#free commodity tips

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[goldsilverreports]

MCX NATURAL GAS 204 to 216.70, Profit 31,750 in 2 Lots

MCX NATURAL GAS TIPS FOR TODAY: NG 204 to 216.70, Profit 31,750 in 2 Lots, Trade Wtih Neal bhai and Mint Money. Cover Your Losses With Neal Bhai mcx king. (more…) “”

[moneymunch-inc]

New Post has been published on Moneymunch

New Post has been published on https://moneymunch.com/nse-abfrl-motive-cycle-begins/

NSE ABFRL - Motive Cycle Begins

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[/vc_column_text][vc_empty_space height=”20px”][vc_column_text]Timeframe: Daily

NSE ABFRL has been forming into the corrective formation for more than 15 weeks. This manner of the price is corrective because it is falling steeply into the channel.

As per the rule of the channel, the corrective wave respects the channel because they don’t have the power to break out from the parallel lines. The impulse breaks the channel, whereas the correction forms within it.

Currently, the price has accomplished wave 5 of wave (C) at 240, and the price started lifting near the upper band of the regression channel. This breakout can be a holy grail for bulls to reach near wave (B). Safe traders can wait for the retracement to ride the impulse.[/vc_column_text][vc_empty_space height=”20px”][vc_column_text]Trade setup with entry, exit, and stop-loss is only available for premium subscribers in our mobile application.[/vc_column_text][vc_column_text]

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Only premium subscribers can read the full article. Please log in to read the entire text. If you don’t have a login yet, please subscribe now to get access.

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[tigreblvnc]

MICHAEL KAISER x [f] READER

cw: fluff, comfort, romance. note: a tribute to my dear friend.

My sun is beautiful, powerful. Valiant. It shines brightly but has no sharp points. I kept the thorns on my wrist.

Michael Kaiser was a paradox in himself.

"Can I open my eyes?" You whisper, your step hesitant. "Michael?"

"Not yet."

In the darkness, his voice resonates.

"We're almost there. Just a few more steps. Patience."

Patience was a virtue you didn't know. One you learned with, and for, Michael. A rose takes time to bloom; its petals slowly gain color. One wrong sound, and the stem withers. These creatures are as delicate as they are insolent.

Under your heel, the concrete fades, giving way to the soft, frayed texture of fresh grass. Yesterday's rain still soaks the earth.

The weight pressing on your eyes lifts, freeing your sight, and the landscape unfolds into a vast lake reflecting the moonlight. At your feet: a spread-out blanket holding the basket and provisions. Your gaze sparkles with wonder, your voice swelling with joy.

"Oooooh!!! Michael! Did you prepare all this?"

He says nothing. Doing things for others is not something he likes to express.

You step forward, kneeling on the red and white cloth. The basket holds those foods seen in couple picnic photos, and the comparison amuses you.

"Right by the lake, at night. It's even prettier. Michael?"

Your shining eyes lift toward the German who hasn't moved. You can clearly see that something is bothering him.

"Hm? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, there is something."

"… It's just that I wasn't sure if you'd like it. It's the first time I've done this."

It's not your vision playing tricks—you can almost see his cheeks suddenly flushed.

"Michael? Please, come sit with me."

With a tilt of your head, you beckon him to come. Silently, the man approaches and settles at your left. He seems strangely out of place in this intimate setting, surrounded by neatly wrapped provisions. The very thought that he took such care to prepare all this warms your chest.

"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice, usually filled with pride, now resonating with the shyness of someone experiencing a first time.

"Do I like it? Of course, Michael. Can I hold you?"

Asking for his consent, even for the smallest things, had always been a rule. Like a delicate rose, his thorns, thin and sharp, rose like a tiger's claws. Always, you took care when approaching those defenses.

A nod is his answer. You move closer to wrap your arms around him. The difference in your heights is noticeable even now, when you have to draw him toward you to fully embrace him. Tonight, the fire of his arrogance is mild. It glows like a flame in its last breath. And you, your warmth radiates.

Before you, the water sparkles under the pulsing starlight. Despite the winter chill, the cold's bite doesn't reach you.

Your eyes fall on the basket. Without waiting, you pull out two sandwiches, handing the first to the German.

"Next time, I'll be the one making them for you!" you add, smiling.

"I hope they'll be at least better than mine."

Michael never cooked. However, he had put his heart into the task, and his effort could be felt even in the tenderness of the bread yielding under your bite.

"It's not the taste that matters, Michael! What counts is that you made it with love."

Love was a rare commodity among the Kaisers. Power came after long, laborious efforts but offered no guarantee of that warmth deep inside. One couldn't have love alone.

"So? How is it?"

"It's good, GOOD! Try it!"

You push the tip of your sandwich toward his mouth. He finally accepts and takes a bite.

"Hm."

"So???"

"Passable."

And since Michael Kaiser had no love, he couldn't give any either.

"Hmm! You'll see, next time I'll cook you a dish so good, you'll be smiling all the way to here!"

With the tip of your finger, you trace the outline at the corner of his lips, then a light laugh escapes you.

Your sandwiches quickly disappear into your stomachs.

"You know, I'm glad you found time for us, despite the football competitions." Your voice resonates in the silence, carving its way to the surface of the water. "I know you give it your all for that."

"It's my life. My goal."

Power.

"Yes…" Your smile fades slightly. "Your goal."

Wasn't Michael's goal to be loved?

"You're strong, Michael. I know you'll make it. I'm sure of it. I don't even need to be in football to know that."

Some have victory in their name.

"And I'll be there when that day comes." A smile, unsure if it's natural or hides something else, lifts the corners of your mouth. "Will you sign me an autograph?"

One might think they see the beginnings of a smile at the edge of his lips.

"… Tell me, Michael. What will you do once you're the world number one?"

"I'll go where no one will come bother me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. A cave. The top of a mountain. I'll go to Saint Helena like Napoleon when he was exiled."

"Can I come?"

"You think you'll be able to put up with me until then?"

"I don't put up with you: I like being with you."

"Hm."

"And also, I want to share as much as possible with you! By the way, thank you for this meal, Michael. And for thinking of bringing us here. It's beautiful. See? It's for moments like this that I want to be with you. And there will be many more."

"Many more…"

"Yes. I want us to live the most beautiful moments together."

Your fingers have started to move closer to his.

"You're really a tick, huh? You won't let go of this, no matter what I say." He exhales through his nose with a half-smile. "Idiot."

"You're right: I'm an idiot. But I'll stay with you no matter what. Even if you go to the other side of the world."

"Aren't you afraid? That one day, I'll disappear?"

"Michael, you know, I'm afraid of a lot of things. I'm afraid of not being enough for you, I'm afraid you'll find someone else. I'm afraid I'll drive you away because I said something I shouldn't have, or because I did something you don't like. I'm always afraid of losing you, because I love you more than you can imagine."

Your chest swells with the rush of air before your voice steadies.

"… And you, Michael, you're afraid of being loved. You're afraid of being touched. Afraid of being abandoned, forgotten, and having your name erased forever. You're afraid of giving yourself completely to our relationship. I think it's your past that influences you, and also because sometimes you think it's just not worth it. But you know what? My mission is to prove you wrong. There is love waiting for you in this world, there's a place somewhere for you. I'll help you find it."

Your fingers climb up the back of his hand. With your thumb, you trace the veins that run along the crown connected to his thorns, a vine that twists all the way to the base of his shoulder.

"I… I'm becoming romantic again, sorry. But… all this is to say that I care about you. That I love you and that you're not alone. You'll never be alone again, Michael."

Movement stirs. His left hand pulls away from your caresses.

It's not to escape; on the contrary, the loop of his arms comes to encircle you in a powerful embrace. His blonde hair, burdened with an extinguished sun whose tips have been painted blue, cascades against your cheek.

The complex, masculine scent mingled with a deep, almost velvety floral undertone surrounds you.

His voice resonates with a heavy devotion.

"… Idiot who doesn't think. Who speaks without thinking. Idiot who likes being with me. Idiot I'll take to the top of the mountain with me and dig a bed for her in the island's sand. Idiot with whom there's a tomorrow."

The tender warmth of his lips spins around yours, before finally resting there to leave a mark of love.

"Whether you're here or at the other side of the world. In a time that's not mine or in a skin I don't know: I'll recognize and love my midnight sun."

© TIGREBLVNC 2024 | MICHAEL KAISER X READER | BLUE LOCK FANFICTIONS.

[swindledin77]

Eroticism and Early Britpunk Fashion

Recently I read an interesting post about rockstars, a once ubiquitous sub-category of celebrity that's currently fallen to the cultural wayside, and how eroticism is often an integral component of their public images.

And that got me thinking about early (as in 1976-1978) Britpunk's relationship to eroticism and sex. So here's a silly, rather disorganized write up I did on how sexual Britpunk fashion is and why I think that appealed to certain people.

Unlike many youth subcultures, Britpunk- which, for those who don't know, is the British version of the punk subculture- tended towards asexual puritanism. Both as a reaction to the free love movement of the hippies that Britpunk characterized itself as being inherently in opposition to in both behavior and values, and as an extension of the theory put forward by Greil Marcus about punks being the spiritual successors to medieval heretics who considered the material world to be wholly corrupt- including and especially carnal pleasures such as sex.

Viv Albertine notes in her autobiography that in Britpunk culture sex was treated as a commodity, no emotional attachment needed. Johnny Rotten, the main figurehead of the punk movement at the time, once famously called sex 'five minutes of squelching sounds' and his deep disgust for anything sexual did a lot to shape the subculture's negative perception of sex. There are barely any Britpunk songs from the era that portray romance as something positive and even less that discuss sex in any way at all.

So isn't it a bit odd that Britpunk fashion is so sexual? Because it is very sexual.

A lot of original Britpunk fashion is appropriated fetish gear. Bondage suits, leather, collars, and latex. SEX/Seditionaries, Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood's boutique that basically single-handedly created the iconic look of early Britpunk, carried all of this along with t-shirts with sexual images- such as a pair of women's breasts or the word 'perv' spelled out in chicken bones- or actual porn on them- such as drawings of cowboys touching tips or Snow White having a gang bang with the Seven Dwarfs. The London Leatherman, who got his start in the gay leather scene, made leather clothes and accessories for bands like the Sex Pistols and The Clash and The Slits while allowing McLaren and Westwood to sell his wares in their store. Ripped clothes that showed off the chest and chains as an accessory were also common. Because of this the average punker in London was decked out in clothes that wouldn't look out of place in a sex club.

Let's take a look at some examples.

(Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols wearing a handcuff around his wrist and a t-shirt with a drawing of gay cowboys that resembles Tom of Finland's work on it.)

(Paul Simonon of The Clash wearing a shirt that says 'everyone's a prostitute' and has two scantily clad women on it.)

(Siouxsie Sioux wearing a t-shirt with a pair of women's breasts on it.)

