves do not have the luxury of choosing between the two. That choice is finite and there is no gray. Members of the Demon Slayer Corps do not go missing; either they are torn apart and devoured by the very monsters they fight, or they live to see the next sunrise, only to await nightfall once more and thrust their lives back into the fickle, shifty hands of fate.

No slayer is spared that perilous dance, no matter their rank. Mizunotos and Hashira alike all know that their tether to the world they’re trying to save is little more than a fraying thread which grows more tenuous by the day, with every battle won at the expense of the lives lost.

The crows; it is the crows, the harbingers of both victory and death, who keep them apprised of their numbers. Slayers do not go missing; they are either dead or they are not. If there is nothing left of a Slayer to bury, their crow will say as much, and they will still get a headstone in the Master’s ever-growing graveyard. The crows always return, even when their assigned masters do not. It is the expectation; a given.

There is no protocol in the event neither Slayer nor crow returns, and it is that absence which blows a gaping, jagged hole right through Obanai’s understanding of his nature not just as a Hashira, but his very existence as a swordsman.

Because the Vine Pillar has vanished and there is no trace of either her or her bird to be found. There is no frantic, bleating announcement that she’s fallen at the hands of some formidable foe, no mournful sobs of the Kakushi as they solemnly carry a box bearing whatever of her remained to be buried with her brothers and sisters in death.

There was only silence; thick, oppressive, loud silence that is punctuated by the conspicuous gap in the lineup of Pillars gathered for an emergency meeting at Headquarters.

The air between the Sound and Insect Pillars is still; a tear in the fabric of reality, pulled back to reveal that something is wrong, something is out of place.

Something is missing.

Obanai cannot stop staring at it; that space between Kocho and Uzui, the utter absence of matter that should form that familiar face, that signature haori, everything that makes up her and her warmth and her comfort.

Everything he cherishes.

“Then she is dead,” Uzui declares once the Master’s children finish explaining their summoning.

“We don’t know for certain,” a soft voice, feminine and evocative of that which is distinctly pink, rises above their heads at the opposite end of their line. “Missions often take weeks, and she may simply be unable to answer —,”

“No one has seen or heard from her in weeks, nor has there been any sight of her crow.” The Sound Pillar challenges, though not unkindly. He is familiar with the friendship between the Vine and Love Pillars, and he does his best to deliver the blow as painlessly as he can. “Even Y/L/N would not ignore an emergency summons from headquarters, no matter how deep in her mission she might have been.”

Obanai is still staring at the void between his comrades where she should be, but Uzui’s words make his fists clench, the skin of his knuckles white. Beside him, the Wind Pillar shifts, sensing his growing agitation.

His panic.

Though he is inclined to voice his agreement with the pinkette at the end of their formation, Serpent Pillar does not speak. He cannot; not while he is busy retracing the last weeks in his mind, mentally calculating how much time would have passed between that night and the mission she did not return from, and whether there was a chance it was different from the one that haunted his every waking moment.

“Where was she assigned?” Rengoku’s voice was strong and commanding as ever, though if he listened hard enough, Obanai could discern the faintest tremble as the Flame Pillar, too, worried after his absent friend.

“A fishing village in the east.” One of the Master’s twins answers, and it feels like an accusation only he can hear, as Obanai feels the very ground beneath his feet break apart and open wide.

How he wishes the oblivion below the earth would swallow him up.

“She’s dead.” Uzui repeats, his head bowing solemnly.

“She’s not,” both the Love and Flame Pillars insist in unison.

Wide, anxious green eyes peer over the heads of their comrades at him, and Obanai can feel how they burn into his head, beseeching him to say something, anything, but he does not; cannot.

The Master’s pristine garden falls away, as does the rising bickering of the other pillars as they debate the merits of a search and rescue operation; whether they have the numbers or time to spare it any consideration. Whatever they decide, it is without the Serpent Pillar’s vote, because he cannot hear them over the roaring in his ears; the new truth he is forced to bear.

That truism is this: the Vine Pillar is missing.

And it is entirely his fault.

[firawren]

After this thread about Darcy leaping through a window and this post about Darcy freaking out at Lady Catherine's reveal about Elizabeth, I've decided that Mr. Darcy just bolts any time he learns exciting new information about Elizabeth.

—

Mrs. Collins: Elizabeth is home alone with a headache

Darcy: What?! *runs from the room so he can go propose to her*

—

Mr. Gardiner: Elizabeth is visiting your sister inside the house right now

Darcy: What?! *drops fishing rod and runs home to get a glimpse of her*

—

Lady Catherine: Miss Bennet refuses to refuse to marry you!

Darcy: WHAT?! *runs from the house to leap onto a horse and gallop to Longbourne*

—

(Obviously I don't think our refined gentleman would do any of these in canon. But it's fun to imagine! I wrote a canon-compliant fic about the second one, where he doesn't run, but he does power-walk and get all sweaty.)

[landofadonises]

The Encounters - Locker Room; June 26th, 2017

Brad was finishing up his 4-hour long workout session, like any other day (every day of the week), when some shorty with some toned muscles and a tight ass walked up to him and asked, "Hey, big guy, you need any help gettin' washed up? Watched you the whole time out there, you damn muscle hog. I know for a fact you can't reach behind that huge back of yours."

Brad was never one to refuse a bit of attention from a thirsty twink, so he agreed. "Just be careful, lil' man. You don't want me gettin' riled up." As they started walking toward a stall, Brad then mentioned, "You're only helpin' me with the bod', bro. I was plannin' on jackin' it since I'm all packed and juiced from my sesh, and you ain't gettin' that." The twink smirked. "Whatever you say, big guy."

Why Brad ever thought he had control of the situation is beyond any listener that hears this from the gym desk agent that had to escort a completely-spent Brad out from the completely clogged and coated shower. Things started smoothly enough, the two of them playing a bit of dress-down, the twink feeling like he was working at a car wash more than helping a massive beefcake wash all his nooks and crannies. His hands started traveling, though, and surely enough, a particular grazing of Brad's inner thigh made him snap to attention but already reeling from the sensation. "B-bro... you gotta be c-careful... for fuckin' real! These are compression so my horse cock ain't floppin' out of my shorts while I'm pumpin' iron! E....e-expensive, man!"

