#do they look as great as moulded pieces? no

[maranull]

placing stickers is actually very fun, I don't get why some folks dislike them

I love them, they are a nice break on the cutting and fitting moulded pieces

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives characters as art objects and sculptures; extended ---

hello, i remembered i made some subjective explanations and notes on few of my choices for this post, and i thought some folks might enjoy it. soo let's get into it.

1.

monty finch

author: anders krisár

pretty self-explanatory; it's a moulded male torso with visible inprints on its skin.

anders krisár’ artistry explores the themes of loss, separation, and the condition of the psyche through the lens of a human body in duality: perfectionism meets unsettlement, skin meets marble and bronze and polyester, to create sculptures spanning geological time far beyond the living's capabilities.

monty's creation by esther was already stripped of any human agency. "he was made a boy, not a person", small, almost doll-sized, with a singular purpose: to seduce and entice the chosen dead boy into their doom. the naked skin and specifically the position of its arms are mildly erotic, but in a way that makes your skin crawl. the imprints are intimate, placed possesive; notice the thumbs digging close to especially sensitive areas like nipples and the belly button.

the latter seems to connect the "creator" to the subject, the navel here as a symbol of cruel, invasive motherhood. the fact that the torso is cut off in the middle and at the neck furthers the uncanny valley feeling of a young male body, but then again. this is a realistic portrayal. so was it ever a person? what does it have inside to make dents so profound? how deep you can press until it breaks?

--- i'm leaving out crystal and edwin (for now?), but @nicheoverhere brilliantly noticed that it was the same author for both. that was intentional! because glen martin taylor is all about taking kintsugi, which is a beautiful art form of repairing fine china and generally delicate things with veins of precious metals, but with materials like— nails. scissors. barbed wire. all ugly. the repair after a great shattering is seldom pretty after all, they really are similar in this regard. ---

2.

charles rowland

author: robert hudson

okay, strap in. this funky dreamy world belongs to robert hudson, and i picked it for charles rowland because it's all first impressions. the colours? the composition? they give you the 80s vibes, almost; like something a kid would design if you asked them what a time machine would look like. it could probably move in several ways. the pieces seem mismatched, but hold themselves together surprisingly well. or maybe you underestimate it?

it's neither big nor small. you can't tell its size at all. it's a bit overwhelming to look at, at first, and at second, and after a while, but it carries that comfortable familiarity and nostalgia for— well, nothing in particular, because the longer you look, the sadder its past seems. the bold pops of contrasting colour are fighting for your attention. they want you to like it! and yet, the major material seems to be just. rusted steel. made from tools.

and look at that botched up sphere, it wants so badly to be a perfect sphere and it knows it'll never be one. fine!! perhaps it could be a football ball instead! or maybe a head. if you close your eyes, that is. and this facing-up horseshoe? a lucky charm, made to collect good luck and keep it from falling out cause god, it needs it.

---

3.

niko sasaki

author: justin cloud

---

niko sasaki, now how do i describe her? let's start by saying— she's cleary a her. this one is a she. and there's something to be said about blooming, and femininity, and delicacy, because pink is a hopeful girly colour and a surprise and a delight.

what are you doing in a gallery, little flower, shouldn't you be at home? in a field? look how pretty you are! mind you, of course there's something wrong with her as well, but you're not sure if that is because someone messed it up, or because of a different entity alltogether. was it always half-electric? its elegance seems purposeful— the iridescent metal fits all too well with the white-pink petals— but also uncanny. and oh suddenly you can't stop looking at the stigma from which a pollen should release aaany time now.

when i look at her, at her black artificial stem and the small leaves imitating the real ones, i wonder if she doesn't want to lure me into a trap. is it her fault?

the beautiful petals seem like the only thing left real of the flower. whichever way she turns, it will probably mean— death. and flowers are ephemeral. what is a flower mounted to a wall, fortified with steel, connected with cables and enfused with electrical energy, then?

i think she's a self-preserving survivor. ---

4.

the night nurse

author: elizabeth turk

---

now. the night nurse.

of course it's the only piece in the collection where the background needed to be dark. no one here is older than her. there is no inoffensive, fading-into-background white for this absolute pillar of truth. or maybe something like a totem, quite protective in nature. and it's terrifying, 'cause you're immediately hit with the feeling that you're looking at something out of this realm, something you're not supposed to witness. the perspective is all wrong. is it downwards or upwards? why does it seem unstable when the pieces are so perfectly centered and seemingly well-balanced? child, you should calm down, it's not like you will destroy it with a stronger puff of air. will you?

this sculpture is called "tipping point — echoes of extinction", and it's actually a mix of technology and sculpture and sound, with elegant visualizations of the lost voices of birds and sea mammals. the author said it "was conceived in reverence to the astounding lives the species which envelop humans have lived and the mysterious ways they have contributed to our well-being. the shadows of their memory, whether a shape or a sound, have inspired this project." so the piece deals with death. moreover, it deals with murder. it records the harsh reality and makes sure the ones that suffered horribly at the hands of humans are, in a way, celebrated. but also— categorised. like epitaphs. the birdsong, once a living sign, is only visually represented by the lines of varying lenghts in 3D, and you can do nothing about it anymore, right, you can't bring back the dead, you can't help the innocent dying in any way other than— stacking them on top of each other and moving on.

---

so that's for now, i might someday write more if anyone's curious. :")

[wolfpants]

nightcall (drarry, 1058 words)

Thank you to @getawayfox for the amazing art for this little piece I wrote for kinkuary! Give her post some love here ❤️‍🔥 Rated: E / nsfw Tags: Unspeakable!Drarry, begging, phone sex, dirty talk, masturbation, FWB, colleagues to lovers, pining, light bdsm On a top secret Unspeakable misson, Harry calls Draco from a remote phone booth on the Isle of Skye. ao3 link here, or keep reading

❤️‍🔥🖤📞🏍🥀

“What are you looking at right now?”

“Castle ruins. The sea. The moon. Dark road.”

“Have you got somewhere to sleep?”

A pause.

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

“Have you got somewhere to sleep?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got somewhere to sleep. Don’t worry.”

Draco’s breath crackles against Harry’s ear. 

If Harry closes his eyes—shuts off the road, the barren hills, the moonlight sparkling against the shore—he can pretend Draco’s right here with him. 

He can pretend Draco’s huffing gently into his ear, murmuring against his throat like he might if they were alone together in the same room.

“That’s all I do,” Draco whispers dryly. “Arsehole.”

They shouldn’t even be talking. It’s against code. They could lose their jobs. 

The Ministry doesn't know how to tap Muggle telephone boxes, but Draco and Harry know better than to talk about work outside of Level Nine. So Harry doesn’t ask Draco if he’s still working on those files and old tomes he keeps under deadly protection magic in The Manor. He doesn’t ask if he stayed in the office all night again and forgot to eat dinner. 

“Does my voice sound normal?” Draco asks when Harry doesn’t respond to the bait of his insult. 

“Your voice has never sounded normal.” 

Harry is curled over the telephone desk. He runs his finger over the edges of the BT directory. He pulls back the cover to read it.

THE PHONE BOOK: HIGHLANDS AND ISLANDS 2003/2004

Almost ten years out of date.

“Fuck you,” comes Draco’s predictably plummy-edged response.

“Fuck you,” Harry repeats, grinning. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other. His riding leathers, softened and moulded to his body like a second skin, crease and rasp gently. His helmet is by his feet, his bike outside on the gravel; headlight on, casting the winding road ahead in ghostly bleached light. Its engine gently purrs into the night, reminding him that they need to keep this catch up brief.

“No, really,” Draco says, dropping his voice back to a whisper. His breath puffs against the receiver.

“You’re smoking.” Harry leans against the glazed side of the box and drops his head back against the glass panes. 

“I’m outside, no one’s going to die,” Draco murmurs.

Harry closes his eyes again and pictures Draco standing on the lawn in Wiltshire. Mobile phone to ear, screen glowing against his face, cheeks pink from the cold. Surrounded by shadowed hedges and sculpted water features, smoke pluming from his lips, creeping up towards the starry sky. His hair is pulled into a knot on the back of his head. Or perhaps it’s loose, and the breeze is moving it around the sharp slopes of his cheeks.