(Soo Catwoman wearing a spiked collar with a chain around her neck.)

(Various members of the Bromley Contingent, including actual dominatrix Linda, wearing various erotic clothing items such as a see through dress, collars, and leather shorts.)

(Jordan and Vivienne Westwood wearing full bondage suits.)

(Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols wearing a ripped version of the gay cowboys shirt that intentionally exposes his naval and nipple.)

(Adam Ant wearing a leather t-shirt.)

(Paul Simonon of The Clash wearing a leather jacket, leather trousers, and a spiked leather wristband while exposing his bare chest.)

(Alan Jones wearing a shirt that says 'perv' on it and Chrissie Hynde wearing a latex or leather top while another woman wears a latex or leather dress.)

So if Britpunk was so anti-sex, why play with such erotic imagery?

For Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, fashion was an art form that was all about bringing the taboos of the repressed British culture out from the shadows, including and especially the aesthetics of sex. They wanted to shock people out of their complacency and liberate young people. What better way to do that then to turn something as incredibly taboo as fetishes primarily associated with gay men (latex, leather, and bondage) into the hot new couture? But neither Westwood nor McLaren were actually interested in sex (especially not with each other despite having a child together) and were content to simply explore it in an artistic and emotionally distant way. Their clothes are sexual but they aren't sexy. The eroticism exists primarily to make a point, not to tantalize.

Westwood about SEX/Seditionaries' clothes: "We’re here to convert, liberate and educate. We want to inspire people to have the confidence to live out their fantasies and change. What we’re really making is a political statement with our shop by attempting to attack the system."

But why wear these clothes? Obviously teenagers and young adults love the idea of doing (and wearing) taboo things that piss off their parents and other boring old farts. Obviously fans of the Sex Pistols, The Clash, and other punk bands wanted to dress like their idols and set themselves apart from the average citizen. But why else did punkers- in particular young female punkers- latch on so heavily to such risque fashion?

Well, to steal one of the few good lines from Danny Boyle's Pistol, when you dress like that you get a lot of funny looks but no wolf whistles.

If you've spent enough time online, you may be familiar with the concept of danger hair. If not, it basically means that if a young woman has brightly colored dyed hair then she's crazy and you shouldn't bother hitting on her. Kind of like how a poison dart frog is brightly colored to let birds know that it's deathly poisonous and they shouldn't bother eating it. Obviously this phrase is misogynistic but it does have a kernel of truth to it. Throughout history certain women have chosen to dress in ways that are intentionally unappealing to the majority of men in order to ward off unwanted advances.

Britpunk fashion on women was, despite how sexual it was, deeply unappealing to men. Legs McNeil, co-founder of PUNK magazine, talked extensively about how vile he found punk girls who dressed in the Britpunk style, how sexually unappealing they were to him. Little did he know, that's why those girls were dressing like that in the first place.

Back in the 1970s, the Britpunk style was beyond shocking to the majority of people. If you were a teenage girl or young woman who didn't want anyone to catcall you or make random passes at you while you were out on the town, decking yourself out in the latest clothes from SEX was a great way to get most men off your back. Instead of danger hair, it was danger clothes. Just because you were dressed in a sexual way didn't mean you were dressed sexy- at least in the opinion of the average man at the time.

Unfortunately though you'd just be trading in one form of violence for another as it was common for members of other youth subcultures to brutally attack punks who wandered the streets alone.

These days though everyone wants a punk girlfriend. Too bad they won't be getting one!

[slumped-in-the-arms-of-fiction]

We interrupt the usual sporadically and unscheduled Hellcheer programming to post a ficlet in a fandom I've never written in before!

Have a little Kanej scene, set (spoilers for early on in Crooked Kingdom) right after Inej has been rescued.

Unravel

Inej stood in a side catacomb of the mausoleum surveying the hollow in the wall. It had presumably been created to house the dearly departed of the mercher whose name adorned the crypt, but devoid of casket and lined with a blanket it would be her sleeping quarters for the scant hours she had before the plan kicked off. It felt fitting – the exhaustion in her bones told her she would sleep like the dead.

She stretched, watching the candlelight send monstrous shadows dancing on the walls, aware of – but not tuned in to – Jesper and Wylan’s hushed bickering in the main room. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the damp air, thankful to be among familiar sounds again. 

The Wraith was used to the silence of the shadows, the quiet of the rooftops above the clamor of the Ketterdam streets, but in those long and lonely days in Van Eck’s dark cell she craved the sounds that she knew as well as her own heartbeat. 

Nina’s contented sigh as she indulged in something delicious, and Matthias’s audible swallow as he watched her; the well-oiled click of Jesper’s guns as he cocked and uncocked them, taking aim at some imagined target before twirling and holserting them once more; Wylan’s melodic hum as he toiled over some device or elaborate technical drawing; the loping swift gait and sharp tap of a cane on stone.

Inej’s ears pricked as the last sounded in the room behind her, silencing the conversation. Hissed words followed, then a shuffling of papers and hurried steps before the sound of the door closing, clearly closed as quietly as possible. Uneven steps stopped at the entrance of the catacomb.

She supposed she should thank him for rescuing her, but she didn’t want to hear how he was protecting his investment again. She didn’t want to think of that stage and its makeshift surgery; the brutal instrument swinging high; her acceptance that she was a commodity best kept pristine. She didn’t want to think how Dirtyhands needed her – unbroken, undamaged, and ready to work.

“You didn’t have to make them leave,” she said instead without turning around.

“They were being too loud,” came Kaz’s rasp. The gravel of his voice rolled down Inej’s spine and she fought the shiver left in its wake.

“They weren’t bothering me.”

“I need you sharp.”

Inej scoffed. “If I can sleep at the Slat, I can sleep here.”

“You need to rest.”

“I will,” she snapped, finally looking over her shoulder at him. His still and ever-inscrutable gaze was locked on hers, though the angles of his face shifted between shadow and candlelight as the flame flickered between them. “I am,” she said softer.

As if showing just how committed to the cause of resting she was, she turned away from him and started loosening the long braid from its coil. Letting her hair down – literally or figuratively – was not something she tended to do in company. And while she wouldn’t be entirely relaxed – her ears still alert for danger, her body ready to spring into action – she longed for a modicum of comfort while she slept.

The braid swung free then stilled down the center of her back, the tip stopping at her waist. She reached back and pulled the tie from the end, letting the rope of hair fall back behind her. She thought the slow, deliberate ritual would assuage his fears and he would slink off somewhere to no doubt set another part of his plan into motion, leaving her in peace.

But the shadows merged and loomed on the wall in front of her as he stepped closer instead. She heard the clunk of the cane put to rest on the wall beside her, a pause, a shaky inhalation.

And then Kaz’s deft fingers were unwinding the tight braid. Slowly, methodically, more gentle than she could’ve imagined; not one hair was tugged or snagged in the seams of his leather gloves. He was careful not to touch her as he lifted the braid and slipped the strands free of their twists.

Inej tried to listen to his breathing, waiting for it to turn erratic like it did in the Fjerdan prison cart, but her heart thundered in her chest and she could focus on nothing but it and the shivers Kaz’s touch was sending down her spine through her hair.

Heat radiated off his body pressed so close to her back. So close, but not close enough. She felt herself sway, woozy with the contact, but he always stayed just out of reach.

Braid unraveled, he reached the tie at the crown of her head; she held her breath as he paused once more, letting it out in a rush as he plunged his finger into the tight loops that held her hair. He pulled, just this side of gentle, the drag on her roots sending sparks across her scalp and tearing a gasp from her lips as he slipped the tie down, slow and measured. 

Inej swallowed, her mouth falling open as if to speak, unknown words barely forming before she felt his long, elegant fingers slide into her hair, combing out the waves, caressing the tension from her scalp. Her roots ached from being pulled so high for so long, and his delicate touch soothed and excited in equal measure.

She suppressed a moan as tentative fingers dragged the curtain of hair from her ear, turning her head towards the heat of him, the ragged breath on her neck. Her eyes slipped closed.

“I’m… trying,” he said quietly, his usually composed voice stuttering, his words and the buzz of proximity tingling against her feverish skin.

In an instant she felt the cool breeze on her back and she opened her eyes to see his hand snatch the cane from its place by the wall.

His hurried steps were through the mausoleum and out the door before she realized the hand she saw had been uncovered.

Crossposted to AO3

[beautifulbows924]

Home

Poly!Kaz Brekker & Inej Ghafa x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

AFG Bingo Masterlist

A/N: This feels like a successful attempt at transferring my sudden inspiration to paper (lol). Honestly, I’m really enjoying learning the nuances to writing these new characters! And I hope it was worth the wait for those of you who saw the sneak peak! As always, I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments and if you like my work consider leaving a tip! Thanks:)

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1K+

Created for: @lgbtqbingo / Square Filled O3: Polyamorous Relationship.

Warnings: Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, religious undertones, vague spoilers for the books & show. (Paragraphs solely in italics are set in the past).

Loyalty may be seldom found among bastards and vagabonds, but Kaz Brekker had discovered suffering at the end of a gloved hand or the hilt of a cane served him just as well.

Dirtyhands became the stories, spoken late into the night by parents to regale the children of Ketterdam with, in case they thought it wise to stray into the tangled mess of filth the barrel had to offer. He became the whispers of an alley filled with shadows and the tight-lipped fears of those who would dare to cross him.

Rumors were as good as currency in Ketterdam, and he had heard them all. He had no eagerness to dispel them, they were all true enough.

Modesty was a commodity those without their freedom could only ever dream of, but Inej Ghafa had learned to use the nightfall of Ketterdam like a second skin.

A talent some swore must have been gifted to her by the Saints themselves.

Their rumors served her just as well. The Wraith became the whispered prayer among indentures and the grave reveal of words unspoken.

Secrets were as good as currency in Ketterdam, and she knew them all. Even his.

The rhythmic tap of your foot had become almost expected to him, comforting even. He always feigned annoyance at the action. Only internally allowing himself to wonder if you felt similarly about the sudden additional pressure of a cane against the tip of your boot.

Kaz Brekker had never believed in miracles. In luck, or Saints, or fate. But even a faithless man like him could recognize there was something of importance this moment had to offer him, and he’d never been one to turn down a deal.

He didn’t dare reach for your hand. Not here, not near the water. Not out in the open where anyone could catch sight of his failures.

Instead, he shifted his grip on his cane and poked your hand with the hilt until your fingers lightly wrapped around the crow's head, allowing him to feel the slightest pressure of added weight through his own hold.

Trying was easier than he thought it would be, especially with the sight of your half quirked smile as a lovely reward. It was a smile he had seen solely reserved for him.

He attempted to earn it as often as you’d allow.

Inej’s prayers sat heavy on her tongue.

She knew brutality. She knew the Saints would counsel mercy in a moment like this.

Yet not a word of opposition graced her lips as Kaz laid claim to the blood debt he felt he was owed.