The twink grinned fiendishly as each word Brad muttered was accompanied by a thread of fabric snapping, ripping, as his enormous meat-rod surged forward to life, causing the twink to run in fear of being pierced on that impaler and not having the chance to tell the tale. He scurried away from the guttural, bass-y moans and thudding occurring in the stall as the virile bull went into a frenzy.

[supernaturalfreewill]

"How much longer do I have to sit here? Aren't you almost done?" you sighed, frustrated and swinging your foot as Dean stitched up your arm.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Look, I'm giving you stitches, not slapping a band aid on it. A little patience would be good," he laughed.

You sighed again. "Yeah, but patience is a skill... and it's one I do not have, I'm afraid," you retorted. You were eager to get back on the hunt despite the rather unhelpful encounter you'd just had.

Dean laughed again. "Yeah. I'm aware... trust me. I figured that out the first time we hunted together and instead of following the plan you just burst into that summoning circle, right into the middle of the damn coven. I almost had a heart attack."

"It's not like you haven't done your fair share of bursting in!" you accused him.

"Yeah, well... if it's you, Sammy, or Cas in danger? I'm gonna burst in as much as I want," Dean agreed. He placed the final stitch, snipped the thread, and straightened up. "Alright. All done, hot rod." He gave you that boyish half-smile you found irresistible.

"Thanks," you said, admiring his handiwork. "And just so you know, I will always burst in for you without a thought too."

Dean smiled at you and his soft expression gave you goosebumps. "Yeah, I know. Come here." You did and he wrapped you in a big hug and kissed the top of your head.

Prompt: "It's a skill. One I do not possess, I'm afraid."

[no-name-publishing]

Kill the Director by erikschampion

My part in a gift exchange taking place in Renegade's California satellite server. This was a lot of fun and very experimental for me. My idea was to pursue something a little grunge, a little smudged, to go along with the early 2000s Brit punk vibe that the fic gets its title from. Spray paint, screen printing, some blood, some tears, and it's to its new home. Glamour and process shots under the cut!

The yellow base is a plain linen bookcloth that's been coated with acrylic. The pink accent color is a combo of spray paint and smudges of pink Golden Fluid acrylic paint. The endbands are sewn with Gutermann polyester florescent sewing thread, and the endpages are my attempt at an italian vein marble with pink, yellow, and black paint.

Some shots of the typesetting, and a video showing the book as a whole. The fic has some exposition written in a script format, so I typeset that to reflect. And it's always fun to include text message bubbles and emails and stuff.

The graphics on the case were done with screens and waterbased screen printing ink! I went through a few iterations and even tried to set my kitchen on fire in order to get it right before settling on the screens. I'm very very pleased with the result. (The fire was from my DIY attempt at making my own gelli plate with gelatin, glycerin, and rubbing alcohol. All the instructions were telling me to be careful about how many bubbles I was stirring into the mix but I was like, it'll be fine. I'll use my heatgun or a lighter to pop whatever bubbles are there. It works with resin so it should here. Yall alcohol is flammable lmao. Why did I do that. I put my lighter up to those bubbles and lost my vision for a moment at the flash of light. I've never done something that stupid)

The freshly marbled paper hanging up to dry in my kitchen; the screen for the front of the case; my practice piece including the spine design; the case drying on my shower rod (along with some pieces of fabric for another project lol). I have fewer process pictures than I thought lol.

The graphics on the front and back were also partially designed by hand. I printed images of the characters then cut them vertically, and alternated the slices. Copied that, then did the same horizontally. Scanned that, and then did some cleaning up digitally on my computer. Here's some shots of the steps and the pieces themselves.

The third picture shows my first attempt, as I actually did this process twice. The first time I didn't feel like the first pass was pixelated enough, so I cut it again both vertically and horizontally and alternated them once more. This was a mess, and ultimately I didn't like the finished result. Round two (second image) was the final round, and what wound up using in the project instead.

Thanks for looking!

[starlightsuffered]

I Miss You

Info - shy reader, praise, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, masturbating while giving oral, cupping pussy, cum swallowing

"I miss you," I whined. I wasn't usually this way, but I did. I decided to bare my feelings and tell him how I was feeling.

"Well finally," Timothée chuckled.

"What?" I asked.

"You're so, I don't even know the word for it. Perhaps polite would be the right one?"

"Still don't know what you mean," | said slowly. He had a smile in his voice which quieted my anxiety.

"Well, you're always so benevolent, and sweet. You don't whine because you think it would make me think negatively. Hearing you miss me is..... nice. Am I making sense?"

"I think so," I said with a small grin.

"Like, you're selfless, you always want to focus on me. I like you being needy and desperate-"

"I'm always desperate for you," | interrupted him.

"You know what I mean y/n," he said smugly.

"Yeah I do. I just can't help it! It's only been a couple weeks but fuck I miss your touch and your body and laugh and personality and... was that too much," I ended nervously.

"Not at all. You know I love when you get like that, all rambly and sweet," Timothée swooned.

"Well, I'm glad you like it," I said shyly.

"You really miss me?" Timothée asked quietly after a silence.

"So much," I whispered.

"I miss you too, I'll be back before you know it. Maybe next time I'll take you," he said.

"Maybe," I said gently. He knew so much attention and people would be hard for me. However, being without him was also hard for me.

"I have to go my princess," Timmy said lightly. He didn't know how hard that hit, romantically and sexually.

"Okay baby, please be gentle with yourself and sleep well."

"Yeah," Timothée said. I didn't know if I quite believed him, but I was so tired

"Alright my love," | said. We said our goodbyes and I fell into a restless sleep. I missed his warmth next to me. I wanted to feel his body.

I was awoken by large soft hands. My eyes opened groggily. I didn't believe what I was seeing. I'd never been one for sleep paralysis, but it couldn't be.

