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eyeless-cunt · 1 month ago

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KINKTOBER DAY 3

PROMPT: Corruption Kink

CREEP: Masky

Word Count: 3.5k

CW: 18+, Corruption Kink, Loss of Virginity, Implied Stalking, Pill mention, Smoking/Nicotine, Gun mention, Fem genitalia, Raw Sex, Creampie, Oral (fem receiving), Outside Sex, the works. This had way too much plot sowwy got carried away <3

KINKTOBER '24 MASTERLIST

Small clouds of your breath released into the cold winter air, the small spiral of smoke-like whisps escaping your lips and rising into the sky. Your hands clenched around your torso as you shook, trying and failing to warm up. You searched the fog that blanketed the area around you, waiting for the man that had you wrapped around his finger. So much so that you were waiting at a bus stop at 2am in frigid weather just to see him again. You wondered when exactly you had become so enamored with the man. When you first made eye contact through his mask in the deep woods? When he gifted you a tape that he had apparently filmed only you on? Maybe it was that night he lifted your chin, calloused fingers holding you firmly, and called you a 'sweet little temptation'. When you asked what he meant by that you only got silence in return.

You didn't know when exactly he started haunting your every thought. Nor why he did in the first place. You didn't even know his real name. Your parents would be rolling in their graves if they knew you spent most of your nights in the woods with a strange man that carried a gun and pill bottles with the labels ripped off. If they saw you hesitantly take the cigarette he offered you, only to choke your lungs up at the first hit. You had no interest in smoking, only in sharing the object between each other's lips. You could practically hear your mother scoffing in your ear every time you watched a man that was most likely mixed in with something dangerously illegal comb his hand through his dark hair–leading you further into the woods.

A shadow shifted in the outskirts of your vision, drawing your attention. You recognized his scuffed boots, the only part of him that was uncovered under the various streetlights that lined the sidewalk. The sight of him slowly stepping out from the dark and into your view made your heartbeat pick up, the goosebumps on your arms now not only just because of the cold. He stood silently. Completely still, waiting for you to join him. That was how all your nights started, the masked man waiting for you to come to him.

You attempted to walk towards him at a steady pace, nervously wondering if you seemed too eager. It was hard not to rush at him after not seeing him for two days.

"Hi," you whispered shakily, cringing at how it came out. The cold coupled with your nerves was doing wonders to your voice. He only grunted, shedding his heavy jacket and draping it over your shoulders and the jacket you already had on. The gesture did equal things to your heart and core, both your chest and thighs squeezing in tandem.

"What–no! Aren't you cold? It's freezing out here, I can't take your only jacket." Your voice came out shaky once again, and you cursed yourself and the weather.

"'S fine. Don't worry about it." You simultaneously loved and hated that he was a man of very few words. It was part of his charm you knew, but you would love to hear his voice more often. It was a deep raspy tone, low and even.

"Of course I'm gonna worry about it. It's, like, freezing out here and only dropping more by the hour. You'll get frost bitten if I steal this from you." You had stopped shaking, the jacket not only thick and well insulated, but warmed from his own body heat. It smelled of him, and it took a lot for you to not bring it up to your nose and smash your face in it like a love struck school girl.

His only response was to grab your hand, surprising you, and snake it up his t-shirt. You squealed–embarrassingly–as he held your flattened palm against his chest. He was burning hot it seemed like, your cold hand a stark opposite against his own temperature. "See? 'M warm. Keep it on." You could only nod, thankful that the cold had already warmed your face long ago. You savored the feeling of his bare skin against your palm, feeling almost physically pained as you pulled away.

He turned and started walking towards the woods, pulling his mask on over his face as you both stepped over past the treeline and into the almost pitch black of the forest. You were grateful the moon was so bright, other nights you were a stumbling mess, barely able to see the ground in front of you. You followed him almost expertly, your months of shared exploration now carved into your limbs as you climbed after him over fallen trees and dodged spiderwebs that slipped into your pathway. You loved the silence, it allowed you to hear his breathing clearly. Although that thought made you feel a bit creeper-ish.

"What have you been doing?" You broke the silence, trying to keep your voice down as you knew by now that everything sounded louder in the woods at night.

"Busy." Right. You huffed, waiting for more than that. You hummed, prompting a better response from him.

"Had stuff to take care of. Nothin' you need to worry your pretty little head over." Your heart swooned over the slight term of endearment, not bothering to think about how he was still being secretive.

"I do worry about you though." You frowned. Would he think you were being overbearing? Overstepping, maybe? You shuddered at the thought, opting to not say anything else just in case. If he distanced himself from you because of your over involvement you'd probably hate yourself forever.