She felt she was owed it too.

There was a past her that might have feared him once, but this was the same man that had worried if his tie was straight before he met her parents for the first time, so instead she asked, “Was this what it was like?”

The prolonged silence that came after wasn’t from the lack of context held in those six words. He was fairly certain they could retain the ability to read each other with a handkerchief stuffed in their mouths and their backs turned. He was simply attempting to discern which answer would be worse, the truth, or the lie he knew she’d see through regardless.

She slightly inclined her head toward him, the heavy scent of iron lingering around them like a stain. She watched how his gloved hands shook with boiled over rage, emotions poorly contained even in the dim light. To her, his silence had always been a response in it of itself. She wouldn’t pressure him, not now. She knew he didn’t want her to know, or perhaps—he didn’t want to relive those days for himself.

Maybe, she thought, he already was.

And as a former member of the Dregs stumbled down the alley, palm pressing hopelessly into the empty space where his crow and cup tattoo had formerly resided, searching for a sense of relief that would never follow, she wondered if that’s what Kaz Brekker’s mercy looked like.

He did spare him, after all.

Her lips bore the semblance of a smile, the only tell she provided in her knowledge of your quiet presence.

Your eyes remained steady to the horizon, face kissed with the last orange rays the sunset had to offer, patiently waiting until Ketterdam was once again cloaked in familiar darkness.

She couldn’t recall how the sun had looked that day. She was too captured by the sight of you.

The waves threatened to pull him under, a war of salt and foam just beneath his chin. He forced a pale hand to rest on the blood covered sheets, searching for reassurance, needing to communicate to himself that you were still there with them. Warm. Alive.

His other hand, gloved, loosely gripped hers. A reminder that she was there too.

Kaz Brekker had never believed in miracles. In luck, or Saints, or fate. But he believed in you, he believed in Inej, and for the first time, he prayed that was enough.

His expression shifted, lingering somewhere between exasperated and fond, a bit soft at the edges in the shared presence of those his heart had betrayed him for.

You looked similarly effected, eyes trained on Inej, committing her every feature to memory.

He did the same to you. For once, allowing himself to hope.

It’ll take time, she told herself, taking in a steadying breath as she walked to join the two of you at the bar.

“Inej”, Nina called from behind her, reminiscent of a time much different than the one they currently shared, voice low and intended for only their ears, “I once wished you could see what I did, hear each and every sound so you could understand what you were missing. But now”, she let out a light laugh, “When the three of you are together. It’s like home.”

It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since then, but Inej could still recall the words she had responded with, the confusion she had felt.

She smiled. She wasn’t that person anymore, and Nina was right.

She had found her home.

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged or un-tagged down below. <3

Shadow & Bone Taglist: @mxtokko

[sincerelyy-youres]

Trade Secrets (Yandere Sampo x Reader)

TW: Obssesive Behaviour, Manipulation. Read at your own risk.

You can't really tell if Sampo Koski is a good person.

Or a bad person, because you could never really say if his actions are for his clients or for himself, but realistically speaking, all businesses are like that. All deals, all transactions and for whatever purpose, the merchant and the employer must reap the benefit of their agreements. On the merchant's part, the benefit is the pay; the money or whatever possesion their employer had that they can have once they finish the job, and on the client's part, the benefit is the job that is done by the person they hired. Business are for yourself, and for your clients.

This is what you believed Sampo always had kept in mind. At the end of the day, all of us just wanted to have a good pay and treat for ourselves, and of course, a job well done! It doesn't really matter If theres a few loose ends on the way-- these things are part of the job. If you have to use other people to your advantage to get the job done easier for yourself, or even if you have to manipulate, or in a simple much more convincing word-- to persuade other people into giving in and to avail your offered good services and commodities, all of this are the basic, fundamental meaning of business. Without manipula--err, persuasion, there's no business to be made!

That is what Sampo's mentality is. He is not a bad person, because he's only doing what's expected to him as a businessman. But he's not a good person either, because he's willing to do everything to make his life easier and for a good extra tip-- even if that means persuading other people. And since he neither had the basic quality of a human being in this standard of society, he had one quality that you can call him. Again, he's not good, but he's not bad, either.

He's manipulative.

And which is why you avoid making transactions with him as best as you can. You know there's something wrong with his discounts, there's ulterior motives behind his free commissions and his 'deal all you can' and 'loan with zero interest' offers is as suspicous as him. You'd seen him make deals with other people in the underworld but he's never as desperate as when he tries to persuade you into his doubtful offers. He's always there, waiting, staring, following, just for you to give in. You knew better, anyway, than to fall for his trap, even if his offers hits too tempting to let go because its involved with any recent problem you have, and its just a coincidence that he knows whatever is bothering you at recent anyway.

Until, well, you got yourself into a big, mess of a business transaction.

Its something that no matter how hard you try to get yourself out to, you can't. It felt like you threw yourself at a rabbit hole, and you desperately are in need of a helping hand. It felt like you are thrown in a maze, trapped, helpless, scared. Every day you feel like you were being watched, and at night the doorknob to your room rattles and rotates likes someone is trying to get in. Walking in the streets of the underworld became a horror to you as you feel like you are being followed, but there also, Sampo appeared.

Out of nowhere, with a smile that is not his usual convincing, persuasive and businessman smile, but the kind of smile that felt like he knows what he's doing will benefit him in the long run. He held your right cheek, and leaned into your left ear, and there he spoke of the various solutions that he offers to solve your problem. A quick fix, a solution and he doesn't even require you to pay. All you have to do is say yes. All you have to do is nod your little head and everything will be okay.

Sampo... is a manipulative businessman. He had all the tricks up in his sleeve, all that means to get an extra to every deal. When things doesn't go his way, he makes way for it with a smile on his face, and a radiating positivity, all his actions justified, because there's no way that nothing goes according to his plans. If there is actually something that doesn't go according to what he planned, for example, you, he adds a little pressure on your side. It is not equal if the pressure is always on him, after all! Business are always equal to both parties, is it not? It only takes a little cracking on the wall you had created between the two of you, one that if he destroyed, youre surely falling right into his arms, just as he first planned when he approached you.

Now that you witnessed first-hand how he works, don't go telling it to others now! Not that you can talk to others now anyway. But just in case!

Its a trade secret, after all~

[mrcompass]

Why did Jack keep Evil Befall?

Unlike his teammate Zeo and Toby, who also endured the arrangement, Jack didn't change Beyblade despite changing philosophy. I wanted to dive deeper into why it makes sense for him to keep it.

"Well if we have to speak in terms like this, then i have indeed been, reborn my friends."

Jack (Beyblade Metal Fury: The New Stricker is Complete!-Episode 118).

Symbolism is very important in MFB and inexorably links bladers with their beys, and Jack is no exception. Befall is a peacock, which symbolizes beauty. Jack himself is obsessed with beauty and wants to find a suitable blader for his art, like Tsubasa. He has no desire to fight bladers whom he considers not artistic material. Jack is, in a way, quite superficial. Another, and more important, concept that the peacock represents is rebirth (life and death). In Metal Masters, Jack used the souls of others to bring his art to life (as seen with Klaus' state at the end of episode 89 or when he told Ryuga that his work only needed a soul to be over).

"-Now for the finishing touch we must add the soul. -The soul ? -An eye… An eye called L-Drago that is."

Jack and Ryuga (Beyblade Metal Masters: The Dragon Emperor Descends-Episode 93).

Eyes are a window to the soul after all, and the motifs on a peacock's tail are reminiscent of eyes. Jack himself covers half of his face with a mask. In a way, he hides the person he was before, and at the same time, it shows the missing part of himself, of his soul that he sold to Ziggurat for power.

In Metal Fury, Jack removed the mask; he even said that he was reborn. Which is true: he combined who he was before and during the arrangement while tossing away his insanity and craziness (the result of him having lost his mind/soul).

Comparing this evolution to Toby and Zeo's shows that they could no longer keep Tempo and Byxis. @sky-of-dusk established that Tempo and Byxis were objects they figuratively needed: Toby, who was dying, needed more time, and Zeo, who was lost, needed direction. However, after the destruction of Hades Inc., they no longer required those. I would add that Tempo and Byxis are objects and tools that anybody can use in their everyday life. Yet, Toby and Zeo are not tools anymore; they were freed from Ziggurat. Toby's Lyra is reminiscent of Orpheus, but it is also an instrument. Learning how to play an instrument can be long and time-consuming; similarly, Lyra is not an easy Bey that anyone can master, as stated by Masamune. An instrument isn't a commodity; it is an activity that is fulfilling for the mind and spirit: it symbolizes that Toby recovered his mind that Ziggurat tried to steal, but his body, his style, scarred, as seen with his white hair (and the MF tip that Lyra shares with Ziggurat's Capricorn). Zeo replaces his compass with a fox Beyblade. Foxes are wild animals, part of the canidae like the dog; Zeo is not a dog; he is free. Yet, unlike Toby, his mind is still impacted more than his body. The face-bolt of Spiral Fox emulates the kitsune, a fox-like creature that deceives humans and hides its true nature. The energy ring is blue like Spiral Capricorn, highlighting a more symbolic link between Fox and Ziggurat's Bey. Zeo hides his trauma because, more than Toby, he remembers everything starting with the pain. In the end both were greatly impacted by the Spiral Force event as demonstrated by their use of the spiral fusion wheel.

The point I am trying to make is that Toby and Zeo were scarred and traumatized, while Jack didn't go through the same path. He enjoyed the arrangement, and he liked the person he became because of this, which is in direct contradiction to Toby and Zeo's experiences. As a result, he has less reason to change Bey since he will not associate Befall with bad events.

Finally, I would conclude by saying that Benkei had a similar experience: He was given Dark Bull by Doji but kept it. He even told Shinobu in Zero G that it doesn't matter who gives you your Bey; what matters is what you do with it. Also, the way Jack got Befall is similar to how Benkei got Bull: They were given by a member of the Hades cult, trying to use them as pawns for their greater ambition. In the scene, they also reference their constellation and instantly take a liking to their new Bey, "which specialize in upper attacks". Also, Jack is the only member in Star Breaker to directly get his Bey with Ziggurat present. Furthermore, Bull and Befall share some similarities: the colors are close (red and pink), their Fusion Wheels are named after something negative (Dark and Evil/Killer), their Spin Track is their most iconic/important part and emulates a part of their BeyBeast (horns for Bull and wings for Befall). Finally, the EWD tip is considered an "evolution" of SD (Dark Bull's tip), since Nightmare Rex another beyblade goes from the SW145SD combo to UW145EWD. The most important thing is that Jack truly bonded with Befall, as seen in the Destroyer Dome, like Benkei bonded with Bull.

So Jack kept Befall because it works symbolically and for his character.