“You look sexy when you smoke. You sound great. I miss you,” Harry says in three steady beats.

Draco won’t return the words. He never does. But Harry knows he feels them. 

That he misses them too. Whatever—they are.

Work partners. Friends. More than friends sometimes. Less than friends other times.

Another soft breath. “Are you alone?”

“I’m on the tip of Skye looking at the North Atlantic. I’m very alone. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a tree.”

“Then,” Draco huffs gently—an inhale, a sharp exhale, the sound of his shoes clicking against pavement. He’s walking through the hedge maze. “Fuck you.”

Harry licks his lips. “Yeah?” He cups himself over his leather trousers. Slides his thumb over the shifting head of his cock as it grows closer towards his hip.

Draco hums, deep and smooth. Harry tilts his hips up in a slow fuck against his fingers, heat spreading, sharp and singular, between his legs. “God I want you,” he rasps, closing his eyes. The flutter of pale hair. Draco’s lovely lips wrapping around the filter of his cigarette. The way he kisses, dirty and like he means it.

“You have to ask for it nicely first, Potter.” Another inhale. “You can’t just take what you want. Especially from me.”

Harry balances the phone between his shoulder and his ear and fumbles with the zip of his leathers. “Please,” he whispers. 

Draco hums again, louder this time, almost a moan but not quite. “Tell me what you want."

“I want you to sit on my face,” Harry says on a breath. His leathers are open as far as the zip will let him. He rucks up the t-shirt he wears underneath, enough to get into the waistband of his pants. His cock is already poking out the top, tip wet and swollen. He stares blearily at the beam of light outside, at the empty hills and sparkling water, fingers teasing himself in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Draco inhales sharply. “What was that?”

“I want you to sit on my face—please.” Harry licks his lips, circling his thumb over the wet head of his prick. “Want you to ride my mouth, my tongue. Take what you want from me. God, I want that so badly.”

“You like being suffocated, don’t you, you sick pup,” Draco whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry chokes out. “P—please.”

“And your tongue always feels so damn good. Maybe if you eat me good enough I could ride your cock. Would you like that?”

Harry groans, already so close. His leathers squeak and crease, and his elbow knocks against the glass behind him as he strokes his length up and down, balls drawing up tight.

“You’d have to stay still, though."

“Yes,” Harry breathes, picturing it now, like the countless times Draco has held him down—by the chest, the arms, the neck, sometimes—while he bounces up and down on his cock until they both come, sweaty and breathless.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I want to come.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t come riding you,” Draco whispers.

“Draco…”

“Maybe I’d climb off you after you’ve spilled deep inside me, and we could switch. Maybe I could fuck the come out of you again, because you’re a dirty, needy little sl—”

Harry comes with a sharp, bitten off cry.

It spills down his fingers, splashes onto his t-shirt.

Draco chuckles. Harry hears him light another cigarette. “Good boy,” he croons.

“Fuck you,” Harry says with a breathless laugh, his head spinning. He gazes at the night sky through the foggy pane of glass above his head.

“Soon,” Draco whispers.

[therealjammy]

After watching Act 1 for the third time this afternoon, and on a much larger screen than my laptop, I can say I've come to like the pacing. It was slower in season one because the audience had to be introduced to the characters and the worlds of Piltover and Zaun and the politics between the two; now we're fully immersed, and the stakes are so much higher, it only makes sense that the pacing is going to be amped up.

Now I'd also like to take a moment to talk about my girl Caitlyn and what her arc looks like so far. She has just lost her mother in an attack by a person from a city with whom Piltover was going to make peace. In the wake of grief, and the weight of the Kiramman name/legacy falling on her, it's so easy to drown in both, and far easier to be consumed by anger and revenge. Over the course of episodes 1 and 2, we see the latter two bubbling to the surface, and by episode 3, it has fully taken ahold of her and given her tunnel vision. Does this excuse her not thinking about recruiting Vi, or releasing the Grey on poor Zaunites, or physically accosting Vi in episode 3? Absolutely not. And I fully believe she's going to realise this at some point during Acts 2 or 3, at great cost. As for her stepping forward and accepting the role Ambessa Medarda literally cloaks her in, we must remember that people in power often prey on the vulnerable, promising that certain actions will heal hurts and restore things to "normal." Perhaps Caitlyn believes this, and believes, also, this is how she'll bring justice for her mother's murder and, by extension, the Kiramman name.

And remember, also, that there are still two acts to go before this story is wrapped up. We mustn't judge too hastily, either.

Finally, there is hypocrisy in stating "We want more nuanced characters" and immediately hating when one, or more, show up on screen and they aren't fitting into the Perfect Mould. Most especially queer characters. How are we going to achieve nuance if every character is "morally pure and good"? How can we achieve it when brilliant animators and writers and creators as a whole are bashed for exploring darker emotions, the darker aspects of the human experience? This is one of the many things season 2 of this incredible show is delving into. Take off the purity glasses. Allow these new perspectives to make you uncomfortable. Sit with it if you have to. It isn't a bad thing for a piece of media and its characters/themes to cause you to do some soul-searching. That's the beauty of art. That's the beauty of this show.

[minminyoonjii]

Im going through a hard break up right now and so i was asking could you maybe do a fic skz comforting reader cuz i really need it right now

Btw i love your fics so much<3

I hope your doing great love!

❤️Ultimate Masterlist

💜Rules and Guidelines

🧡Stray Kids Scenarios Masterlist

🌹CW

QuickFic|Gender Neutral! Reader|Hurt/Comfort|Heavy Reassurance|Domestic Fluff|Picking Up The Pieces|Song Based Fic|'Til Then, I'll Hold On To You

💛AN

Not @ me typing this out at the hospital, okie byee. I'll come back again during my next break <33

💌 This is a work of fiction, I by all means don't force ship anyone. They have the right to love whomever they want.

🍄Wordcount: 0.4K

"Aww, little one. Why are you upset, hm?" Chan asked, entering your room. Tears streamed down your cheeks, mouth agape, not a word was spoken. He hummed, carefully moving towards you, "Can I sit here? You don't have to say anything, baby doll. Just nod or shake your head," Chan reassured, watching your next move. Felix knocked on your door, making you flinch at the echoing sound. 

Jisung winced, furrowing his eyebrows at the jolt, "We're sorry, sweetheart. We didn't mean to," he whispered, walking in. Felix nodded, "Sorry, sunshine. We got worried, you sounded so distressed," he frowned, slowly making his way towards you. " Channie," you whimpered, opening your arms shakily. Chan released a sigh he didn't know he held, "I got you, yeah? *Got you right here, right in my arms," he said, pulling you close to his chest. 

Minho came in with a bottle of water, "Take a sip, munchkin. You cried quite a lot, " he sighed, lightly brushing your hair away from your face. Changbin held Hyunjin's arm, "Are they alright?" he asked, looking towards Felix. "Yeah, but the pain burns, so the tears aren't stopping anytime soon," he whispered, rubbing your calves. Changbin frowned, getting onto the bed with Hyunjin on his lap, "I wish I could take some of it," he growled lowly, pressing his tongue against his inner cheek. 

Hyunjin rubbed Changbin's back, "We all do, hyung," he said, tucking himself within Changbin's hold. "Shh, little one. Get some rest," Chan shushed, rocking your sobbing figure. Their hearts ached, slowly forming a cuddle pack around you. "Give me your loneliness, and I'll give you mine," Seungmin hummed, kissing the top of your palm. "Leave all your tears by your bedside, and let's live a night," Jeongin whispered, brushing your hair. 

"I know you feel a mess, and your pillow wouldn't dry, " Jisung shushed, tucking your plush between your arms. "Come lay on me instead, pay no mind," Chan chuckled, smiling softly as he wiped your tears. "To the voice in your head, pulling old memories," Hyunjin hummed, pulling a blanket over your exhausted body. "Making their circles around your bed," Felix sighed, making sure your feet were tucked under the blankets.