"Hello darling," Timothée said with cheer.

"Baby?" | asked with teary eyes.

"My girl finally said he missed me, I had to come home for my weekend," Timothée said and nuzzled his mouth against my neck.

"Ohhhh," I gasped.

"Let me take care of you," he offered.

"No!" I said immediately. I sat up and we almost knocked heads.

"What angel?" He asked. I melted.

"My little princess. My girl, my sweetheart," he swooned.

"I want to take care of you. You've been working so hard," I frowned.

"Well so have you, plus-"

"Please, I need to," | pleaded.

"Okay," Timothée nodded.

I shakily tried to undo the button on his pants. I couldn't believe I was nervous. He was my boyfriend, and yet I was.

"It's okay, I can-"

"N-no," I responded. I wanted my beautiful boyfriend to do nothing. I wanted him to be completely and totally serviced.

I pulled down his pants finally. I slid them down his legs. I was breathing hard. I couldn't believe I got to touch him again.

"Your cock is so beautiful," I said, looking up at him adoringly. He smiled and leaned down to kiss me. I did so longingly.

"You're so beautiful."

"I try to be," I half laughed.

I took his glorious cock in my mouth. The soft velvet covering the ram rod hardness was perfect. I let my tongue flatten as my lips suctioned him. He was moaning.

His long fingers threaded through my hair. He ran them throughout my locks. He finally gripped. I bobbed my head. I was trained by now not to gag on his thick length.

"Good girl," Timothée sighed.

I sucked and sucked desperately. I wanted him to collapse afterward, fully satisfied and ready to cuddle me back to a blissful sleep.

"Oh y/n, oh fuck!" Timothée moaned. He was started to force his dick a little deeper now. I whined around him.

He was used to face fucking me usually, but right now I wanted love and pleasure and romance.

"Sorry," he said. "You're just so good."

I had to stop myself from smiling around him. I moved closer. I was soaked in my panties. I rubbed my clit slightly as I serviced him.

"Oh you're so beautiful, you're so fucking pretty it drives me wild," Timothée said as he watched me.

"Mm, mm, mmm," I gasped around his dick. I couldn't keep quiet with his cock in my mouth.

"You do this so well. You're the best l've ever had. Suck that cock baby," he urged me.

"Mmmmmm," | groaned.

"You're a fucking great dick sucker," Timothée said. I let my hands fondle his ass. I rubbed all over it. He let one of his hands run down and feel my body as well. He finally, cupped my jaw and aided me in suckling.

"Good girl, perfect girl, you're the best girlfriend in the world," he cooed. He was tracing my features and I nearly teared up.

I sucked harder now. I was giving it my all. I smacked and licked and swirled my tongue. I was completely in love.

"Oh, oh, I think I'm going to cum y/n, fuck you're amazing!" He cried. He shoved his dick deeper and his hot semen spurted down my throat. He poured his gift down. I swallowed over and over again. I wanted it all in my stomach.

"Goooood," moaned Timothée. His balls rested on my chest as I gulped all he had.

"You do that like a fucking porn star," Timothée sighed as he pulled his cock out of my needy mouth.

"Because I love you," | replied.

"And I love you," he answered.

He dropped down. He held me close and rubbed my cum filled tummy. He was so possessive when it came to me swallowing his load, he kissed my neck. I felt his softening cock between my cheeks. I was still slick and wet.

As though he read my mind, he stuffed his hand down my underwear and cupped my pussy. His warm hand kept me secure. I could deal with being wet as long as he held my cunt. I fell asleep peacefully. I was so happy.

[t-top-apologist]

At the end of the day the average civilian wishes to be catered to like an old money steel baron or perhaps one of those chaps from Downton Abbey. The entirety of modern society has come together to enable this, mass-producing cheap facsimiles of fortunes that should rightly either be built on child labor or perhaps serfdom.

Their lawns, taking up what could otherwise be used to grow crops or serve as "outdoor garage space," exist to ape the wide ranging estates meant for the nobility to chase down a fox while adorned in silly jackets. Their houses sport columns and stupid windows meant to imitate three different classical artforms at the same time because of something called "economies of scale." They even have male-centric social clubs meant for parlour games, discussing sports, and dining with friends, in this case franchised out under such names as "Buffalo Wild Wings."

This aping of the upper class continues to the hire of "artisans" to do relatively simple work deemed too complicated to warrant the time of the average citizen. It's not that the jobs are too taxing for your average person, but rather that the market has crystallized around the desire to live like budget royalty. Therefore they take their wafer-thin computers to artisans (now more commonly called "experts" or "Apple geniuses") for repair and have democratized the position of carriagemen to 22 year old dealership lube techs named Ryan who will turn a 15 minute job into a 30 minute endeavor thanks to frequent vape breaks and a brief brush with what the industry refers to as "a misplaced drain bolt."

The mid-40s project manager and mother of 3 is no less competent when changing oil than her grandfather before her who knew what "Valve Lash" is, but what separates the two is a series of wars in the 1900s that required an entire generation of men to become very familiar with operating and repairing machines better than the Germans and Japanese (an exercise that Chrysler would later abandon in favor of the phrase "if you can't beat em, join em").

This conflict ended with a surge of able-bodied men finding themselves returning to their project management jobs (like their granddaughters after them) but armed with captured German weapons and a comprehensive understanding of tubochargers. Just as a line can be drawn from troop drawdowns to political violence, there's a distinct correlations between GIs returning home and the violence with which Ford Flathead V8s were torn apart by inventive supercharging methods paired with landspeed record attempts.

Give a man a racecar and he'll crash it on the salt flats in a day. Teach a man to repair a racecar and it will sit in the garage of his suburban house for a few years in between complete engine rebuilds required by what can only be described as "vaporized piston rods."