[francesminos-tt]

https://pin.it/Sx5n5tS

THIS JOFFREY GETTING FUCKED BY PERFECT BOY DAERON 🥺 ​​please

"perfect boy" like Daeron works with Jacaerys in the Targaryen company 👀 everyone knows him for being a serious, elegant and formal man :)

his and joff's personality clashes but they fuck sometimes

Daeron waited for half an hour until his patience ran out. He stood up, smoothed out his suit, finished his lemon water and tipped the waiter handsomely before exiting the fancy restaurant with an empty stomach.

He found his date sitting on the curb across the street, a half-empty beer bottle in hand, and a cigarette between his lips. Daeron’s date was young man with black curls and an easy smile. He wore a simple black T-shirt and jeans, exposing his toned arm and the intricate tattoo on his skin. Daeron noticed there was a new tattoo, a pair of dragon wings on the young man’s wrist.

“Hi, Daeron!” Joffrey took a final drag of the cigarette and waved at Daeron, laughing goofily, “Want a smoke?”

“What are you doing here?” Daeron stopped in front of Joffrey as the unique mix of cigarette, booze, and cologne invaded his nostrils.

“Having a beer.” Joffrey raised the beer bottle before taking another sip from it, “Isn’t that obvious?”

“On the curb?” Daeron frowned, loosening his tie. He always found it hard to breathe next to Joffrey, the strong smell of alcohol and nicotine burning his throat.

Joffrey shrugged, the silver earning he wore dangling with his movement. His hair was slightly damp, probably from the earlier drizzle. How long had he been sitting on the curb? Why didn’t he come inside? Joffrey was a Velaryon, a direct decedent of the formidable Seasnake, the most powerful man in the trading and commodity industry. He wasn’t short of money or courage to enter a fancy restaurant.

“Why don’t you come in? I told you to meet in the restaurant.” Daeron tried his best to remain calm. He was a successful businessman, always calm, collected, and professional, but his patience always ran low in front of Joffrey.

“They won’t let me inside without covering my tattoos.” Joffrey waved his tattooed arm before Daeron, “I forgot my jacket, so.”

“You could have called me.” Daeron grabbed Joffrey’s wrist to pull him up, snatching the beer bottle from his hand as well.

“My phone is dead.” Joffrey pouted, a drop of sweat sliding down his neck into his collar.

“You forgot your jacket on purpose, didn’t you?” Daeron hissed. He didn’t dare to speak too loudly, for he had already noticed the hidden cameras down the street.

Joffrey Velaryon was the black sheep of his family. His older brother Jacaerys worked in Targ Group with Daeron, a worthy rival and a decent friend. Another of his brother Lucerys was the heart of social media who had more than 20M followers on Instagram. Joffrey’s two younger brothers, Aegon and Viserys, were in still college but had shown their talents respectively. Aegon the younger was a young scholar, while Viserys had won three international championships in chess. Compared to his brothers, Joffrey wasn’t a leading figure in any field. He played music, but not professionally; he painted, but only in Graffiti; he went to college, but never graduated. If Daeron had to use one word to describe Joffrey, he would say, free.

Joffrey had never cared about the public’s opinions. He had been caught by paparazzi in various different scandalous situations, clubbing, passing out in the street from alcohol, or at the front row of an anti-capitalism parade. In a way, he was social media’s darling too. The only difference between him and Lucerys was that Joffrey got all the criticism while Lucerys got all the praise.

Joffrey lived in a different world with Daeron. Daeron was serious, organized, elegant and formal, while Joffrey was carefree, chaotic, wild and easygoing. Their values and personalities couldn’t be more different, but for some reason, Daeron was intrigued by Joffrey. Perhaps it was Joffrey’s free spirit that attracted Daeron.

“I am allergic to fancy places.” Joffrey scratched his arm, a cute pout still on his lips, “You have the right to plan our date there, and I have the right to not showing up.”

Daeron didn’t want to hear Joffrey’s nonsense anymore, so he crushed their lips together, the hidden cameras completely forgotten. He had no self-control in front of Joffrey. One glance from Joffrey’s dark eyes was enough throw Daeron off edge.

Joffrey opened his mouth immediately, inviting Daeron’s tongue in. He wrapped his tattooed arms around Daeron’s neck, his hips grinding against Daeron’s, their clothed cock brushing against each other. Joffrey moaned into the kiss, his tongue desperately seeking Daeron’s.

“Come.” Daeron broke the kiss after biting Joffrey’s lower lip so hard that blood stained the brunette’s pink lips, “I am not going to fuck you in front of the cameras.”

“No? I think that will be rather hot.” Joffrey licked the blood away and winked.

Daeron finished the remaining beer in one go and smashed the glass bottle on the ground. He grabbed Joffrey’s wrist again and shoved the giggling brunette into a cramped back alley.

“I will take you here, in the back alley.” Daeron said, taking off his suit jacket, leaving only a black shirt and vest.

“Because I’ve been a bad boy?” Joffrey had his face pressed against the stone wall, but his smile was so bright that it almost blinded Daeron.

“Because that’s where you belong.” Daeron whispered in Joffrey’s ear as he pulled off Joffrey’s jeans roughly. He unbuckled his belt, his designer suit pants hanging loosely on his hips.

“In a back alley?” Joffrey shivered when Daeron’s finger slid between his butt cheeks, poking his anticipating hole playfully.

“Like a rat.” Daeron bit Joffrey’s earlobe, tugging Joffrey’s earing with his teeth.

“You are very romantic.” Joffrey’s sentence caught in his throat as Daeron’s free hand pumped his cock. Joffrey reached his own hand back to return the favor, taking Daeron’s cock into his palm and began to stroke gently. Contrary to his appearance, Joffrey was gentle on bed. He liked tender kisses and postcoital cuddles, willing to give and greedy to receive.

Daeron kissed Joffrey’s neck, then his shoulder, all the way down his back. He pushed one finger inside Joffrey without much effort. Joffrey’s hole was loose and well lubed, ready for Daeron’s cock like an eager slut.

“You came prepared?” Daeron pushed another finger in and curled, pressing on the sensitive point on Joffrey’s wall, “You have loosened yourself for my cock but you refused to have dinner with me in a restaurant?”

Joffrey moaned as Daeron’s finger brushed against a particularly good spot. He arched his back and stuck his ass out to give Daeron more access. He was so hard already. He normally preferred tender sex, but Daeron’s toughness always made his skin prickle with desire. Only Daeron could awaken the greedy beast within him, filling him up so well that Joffrey could come just by imagining Daeron’s cock inside him.

“I love fucking you. Doesn’t mean I love having dinner with you.” Joffrey managed to say between moans, “don’t mistake me for a girl.”

“Bad, spoiled, greedy boy.” Daeron pulled his fingers out and gave Joffrey’s ass a loud slap. He thrust in, stretching Joffrey’s hole without mercy, while he kept spanking the brunette.

Joffrey bit his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming. The humiliation of being spanked and the euphoria of having Daeron inside him made him shake with despair. He balanced himself against the wall with one hand, and his fingers had dug into the stone at some point, but he was too carried away to notice.

However, Daeron’s thrust stopped abruptly, leaving Joffrey unfinished and crawling for more.

“Move, damn it!” Joffrey hissed, trying to move his own hips instead, but Daeron put a strong hand on his lower back to stop him.

“Say you are sorry and you won’t keep me waiting again.” Daeron demanded.

“In your fucking dreams, you power hungry pervert-Uh!” Joffrey jumped when Daeron spanked him again, drops of pre cum leaked fro. his hard cock.

“Say it. Be a good boy and apologize, Joffrey.”

Joffrey was determined to keep his mouth shut, but his resolve proved useless in front of Daeron. Soon he could no longer think straight, consumed by desire that he forgot all about his dignity.

“Please, I am sorry! I am a bad boy!” Joffrey blurted out, “I will be good next time. I won’t keep you waiting again! Please fuck me now!”

Daeron was on the verge of exploding too, so he resumed thrusting before Joffrey could finish his sentence. They both moaned loudly, and Daeron was sure the whole street could hear.

But he couldn’t care about reputation now. Joffrey had set him free, free of duty and tiresome obligations. Now Daeron belonged to Joffrey, a wild soul that no one could truly conquer.

Daeron would like to try though, for a million times.

[mochibuni]

How to Support Your Favorite Creators!

This guide is largely based on my preferences as a freelance digital artist, but I think can be applicable to others. So let's chat about ways you can support your favorites, sometimes very free and very minimally with big results!

FREE WAYS TO SUPPORT

Like and/or comment - The easiest and free-ist way to help is simply to like or leave a comment on their work! Speaking personally, especially as someone who typically draws for others instead of myself, this is what keeps me drawing and sharing. Knowing that you're here liking what I make, finding happiness in it, or delightful shock and horror fuels me to keep creating, keep being inspired, and keep looking for ways to improve my skills. I just wouldn't be here drawing as much as I do without your likes and comments, and to me this is one of the most valuable avenues of support.

Watching Streams - If your creative also streams, just hanging out and lurking in their stream is super helpful. A lot of streaming platforms, especially Twitch, gate streamers based on their average viewership. For example, in order to be able to receive subs and bits on Twitch you need to be an Affiliate account, and in order to do that you need to reach a few different requirements, one of them being an average of 3 viewers over a 30 day period. You'd think 3 would be easy, but it isn't! If you can also interact in chat with the streamer, great! If not, lurking is absolutely helpful in helping your streamer reach the numbers they need for their next goal on the platform.

Reblogging and sharing links - This is perhaps one of the most impactful ways to support your faves without spending a cent, and that's because you're helping us reach new people who will hopefully like our work as much as you do, and will in turn also share our work to new people that will like our work and so on! As a small freelancer, growth is important to keep me going professionally as an artist, and reblogging and sharing my work absolutely contributes so much to that.

Referrals and Recommendations - A lot of my recent commission work is thanks to previous clients and supporters that recommend my work to others looking for art. Good reviews and word of mouth have helped me so much in my commission work and I'm so appreciative of this.

(A small aside to fellow artists, always try to be professional and friendly as it's your attitude and behavior that plays a part in others wanting to refer you, not just your art. Not advocating that you let anyone boundary stomp, but I know for a fact that my professionalism is what gives people the confidence to recommend me so strongly to their friends and fellow content creators. Use invoicing, stick to a schedule, be clear and consistent, and if there are issues be transparent and prompt in communicating them. If anyone would like me to go into more detail about how I handle commission work I can make a separate post.)

MONETARY WAYS OF SUPPORT

I just want to make it very clear that I do not expect anyone, especially in this economy, to give me money. However if you do have some extra cash and you'd like to give it to your favorite creator, here's how!

Tip them! - If they have a Ko-Fi or another platform for small tips and donations, use them! A few dollars may not seem like a lot and perhaps you feel bad or foolish to give so little, BUT DO NOT. With money being such a precious commodity, for me it means a lot when someone is willing to send a few my way. And if even a few are tipping a couple of dollars, that can easily add up. To put in perspective, even if just a portion of my supports decided one day to tip me or sub to my patreon one month, I could easily cover most if not all of our living expenses for a month. I'm not telling you guys to do this, but to understand that a few dollars can have a lot of power.