"Late am is always when their try to start their run," Minho pointed out, laying next to Chan. "So come to me where no demons come," he reassured, stroking your cheek. They moulded themselves on the bed, cuddling close into the warmth. "Rest now, little love. Let your pillows dry themselves off for now. You can cry in our warmth instead. Don't hold back your tears, yeah?" Chan smiled, bopping your nose. Tears poured until they dried, staining your plush cheeks with tears marked left behind. "We'll be here when you need us. We're always one step beside you, " he whispered, watching as your half-lidded eyes drifted off, coaxing you into a soundless sleep

[nvuy]

your writing style is a dream of mine, and the pacing & humor in your fics are some of the many reasons i decided to follow you !

i'm trying to write fanfics myself & potentially even run a writing blog! could you share a few writing tips?

you are so cute.

i’ll let you in on a secret: i started actually publishing my fics in 2020, but i since abandoned them because they’re embarrassing. however, here’s one as a starting point. i look back at it and cringe A LOT, but it was my foot in the door, and 15 year old me was very proud of it, so i didn’t want to straight up delete it.

i didn’t start out on tumblr because i get nervous being forced to interact with people because im a pretty abrupt person and i talk about the things that i like too much and im aware that can scare people away. it was about halfway thru writing old habits before i actually posted something. that was this and i posted it because i knew what little audience i had knew ME because i wrote a scaramouche fic. so. scaramouche content.

and because of the tumblr tagging system, people saw it, they liked it, and some people wanted more.

i then interacted with other writers slowly even though i was scared and frankly still am. you dont have to go around asking to be moots or spamming hearts left and right and putting their dicks in ur mouth, but being nice and having a scope around on what other people do on here helped me develop this ugly little blog i have.

i got really into hsr so i write a lot of hsr. i get a lot of people that ask if i could write more genshin impact, and i could, but at the end of the day, it’s my blog, and if i dont want to, i dont have to. i lost interest, so i dont really have to care about it, nor pay it any mind. do i still write it? sure! rarely, but i do. i don’t play wuwa anymore, but im down to write a piece or two if i get an idea, etc etc.

another thing is: don’t write in the hopes that you’ll post it on tumblr. same way i don’t think artists should draw just for the sake of posting. i have so much shit laying on various docs that won’t even be shown on this site, because it doesn’t need to be here. not because it’s bad, or it’s weird, but because i don’t have to post it, because it’s my blog.

the thing is you just be yourself and write whatever the fuck you want. i write horror & weird shit; my audience is probably well aware of that by now, and im not really worried to post anything super weird because its sort of what’s expected of me.

i know horror and romantic cannibalism connotations and yanderes and unsubtle sexy threats is not everyone’s thing, and that’s ok! they don’t have to like what i put out, and i don’t worry about it, because people who like your shit will interact, and people who don’t will not. and people that don’t like ur shit and still interact are losers. hit the block button & move on.

someone is always bound to like your works.

i guess the ‘funny’ comes from the fact that i try to write dialogue how real people would speak. in fictional context, someone like kaedehara kazuha could wax poetry for three hours without stuttering in game, but realistically, nobody can probably do that without pauses, stammers, messing up words, etc. so i try to incorporate a sense of realism into everything, even if it’s a fanfiction in a world where a small boy in white tights is a god and everyone gets tiny little orbs that give them magical elemental powers.

i remember that even though these characters are fictional, i write them as though they could potentially be real people that do things real people do: fidget, stutter, blush, try and be funny and fail, they have problems large or small, etc. you have to mould your personality and writing style to make these characters alive on what you put out—childe seems like a great husband on paper, but is he all that good when he has unchecked mental health problems and has violent outbursts and desires? think about it.

another thing: don’t doubt your skill and prowess, especially in comparing yourself to posts with like 10000+ notes. most of them are note farming bullshit anyway—and a lot of the reader community is more likely to click on porn fics than normal fics. its why the popular posts on the x reader tags are usually porn. it’s half the reason why confiteor is infinitely more popular that old habits when im pretty sure scaramouche is a bigger character on the popularity charts.

strictly nsfw blogs that people make i can guarantee you are a lot more popular than their main blogs.

which brings me to: dont hop on trends. don’t do it. youll burn yourself out. just write what you want. fuck everyone. do whatever the fuck you want. if porn is popular but you’re extremely sex-repulsed or not comfortable, don’t write it. dont write to please people; it’s your blog and your time you’re putting into to do what YOU like, and you’re sharing your work for FREE on a public platform. a lot of people can’t do that. there’s people that follow my blog that openly admit they don’t like yandere/horror/whatever content. am i going to change what i post because of these people? no. not my problem. don’t care. i don’t exist to please everyone, and neither do you. stick to what you like.

don’t write for fandoms you don’t give a shit about just because they’re popular. even if what you like has a small, non-existent fan base, i promise you’ll enjoy writing for that more than something that you’re creating for clicks. notes are nice, but again, you don’t have to post everything you create. half the joy in writing is rediscovering old shit you don’t remember writing for a fandom you actually like. it’s like a reward.

[yourlocaltreesimp]

All Chained Up

All chained up Masterlist

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Tw: It gets a bit existential

Chapter 4: Nothing gives way to nothing

Your dreams were met with the black void again. It’s hollow and empty, so encompassing that it seeps through your skin, leaving a chill across your skin. It’s hard to move again, your limbs surrounded by what feels like molasses. Your mind feels so incredibly loud with its silence, and yet you feel like you are supposed to be this empty. Made to be nothing.

“It’s you-“ “You're back a-” “Why did you le-” The shadows speak, so many voices layered overtop one another that they press against your skull.

“Where am I?” Your voice is so loud here. Crystal clear and commanding despite your intent of a whisper. You flinch away from your own voice, unfamiliar with its power.

“Home.” All of the shadows unanimously agreed, nipping at your skin. You shouldn’t feel pain in a dream. And yet you feel regardless. The nothingness you were made to express was tarnished by the world that surrounds you until you’re no longer a creation that represents what it was meant to. And your creator turned their back on you, leaving you to rot in a world where you could not possibly flourish. These feelings fester and rot until you’re soft and weak. “She’ll be coming to get you soon” One voice whispers right next to your ear, and even then it sounds like a collage of voices pieced together. The words strike fear and yet you do not know why. Shouldn’t the hands of your maker be warm as they mould you back to the form you were intended? You feel as if you know this connection you yearn for with your creator is one you may never have. “We won’t let her take you away again” It puts its hands over your eyes despite there not being much to cover. One darkness simply gave way to another. The empty feeling falling into another until something changes. You feel the energy shift, a low hum filling your senses and buzzing at your limbs. The blood in your veins burns and your organs push against your bones in an effort to escape. Now you were as she intended. Now, you no longer feel like a person. Were you ever really to begin with?

You awake fully sat up, the sun hardly dousing the land with its light. Time watched, silent as ever. Silent as always, and yet your head was filled with chatter. Noise you could not shut out. Wind’s words played back through your head, how Time has given them orders to not speak with you. Caution was good in moderation of course, but that struck you as odd. His gaze was far off, looking far through you. You pop your sore joints and that light of recognition lights in his eyes.

“Rough night?” His voice was different. It’s still hard and commanding as it always had been, but where you were once met with stiffness, there was give. You found it in yourself to nod, not questioning why your nerves still stood on their ends. Why that harrowing emptiness that gave you comfort was stripped away. “Are you usually visited by bad dreams?” Now that, that struck you as odd. Time had given explicit orders to the others to only talk to you as needed (and even then they’ve broken that rule) and he went to great lengths to ignore you himself. But this genuine concern was a jarring shift of character. The shift of his words breaking you down, isolating you, to his words striving to stave off the darkness that infected your mind.

“More recently, I guess” He nods. You feel uncomfortable, despite the fact this concern should be comforting. Much the way you felt about- you cut that thought short. This would all be over soon. It has to be. You’ve fallen into the labyrinth of your mind and would soon find the exit. Or maybe your old life was the labyrinth. Both thoughts now felt sickeningly cruel. Eventually, that awkwardness is broken up by others waking up, Wild making breakfast and Legend’s begrudging return. You felt the urge to reach out, to apologise to the both of them. You hadn’t seen any man look as haunted as Wild did for the rest of that evening, and judging by the bags under his eyes, you guessed he did not sleep well either. And Legend seemed nice enough. Abrasive, sure, but he was the first to actively try and talk to you. Call it clingy, but you weren’t going to let him burn that bridge. So many things flew under your radar. Wind sat glued to your side, silent and still, much unlike the bright and unruly character he normally was. Legend passed you several looks over breakfast, trying to gauge your reaction to his outburst, trying to see if you were still so forgiving of him. Time’s face paint was slightly more vibrant than it usually was, the rich crimson and azure bright and bold against his skin.