Of course this hotrodder generation created the circumstances we live in today, as the market saw their fast cars cobbled together from old prewar hulks and simply stamped out new ones from factory, faster and more convenient for the next generation than building one from scratch. Now the project manager mother of 3 drives a 4wd barge with climate controlled seats boasting more computing power than the moon mission and an emissions-controlled powertrain with more horsepower than her grandfather's jalopy and her fathers factory muscle car combined. And she doesn't care at all.

Yet Amongst the average civilians there walks a rare breed: people who know how to change their own oil. We the chosen move among you silently, bucking the system, operating outside the cultural helplessness and trading in forbidden knowledge in almost-abandoned forum threads (flame wars over conventional vs synthetic).

While we do have a marked air of superiority about this, I can't say I haven't stooped to imitating the rich myself. I've been known to wear a silly jacket from time to time.

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 23rd:  Mixtape | Nothing Else Matters - Metallica | Earnest a/n: steddie, getting together, first kiss, mixtapes as a means to communicate your gay crush ao3 masterpost | tumblr masterlist

“Did you make me a mixtape?” Steve asks, expressionless and deadpan as he holds the tape in his hand and stands at the front door of Eddie's trailer. 

Eddie’s heart tumbles into his stomach as his stomach falls to his feet. Maybe leading the mixtape off with Bruce Springsteen’s Letter To You and ending it with Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters was a bit too on the nose, a bit too obvious. But who can blame him, honestly. He’s never been known for his subtlety. 

“Yep,” he responds simply and shrugs. “Got a lot of time on my hands, y’know? If you don’t like it, you can chuck it.” 

Steve steps around him into the trailer, tape still in hand, and reaches around Eddie to close the door behind them. Eddie’s bracketed against the door on the receiving end of a look he can’t quite place. It all happens so fast, the reverse in position, the door closing, Steve’s lips on his– 

Steve’s kissing me, holy fuck. 

Eddie’s frozen on the spot, arms rod straight at his sides and lips in the same ‘about to ask what the fuck is going on’ position they were when Steve cut him off. With his lips. Because again, to review, Steve Harrington is kissing Eddie Munson. 

He gasps when Steve pulls back and feels himself grow warm under his gaze. 

“Did I read Letter To You wrong, or are you gonna kiss me back, Munson?” Steve grins and threads a hand through his hair. 

Eddie catches his breath and nods, grabbing Steve by the waist and pulling him in against his chest, lips colliding and moving against one another until Steve guides them to the couch. 

It’s a rare thing, Eddie being grateful for his earnest impulsivity. But as Steve climbs on top of him, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Eddie's face, Eddie’s thankful he isn’t known for his subtlety.

[five-rivers]

Another continuation of my poll fic; the previous part is here.

.

“Hello?” called Danny.  “Is anyone there?  Hello?”

There was no answer except a further flicker of light, more distant.  

Danny touched his tongue to his lips briefly, then marked his place in the intake book using one of the blank cards.  He slid out of the chair and off his stack of books to stand.  The cold wood and iron of the floor made him rethink that and he floated up.  It was better that way, anyway, in terms of vantage point.

He approached the gap between shelves.  “Hello?”  

Looking out into the passageway beyond, the light seemed to wrap around and layer over itself with different levels of brightness.  Danny looked back at his own trail of brilliance, saw where it faded, saw where it was fresh and new.  This other trail, it looked like someone had walked this way multiple times.  Going in circles, maybe?

He floated upward, trying for a better vantage point and jostled a set of what looked like windchimes, long triangular metal rods covered in tiny symbols gathered together under domes.  They jingled and jangled musically in the muffling silence of the library.  He stilled them with one hand.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye and turned.  There, just before the passageway bent around a particularly precarious collection of papers, floated a ghost.  

It was a very strange ghost.  It glowed like a small sun, and if Danny’s eyes hadn’t been changed by his own alteration, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to look at it.  It had long, long ears, shaped mostly like a bat’s but furred like a cat’s.  Their eyes, too, were catlike, slitted.  It had wings, and at their ends they were thin and flat, like a moth’s or butterfly’s, but they were fluffy with fur and feathers near their bases, and there was something birdlike about their structure there as well.  Its body was relatively small, and looked soft, although it wasn’t nearly as small as Danny currently was.  Danny couldn’t tell if the ghost was male or female or something else entirely.

But perhaps the strangest thing of all was the pervasive sense of silence it carried with it.  

In any case, Danny saw no golden thread, and some of the other features - like the light - seemed to match with the aids offered to guests.  Only, like.  A lot of them.  All at once.  Meaning they must’ve gotten lost a whole bunch of times, even if Danny couldn’t see any visitor badges on them.

“Um, hi,” said Danny.  “I noticed, um.  Are you lost?  The attendant should be coming before too long.”

The faintest of breezes tickled the back of his neck and he looked behind him, to the other end of the passage.  There was another almost identical ghost hovering there.  

“Um.”  Danny was, perhaps, getting just a little nervous about the silent staring.  

More light.  Yet another similar ghost floated at the opposite entry to the card catalog space.  And–

Danny moved backwards, into more open space as the area brightened further and more luminous, winged ghosts floated into view or poked heads up over shelves and other barriers.  

“Danny,” said Mom.  

“Not now,” said Danny.  He blinked.  

Next thing he knew, fingers were brushing his throat.  He flinched backwards and away.  Fast.  Either naturally so, or via alteration.  Or, if they weren’t visitors, maybe because of a home-field advantage or disadvantage on Danny’s part.  Some places did that, and he hadn’t been here long enough to determine if this was one of them.  

“I don’t want to fight,” he said.  Or tried to say.  He went through the motions, but his voice made no sound.  He made no sound, period, not even the sound of his tongue tapping against the roof of his mouth.  

He’d been silenced.  Not good.  That meant that not only could he not negotiate, he couldn’t call for help.  

He was left with limited options, and limited time to choose between them.  Luckily, those same battle-born reflexes and reactions that were inconvenient elsewhere served him well now and gave him the chance to choose.  

He could fight.  The librarians would be unhappy.  It was against the rules that the receptionist had given to him, and likely to damage the books and card catalog, so he’d probably be kicked out.  But, if he fought, he was sure he’d win, even with these numbers, and that would be safer than his other options.  He couldn’t imagine that this many people ganging up on someone who looked like they were five meant well.  