Sub to one of their platforms! - Since I use a few different platforms with this option, I want to discuss the pros and cons of each so you can decide which way you would like to support your favorite that may also have multiple platforms. Ultimately if your fave has a preferred platform I suggest using that one, but if not--

Ko-Fi - Has a 0% fee taken from donations received and do not charge supporters extra., and 5% from monthly memberships, shop sales, and commissions through the platform. The only downside to Ko-Fi is they immediately submit transactions to the creators payout method of choice which can sometimes be troublesome depending on said method. Patreon - A popular choice for creators as we can create multiple tiers of monthly rewards in exchange for your monetary support! The only drawback I think is largely for supporters as it requires a monthly subscription, but you could certainly go the route of a one time payment, catch up with what you missed since your last sub, and repeat. Patreon takes a 5%, 8%, or 12% fee depending on the creator's account. Twitch - For your favorite streamers, subbing to their Twitch is often the way to go as increased sub numbers directly benefit streamers in their growth on the platform. HOWEVER, Twitch has a pretty notoriously bad payout split of 50/50, so if your favorite streamer has a tipping platform or Patreon, it might be worth asking if they would prefer a sub or one of those other options.

Commission them! - If you have the funds and their commissions are open, request one! I know at least my commissions can be pricey so I never, ever expect anyone to request one, but I am so excited when someone fills out a commission request form and it lands in my email!

Some tips for commissioning art:

Read the artist's Terms of Service and fill out their request form, if they have one. If they don't then contact them privately, but if they have one please use it instead of DMs (especially on Twitter where DMs do not show up most of them time).

If you feel you can't afford their fees, just tell them you simply cannot afford them at that time. Do not tell them their skills cost too much or aren't worth their asking price. Custom art is a luxury, it isn't cheap.

If you want to use the final commission commercially, you need to purchase commercial rights from the artist. Artists retain copyright of their work, even fanart, and you are not permitted to sell it without permission or obtaining the copyright. Be upfront with your artist if you want to use the work commercially so they can price accordingly.

Provide references, especially for OC. If you have a certain pose in mind, even a poor doodle of it is helpful for your artist.

Be patient, give your artist some time to work and respond. Drawing takes time. That said, if your artist is taking weeks and months without communicating with you, absolutely follow up with them.

On the other hand, don't let your artist rush you either. I always tell my clients to take a few days to ruminate on questions and in progress updates. If I'm streaming your commission, I will never ask you to make confirmations during stream.

Understand that big changes, especially during certain parts of the drawing process, may incur additional fees based on how much work the artist will need to do to accommodate those changes.

Ask for a proper invoice, never do friends and family. An invoice is to protect you as much as it is to protect the artist because if you have an issue with the artist never delivering your commission you can use the invoice to assist in recouping your money. I personally use Paypal invoicing for this reason, despite all the issues with Paypal, because I want to make sure both myself and my clients are protected.

Pay on time! And if you feel your artist is underselling their work and they have tips turned on, tip them!

Those are the major free and monetary ways you can support your favorites! If other creatives would like to chime in with additional tips, please do so!

[thayansaudade]

The Truth

Word count: 2971 Rating: M

Being the son of the mad hermit had many downsides, and few perks.  Some nights Morgan was ignored, left free to do what he wished.  Other nights, and more frequently, he was saddled with a burden or two.  Collect a satchel of grave soil, track down a soul and put it in the soul jar.  Some tasks were easier than others.

The worst jobs were when Morgan was asked to assist his father in live dissection and experimentation.  None of his 'patients' looked quite like Morgan but the sharp tip to the ears… The eyes so dark they could hold stars…  those were the worst.  

Those were the tasks he had most trouble completing and ultimately failed each time.  And each time incurred the wrath of his father.  Who reminded him he was no son.  Not a son, but a slave.  A slave who could be on that very table and dissected if that was what Morgan really wanted.  

The mad hermit would go as far as telling him that changeling blood was a prized commodity.  

Each time.  Every time.  Morgan would run.  He knew his father would never truly hurt him.  Least of all when he was miles down the roads already.  Swallowed up by the darkness and changed into another.  

Most times he would run to a graveyard and hide amongst the tombstones.  Or drink his problems away at a bar until he was silly and his father came to pick him up.  

But tonight.  Tonight felt different. 

Everything had been different since he kissed Argos under the darkness of his looming home.  He had always craved the other boy’s attention, but now it felt more real.  More solid and tangible.  

And before he knew it, his feet had taken him to the library window.  The window he had scaled countless times to see his friend.  Never from the front door.  Always from the window from where they first met.  

He climbed the solid rock wall, and slipped once or twice on slick stones.  

The rain followed him in like a shroud.  

Thunder covered his steps, already silent on the wooden floor.  

He stared down at the puddle he was forming, and frowned.  Argos wouldn’t be happy.  The servants wouldn’t be happy either.  Though their opinions mattered far less.  But Morgan tried his best regardless to wring water out of his sodden clothes out the window, and not drip so heavily on the floor.  

The room was enchanted with mage light.  Safe and no risk of burning the home down like regular torches would.  Though in all of Morgan's life, he had not seen a home lit by torch nor candle.  Maybe a slave's quarters?  But none of the citizens of Thay ever wanted for a better life.

No citizen but him.  The secret son of Sephtis.  The secret slave of the mad hermit.

The sound of paper, soft and whispering, caught his attention and stirred him from his thoughts.  Quietly, on the tips of his toes he tried sneaking around shelves and walls of books.  The library big enough to dwarf his own room.  

The scratch of a pen came next.  And then Morgan knew who was there.  Studying in the dark hours of the day when all others but him and his father would be resting for the next day.  

The boy he had come to see.  The one who captured his heart like a thief.  

Argos.

But he didn't want to interrupt him.  Didn't want to startle him into spilling his ink onto his book and ruining the expensive paper he used to transcribe.  Morgan bit his lip as he watched the back of his friend, illuminated by a small mage light caught in a glass like an oil lamp.  He was…  beautiful.  Even from behind and hunched like he was.  His hair glowed like a halo from this angle.  

And Morgan sighed a little too loud.  Still a whisper.  At least he thought so.  But with the soft sound, Argos looked up from his work and looked out the window.  There was nothing but darkness and rain out there.  

There, where Morgan had been not a moment ago.  And considered going back out the way he came.  It was stupid really.  To come here unannounced.  And through the window no less.  Although he had done the very same countless times before now.  

But now was different.

Argos turned his head and looked at his friend with a puzzled expression that twisted quickly into surprise, them worry.  "You look like a drown rat."  He said simply though there was nothing simple in his eyes.  Gold even in the dark.  

Morgan smiled slow and shrugged.  "Little wet out there."  

Argos was on his feet and storming close, close, closer.  Until he was a breath away from the sodden Morgan.  "You're shivering."  He whispered.  Hands reached up and stroked up and down his arms, radiating a heat and warmth from them.  Argos was right, Morgan thought.  He was shivering.  

"Come on.  Come with me."  His warm hand slid down Morgan's arm one more time and rested in his hand.  Cold and wet against dry and warm.  Warmth touched his forehead too.  In the form of soft lips to his cold skin.  

Warmth bloomed inside his chest.  And he stared down at their hands, connected, intertwined as Argos lead him out of the library.  Like always, the two of them were connected.  

"Sorry I interrupted you."  Morgan mumbled, though he was loud enough for Argos to hear.  

"It's nothing I can't get back to later."

"Still."

"You matter more than my studies okay?" 

"Okay." 

Though Morgan wasn't sure if he believed it from the night he had.  Haunting words chasing after him, nipping at his heels like the shadow he couldn't get rid of.  He squeezed Argos' hand, and felt a return tightness grip him back.  

Maybe…  maybe.  As long as he was with him.  Here.  In the home that smelled like cinnamon and old paper.  As long as he was here, and Argos was holding his hand, maybe he could believe it.  That he mattered.  That his feet were right to take him here instead of any of the other places he haunted on such nights.  

"Sorry…"  He said again when they stopped.  He hadn't stopped staring at their clasped hands.  The only source of warmth he felt.  

"Don't be.  Now strip."  

"What?"  The order had him spluttering.   He looked up finally and noticed they were in Argos' room.  Warm and dimly lit.  A massive bed making the center piece of the room.  

Morgan blushed.  Colour soaking into his pale skin.  It wouldn't have been the first time he had been naked around Argos.  It wouldn't have been the first time he was naked in this room.  

But things were different now.  

Argos frowned and gently pulled and peeled at Morgan's clothes.  Muttering to himself, "where did you even come from in such a hurry?  Didn't even grab a cloak to shield you…"  

"Can't you just magic me dry?"

"I don't have that magic.  And you're soaked to the bone.  Help me out here, Morgan."  

He bit his lip and shifted.  Lifting his arms when prompted.  Lifting his legs when told to do so.  Layer by layer he was stripped of his wet things until he was bare.  Bare and still shivering as a droplet of water fell from his long hair and down his back.  

Thay was not a chilly place.  On the contrary. It was warm and full of light and heat and fresh clean air.  But on rainy nights like this one, even the hardest of flames would have trouble not shaking anc shying away from the cold.  

And Morgan stood there.  Naked and cold.  Waiting for the next demands from his friend.  

Morgan tracked Argos as he busied himself around the room.  Looking for something in his dresser.  Watched as he paused and straightened himself out, and turned towards the bed, and took one of the blankets off.  Folded it in his arms, and returned to his shivering friend, arms out and open, as if expecting a hug.  Then wrapping the smaller of the two up in the thick fabric.  

It was warm.  It smelled of cinnamon and ink on paper.  It smelled like Argos, and Morgan couldn’t help but to close his eyes briefly and inhale the smell.  Holding the blanket tight to his body.  

“There.”  Argos said with a smile.  Kissing his forehead once more.  His hands once more stroking over his friend’s arms.  “Now get into the bed where it’s warm and dry.  Please.  I’ll be right there and we can talk, okay?” But Morgan didn’t want to talk and leaned up on his toes, and pressed a delicate kiss against Argos’ lips.  Soft skin that could give way to sharp teeth.  When did Argos get so tall?  When had they changed so much from each other?  

Argos wrapped his arms around the small of Morgan’s back and dragged him into an embrace.  He opened his mouth, and let his tongue slide out, pushing at Morgan’s lips until they opened for him.  And then they were kissing.  Slowly.  Languidly.  Knowing that this was where each other belonged.  In each other’s arms.  Their bodies a tangle of limbs where neither of them stopped nor started.  

One being.  

Argos broke first.  Pulling away, crimson on his face.  “Bed.”  He demanded, but his expression and voice soft.  Morgan smiled and scurried to the large bed.  It wasn’t the first time they had slept together here.  Just two boys who couldn’t let go of each other’s hands.  Inseparable.  