As it turned out, both were similarly stubborn in not admitting anything was wrong. Wild was simply unwilling to talk much on the matter, saying that Legend gets heated sometimes, and assured you to ignore it. He made an effort to at least look unbothered, but no person talks with that much strain in their voice about something their unbothered but. Meanwhile, Legend was unwilling to even acknowledge that he spoke to you at all yesterday. So, all things totalled, You’ve broken Time both the person and the concept, pissed of Legend to the point he refuses your existence and possibly started a whole new conflict. And almost met god on a few occasions, but it hasn't happened yet. At least the forests were more forgiving. The trail was quiet, but filled with ambient noise. Birds whistled their song into the wind as it rustled the leaves to the left of you as water ran to your right. You fell in pace with Wild and Twilight, who’s conversation carried on despite you standing there- you felt a little sad that it was an achievement.

“You seem to be enjoyin’ yerself there, care to enlighten us?” Twilight looked over to you and you found yourself panicked. Mainly because you did not know these people well enough to know what dignified as a good response, and the actual response of ‘I’m just glad you didn’t stop talking when I was walking next to you’ was incredibly incriminating.

“I- uh It’s just been a while since I’ve been able to walk around y’know?” They’re both looking at you know, prompting you to continue. “Between work and school and- well everything, it’s been a minute since i’ve just enjoyed the world around me.” They both nod and you’re grateful for the silence that covers you.

“I get that” Wild concedes, nodding his head. “Before I started travelling I always worked too hard to ever really acknowledge the world until-“ His eyes darted to the trees, his hands caught one of the leaves from a bush and peels it apart with his nails. “One day, The world was the only company I had. And I got to see it for what it’s worth. He smiles at you with understanding, warm and unrestrained unlike how he had been earlier. The closeness of the moment is striking, like it’s the ripple of something already passed. Silence falls between the three of you again, but this time, it’s not nearly as harming. It’s comfortable in embracing the world as it is.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Damn,” Lance mutters to himself, craning his neck as he takes in the building in front of him. The tall, beautiful building. The expensive building, Lordie. They’ve come a long way since they were bunked up in their piece of shit studio apartment, 19 years old and stressed and completely unsure about what they were doing in life.

Lance snorts. Well. Maybe they haven’t changed that much.

Reminding himself how excited he is to see Hunk’s new place, he heads through the sleek glass doors, nodding at the doorman — an actual doorman, what the fuck — and hauling ass to make the elevator. He rides up to the twentieth floor, which seems to take a thousand years. That probably has less to do with the actual elevator and more to do with the fact that there are six other people in this elevator and five of them are wearing fancy suits, but whatever.

He steps out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway, looking for apartment 2014. He finds it quickly, peeking under the welcome mat like Hunk said, beyond relieved to see the silver key. He slides it through the lock, opening it easily, and pokes his head through the door.

“Dandelion?” he calls softly. He’s expecting the excited howling of Hunk’s big dumb cat, then the sound of his little paws clambering on the floor as he speeds down the hallway, but there’s nothing. Lance shrugs, stepping all the way into the apartment and locking the door behind him. Hunk must have taken Dandelion with him to see Shay.

Humming to himself, Lance heads for the kitchen. He ate before he got on the train, but that was almost two hours ago, and besides — Hunk’s fridge is always stocked. At best there will be leftovers of whatever genius Hunk has cooked up in the past couple days, and at worst there’ll be fifteen dollar exotic strawberries that Lance will steal shamelessly.

Hunk is so lucky to have Lance as a best friend, honestly.

Opening the fridge, however, is a massive disappointment. There’s not a single fancy schmancy ingredient in sight, and certainly no delicious leftovers. In fact the fridge is almost completely barren, only a carton of eggs, random condiments, and a bunch of veggies. The veggies make sense, but the fridge still feels off, somehow. But there are ingredients enough to make a killer sandwich, so Lance helps himself.

Ignoring the countless warnings Hunk has given him over the years to not eat and walk so he doesn’t get crumbs everywhere, Lance decides to give himself a tour of the apartment. It’s leagues better than anything either of them have every lived in before, which is nice. Lance is unbelievably proud of Hunk for his promotion — he deserves it and more. He most definitely deserves the sick view, 20 storeys in the air, the crown moulded ceilings, the general cleanliness. The sparseness of the place is definitely a little odd for Hunk, because he’s more of a knickknack guy, but he’s only been at this place for a couple months. Makes sense that he hasn’t unpacked yet.

Lance perks up at the sound of the key in the lock. It’s a little early, yet, almost a half hour before Hunk said he’d be here, but hey — the earlier the better! Lance has missed living near his best friend.

Quickly scarfing down his sandwich — he was so bullshitting before and if Hunk catches him red handed he’s going to die and he knows it — he sprints to the kitchen, hiding just behind the bend of the wall. He snickers quietly for himself, tense in wait. He’s going to scare the shit out of Hunk, and it’s going to be great.

“— yeah, yeah, I know, but I’ve got shit to do tonight, Shiro. I don’t have time.”

Lance freezes.

That’s not Hunk.

“What? No! I’m not sacrificing Survivor to go to some bar, dude! Why the hell would I trade chilling out with Kosmo on the couch and watching people be fools in the wilderness for dodging drunk people?”

Maybe Hunk brought a friend over, Lance thinks to himself. Hunk’s a friendly guy. It’s possible.

“Yeah, yeah.” The mystery man’s voice goes high pitched, mocking. “I have no friends and need to get out more, blah blah blah. hear you, Shiro.”

Lance’s heart pounds. So much for that theory. He peeks around the corner, expecting some dude in a ski mask and dressed in black, holding a gun and a duffel bag. Instead he sees a guy, dressed in a white t-shirt — a tight white tee, may Lance add — and basketball shorts, maybe a couple inches taller than Lance, sporting what Lance can only call an honest-to-God mullet.

Well, at least Lance got the duffel bag part right.

The man’s voice turns exasperated. “I am taking you seriously, Shiro. Promise. I’ll go — I’ll do something social tomorrow, okay?” The man turns slightly, so Lance has full view of his profile, and the arm holding up his phone.

The, uh, fairly toned arm.

“Yeah. I will. Love you, too.”

Oh no.

This intruder is hot.

The hot intruder hangs up, shoving his phone in his pocket. Then, faster than Lance can react (look, no one prepares you for a burglar that looks like a Greek god, okay? Lance is a little stupefied and he feels that it’s justified. This man’s jawline alone is affecting his heart worse than the fear that he’s gonna get murdered for witnessing a crime), the man turns into the kitchen.

Face to face with Lance.

For a moment neither of them say anything, completely frozen, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. And then the hot intruder blinks, says “Shit!” loudly enough to echo, and reaches for his pocket.

Lance, fearing the worst, screeches at the top of his lungs, and sprints for the bedroom, shoving past the intruder.

“Get out!” he screams, slamming and locking the door behind him. “Get out get out get out!”

“What the — you get out!” the intruder screams back. He slams into the door, banging on it as he juggles the handle. “Why are you here?”

“Dear God, please help me.” Lance isn’t much of a religious person, really, but all those boring years of Easter Mass growing up must have affected him in some way, because he’s halfway ready to start praying for real. Obviously, this man had quietly observed how smart and handsome and awesome Hunk looks, and assumed he’s a rich supergenius, and has now come to rob him blind as he’s out of the house. What this horrible criminal didn’t expect was Lance, here to visit his friend at his new place. And now that Lance has witnessed him, bare-faced and red-handed, he is going to murder Lance — to death — to cover his crime.

“I’m calling the police!” Lance screeches. He doesn’t have a whole lot of faith in the fuckers, but at this point they’re better than nothing. Maybe they’ll bring a forensic team to help solve the crime of Leandro Agustín Nuñez Carmen Esposita-McClain, far too young and beautiful to die, murdered tragically.

There’s a pause from the other side of the door, almost shocked.

“Why the fuck would you be calling the cops?” demands the man, half incredulous. “I’m calling the cops, you trespassing weirdo!”