He could flee.  He would almost certainly get lost, but that was a lesser crime than damaging the card catalog.  Whether or not he’d get caught… well, he had about the same amount of experience running as fighting, but he usually wasn’t running from a group this large in unfamiliar territory and facing unfamiliar powers.  These silent ghosts could have further unpleasant abilities.  

He could freeze.  Literally.  He could build a shell of ice and ghost shields up around himself and hunker down until he either thought of a better plan or the attendant came back.  That might put the attendant in danger, but Danny didn’t know if it would be more danger than if he just ran away.  Anything other than fighting and winning decisively meant that these people would still be around.  But if they were meant to be here… if the attendant could negotiate with them or authorize a fight…

Too much speculation.  He had the space of a breath in which to act.  Less. 

[nuri148]

My Take on Levi's Age

I originally wrote this as a rb addition to another post. I've been meaning to make it a stand alone post since then, and with all the talk about Levi's age since the publication of bad boy, here it is, finally.

If you ask me, Levi could not have been more that 4-5 years old at the time Kenny found him around 829.

Why?

He's severely malnourished, probably spent several days cloistered in the room with Kuchel with nothing to eat. So my guess is that, though he was old enough to speak and understand Kuchel was dead (even if he could not quite grasp the bigger concept of Death), he was too young to go out and procure himself and his mum some food, be it by stealing or begging. And for that, he's need to be very young.

I lived in Greater Buenos Aires more than half of my life (the infamous "conurbano"), and I've seen lots of very small kids, 4-5 years old, begging like pros for either change or food. It's unfortunately very common in impoverished areas. And I wasn't even in the bad ones. So, in that aspect, the Underground wouldn't be different from our villas or Brazil's favelas.

Kuchel was a prostitute. She wouldn't want Levi to witness her at work. It is fair to think that as soon as he was old enough to cross the street she'd let him roam and go play with other kids while mummy's busy. There, he'd quickly learn how to come by a piece of moldy bread to stave hunger.

So in order to just sit starving by his mother instead of going out looking for help, Levi must have been young enough that his mum could still keep him under wraps; too young to know his way about the Underground's streets, too much of a rookie in terms of using his charm or his cunning to get a bit of food.

Uri Reiss inherited the Founding Titan in 829. BUT, nowhere does it say that Kenny's encounter with Uri happens right after the latter became a titan. So Kenny might have joined Uri up to a couple of years after 829 (not many, as Rod Reiss still looks young in that flashback).

So Kenny finds Levi between 829 and 831; And Levi is 4-5 then, meaning he was born, at earliest, in 823 (considering his b-day is only one week before the year's end, that'd make him 5 in for most of 829) and latest in 825 (same if Kenny found him in 831). That makes him 10-12 years older than Eren and company. , ~20 when he joins the SC, ~26 during seasons 1-3, ~30 after the time skip, and ~33 in the epilogue.

"But Yams said he was thirty-somethiiiing!"

TLDR: I wouldn't consider canon some spur-of-the-moment answer given by Yams in a panel where he's probably tired, nervous, and doesn't have his timeline handy.

Allow me to speak here as a writer: the whims of your imagination often don't align with the logic of what needs to go on the page. So it is perfectly possible to imagine your character in a way that is inconsistent with your timeline. You see them with short hair and summer clothes fixing lunch in their sunny kitchen in a scene and, when they move to the dining room you see them with hair 4 inches longer and serving supper as a snowstorm rages outside. When you write it, you're going to have to pick up one, and go back to your notes often for continuity after, bc your brain keeps forever placing the kitchen in sunny summer and the living room in a winter night. Oh, and they're both simultaneously on the ground and the second floor. Escher pictures make more sense.

The story of AoT spans many years, so we don't know which year Levi is the default Levi in Yams' brain. It could even be the Levi from the time skip, or from a future after the last chapter that only exists in his imagination. Also, Yams has bungled up numbers before so, personally, I don't trust him much in that department.

In any case, Math is a hard science, so if Kenny found Levi with 4-5 years in 829, he can't be 30+ in 850. 5+21=26. No matter what Yams says.

Additional notes:

The original post. With additions. I recommend reading the quoted twitter thread.

Another, recent twitter thread on Levi's age

A lengthy post by an actual psychologist providing scientific foundation for Levi's age when Kenny finds him.

I saw yet another post on Levi's age recently, but I can't find the link rn and I have to make lunch. if/when I find it, I'll add it (and others I may come across)

[glimmervoi]

A SEALED FATE: EMERALDS AND BLOOD - VI The Beginning of the Winter Ball

masterlist

e&b masterlist

notes: phew, that took forever for me to write ;-; i was really struggling with this one and Idk why because i was so excited to write it when i left off at the last chapter. oh well, it's up now - i hope you all enjoy it!! cant wait to get the next chapter up :D

The winter ball shimmered with life and elegance, a spectacle that drew envy from all corners of the kingdom. Dressed in gowns spun from the most expensive of threads and suits tailored with utmost precision, guests from far and wide glided across the floor in a symphony of laughter and music, each step a testament to the grandeur of the event.

The ballroom buzzed with energy as guests mingled and danced. The musicians in the corner belted out lively tunes, adding to the festive atmosphere. Glasses of bubbly wine clinked together as people laughed and chatted, the room alive with excitement and joy.

The ball was just getting started, and you couldn't help but be amazed. Coming from a humble village, the grandeur of the event was like something out of a dream. It was a stark reminder of how far you'd come, even if your presence there was not something you had initially expected nor wanted.

You weren’t supposed to be serving at the ball that night. Rae had assured you that the service maids would take care of it, giving you a rare night off. It was a welcomed relief, as you had plans to sneak off to the stables, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man you had encountered days before.

You were almost certain he was a stableboy by his attire, but when you mentioned the handsome man to Rae, she drew a blank. Still, you felt compelled to check the stables, just in case.