Morgan dove under the covers and nestled deep into the folds of the blankets.  He wondered very much if he was even able to be seen from outside.  If he left a shape in the once perfect lines of the duvet.  Or if he closed his eyes, he’d sink into the too soft mattress and become one with it.  

He listened closely to the sounds of feet hitting the ground, and the sounds of shuffling here and there.  Then he heard a small sound.  A whisper, before a crackle of fire and the smell of smoke.  And a dip in the bed beside him suggested that Argos had finally joined him.  

“Did you use magic to start a fire?”  Morgan asked as the blankets were lifted and Argos slid inside.  Nothing covering his body.  The two of them naked, separated only by a few degrees of space.  

“To warm the room up more.”  He explained as he scooted closer.  Held up an arm for Morgan to come over if he wished.  And he did.  Soon they were in each other’s arms.  Their legs tangled.  Not a blade could separate them like this.  Nothing in the world could.  “Tell me what happened?” “...Let’s just stay like this.”  Morgan said after a beat of silence.  

“Okay.”  Argos kissed his shoulder.  Kissed his cheek.  Kissed his lips.

Together they were whole.  Together they were safe.

Together not even the memories of his father threatening him could reach him.  

He closed his eyes, and let himself drown in Argos.  His smell.  His touch.  The soft sounds of his heart beat, beat, beating so close.  So calm it was hypnotic.  

The bed shifted again, and Argos’ weight was on top of him.  Morgan on his back before he realized.  Straddling his hips, and Morgan responded in kind, rolling up to meet him.  They gasped at the friction.  The growing hardness between them.  

Their mouths were on each other, hands mapping their bodies as if their lives depended on it.  Morgan gasped and his head rolled back at the graze of teeth against his neck.  He felt a twitch at his hips - himself or Argos, he couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t care.  Not with Argos’ mouth on his neck, sucking and nipping right on the cusp of too much and not enough.  

This was new.  This was different. 

He made a sound that he didn’t know was possible.  A whimper?  A moan?  That caused Argos to stop and look up, and begin kissing him again.  As if trying to suck the noise out of his mouth and into his body.  Morgan wrapped his arms around Argos’ neck to keep him in place and not run again.  He needed this.  Needed to be kissed.  Needed to be loved so thoroughly by the one he held.  

Argos whispered his name, and something else.  Something that Morgan’s brain couldn’t translate.  A spell most likely.  But he couldn’t care.  Not with Argos’ hand exploring lower and lower.  Down past his belly and between his legs.  It tickled in a way that made him want to jump out of his skin, but instead he could only rock his hips upward into Argos’ awaiting hand.  

“Gods.”  He heard himself growl in a voice full of sharp teeth.  He wrapped his leg over Argos’ hips, and held him as close as he possibly could.  Ground their lengths together in a way that made them both shake.  

He wasn't a stranger to pleasure.  He knew what buttons to press to bring himself over the edge.  But with Argos this was all new.  All strange.  But all good.  Perfect.  Everything felt right.  Felt like this was the only real truth to the world.  Morgan was made for Argos.   Argos was made for Morgan.   They were born to meet and to fall in love.   For this moment.  

And then.  

And then…

"Ow!"  Argos reeled back.  The tang of blood, heavy and thick in Morgan's mouth.  He hadn't felt the change come on.  But he had heard it in his voice and done nothing.  

Morgan froze as Argos watched him.  "You bit me."  He said, holding a hand in front of his mouth.  "Didn't expect that…"

Morgan started to breathe heavier.  The world slowly closing in.  Argos didn't look at him in disgust so it couldn't have been a full change but…

"This was a bad idea."  Morgan mumbled around a mouth full of teeth, eyes lowered.  

"Morgan?  Did I do something wrong?"

"No- I- I should go.  I'm sorry."  What parts of him had changed?  How much time did he have before he reverted back to that thing he kept hidden?  He squirmed, pushing Argos off of him trying to get out of the bed.  

"Morgan!"  Argos allowed him up but grabbed his arm.  Held him in place.  Held him close.  He wouldn't escape the bed.  "Stay.  I'm sorry."  

Morgan stared at the floor.  Counted the tiles and tracked lines in the grouting.  Argos sat up with him and gently turned Morgan's head to look at him.  "Morgan.  Love.  Talk to me."

Argos frowned as he tucked a lock of stray hair back behind Morgan’s ear.  Morgan’s heart fell when Argos sucked in a deep breath.  “You…  You aren’t human.”

Pointed ears.  His hair was still dark.  Still long.  But his ears had changed shape.  His eyes, he hoped, had stayed dark but not so deep that stars could be held inside.  So he closed them.  Afraid to see what was written on his friend’s face.  

“You aren’t human…”  Argos repeated.  But there was no fury in his tone.  Like he had been tricked.  No betrayal.  Instead he cupped Morgan’s cheek.  His voice soft.  “I understand.”

In Thay it was almost illegal to be not human.  They were here and there.  Elves.  Dwarves.  The occasional tiefling.  But they were treated less than.  They were no better than slaves.  They were slaves.  No better than the undead that they would all eventually become.  All except the humans.

“Morgan.  I understand.  Look at me.  Please?”  Morgan nuzzled his face into that hand.  Afraid.  So afraid.  As if this would be the last time he’d be able to touch Argos in this way.  He wanted to will this night away.

“I’m sorry I lied.”  After all these years.  He lied.  He was still lying.  To let his friend think he was an elf instead of a changeling.  He was a terrible person…  

“No.  No don’t be sorry.”  Argos leaned in and kissed his forehead.  Kissed his way to his lips.  Ever so gently.  “If it wasn’t for this - this lie, then we wouldn’t have been able to meet like this in the first place.”

A wet heat burned at Morgan’s eyes before sliding down his face. 

“I won’t tell anyone.  No one will know.  No one but us.  And your father, I suppose.”

His father.  The reason why he was here in the first place.  He opened his eyes.  Vision blurred by tears.  Argos existed in a dreamy haze.  That was right.  He was dreaming and all of this was a nightmare brought on by his father's verbal lashings.  

"Stay here. Stay with me.  Please?"  Argos pleaded in earnest.  "It's still storming out there.  You barely just got dry.  Please, Morgan.  I promise.  I promise you're safe here."

Morgan couldn't deny he wanted to stay.  To be here with Argos.  If only he could have controlled himself better then this would have gone so differently.  They would have…

But things were different now.  

He nodded slowly before falling against Argos' bare chest.  Crumpling into a small heap in his arms.  Argos gently rocked him back and forth, like soothing a young child from a nightmare.  His cheek resting on Morgan's dark locks.  

"I have you.  You're safe. "  He kept repeating softly.  Gently.  Until the tears and the shaking stopped.  He tucked them both back into bed.  Their limbs a tangle of knots once more.  

There was touching.  Stroking.  The soft graze of lips.  But no hunger remained.  No fire need for something.  Their bodies stirred quietly to life, but it was easily ignored in lieu of comfort and acceptance.   

And for once, Morgan was at peace.

[nayfen]

Fanfic: These Fleeting Nights (1/9)

Read the full chapter on AO3

V lay on her back, mind flowing like a waterfall, cascading thoughts of the last year through the synaptic pathways of her mind. Sleep was a rare commodity of late, and the primary factor this early morning was the lack of a certain terrorist sharing her mind. Johnny Silverhand. It’d been a few weeks since her jaunt inside Mikoshi and she’d not quite come to terms with what happened or with the fact that she was now alone in her head. She’d gotten used to it, and with him gone... it was too quiet. 

“Johnny?” 

There was nothing. No reply. Just silence, an emptiness. A tear slipped down V’s cheek. She missed him. Despite everything, she missed the arsehole. 

She lay on her sleeping bag, pitch dark and quiet like nothing she’d heard; she hated it. Panam promised she’d get used to it soon, but it was full-on! Gone were the sirens, the shouts, the songs. The constant dull drone of traffic and tech buzzin’ relentlessly. Now, she could hear… the wind. An untimely gust here, the flap of a loose tarp here. The odd cough from one of her new family members, the Aldecaldos.  

Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly upwards into the darkness, gradually adjusting to the low light. They felt heavy and yet stuck, forced open by some invisible force, paralysed in place. She felt that if she were to close them, it would cause physical pain. Despite herself, she blinked, and sighed in relief as the lids refreshed her eyes, pain-free tears moistening her corneas. She drew in a deep breath and listened to the sounds around her and heard the sweet and gentle purr of Judy sleeping beside her, and Nibbles curled up on Judy’s discarded dungarees; she couldn’t decide who was loudest between the two of them. 

It was nice having Nibbles with them; a small hairless stray Cat V had befriended in her Megatower apartment complex. Panam was not best pleased with V when she rocked up with her carry case under her arm, something she needed to buy new, along with a rucksack with an adorable little cat pouch allowing for travel with your kitty companion. She got a little carried away in the shop. Nibbles was enjoying being out of the city instead of being cooped up in that apartment on her own. She thought... she was difficult to read. She was definitely more vocal and was a lot clingier with her. Judy was still warming up to Nibbles, convinced that she had an ‘agenda.’ She tried to blink, to reset her brain, move onto something else and stop her brain from processing.  

She heard crickets. The high chirping relentless sound of crickets. It was soothing, sort of. Rhythmic, constant; reminiscent of the incessant hiss of technology, the sound of something, somewhere, drawing power from the grid. But it was such a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Night City, and she still wasn’t used to it; it was unsettling.  

That wasn’t to say that she missed Night City, fuck no! She loved the distance, glad to see the back of it. But like an earworm of some shit-yet-catchy gang-bangers remix, she couldn’t seem to be rid of it. It plagued her mind most days- racing through the events that led them here; Kompeki Plaza, the Relic, Evelyn Parker, the Voodoo boys, Arasaka, downing a Kang Tao AV for Hellman, Dogtown and Songbird, that damned Cynosure lab. 

She sat up, defeated at yet another failed night’s sleep. As quietly as she could, she slipped on her clothes and tip-toed to the tent flap. Nibble’s head shot up at the slight disturbance and frowned at her as if to say ’You dare wake me from my slumber, Human!’  

She raised an eyebrow at her, “Chill, Nibbles!” she whispered as quietly as she could, peeking back at Judy to see if she’d stirred. She lay on her back, arm draped over her forehead, her mouth slightly open, drooling on the pillow. ‘So pretty’ she thought, stifling a giggle. She turned back to Nibbles, who had settled back down. 

V slipped out of the tent into the gloom of camp. It’d been two days since they had fled Night City and set up a temporary camp fifty or so miles away before heading southeast to Arizona. They were waiting. Cassidy hadn’t reached the rendezvous point after the storm and the Nomads were on edge. It wasn’t like him to get lost in a storm, so the only alternative was that something went wrong. He was either stuck somewhere or… worse.  