He hummed, stopping to pull a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pocket. His hands reached up to slip off the mask and you watched with baited breath, as always. You could never get enough of seeing the face under his mask. He flicked his lighter, the flame dancing around in the dark. You were impressed he lasted this long without a cigarette. Usually he had one lit before he came to meet you. You breathed in the scent of the nicotine smoke that floated in your direction, seemingly unbothered. You used to hate the smell, but it's something entirely different on him. It took on a new form in his presence. Maybe it was the allure of how his fingers flicked at the lighter, or the way the tiny flame reflected in his eyes. You'd never been attracted to men that smoked, much less the act of it. It was a disgusting habit is what you had been taught all your life. You had been taught a lot of things that you were now rebuking these past few months.

"Are we going somewhere?" Normally the answer would be something along the lines of 'wherever,' or, 'just walkin'.' He might take you to a sketchy abandoned building, something like a hospital. Sometimes a clearing, other times a steady stream. Once, it was a river that you dipped your feet into and talked in front of for hours.

"You wanna go somewhere?" You paused. That was a new one. He flicked his cigarette, lightly squashing the fallen ash under his boot. Any words you may have said escaped you. Was he serious?

"There are places to go?" The question was tentative. His gaze met yours and you froze in place, always mesmerized by the way he looked at you.

"If you want to. I'll take you anywhere you wanna go, pretty." He shrugged, seemingly unaware of the backflips that were happening in your chest.

"Aren't you cold yet? It's been a good hour now." You watched him carefully, noting how he still wasn't shivering. No goosebumps lined his arms, unlike you who was wearing two jackets and still had a tremor to your voice. You weren't sure if that was necessarily because of the cold though.

He raised an eyebrow as if asking you if you were serious. He nodded you over as he took another puff, his other hand reaching out for yours. Hesitantly, you let him grab your wrist, only for him to tug you towards him abruptly. He placed his cigarette back between his lips, one extremely warm hand slipping under your shirt and pressing against your lower back, pulling you into him. He pushed your hand up his t-shirt again, but you weren't anymore prepared this time. The feeling of his warmth against your hand had your head spinning in circles, the feel of his calloused fingers spread open just above your ass driving you wild in a way you'd never thought possible.

"Do I feel cold yet?" You were at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing in shock. You could barely shake your head no. You didn't miss the way the corner of his mouth ticked upwards, only for a moment. Your mind that was racing in a million different directions halted the second you felt his hand move along your skin to squeeze your hip and stay there. He pulled your closer until your body melded against his, completely stealing the air from your lungs. He had your ear pressed against his chest, his heartbeat loud and clear.

"Wha-? Why are we standing like this?" You didn't dare pull away, your voice coming out as a tentative whisper. Barely audible. You felt his hot breath on the top of your head as he spoke.

"You're cold, aren't you? You're shivering. You don't like it?" The question made you pause. Of course you liked it. You'd never forget this moment or the way his rough hands felt as they squeezed your bare hip. The way his body heat wrapped around you left you feeling wildly desperate.

"It's not that." It would never be that.

"No? Then tell me you like it." His voice sounded lower than usual. You fought the embarrassment of saying something like that outloud.

"What's that matter?" You mumbled the words like they were poisonous–the poison being pure shame.

He hummed, ashing his cigarette and freeing his hand back up so that both could be slipped under your shirt and clasped onto your body. He dragged his fingertips up your spine and back down, his other hand slipping down to cup your ass.

"You don't like it and I'll let you go. You want me to let go?"

"I...," you trailed off, the nervousness seeping into your voice plainly. He only hummed, prompting you to try again. Your hesitation made him begin to pull back, and the loss of his warmth had your fingers clutching his shirt, attempting to hold him there as you tired again.

"I like it." Your words were said quietly–slowly, even–as if it would make it less embarrassing if you took your time with them.

He didn't say a word to what felt like a filthy confession in your mind. His only response was physical, his hands returning and only getting braver. You remained clutching at his shirt as he trailed a hand higher and higher up your back, lightly dragging his nails up and under the straps of your bra. You buried your head in his chest, embarrassed and panicked as you felt him undo the clip that held it together.

"Tell me that's okay." You knew he was referring to the undone bra, but your words felt like jello as they tried and failed to come out. You could only nod, face still hidden.

He grabbed your chin unexpectedly, dragging your face up to meet his. You were sure you looked anything but composed, unlike him.

"If it's okay then tell me with your words. Use your mouth." Your mind immediately turned dark with the things you could use your mouth for, face burning at the thought. Your thoughts swirled as his other hand slowly slipped past your waistband slowly, just teasing the skin there.

"It is." You could barely get that out without shifting your gaze anywhere else besides his face. He leaned down to your ear, letting go of your chin to slip another hand up the front of your shirt. Your thighs clenched as your felt his hand stop just between your breasts, teasing the skin there. Your skin was lit with anticipation unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

"Tell me that with your words then. Go ahead." You couldn't believe he was making you say it again. You didn't think you were strong enough.