He had lingered in your thoughts since your first encounter, leaving you yearning for that electrifying, joyful sensation he brought. Yet, your plans to visit the stables were ruined upon entering the maids' chambers to change. Sanria's unexpected presence stopped you in your tracks.

An hour later, you found yourself in the small kitchen adjacent to the ballroom, gazing through the open door at the guests reveling in laughter and joy.

Sanria had already departed, leaving behind a chilling warning of a painful beating with the thin wooden rod she kept tucked in her apron. The threat hung heavily in the air, a reminder of the consequences awaiting any mistake or offense against Iseul, the stern head of the service maids.

Iseul, while not as imposing as Sanria, still commanded respect. The young woman's raven hair framed a stern expression, her lips set in a deep frown, and her slender frame seemed more stiff than a stone pillar. Like Sanria, she too carried a wooden rod tucked into her black apron, a silent symbol of her authority and a promise to punish any who angered her.

Isabella, a bubbly blonde maid, stood in stark contrast to Iseul's severity. Despite the initial shock of being summoned to serve at the ball, she had lent a hand in getting you ready. With her assistance, you managed to squeeze into the all-black service dress and frilly apron, a uniform reserved for special occasions.

In Sanria's presence, Isabella remained silent, but her eyes spoke volumes. They conveyed an understanding of your confusion, discomfort, and alarm at the daunting task of serving important guests in such a grand event, especially considering your recent arrival at the castle. You couldn't help but wonder who had requested such an inexperienced servant for such a significant occasion.

You had to shake off the unsettling feeling and muster your courage. Allowing your nerves to affect you would only invite trouble, but if you pretended to be confident and composed, you might just get through unscathed.

You stood in silence, observing as Isabella and Iseul quickly arranged two sleek black trays laden with tall, slender glasses brimming with sparkling wine. You willed the slight tremor in your fingers to cease, your focus fixed on the task at hand. Iseul didn't spare you a glance once she finished, merely snapping her fingers before pivoting to prepare another tray.

Isabella's kind gaze met yours as you approached. "Have you ever carried a tray filled with glasses like this before?" she inquired, her tone gentle. Her presence brought a sense of comfort, causing your tense shoulders to ease slightly. You shook your head in response.

"It's easy, really," she reassured, smoothly sliding the tray from the table onto her waiting hand. The liquid in the glasses barely rippled, and she held the tray with ease, despite there being at least ten glasses resting on its surface. "Just carefully slide it onto your palm. But don't go too fast or too slow. It can practically sense your fear when you do it that way."

Your brows furrowed as you gently tugged on the edge of the tray. Not too fast, not too slow—just right. You hoped you'd get it just right on the first try, before Iseul turned and witnessed you dropping an entire tray of wine on the ground.

You tugged the tray onto your hand, mimicking Isabella's technique, wincing as the wine threatened to spill over the edge of the glass. The blonde nodded her approval and offered a small smile. "Perfect," she said, brushing a stray droplet off the surface of your tray.

"Now, when you go up to serve someone, you must first bow your head like this," Isabella demonstrated by dipping her chin lightly, her eyes cast downward. A respectful and simple action. "Then, ask them if they would like a glass. If they ask what the wine is, it is a Sparkling Snowdrop from Shivermaw. It’s their specialty."

You faintly remembered the name, Shivermaw. One of the girls a few beds down from yours was born there, but had left due to the crumbling economy of the winter city. Supposedly, the Duke and Duchess were doing just fine, and so were the wealthier inhabitants of the city. But the further out from the city's main area you got, the poorer the families were. And that wasn't even considering the rural villages, comparable to your own.

You shook off the thoughts of Shivermaw and nodded at Isabella. "Alright, ready?" she asked quietly, approaching the doorway of the kitchen. You swallowed, tempted to admit you weren't ready and that you just wanted to go to bed. But you followed her, once again gazing into the beautiful ballroom.

"Ready," you said quietly. Then, you both entered. The music swelled, and so did the voices of the guests. The scents of their perfumes enveloped you, making it feel like the air in your lungs had vanished.

So many people, you thought to yourself, trying to steady your breathing. It had been one thing to peer in from the outside, but standing amidst the crowd was another matter entirely. Your legs began to shake; you were terrified. The reality of it all sunk in deeper now that you were actually there. The fear of making a mistake and facing Sanria's wrath felt closer than it had before.

Isabella seemed to sense your anxiety and gently nudged your arm with hers. "Hey," she murmured softly. You looked into her bright eyes, your breath coming out shakily.

"Act like you've been doing this for years. Confidence is key - if you show it, they won't question a thing. All they really care about is having a good time, indulging in food and drink, and enjoying each other's beds," she said with a playful smirk.

Indeed, she had a point. They'd likely glance past you without a second thought; you were merely a background figure. With a resigned sigh, you summoned a faint smile. "I'll handle the right side. You take care of the left?"

Isabella nodded, her gaze filled with reassurance. Alongside you, other maids clad in attire identical to yours were already circulating on the right side as they handed out drinks. You surveyed the area, noting the guests who had yet to acquire a glass of Shivermaw’s wine.

You made the choice to approach a stunning woman with ivory skin and hair that looked to be made of the sun's golden rays. Her gown, a blush colored silk, was adorned with so many pearls that it looked as though it was twice as heavy as she was. Yet, she moved with effortless grace as though it was as light as a piece of chiffon.

You followed Isabella's instruction, gracefully bowing your head as you presented her with a glass of wine. She momentarily halted her conversation with a handsome, dark-skinned man, casting her gaze upon you. However, instead of acknowledgment, her expression shifted from flirtatious to one of disdain. Without a word she turned away, dismissing you with a subtle gesture and once more engaging in conversation.

As you willed away the prickling irritation and embarrassment from her reaction, your focus shifted to an older woman, her hair gracefully streaked with silver. She wore a gown of deep blue, its simplicity heightened by its quiet elegance. With a composed demeanor you approached her, bowing your head respectfully before extending the offer of a glass of wine from your tray once again.