V crept through the camp, passing tents and lean-to’s and, predictably her eyes spotted a familiar figure on the ridge with a small elec-light beside them. She climbed her way up and sat down beside her. 

“Evenin’ V!” Panam said in an overly chirpy tone. She was wrapped in a blanket, protected against the cold early morning air. Her eyes were red and puffy, even in the low glow of the pitiful lantern between them. V raised an eyebrow. 

“Come on Pan… relax, it’s me!” she replied, holding out her arms. Panam broke almost immediately, falling into V’s arms and sobbing into her shoulder. “I know… Let it out girl,” she whispered as she rubbed her shoulders comfortingly. 

After a good five minutes, she came up for air. “Thanks, V…” Panam said gratefully, wiping her nose and cheeks, “I needed that...” 

“You missed a bit,” replied V, brushing a tear smear from her cheek. She pulled her closer for warmth, pulling the edge of the blanket around her shoulder. They sat and looked out at the view of the camp and the surrounding desert.  

“I’m sorry, V... I’m all over the place right now...” She awkwardly moved her hand up to her face to wipe her eyes and remove a strand of hair out of her mouth whilst trying to stay wrapped up tightly. 

“Hey, I feel you… we should be on cloud nine right now, but…” she trailed off as her thoughts returned to the awful moment inside Mikoshi. She shook her head and stared off into the distance. 

They sat quietly for a spell before Panam turned away and began to fidget with the sleeve of her jacket. 

“Um… V?” she said timidly, pulling at a loose thread. 

“Yeh?” she replied, turning her head expectedly.  

“You… uh. You think I’m a good leader?” She asked, staring off into the distance. V touched Panam’s knee for comfort. 

“Yeah, ‘course. At least… I think you try to be,” she said cautiously, trying to be honest but kind. 

Panam turned her head suddenly, “What… what do you mean by that?” She asked, a slight hint of panic in her voice. 

V rubbed the nape of her neck, “You’re a new leader, Panam. A new leader that’s been through shit! You’re grievin’. Heck, we all are. Scorpion, Bob, Teddy. Saul... Plus with Cassidy being…” 

“Don’t say it, V!” Panam snapped suddenly, her eyes full of fear and on the verge of bursting again. 

“I wasn’t… was gonna say missin’,” She replied, moving her hand to her shoulder, and causing the blanket to fall off and a wave of chilly air made her shiver. She pulled it back over her and continued. “Truth is… even if you were the best leader around… right now…?” V paused, her words feeling false in her mouth. “What I mean is... you’re allowed a moment, you know?” V said softly and patted her knee again reassuringly. 

Panam relaxed a little with a sigh, “Yeah… I guess you’re right V. It’s been… Fuck… it’s been bad... let’s not sugar coat it!” She bit, kicking the edge of the ridge with her heel causing a scattering of rocks and grits cascading down the rocky outcrop. 

“A real shitshow yeah…” V replied, guilt flooding back through her mind. “Pan, it’s all my fucking fault! All of it!” 

“Fuck V, enough of that shit!” she retorted angrily. “You’re family now dammit!” Panam barked loudly, her voice echoing out into the darkness. She pulled V into a one-armed hug. “I’ve told you already, it’s not on you...” She murmured, sensing a need for her to provide the comfort now. 

“I just…” V began, sobbing softly as the last few weeks filled her mind again. “I’m all over the fucking place too, Pan! If it wasn’t for you and Judy, I’d just give the fuck up right now and end it!” The darkness seeped out of her, flooding the depths of her mind, unwanted and unbothered by its imposing presence. 

“V! Don’t talk like that! We will fix you, got it!” She urged, squeezing tightly. “We will fix you…” She squeaked, joining V as tears filled her eyes. 

They sat together in silent sobs, waiting for the sadness to subside and for the sun to rise over the cliffs. When the warmth started gently caressing their faces, they heard the distant roar of an engine, shouting its echoed chant on the wind, its tyres churning up the dust. Mitch was back. 

Panam leapt down from the ridge and stalked across the camp, and V followed in her wake. ‘Please let it be good news,’ V thought in desperation. Mitch’s Gecko pulled to a stop, caked in sand and dust. Panam and a handful of others gathered around and waited as the door swung open. A few beats of bated breath came before Mitch rose from the car. And clung to his shoulder, a dust-covered, tired and dishevelled Cassidy. 

A cheer erupted from the crowd as Panam launched herself towards them both in a choking bear hold.  

“Jesus Panam! Gimme a little air would yah!” replied Mitch struggling to breathe. Panam released them, tears swelling. 

“Sorry… I…” she struggled, lost for words. V moved in to help Mitch support Cassidy. 

“He’s severely dehydrated, found his car, ass sticking out the dirt, nose fully buried… hard to tell what the hell happened but, seemed the cabin was sealed and had just about enough air for him to hold out! Lucky bastard!” Mitch sneered with a smile. He looked down at Cassidy. 

“Lucky! Pfff… that damn storm…” growled Cassidy, hoarse and barely audible, “…was worse… than I thought… sent me… flyin’ down a… canyon… and…” He sputtered, coughing between every word before he coughed himself silent, wheezing. 

“Ok… Ok, we’ll hear all about it tonight, Cass, but right now, let’s get some fluids in yah, Kay?” Panam said, ushering them into camp past the cheering onlookers. 

“You damn fool, near gave me a heart attack!” yelled Carol, swooping in and driving her shoulder into V to peel Cassidy away. “I got him!” She barked, as they carried him off towards the medical tent. V shook her head and held back and saw Panam turn. A smile beamed across her face, and she mouthed, ‘Thank you’. V replied with a smile.  

‘Wow… how about that, Johnny? A bit of good luck for a change…’ V thought happily in her mind, reaching out into the depths. Silence. 

Back at their tent, she entered to find a waking Judy. “Hey, you…” V purred watching her stretching out of her sleeping bag.  

Her multi-toned, pink and green hair was dishevelled, swooping across her head, strands of which were all upended at awkward angles. She wore a small grey tank top, one shoulder of which had slipped down off her shoulder as she slipped out to lean on her elbows. A sleepy smile formed on her face. 

“Heeey!” she replied in a low growl. “You sleep all right?” She yawned, rubbing her eyes sleepily. 

“Nope,” V spat plainly, and flumped down beside her, planting a quick kiss on her lips. 

“Oh no really…? Still struggling huh? Well… I for one am loving the quiet!” Judy replied, a big grin on her face. She looked adorable in the mornings. 

“Glad to hear it. Want some breakfast?” V asked, hopping back up. 

“Mmmhmm… Please, I’ll uh… I’ll wait here…” She said as she stretched out, causing her sleeping bag to slip down further. She wriggled free of it and kicked it aside revealing her favourite blue shorts and her long, beautiful, tattooed legs. She stretched them out, leaned back and added, “I’ll be waiting...” She flicked her hair back and shook, as it flopped about doing absolutely nothing to it. If anything, it now looked messier. V giggled before heading back outside.  

She headed across camp to find Miguel had beaten her to the grill and was cooking up a storm of sausages and synth meat. The smell was intoxicating. 

“Oh boy! Can I get in on that, Miguel?” She asked, her mouth literally watering. 

“Of course, Hermana!” He called out, as her translation subs appeared in her lower peripheral vision translating Hermana to Sister. He picked up a couple tortillas from a stack beside him. “Anything for you and your chica, eh?”-girl. Miguel said with a wink and fixed up a couple of breakfast quesadillas. “There you go, V, enjoy, eh?” 

“Gracias, Miguel, realmente!”-Thank you, really. V replied, giving him a quick hug in thanks. 

She walked back to the tent and the picnic table outside, “Rise and shine! Breakfast on the table!” She called across to the tent. She laid out the quesadillas and glided across to grab some cans from the cooler when her holo pinged with a message… from Judy. She raised her eyebrows and swung back around to the tent, the cold cans numbing her hands. She wiggled her head through the tent flap. “You just ping me or have I got a virus?” She asked, confused. 

“Hah… Yeah, I did, but…uh, don’t watch it yet! Be out in a sec, OK?” Judy said nervously. She was half dressed, wearing her go-to black bra and was pulling on her dungarees.  

“OK... I would press you on it, but these cans are so frickin’ cold!” She cried out, freeing her head and dropping them down onto the table. 

V sat down, and for the first time in three days, she felt a sense of calm. With Cassidy back, they’ll be on the move again any day now and they could finally leave Night City far in the dust. On a clear night, she swore she could almost see the towering lights from camp. It was probably her imagination, like a ghost image burned into her retinas. No doubt everyone would feel better when that was no longer the case.  

They had, after all, attacked not only Arasaka Tower but a Militech-controlled checkpoint and Night Corp construction site to get there, not to mention busting out with stolen Arasaka tech and the stolen Militech Basilisk. They were on a few shit lists, and the sooner they made themselves scarce the better. Being here in this camp felt like being in a kind of limbo, but once they moved on, V felt like her life might resume. What was left of it... 

Six months. Or maybe more, according to Alt Cunningham, rogue AI and ex-output to Johnny Silverhand. She’d “overlooked the human factor,” the toll the Relic put on the body. Her body! Though, according to Alt, it wasn’t hers anymore. It was Johnny’s. And she, V, was now nothing but a passenger, a fucking cancer, sitting in a borrowed shell. An engram. Fuck! Was she… was she even a person anymore, or just a collection of synaptic wavelengths of emulated consciousness? Did she have a soul? Hurt her fucking head just thinking about it. 

The one thing she knew for sure though was that she wasn’t about to give up; ‘Saul didn’t die for nothing...’ she thought to herself. She didn’t go to hell and back and risked everything for six fucking months… not if she could help it. Not now she had something to lose. Someone… 

“Hey!” Judy chirped, appearing from the tent, “Oh... Miguel’s quesadilla?” 

“MmmHmm… come on, they’ll get cold!” V said, passing Judy’s across the table. 

“Can’t have that!” She beamed broadly and sat down across from her. She took a big bite, closing her eyes and moaning as she savoured the taste. “Mmm... fuck that’s good! What seasoning does he use!” 

“No one knows, he mixes it himself or so I’ve heard... man’s got a gift, considering what he’s working with!” V giggled. 

Nomad life wasn’t the most glamorous; something the both of them were still adjusting to. Having hot food and running water was a surprise to them; they imagined washing in rivers, eating wild bugs and protein bars, huddled around campfires for warmth. There was a surprising amount of tech involved in the camp, most of which was admittedly sat idle in this temporary camp. But they still had the gas stoves, the heated water trucks for showers and well... campfires for the evening, because some things just work. 

It wasn’t exactly what V had in mind when she decided to leave Night City with Judy, but it was a pretty good start.