Something like cold realization begins to build up in Lance’s gut. “I’m calling the cops because you’re trying to rob this apartment and maybe murder me?” he suggests.

“Rob the — murder you?” the man sputters. “This is my fucking apartment!”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Lance unlocks the door and yanks it open, face to face with Mr Tall, Mulleted, and Handsome.

“Do you,” he says nervously, face a little red, “happen to have a neighbour named Hunk Garrett?”

The man blinks at him. “Yeah. He’s across the hall. 2041.”

A long, agonizing moment of silence. Both of them just look at each other in pure bewilderment. (Well, Lance will admit that his bewilderment is not quite so pure. There might be some healthy admiration and lust swimming around there somewhere. This man is very attractive, and Lance has a thing for people who are angry with him. It’s a complex.)

“In my defense,” Lance says eventually, “I’m dyslexic.”

———

Luckily for Lance, Keith — the hot not-intruder — is very understanding of the entire ideal.

By that, Lance means he laughs himself to tears, right there on the hallway floor.

“There’s no way this is happening in real life,” Keith wheezes. “There’s no way you could fuck up this bad.”

Lance scowls. “Oh, piss off. I flipped two measly digits, and you’re the dumbass who keeps your house key under your welcome mat! Who even does that!”

It takes Keith several tries to calm himself down. The first few times he seems like he’s normal, but then he looks at Lance’s grouchy face and loses it all over again. The worst part is that he has a fucking gorgeous laugh, so Lance is having a really hard time staying angry.

“I’m —” Keith takes a deep, shuddering breath — “I’m sorry, dude. Lance. Really. I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just — I was just telling my brother that nothing happens here, you know? And then this.”

Lance softens, finally allowing himself a small smile. He offers a hand to Keith, who takes it and pulls himself up. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of a one-in-a-lifetime thing, huh?”

Keith hums. “Yeah.”

Keith’s hand is calloused, along the heel and flex of his palm. His hand is also very warm, like Lance has his own personal hand-heater. But Lance is, if he’s being entirely honest, paying way more attention to his eyes — they’re the most peculiar shade of indigo, so dark that Lance thought they were black, at first. But no, the darkest shade of blue-purple Lance has ever seen. He has freckles too, though barely. Just a couple spattered on the bridge of his nose. And the —

The sound of the Swedish chef from the Muppets over trap music startles Lance out of his reverie — Hunk’s ringtone. He pulls away from Keith’s hand, from his very close personal space, God, and hurriedly answers.

“Yeah, Hunk?”

His voice cracks seven times. He’s not proud of it.

“Where are you, dude? You were supposed to get here earlier than me but I’ve been here for twenty minutes. Did you get lost?”

Lance looks at his watch, then curses loudly. Has he really been in Keith’s apartment for nearly an hour? Fuck!

“I didn’t get — I just lost track of time — I’m not — I’ll be right there,” he rushes out. “See you in five, okay?”

He hangs up before Hunk has the chance to respond, still cursing endlessly.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He grips his hair with one hand, other clenching his phone. He flicks his eyes back to Keith, who looks way more amused than he has any right to. “I have — I’ve gotta go. Now.”

“To the right apartment this time,” Keith surmises, grinning.

Lance flushes. “That would be correct, yes. I’m meeting my friend for dinner.”

“Hunk Garrett. Chef extraordinaire. You mentioned.”

Like a dumbass and before he can stop himself, Lance blurts: “You should come with me.”

Keith raises an amused eyebrow. “I’m not an expert in social cues or anything, but I don’t think you can invite me over to other people’s houses.” He chuckles. “Although you don’t seem to have a problem showing up to places randomly, huh?”

“Shut up!”Lance checks his watch again, then bites his lip. “I really have to go.” There’s nothing stopping him. He has no reason to stay, really. But for some reason he doesn’t want to go.

“Hey, give me your number,” Keith says after a moment.

“Why?” Lance asks on reflex. Very quickly he wants to smack himself for being a fool.

Keith smiles wryly. “Well, I dunno. Once I emotionally recover from you breaking and entering into my apartment, I might decide I want to press charges. Better get your number just in case.”

Lance laughs. He takes the offered phone, punching in his number and contact, putting a heart after his name after only a beat of hesitation.

“I’ll text you,” Keith says, walking Lance to the door. For the first time since he discovered Lance hiding in his kitchen, he looks slightly nervous. “If, um. If that’s okay.”

“I’d like that,” Lance says softly. Keith’s gentle look makes something hot brew in his belly, butterflies fluttering and making his arms and legs tingle. He’s had crushes before, and he’s absolutely no stranger to finding someone hot, but this feels…different. Almost —

“Lance?” For the second time, Hunk’s voice startles Lance out of making goo-goo eyes at Keith, poking his head out of his actual apartment, right across the door. “I thought I heard you out here — wait.” Hunk’s dark eyes narrow, and he looks Lance up and down. He holds his gaze for a second, then bursts out laughing. “Keith, pal,” he wheezes, “please tell me my dumbass best friend didn’t break into your house.”

Keith grins. “He did!”

“No fuckin’ way! Lance, dude, oh my God —”

“Easy and reasonable mistake! Fuck off!”

———

Hours later, cozy on Hunk’s couch, he gets a text from an unknown number.

from: unknown

i’ve decided i won’t press charges for breaking and entering.

Lance laughs, quickly adding the number to his contacts.

to: keith <3

thank you, oh merciful one.

Lance is left on read for long enough that he’s almost offended, but luckily a text pops in before he can get really mad.

from: keith <3

don’t get too relieved yet, lance.

from: keith <3

there are other charges i’m going to press.

A real stab of fear pierces Lance’s heart.

to: keith <3

u best be joking it was an ACCIDENT

to: keith <3

i have DYSLEXIA

to: keith <3

this is DYSLEXIPHOBIC

Before Lance can really work himself up, though, Keith finishes his thought.

from: keith <3

i have to report you for theft

from: keith <3

cus aside from sandwich ingredients, i think you stole my heart

Lance couldn’t stop his giggle if he tried. It’s besotted and stupid and halfway-drunk, Jesus. Lance is embarrassed for himself.

from: keith <3

oh my god that is the most embarrassing thing i’ve ever typed and sent

from: keith <3

i’m begging you to purge it from your memory

to: keith <3

i’ll make you a deal

Lance takes a deep breath, steeling himself before sending. It feels strange to be on the other end of a pickup line — Lance can’t say he minds.

to: keith <3

you go out with me, and i’ll never mention how embarrassing you are to another soul

from: keith <3

…

from: keith <3

i’ve only known you for a day, and i know you’re lying to me

Lance snorts. That’s a fair assumption. Lance was lying. He’s actually debating waking Hunk up to show him these texts instead of waiting until tomorrow morning, but Keith doesn’t need to know that.

from: keith <3

but, yeah. i’ll go out with you.

from: keith <3

…tomorrow?

Lance grins. He has a good feeling about this.

to: keith <3

see you then, hot not-intruder :)

———

based on this video

[eredhes]

Hi Max! Love the latest sculptures you've done. You say you've used sculpey to do the horns/ antlers, and I was wondering what your process/ your experience with that has been. I love using self-drying clay, but it's been a challenge to get certain details right or to include things that stick out (like tails or teeth). How does the sculpey (which you have to bake I think?) merge with the self-drying clay? Thanks in advance for answering, and have a great week!

Hey Kahn! :D Thank you!

I've got two approaches for adding sculpey parts:

First version: Make the clay model first with an indent where you want the sculpey part to go (tip of a pencil or end of a paint brush are good shapes). Then when the clay has dried make the sculpey piece and press it onto the dried model to mould it to the shape of the indent prior to cooking. Then once it's cooked and cooled attach using glue (I use loctite super glue creative). It's best to paint after gluing together as the glue reacts with acrylic paint making it turn pale. Examples:

Second version: Make the sculpey piece first, giving it a pointed root. Cook the sculpey, then once you've made the clay model, push the sculpey part into place. I thought this would result in cracking when the clay shrinks as it dries but so far I've not had any issues! Problems with this method are, especially with antlers, the weight of the sculpey can cause it to lean out of place which creates a gap around the base, and adding extra clay on top to fill this or better support the sculpey can look messy. Also when pressing in the piece, if the root is too large it can push the clay out of place - on a few deer it's ended up pushing the eyes further forward and making the face longer so I've had to rework it. Despite all this it's my preferred method. Examples:

For making the sculpey parts, they're solid sculpey. I don't use any foil or wire in the centre as they're small pieces, but I have used a wire centre in the past for larger thin pieces that need extra support such as the arms and legs on a Bloodborne Amygdala from a while back which is entirely sculpey. To help keep the shape of antlers I curl the edges of the tin foil they will cook on to support them.