"Thank you, dear," she murmured softly, graciously accepting the glass. A sense of satisfaction washed over you, prompting a gentle nod from you in response. With a silent step backward, you gave her the space to savor her wine in peace. Slowly you distributed the rest of the contents of your tray.

For the next hour, you conducted your own quiet waltz, moving in harmony with the music resonating from the heart of the room. It was a dance of five steps: a “graceful” journey to the kitchen, where you retrieved a fresh tray from Iseul, whose silence remained unbroken. Returning to the ballroom, you distributed the wine, then retreated back to the kitchen to restart your dance. Each repetition carried its own rhythm, blending seamlessly into the elegant cadence of the evening.

On your eighth trip to the kitchen, Iseul abruptly halted your motion as you reached for the replenished tray. Her hand landed firmly on the tray, blocking you. "Let Nidora handle this one," she instructed, her voice carrying a raspy edge. You complied, withdrawing your hand as the quiet redhead silently took the tray, avoiding your gaze as she did so.

"Is everything alright?" you inquired softly, clasping your hands behind your back. Despite your lack of prior experience in service, you had believed you were managing quite well.

Iseul set down the dark blue wine bottle that she had been uncorking and fixed her gaze upon you, her eyes filled with nothing but disdain. "I don't like you," she declared bluntly, causing your brows to raise in surprise.

"O-oh," you stammered, searching for a more composed response. You understood that everyone had their own thoughts and opinions, but you couldn't help but wonder why the head maid had chosen this moment to share hers with you. After all, you hadn't knowingly given her any reason to harbor such animosity.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed before Iseul broke it, her voice tinged with accusation.

"The only reason you're here is because a Prince specifically requested you," she asserted, folding her arms tightly across her chest. You recoiled slightly, taken aback by her words. Instantly, your thoughts turned to Namjoon. He had been the only prince to engage with you, and it was merely a single request... Had you somehow inconvenienced or offended him?

Rae hadn't shown any signs that Namjoon was concerned or dissatisfied with your performance. Surely if you had done something wrong, she would have brought it to your attention? And if you had, why would Namjoon specifically request you? It didn't make sense. Unless... unless he was planning to make an example of you in front of everyone at the ballroom?! The thought sent a shiver down your spine, unsettling and alarming.

You started to tremble, the uncertainty and anxiety swirling within you. What could you have possibly done to provoke such anger from him? Rae had ensured you that he received the correct tea, so why would he single you out? Was it possible that he wanted you specifically to serve it? But would such a minor detail warrant such public humiliation in front of the entire ballroom? The questions raced through your mind, each one amplifying your anxiety.

Iseul's snort cut through the tension, her smile twisted with malice as she observed your shocked expression. "You're just like that whore Kassie. You slept with one of them, didn't you?" she accused, leaning in with disdain. "Now my neck is on the line. If you mess up, the repercussions fall on me. If I wanted to deal with an inexperienced cleaning maid, I would have gladly taken Rae’s position myself-"

"What are you talking about?" you interjected, cutting her off mid-sentence. Panic surged through you, your hands trembling as you braced them against the counter. Leaning forward, you desperately tried to convey your innocence. "I haven't been sleeping with anyone!"

Iseul's nostrils flared, and she uncrossed her arms with a sharp motion, seizing the bottle of wine from the counter. "Your reaction tells me that you’re lying," she stated icily, her tone cutting through the air like a knife as she resumed pouring the wine into the waiting glasses. “I want you to know that if you make a single mistake, I will be the one beating you. And my rod is much more painful than Sanria’s.” 

You attempted to interject, to offer some form of defense or clarification, but she swiftly silenced you before you could utter a single word.

"I do not care about your excuses," she spat, venom dripping from her lips. "Just get back out there and do your job. And do not mess it up." Her words were a cold dismissal, leaving you with no choice but to comply, the weight of her expectations heavy upon your shoulders.

You recoiled, instinctively flinching as she forcefully thrust a tray towards you. The dark-haired maid's stern demeanor left no room for doubt - she wasn't bluffing. If you made a mistake, she would know, and the consequences would be dire. Standing there to argue or seek answers would only further infuriate her. She had already made up her mind, convinced of your involvement with a prince. It was clear that trying to reason with her would be futile. With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to brushing off her accusations and returning to your duties.

Shakily, you grasped the fresh tray and cautiously approached the doorway, peering into the bustling room. Tension gripped you once more, just like it had during your initial entry into the crowded space. If Namjoon had indeed requested your presence, you were determined to avoid the tall prince at all costs. Yet, despite scanning the room, you hadn't caught sight of him all night. Was it a stroke of luck, or perhaps part of his scheme to catch you off guard? The uncertainty gnawed at you, adding another layer of unease to an already tense evening.

You made an effort to steady yourself, taking note of the shifting atmosphere within the ballroom. The tables were now being repositioned, guests darting around with metal keys clutched tightly in their hands. The key matching game was underway, evident from the flurry of activity as people hurried to find their matches.

Your thoughts drifted to the stableboy from earlier, and a pang of longing tugged at your heart. Amidst the chaos surrounding you, you found yourself yearning for his company, wishing you were anywhere but in your current position. However, you steeled yourself and pressed onward, continuing your duties of distributing wine to the newly formed couples who stood together, their keys glimmering in the soft candlelight.

You emptied two more trays, although you remained unsettled from the encounter with Iseul. Suddenly, a familiar tingling sensation coursed through your veins, prompting you to instinctively tighten your grip on the empty tray. A small shiver danced down your spine as you glanced around, a strange feeling creeping over you.

Suddenly, a warm hand rested gently on your shoulder, and a soft voice murmured close to your ear, "I finally found you." Startled, you whipped around, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks at the unexpected proximity. Before you stood the stableboy who had occupied your thoughts for days, appearing even more handsome than you remembered.

A smile unconsciously spread across your face as you prepared to ask him why he was there, rather than tending to the stables. However, your question remained unspoken as a glimmer of gold caught your eye from atop his head. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized— he was wearing a crown.