Read the rest on AO3

[maxpctools]

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[sherminreview]

Clay Snowman Craft Kit for Kids' Creative Christmas Fun Review

24 Pack Build a Snowman Kit Review: The Ultimate Christmas Craft for Kids

Looking for a festive and fun way to keep kids entertained this winter? The 24 Pack Build a Snowman Kit is the perfect answer! Packed with everything needed for a creative, hands-on activity, this DIY Christmas craft kit is designed to bring holiday cheer while sparking imagination. In this review, we’ll explore what makes this kit so special, how it works, and whether it’s worth your investment. Let’s dive into the snowy details!

Preface Dive into the Holiday Spirit with the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle 

The vacation season is a magical time filled with joy, horselaugh, and cherished moments with loved bones. Amid the spangling lights, gleeful music, and the excitement of gift- paying, there's a commodity truly special about casting together as a family. Enter the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle – a pleasurable addition to your downtime fests that combines creativity, fun, and the dateless charm of snowmen. Designed to allure the imagination of kiddies and grown-ups likewise, this DIY tackle is the perfect way to bring the frosty fun of downtime indoors, no matter the rainfall outdoors. 

Imagine the exhilaration of unwrapping this various tackle and diving into its treasure trove of possibilities. With 24 individual packs, each brimming with a soft, vibrant modeling complexion and an array of lovable accessories, the tackle offers endless openings to produce unique snowman masterpieces. Whether you’re organizing a classroom exertion, planning a vacation party, or simply looking for a quiet way to spend quality time at home, this tackle ensures that every moment is filled with creativity and horselaugh. 

What's the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle, Snowman DIY Christmas Crafts for kiddies, Modeling complexion Snowman DIY tackle, Christmas Crafts Xmas Gift Downtime? 

The 24 Pack Build a Snowman Kit is a delightful crafting set designed for children and families. It includes 24 individual kits, each packed with colorful modeling clay and accessories like buttons, hats, scarves, and noses. These kits allow kids to create their own mini snowman masterpieces without needing actual snow. Perfect for indoor fun, the kit is ideal for:

Holiday gatherings

Classroom projects

Family craft nights

Gifts for kids’ parties

Each snowman kit is thoughtfully crafted to be easy to use, making it suitable for kids aged 3 and up. The materials are non-toxic and mess-free, ensuring a stress-free crafting experience for parents.

The 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle is an alluring vacation craft set designed to spark joy and creativity in children and grown-ups likewise. This tackle includes 24 sets of modeling complexion and accessories, each courteously curated to help you draft your veritably own snowman from scrape. Perfect for Christmas fests, this DIY tackle makes downtime days magical and delightful, whether you’re hosting a family gathering, a classroom exertion, or simply looking for a pleasurable solo design. 

It’s further than just a craft tackle; it’s a gateway to cling, horselaugh, and creative expression. With snowmen being a definitive downtime symbol, this tackle offers a unique way to celebrate the season without stepping into the cold wave. You can recreate that frosty magic indoors, where it’s warm and cozy. 

How Does the 24 Pack Build a Snowman Tackle Work? 

What sets the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle piecemeal is its thoughtful design and inclusivity. drafted with eco-friendly, non-toxic accoutrements , it’s safe for kiddies progressed three and over. The compact, mess-free packaging makes it a breath to distribute and clean up, turning any space into a casting wonderland. From various scarves and button tips to stick arms and sportful headdresses, every accessory adds a touch of megrim to your snowman, making each one truly one- of-a-kind. 

Creating your snowman with this tackle is a breath. That's how it works 

Open the tackle: Each of the 24 packs comes collectively wrapped, making it easy to distribute during group conditioning. Perfect for classrooms or vacation parties.

 Modeling complexion: Each pack contains decoration- quality,non-toxic, air-dry complexion in multiple colors. The complexion is soft, easy to fester, and does n’t bear any fresh tools. 

Accessories Galore: Every tackle includes bitsy embellishments like buttons, scarves, headdresses, carrot tips, eyes, and stick arms. These fascinating details bring your snowman to life. 

Figure Your Masterpiece: Follow the instructions or unleash your imagination to craft a one- of-a-kind snowman. Whether it’s traditional or wacky, the possibilities are endless. 

Display or Gift: Let your creations air-dry and harden. Once dried, these snowmen make lovable vacation decorations or thoughtful handwrought gifts. 

What Are the Features of the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle? 

All- in- One Convenience: Includes everything you need to draft 24 unique snowmen. 

Safe-deposit box for kiddies: Made with non-toxic,eco-friendly accoutrements that are safe for children progressed 3 and over. 

Creative and Educational: Encourages fine motor chops, hand- eye collaboration, and imaginative play.

Portable: Snippersnapper and compact, making it easy to carry anywhere. 

Inclusive Fun: Suitable for kiddies, parents, preceptors, and anyone who loves crafts. 

Why Is the 24 Pack Build a Snowman Kit So Popular?

This snowman DIY kit has gained popularity for several reasons:

Convenience: Everything you need is in one kit.

Affordability: With 24 individual kits, it’s cost-effective for large groups.

Engagement: Kids stay entertained for hours, reducing screen time.

Mess-Free Fun: Parents love the easy cleanup.

Statistics show that hands-on activities like crafting improve children’s concentration and creativity by up to 30%. This kit combines fun and developmental benefits in one package.

Is the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle Worth Buying? 

This tackle is n’t just about casting; it’s about creating recollections. Picture the joy on your child’s face as they proudly display their finished snowman or the horselaugh as everyone competes to make the strip or most creative design. These moments come lasting remembrances, saved not just in the lovable complexion numbers but in the hearts of everyone involved. 

 Absolutely! Then are a many reasons why this tackle is worth every penny 

 Affordable Fun: With 24 individual packs, it offers excellent value for plutocrats. Each snowman costs less than a mug of coffee! 

Perfect for Parties: Keep kids entertained during vacation events. Each child gets their own pack, reducing sharing- related squabbles. 

Mess-Free: Unlike traditional crafts, this tackle minimizes mess, making clean- over easy. 

Durable remembrances: Once air- dried, these snowmen come lasting recollections of a joyous vacation season. 

Wide Appeal: Loved by both kiddies and grown-ups, it’s a protean exertion that bridges generational gaps. 

Frequently Asked Questions

1. What’s Included in the Kit?

Each pack contains:

Modeling clay in various colors

Mini hats and scarves

Buttons, eyes, and noses

Arms and other decorative items

2. Is It Safe for Kids?

Absolutely! The materials are non-toxic and safe for children aged 3 and up. Adult supervision is recommended for younger kids.

3. Can Adults Enjoy This Kit Too?

Yes! Many families report that adults have just as much fun creating snowmen. It’s a great way to bond with kids during the holidays.

4. How Long Does It Take to Complete a Snowman?

Each snowman takes about 15-20 minutes to build, depending on the level of detail.

5. Is It Reusable?

The clay is reusable if stored properly, making it a gift that keeps on giving.

Is the 24 Pack Build a Snowman Kit Worth Buying?

In a word: Yes! Here’s why:

Value for Money: With 24 kits, it’s perfect for group settings or spreading holiday cheer.

Skill Development: Encourages creativity, teamwork, and fine motor skills.

Festive Fun: Brings the magic of winter indoors.

Great Gift Option: Packaged beautifully, it’s a thoughtful and exciting present.

Customer reviews consistently praise the kit for its quality and entertainment value. Many parents note that their kids couldn’t get enough of it, and teachers love it for classroom activities.

Final Studies on the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle 

This tackle is a name choice for anyone seeking an engaging and gleeful craft exertion. It’s courteously designed to give hours of entertainment while fostering creativity and connection. Whether as a gift, a party exertion, or a way to spend quality time with loved bones. This tackle delivers on all fronts. 

In a world increasingly dominated by defenses and widgets, the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle offers a stimulating and engaging volition. It encourages hands- on play, fosters fine motor chops, and sparks imaginative thinking. Plus, it’s a fantastic way to open and reconnect with what truly matters during the vacation season spending time with loved ones. 

Still, this tackle checks all the boxes, If you’re looking for a gift that’s as fun to give as it's to admit. Affordable, protean, and packed with gleeful charm, it’s a surefire way to light up any vacation festivity. So why stay? Bring the joy of snowman- structure indoors and let the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle turn your downtime days into a wonderland of creativity and fun. 

Conclusion

What sets the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle piecemeal is its thoughtful design and inclusivity. drafted with eco-friendly,non-toxic accoutrements , it’s safe for kiddies progressed three and over. The compact, mess-free packaging makes it a breath to distribute and clean up, turning any space into a casting wonderland. From various scarves and button tips to stick arms and sportful headdresses, every accessory adds a touch of megrim to your snowman, making each one truly one- of-a-kind. 

This tackle is n’t just about casting; it’s about creating recollections. Picture the joy on your child’s face as they proudly display their finished snowman or the horselaugh as everyone competes to make the strip or most creative design. These moments come lasting remembrances, saved not just in the lovable complexion numbers but in the hearts of everyone involved. 

In a world increasingly dominated by defenses and widgets, the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle offers a stimulating and engaging volition. It encourages hands- on play, fosters fine motor chops, and sparks imaginative thinking. Plus, it’s a fantastic way to open and reconnect with what truly matters during the vacation season spending time with loved ones. Still, this tackle checks all the boxes, If you’re looking for a gift that’s as fun to give as it's to admit. Affordable, protean, and packed with gleeful charm, it’s a surefire way to light up any vacation festivity. So why stay? Bring the joy of snowman- structure indoors and let the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle turn your downtime days into a wonderland of creativity and fun. 

The Non-toxic accoutrements make it safe for kiddies as youthful as three, while the engaging nature of the craft prayers to grown-ups as well. It’s a awful way to encourage creativity, boost fine motor chops, and give an outlet for imaginative play. The tackle’s compact design also makes it easy to transport, whether you’re taking it to academy, a friend’s house, or simply storing it until the coming casting session. 

Maybe the most satisfying aspect of the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle is the joy it brings during and after the casting process. Assembling the snowmen is an engaging experience, and the finished products serve as fascinating remembrances or thoughtful gifts. These air- dried snowmen can be displayed as part of your vacation scenery or given as sincere, handwrought presents to loved bones. 

From a value perspective, this tackle offers inconceivable bang for your buck. With 24 individual packs included, the cost per snowman is minimum, making it an affordable choice for large groups or multiple casting sessions. It’s a mess-free, hassle-free volition to traditional crafts, icing the fun is not overshadowed by remittal. 

still, encourage creativity, and make continuing recollections, If you’re looking for a way to bring people together. Its gleeful theme, high- quality accoutrements , and each- inclusive design make it a name product for the vacation season. 

In conclusion, the 24 Pack Build a Snowman tackle is further than just a casting set; it’s an assignment to celebrate the joy of the leaves in a creative and meaningful way. Whether you’re a parent, schoolteacher, or craft sucker, this tackle promises hours of entertainment and a pack of pleasurable snowmen that capture the magic of downtime. Do n’t miss the chance to add this gleeful treasure to your vacation traditions! 

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