For things like tails and ears I think method one would work better as you can blend the edge of the sculpey into the clay (like in the bison photo), and for teeth probably method 2 🤔

Hope that helps! Let me know how your own sculpey experiments go! Have a great week too! (or hope you had a great week as it took me all week to type this up XD)

[windandwater]

so recently I've been wanting to paint the moulding in my bathroom navy blue, because 1) I thought it would look cool, and 2) I want to paint other rooms too but wanted to start small and my bathroom is extremely small so it would be a quick job. and I've kind of been planning on this for a couple months now but not getting around to buying the paint, until recently when my super came by to fix the giant hole over my bathtub (don't worry about it) and he painted the whole bathroom while he was at it.

which was really nice of him but he didn't do like. the best job. paint everywhere. and it's popcorn walls so it's not easy but he also used zero blue tape and got it on all kinds of stuff it wasn't supposed to be on and like. my guy.

so anyway a few days after this I woke up on a Saturday with a burning need to do something with my life, which is unusual because I've been in a depression hole (let's all speculate here about what could possibly be the reasons, plural). but the more I thought about going out the more I was like, augh, the ankle pain is just not worth doing any of these things. cost-benefit. sometimes it is. sometimes it's not.

so I bought paint instead

and

y'all

this is the most fun I've had in months

maybe over a year

I have been ripping apart my bathroom walls I have been peeling up paint I have been restoring the doorknob plates that were covered in paint but are actually kind of a pretty color once you get all the dark brown rust off of them. I have been repairing and covering up the sins of landlords past. I have been fighting with popcorn walls and winning.

I pulled the resin craft kit I bought months and months ago but never used off my shelf and did it last night around 10 pm because I realized it would look nice in there once I'm done. I'm going to put art in there, a risky business with all the leaking that happens in there (upstairs neighbors be like), but I'm going to find a way to waterproof everything or risk it.

the entire bathroom is in chaos and it's too small to be upended like that for so long, my apartment floors & rugs are covered in paint that flaked off and dried spackle pieces, I keep refusing to change into painting clothes so all my clothes have paint on them, and I'm having the best fucking time of my life. I want to paint my kitchen. I want to paint my whole house. I want to attack everyone I see with a paintbrush. this is great. I'm awake and alive and it's not even that bad.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

WiP Wednesday 16/10/24

Getting that last chapter posted has unstuck the dreaded writer’s block a touch, so here’s a bit of the next chapter of Unsinkable

Kia gifted Din his new hearing aids with no great ceremony.

She simply dropped a small box messily wrapped shut with paper and too much tape on the table at breakfast one morning, giving it a short shove to send it to the middle of the table.

Din had to stand slightly out of his chair to reach for it. Before he retrieved it, he lifted his brows in a silent request for permission, just to be polite.

Kia gave a curt nod, her expression unchanged.

She looked uninterested and uninvested, like this was some cheap thing she was handing over, not a thing she had poured hours upon hours of intricate skill and hard work into. She sat back in her own seat, arms folded, head turning and eyes flitting away to watch Cookie come trundling in, toting three trays of steaming breakfast foods—too much food for just one man but Din hadn’t been able to convince the droid he just wanted a ration bar.

She didn’t move again but her gaze switched back to Din, quick and sharp and secret, like she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. The corner of her mouth ticked—a sliver of anxiety slipping through a crack.

Din pretended not to notice her watching him, focussing instead on prying up the ragged end of the tape with his blunt, stained nails. It was taking too long and the packaging wasn’t standing up to the attempted delicacy: the brown paper ripped easily—far easier than the tape—so he gave up and tore it asunder in one clean motion.

The box was plain but littered with the faint remnants of labels peeled off. It smelled vaguely of something sweet—some kind of candy, Din supposed. He could feel something light and hard rattling around inside.

He knew it was the hearing aids, but he didn’t know what they would look like. A part of him anticipated something identical to his old pair, but these…

These were a work of art.

Two moulded blobs—shaped just so to fit snug in his ears—with thin, clear cords leading to curved pieces of tech: batteries and receivers, if he wasn’t mistaken. They were twice as light as his old pair, slimmer and more likely to hold onto the shell of his ear.

“They’re silver,” he commented.

“They can be any colour you want; that’s not difficult to change,” Kia said.

Din set the empty box down and turned the hearing aids over in the palm of his hand. “People usually make them flesh-coloured.”

“If you want that, that’s fine; we can do that. But they’re a part of your life—they should be what you want them to be.”

“I like the silver. Thank you.”

[lets-try-some-writing]

I evedently forgot how to draw using the pad, so have this terrible sketch instead for now.

anyway lore:

I imagine the blood mold would have five growth stages.

dormant spore. Its just a small dark red growth, looking vaguley like a seastar with too many arms. its very unoticeble in this stage and only syphons a minimal amount of energy from its host.

young mould. It progresses to this stage if its either attached to a optimal host species or a dormant spore attached to a suboptimal host species detects its host being invaded by another parasite. It gains basic sentience during this stage and acts agressivley towards any potential treats.

adolecent growth. As it grows it splits into many interconected pieces, each having its own set of eyes and operating on a kind of hivemind if disconected from the original pice. at this stage it tends to focus on the habits and behaviors of its host species, adapting as well as it can to its host body structure and abilitys, integrading as smoothly as possible. If attached to a more inteligend species, it tends to get sassy at this point, it also starts picking up on its hosts emotions, wich can overwhelm it at times.

adult colonie. A large growth fully encompassing the space provided by the host species, this is generally as big as it can get if attached to a suboptimal host. It has now fully adapted to its hosts body and can make the best use of it when it comes to defending itself. it syphons as much energy from its host as it is able to do without causing harm, as well as begining to use photo- and chemosynthesis to produce and store extra energie wherever it can, both to sustain itself and its host if nesessary. it mellows out quite abit at this stage, leaving more of the general movement and activities up to its host, as well as exhibiting some of their personallity trates.

Mother colonie. A large colonie grown beond what its host can support. At this point the blood mold gives up its own live in favor of turning into a ticking time bomb, any energie stored is used to produce as many spores as possible before the mother colonie bursts, hurteling its contents into the atmosphere. if sutible hosts are nearby small pieces of the mother colonie may latch onto them and persist. it can not reach this stage if attached to a suboptimal host species.

I imagine it originating from a mostly organic planet and having adapted to infect cybernetic species later on, leaving cybertronians like ratchet as the aformentioned suboptimal host species.

It would adapt to the cybertronian ability to transform by ceperating the outer armor from the internals, leaving the mold as the only conection point, and creating a cell type that can harden on command. this would not inhibit the cybertronians ability to transform, but would allow the blood mold to open up the armor and expand in size along the transformation seams, protecting any newly exposes inner circutry with a thick layer of hardened gel, while streching out the limps and creating more spaces to observe and lash out from. its very sturdy like this and can use its stored energy to rapidly regrow lost tissue.

I think it would most likley remain compliant with optimus up until it reaches the adult colonie stage, at wich point it would pick up on ratchets personallity and become defiant. it now packs enough of a punch to hold its own against optimus and bumblebee, provided it has stored enough energie to shrug off any damage dealt to it.

Though i could also see it get hit with ratchets fear and worrie during the adolecent growth stage and decide that optimus is too much of a threat to remain around, instead taking its chances at fighting the smaller bumblebee after making a run for it.

i could also see it forefitting its control over ratchet entirely, in favor of hiding so its host could be accepted by a more protective force such as megatron and his army. this has great angst potential when sooner or later somebody finds out.

i also love the way you made it speak. it would absolutley only comunicate in broken statements and incomplete scentences. also alot of hissing in displeasure. it would be completley apathetic to anything that doesnt concern its host or the rival parasite species. but it would absolutley try to compfort ratchet once it can sense his emotions, stress isn´t good for its host after all.

thats all i got for now, enjoy! :3

This is FABULOUS lore. I will apply this in your request friend :)

I love the idea of the blood mold as a whole. I have a thousand and one ways this could be incorporated into the Pretender au. Such a fun concept, especially when pitted against its arguably more successful counterparts.