He was wearing a crown.

[thepaperpanda]

Warnings: oral (f receiving), fem!Reader, shibari

Synopsis: Douma initiates you into the world of shibari

Author: @dumadono

A/N: Welcome to another day of Kinktober '23 Collaboration Today's prompt: shibari

Masterlist

Douma's heart is captivated by artistry, and what greater embodiment of artistic expression is there than the ancient Japanese art of bondage, known as shibari or, in its traditional form, kinbaku? 

_________________

That day, he embarks on a journey from mere admiration to active engagement and beyond. This is why the two of you find yourselves strolling along this quiet, desolate dirt path, burdened with an array of tools and paraphernalia, ready to delve into the world of bound passion and creative intimacy.

"Have you ever ventured into the art of shibari?" you inquire, your voice hesitant like a gentle breeze.

"A few times, yet I never fully mastered it, lotus," he responds, his words flowing like a tranquil stream.

"How so, Douma-sama?" you question, curiosity dancing in your eyes.

"Shibari, my little lotus, is an art of intricate knots and delicate ties," he answers, his voice a seductive whisper. "It requires patience, precision, and a deep connection between the one tying and the one being bound. I believe we share such a connection."

You blush at his words.

You now find yourself at a single-room wooden dwelling. Douma has frequented this place, studying its secrets, delivering various items, and readying the weathered edifice you now encounter for its current purpose. For several months, no soul has ventured here, and this aligns perfectly with Douma's intentions. Silence reigns, a tranquility he diligently maintains.

Now that you are both inside, and you undress completely.

In complete silence, Douma's actions speak volumes. His kisses and tender caresses trace your body with affection, focusing on your breasts and ass. As you sit on a small stool, he carefully unravels coils of rope. One end is guided through the first of the eye bolts, draping down to your shoulders. The length is matched with the other end, and a secure knot is tied at the eye bolt. With your arms extended, Douma has you hold a sturdy bamboo rod behind your head, spanning from one hand to the other.

Methodically, deliberately, and with deep affection, Douma begins to weave the ropes around you, starting at your underarms and winding them around until they reach your hands. Ornamental knots adorn each hand, and then the ropes are guided back up, securing them to the same eye bolt. Your upper body is now firmly bound, your arms suspended about three feet above the floor. Despite only four points of suspension, the bamboo and the rope's intricate threading ensure your weight is evenly distributed.

Next, another rope passes through the far eye bolt, and it's employed to secure your ankles to another bamboo rod intended to maintain your legs apart. A third rope descends, slipping beneath the small of your back, alleviating most of the weight from your ankle restraints. Two additional ropes loop under your back, the first just below your breasts, and the second halfway between the first and the rope near your hips. All of this consumes a substantial amount of time due to the meticulous knot work being executed.

At this juncture, you are suspended from the eye bolts with only your head left unsupported. Douma brushes your hair, "You're such a good lotus, so obedient to me."

You're now completely bound. 

“How are you feeling, my precious lotus?” Douma asks, his tone lacing with sweetness.

“I’m good, master,” you reply, offering him a smile. “Keep going.”

Removing the stool, Douma stands back to assess his handiwork. To a casual observer, it might appear as if you are being tortured, but the reality is quite the opposite. In truth, you are utterly comfortable and at peace. You feel more liberated than you have ever felt before. You have surrendered yourself completely to Douma and have no decisions to worry about.

The height at which you are suspended is carefully selected to grant Douma ideal access to your pussy while he occupies the stool. His eyes remain closed as he skillfully employs his mouth and tongue, bringing you to orgasm after orgasm while you hover weightlessly in the air. He possesses an innate sense of timing, allowing just enough respite before resuming his attention. Overwhelmed by ecstasy and a profound sensation of boundless pleasure, your passionate cries fill the space. This experience is unlike any you've ever encountered, an unprecedented expression of love and desire.

Douma's skilled tongue dances slowly on your clitoris, occasionally gliding down the slit to your sweet entrance, which emits juices he adores so much. He places tender licks here and there, occasionally applying a gentle suction to your lips, all while humming with delight.

You inquire about him, expressing your desire to please him in return.

Douma responds, breaking his silence for the first time since your arrival, stating that this experience is for your satisfaction, and you need not worry about his release at this moment. It's also unlikely that you'd be in a condition to attend to his needs after this intense scene.

After a few hours, you are lowered from your suspended position. You're tired. Exhaustion has taken its toll, and Douma gently carries you along the deserted dirt road back to his shrine while weariness overcomes you, and you eventually fall asleep in his comforting embrace.

"I love you so much, little lotus," Douma whispers, placing a tiny kiss on your temple.

[dysfunctionaldungeons]

Wanna make your own puppets!?

I love puppets! I want to see more puppets and puppeteers in the world!

To that end, here is a link to all the patterns I've collected over the years. It's not many as I make my own but there's plenty here for new makers to start with! Included is a Fraggle pattern and a Sprocket pattern! But new puppeteers should start with Glorified Sock Puppet.

If you need any help or advice just send me a message and I'll do my best to walk you through it!

What you'll need for the Glorified Sock Puppet.

Fabric. This could be anything but Fleece is easy to come by, cheap, and very very easy to work with. If you wanna take it a step further Anton Fleece is the fabric they use to make Muppets but there's only a few places that still make it.

Thread

Hot glue

Sewing needle. A sewing machine is much much faster but if you don't have the money or space for one you can hand sew everything. It just takes forever.

Pins

There's various ways to make eyes but I use cut in half ping pong balls. Gotta get the quality ones though. Cheap ones wont work.

Quarter inch foam

Toulan's Elixir

Hard plastic. I cut mine out from a plastic tote. They're very cheap. You will need sand paper to score the surface though or the glue wont stick to it. Scoring the surface is when you rub it with sand paper until it's all scratched up. You can use cardboard or even card paper but it wont last long.

Dowel rods. I buy my arm rods off the internet but I use to just use dowel rods painted black.