[seagull-energy]

Just realized that now is a great time to post this piece from 2022!

(a couple days late but oh well)

"Treebeard strode up the slope, hardly slackening his pace. Suddenly before them the hobbits saw a wide opening. Two great trees stood there, one on either side, like living gate-posts; but there was no gate save their crossing and interwoven boughs. As the old Ent approached, the trees lifted up their branches, and all their leaves quivered and rustled. For they were evergreen trees, and their leaves were dark and polished, and gleamed in the twilight. Beyond them was a wide level space, as though the floor of a great hall had been cut in the side of the hill. On either hand the walls sloped upwards, until they were fifty feet high or more, and along each wall stood an aisle of trees that also increased in height as they marched inwards. At the far end the rock-wall was sheer, but at the bottom it had been hollowed back into a shallow bay with an arched roof: the only roof of the hall, save the branches of the trees, which at the inner end overshadowed all the ground leaving only a broad open path in the middle. A little stream escaped from the springs above, and leaving the main water, fell tinkling down the sheer face of the wall, pouring in silver drops, like a fine curtain in front of the arched bay. The water was gathered again into a stone basin in the floor between the trees, and thence it spilled and flowed away beside the open path, out to rejoin the Entwash in its journey through the forest. 'Hm! Here we are!' said Treebeard, breaking his long silence. 'I have brought you about seventy thousand ent-strides, but what that comes to in the measurement of your land I do not know. Anyhow we are near the roots of the Last Mountain. Part of the name of this place might be Wellinghall, if it were turned into your language. I like it. We will stay here tonight.' He set them down on the grass between the aisles of the trees, and they followed him towards the great arch. The hobbits now noticed that as he walked his knees hardly bent, but his legs opened in a great stride. He planted his big toes (and they were indeed big, and very broad) on the ground first, before any other part of his feet. For a moment Treebeard stood under the rain of the falling spring, and took a deep breath; then he laughed, and passed inside. A great stone table stood there, but no chairs. At the back of the bay it was already quite dark. Treebeard lifted two great vessels and stood them on the table. They seemed to be filled with water; but he held his hands over them, and immediately they began to glow, one with a golden and the other with a rich green light; and the blending of the two lights lit the bay, as if the sun of summer was shining through a roof of young leaves. Looking back, the hobbits saw that the trees in the court had also begun to glow, faintly at first, but steadily quickening, until every leaf was edged with light: some green, some gold, some red as copper; while the tree-trunks looked like pillars moulded out of luminous stone."

-- JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers

[friezaglasiencold]

So i’m curious-your father was in what you called your ‘second form’ all of the time and didn’t seem to have any higher forms. Do all members of your race have four/five forms or is it just you and Cooler?

Well, I suppose now that I no longer have any reason to hide my ability to transform, I may as well give you all a halfway decent explanation.

Firstly, 'my race' is formally referred to as “Arcosian”, though the name varies depending on where and whom you're asking. It's not a cultural monolith, you see, and our numbers are both few and far between. You may hear us referred to as Icejin, Frost Demons, Glazierites, et cetera.

Secondly, I (and presumably others of my kind, though I'm both a mutant and also the only one who actually matters) am able to rewrite my genetic sequence on command, which is how transforming is actually done. The forms that you're familiar with are the easiest and least costly to achieve, as they're ingrained into genetic memory. Most of what I know about how it all works comes from my father and my own medical team, but allow me to give you a brief summary of each (I'll do you the courtesy of putting it under a cut, as even a 'brief summary' will take quite a bit of space):

What you know as my 'first form' is meant to be a pupal form usually taken before a moult or during hibernation. It's a transitionary stage that I remained in out of necessity, as it slowed my metabolism and forced my power to remain dormant. It's commonly associated with children and the elderly, which was great fun to find out when I was in my teens and not allowed to leave it, but I digress.

The 'second' is...well, to put it gently, it's more bark than bite. My father preferred it only because 1) he liked to puff up his chest for the sake of his own ego and 2) he wasn't strong enough to create his own signature form. He insisted it inspired fear and respect among his subjects, but to me it just made him look desperate. It was embarrassing. (Also, apparently in times of old it was used in courtship, which given that context is quite funny .)

The 'third' is an evolutionary holdover from our days as semiaquatic predators, built for echolocation and pursuit. Isn't that fascinating? Imagine me swimming at full tilt to tear you to pieces. Ooh, very nice.

And the 'fourth', my true form, is the body in which I was born. A jack of all trades, if you will--or clay, to be moulded into whatever shape I please.

All this to say that our transformations are largely a matter of personal taste and aesthetic preference. My brother's an idiot tryhard whose diet consists mostly of protein shakes and broken dreams, so he decided to make himself look like the damned Space Terminator. That's not my problem.

[barbex]

Heyo and happy Friday! 😊 For DADWC, might I request #6 from the We're A Throuple! Prompt list, for Fenris/Anders/author's choice? (maybe Merrill? Or anyone really! I'm not picky lol)

Oh, this was a fun prompt, thank you! For @dadrunkwriting, poly fic with Merrill x Fenris x Anders.

I still don't know how to write short ficlets, there's like worldbuilding in this, 1200 words. 😊😊

---

“It’s going to be a great party, we should wear matching dresses,” Merrill says, her arms linked with both of them. “At least colour coordinated. I wear that green dress with the long green blouse, and you,” she looks at Anders, “don’t you have a similar blouse or coat like that?”

“Yes, I do, I’d just need some matching trousers.” He looks past Fenris, wondering if he ever saw him in anything other than black. “Do you have anything in green?”

“No.” 

His face darkens with a frown and Anders knows him well enough to see that this is something they will talk about at home, where Fenris feels safe. Merrill throws him a look, seeing the same thing. They keep walking, Merrill relaying a story the flower girls told her about a family in their street, a delicious piece of gossip Anders loves to hear. Fenris stays silent, but he still holds on to Merrill’s hand and his frown has smoothed out. 

This is alright.

Anders opens the door to their small town house, a lovely place in need of constant repairs, filled with flowerpots, colourful art and sculptures. Colours and chaos everywhere, and they all love it. Even Fenris, who does like things to be more orderly than Merrill and Anders, usually only complains about half empty tea cups with mould growing on them. As long as they don’t touch his paints and don’t move his easel, he enjoys being in the chaos with them. 

With their shopping put away, Merrill looks at Anders, asking without words, and he nods. 

“Alright, Fenris,” Merrill says cheerfully, “let’s see if we can find anything matching in your closet.” She takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs with her. He follows with little resistance, but Anders watches him carefully as he follows them. There are certain things Fenris is less open about, and his personal room and things are part of his careful boundaries. 

But Merrill has a keen sense for how much she can push Fenris out of his comfort zone, smiling at him as they step into his room. “Well, let’s see what you have.”

Fenris opens the doors to the wardrobe and steps aside. “Nothing green, as I said.”

There are a few shelves and a bar for hanging things and everything, every single piece of fabric is black. 

“No wonder I have never seen you in anything but your black leather trousers,” Merrill says.

“I like what I like,” Fenris says.

Anders steps closer to him, brushing his nose against his ear. “And they look amazing on you.”

Merrill smiles at Fenris’ blush, kneading her lips as she’s thinking. “If we want to make things different for this party, maybe you should wear my dresses?” 

“Would any of yours even fit?” Anders looks from Merrill to himself. It’s not that he’s fat, but compared to Merrill, even Fenris looks too large.

“I have wraparounds, they’ll work.” She bounces off to her room, and Anders and Fenris follow. 

“Are you alright with wearing a dress?” Anders asks him. 

Fenris looks up at him with a small smile. “I reserve the right to refuse if I look ridiculous.”

“Fair enough. Although, I can’t imagine anything not looking good on you.” He slides his hand over Fenris’ back, gently, giving him the option to step away from it. But he doesn’t, leaning closer instead. This is a win in their careful relationship. 

Boundaries. Finding the boundaries for all three of them and respecting them is what makes them work. 

Chaos reigns in Merrill’s room, of course. She’s already spread half of the contents of her wardrobe around the room, picking through flowing fabrics in various shades of green. It’s her favourite colour, obviously.

“Here, Anders, this will fit you,” she says, holding out a large swath of fabric. “And this one is for you, Fenris.” She steps closer to him with a green dress. “May I help you put it on?”

Fenris lowers his head, brushing his nose over her temple. “Yes.” 

Anders takes off his shirt and trousers to wrap the fabric around himself, but he forgets about it when Fenris undresses and Merrill begins to arrange the dress around his nearly naked body. Merrill also wears hardly anything, and watching them both is like watching beauty personified. 

Merrill wraps the fabric around Fenris’ waist and suddenly it looks like a proper dress. She steps back to look at her creation, picking at a seam and a fold here and there. “You look so pretty, vhenan.”

Taking her hand, Fenris pulls her close, kissing her. “Thank you, amata.” He brushes through her hair and presses a kiss on her forehead. “We may have to do something about Anders.”

Merrill turns her head with a giggle. “He’s staring. I think we broke him.”

Anders lets the fabric slip over his arm. “My loves, I need a little help.”

Merrill bounces over to him, taking the dress and begins to drape it over his body. Of course, Fenris has already figured out how all this drapery works, and helps Merrill. Occasionally he slides his hand under the fabric and caresses Anders’ skin, while Merrill presses very close to him. It’s enough to drive a person out of their mind.

“My loves...” Anders groans. Fenris kisses his neck, he must be standing on his tiptoes. And Anders just wants to melt. 

“I have an idea,” Merrill says, skipping out of the door. “I’ll be right back.”

With a breath, Anders turns, pulling Fenris into his arms. The green fabric looks amazing on him and it’s so soft under his hands. He bends to kiss Fenris’ neck. “Do you like the dress?”

“It’s surprisingly comfortable,” Fenris says, his voice quite more breathy than usually. His hips press against Anders’, thin and soft fabric all that is between them. “I may have to rip this dress off your body soon,” Fenris growls.

That deep growl does terrible things to Anders’ self control. He slides his hands between the folds of the dress, probably ruining the whole arrangement. 

“I think that should wait, my vhenans,” comes Merrill’s voice from the door. She sounds quite different and when Anders turns to look at her, his knees go weak.

Merrill wears one of Fenris’ black leather trousers, a black leather west, and even slim boots with heels. The only green on her is a cape swinging over her back. “I thought if you wear my clothes, I could wear your clothes.”

“Fuck, you look so hot.” Anders takes two steps to her and goes down on one knee. “You are a goddess.”

Appearing at his side, Fenris doesn’t go down on his knee, but the admiration is clear on his face. He puts a hand on Anders’ shoulder. “And we are your devoted worshippers.” 

“Really?” Merrill giggles, but then her eyes sparkle. “I think I like that.” She steps closer, appearing more confident with every step. “I’m not putting a leash on my worshippers,” she glances at Fenris and winks. “But I would love it if my worshippers stayed close to me.”

“We will,” Anders hurries to say, warm excitement flooding his body.

Fenris bows to take Merrill’s hand and presses a kiss on the back of it. “Anything you want, amata.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Merrill calls out.

Anders looks at Fenris, seeing him smile. Yes, it will be a fun evening, and much more.

[solohux]

@makekyluxsuffer Day 1 ; Kidnap/Rescue/‘Take Me Instead’ (Post TROS, canon divergence, no Ben Solo & Hux Lives AU)

Hux never wanted to return to Exegol.

It was difficult enough for him being in the darkened skies over it during the final battle against the Resistance, eyes scanning the surface for any sign of his beloved Ren. Eliminating both Darth Sidious and Rey in one battle wasn’t an easy feat but Kylo had emerged victorious, albeit missing an arm and in desperate need of medical aid.

With Palpatine gone for good, Hux believed that all the Force nonsense was over. He believed he and Kylo could rule the galaxy in peace, with order and control. He was wrong.

The scattered Sith acolytes have gathered and chosen Kylo as their next leader. Or rather, chosen to clone him and use his blank slate to mould him into their pawn, their weapon, their very own leader.

And of course, they need the original Ren to clone.

They’re chanting when Hux enters their temple. It’s buried deep within the chambers of Exegol, rooms filled with equipment and tanks ready for their new offspring, with detailed analysis of Kylo’s body and health scanning through the screens as though he’s a piece of data and not a living creature.

Hux has come alone, dressed in his black and red stormtrooper armour, minus a helmet and modified with better weapons and more room for agile movement. His backup are waiting outside; if he can’t rescue his husband then no one else is going to have a chance.

When Hux finds him, Kylo is lying on a stone slab like an animal readying for sacrifice. His robes have been torn from him, leaving him naked and shivering. There’s a tight collar around his neck that is glowing red, an eerie crimson colour that reminds Hux of the glow of a red kyber crystal. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles are the same, seemingly pulsing with dark energy.

At the foot of the stone slab are eight figures in red, hooded robes, their faces hidden from sight and their chants low and mysterious. Hux doesn’t understand what they’re saying but he doesn’t need to. His twin blasters are on them as soon as he enters the temple’s chamber.

“Let him go,” Hux says, his tone laced with power. “Let him go now.”

The acolytes do not stop chanting. They don’t move, unfazed by Emperor Hux’s entrance. He takes the opportunity to tend to Kylo, touching his cheek and whispering his name.

“H-Hux,” Kylo breathes, wheezing. His eyes are barely open, barely conscious. His skin is littered with cuts; he would have put up a damn good fight before he was taken and stripped.

“It’s alright, Ren. I’m here. I’m taking you home.”

The chanting stops abruptly, startling Hux with the sudden silence. Seven of the hooded figures take a step back, leaving one at the front.

“You will not speak to the vessel,” it says, speaking as though a serpent would, hissing. “He is ours.”

“He’s mine,” Hux growls, standing up and staring down the acolyte. “You won’t touch him again.”

The acolyte huffs, “The boy has great power. The dark side is strong with him, his blood is worthy of the Sith. We will clone him and take his essence. You may have his empty shell when we are done.”

Low chuckles emit from the group of hooded creatures. Hux remains tall.

“Take me instead,” he says, tears brimming in his eyes as he looks down at Kylo, counting the bruises that litter his pale skin. “Let him go. I’ll take his place.”

The acolytes erupt into laughter.

“You!” The main one shakes their head. “Armitage Hux. A runt and bastard child of an old commandant. You are not worthy. You know nothing of the Force or the dark side. You will be punished for coming here and interfering with the boy’s destiny.”

The acolyte raises a pale, wrinkled hand as though to summon powers but nothing happens. Only Kylo’s heavy breathing echoes throughout the chamber.

“Unworthy,” Hux smirks, placing his twin blasters back into their holsters strapped to his thighs. “I’ve heard that word my whole life. I’ve proved everyone else wrong and I’m about to do the same to you.”

Slowly, he unclips the stormtrooper armour that covers the back of his hand, removing the black glove underneath. His lips purse together in a satisfied grin as he reveals his palm to the group of hidden figures, showing them the ancient symbol that sits there. The Sith. Sidious.

“No! It cannot be!”

“Impossible!”

“He is our saviour, not the boy!”

Hux shakes his head, “I may be a Hux in name but I am a Palpatine by blood. You call me a bastard but my mother was the Emperor’s legitimate daughter. You insult him by insulting me. You’ve tested me by taking and hurting the one I love and for that, you’ll pay.”

“No! Emperor, please!”

“Mercy!”

“I’ll show you who’s unworthy,” Hux grits his teeth in rage, unleashing his collated Force powers onto the acolytes, making their minds suffer as he pollutes them from the inside.

No one takes what’s his.

The red hue of Kylo’s restrains dims as Hux calls forth all of the darkness around him, fuelling his powers to destroy the acolytes until they collapse as mindless bodies, drained of their life by the grandson of the leader they once blindly followed.

When Hux is satisfied that they’re taken care of, he turns to his beloved. It would seem as though Kylo passed out before he had the chance to see any of what’s just happened. It’s probably for the best, Hux thinks, as he pulls back on his glove and armour; this way, he can keep on protecting Kylo from afar like he has done since the day they fell in love.