"I...," you started, the words dying in your throat as you watched his eyes stare into what was probably your soul. "I've never done this before." You shifted nervously, wondering if that would change anything. You being inexperienced in this way at this age was embarrassing.

"I'll make you feel good. You don't want me?" He was all you wanted.

"I want you," the words shook as they came out, but they were there nonetheless. "It's okay...for you to touch me." That seemed to be all he needed–in the next few seconds his mouth was latched to your neck, kissing and sucking as his fingers moved to unbutton your pants. You weren't sure what to do with your hands as he moved down your shoulder with his mouth.

He pulled your shirt up, telling you to hold the hem in your mouth as he pulled your pants down, accidentally pulling your underwear with them. You'd never felt so exposed in your life as he flipped your positions to have your back against the tree he was previously leaning on. Your undone bra was slipping off your shoulders, leaving your breasts half exposed, nipples peaking out. He had pulled down your pants leaving you completely exposed. You tasted fabric as you continued biting down on the bottom of your shirt, back arching as you watched him cut your bra off. You couldn't have protested if you wanted to.

"You're pretty jus' like this," he whispered lowly in your ear, fingers reaching down to push into your folds, making you whimper as you felt him slowly caress your opening, his fingers slowly pushing in and out, just barely. "With your legs spread, giving it up for a man like me." His words had you pushing your hips closer to him in a vain attempt to get his fingers to finally push inside of you fully. He dropped to his knees, not bothering to give you any warning before he pulled you closer to his face by your hips and licked a stripe up your pussy. You whimpered around the cloth in your mouth, hips jutting closer as he latched his mouth around your clit and sucked, fingers finally pushing up inside of you. You could barely contain yourself as he pushed in and out of you, pushing against your walls. The sting of him adding another finger had you reeling with the pain, only for his mouth to soothe it.

He was mumbling as he ate you, the words mostly too low for you to hear. You could only make out him telling you how you tasted, and the thought of him enjoying that almost had your knees buckling. You had your fists clenched onto his shoulders, grasping at his shirt. You had to fight not to fist his hair and push him further into you. Your hips weren't winning any fights, rolling on his tongue like a woman starved. He pulled away, fingers leaving you empty and clenching on nothing.

You didn't get to question why as he had you soon turned around with your hands pressed against the tree holding you up, your ass bare and sticking up for him. If your legs weren't shaking with what was an almost-orgasm you would have felt more embarrassed. Though as he grabbed you by the throat and rubbed his clothed dick on your ass you were only thinking about how you wanted more. He nipped at your ear, hand reaching around your front to messily play with your clit again.

"You're so wet I could just slip right in. Make a mess of you and fill you up." He sunk his fingers back into you, pumping as you gasped and shook against his body.

"You want me inside yet, pretty?" You moaned at the thought, nodding your head up and down as your hips rolled into his still pumping fingers.

"You sure? I don't have any protection. You still want me to fuck you?" Maybe your brain wasn't working properly, or maybe you really were corrupted because your only response was to push your ass up and arch your back, hands steadying yourself against the tree. You only received a laugh in response, and you thought about how normally you would have felt self conscious about that.

You let out a tiny gasp to yourself as you felt his tip press against you, shaking as he dragged it up and down your folds slowly. He rubbed it over your clit, probably smiling to himself as he watched you come undone over the simplest stimulation.

"Where exactly do you want it?" You could feel the glee in his voice as he said it, obviously pleased with himself.

"Inside." The words sputtered out, leaving you with a confidence you weren't aware was in your possession before today. "Inside me, Masky." He heard your request and granted it easily, pushing his tip against you and slowly slipping inside. Your breathing picked up as you felt the stretch and consequential burn, body tensing and rigid.

His hand slipped under your stomach, his voice low but tense in your ear. "Relax, baby." He smoothed his hands over your waist, maybe attempting to ease the tension there. Luckily for both of you it worked, his hands lighting fireworks anywhere he touched.

He eased into you, fingers finally gracing your clit again, the pleasure soothing a good portion of the burn as he continued to press into you, filling you in a manner that you thought should be impossible. A low groan left his mouth as he bottomed out, a few curses splitting from his lips as he asked if you were ready. You took a brief moment to breathe through the pain–his fingers on you and him being inside of you all at once was causing your brain to short circuit. You weren't sure your mouth and brain were connected at this point, the only sounds that left you now being uncontrolled moans and gasps. Thankfully your hips rolling back into him was enough of an answer in his eyes, and he began moving slowly. You'd never been filled up like this before, the new feeling of him moving inside you was almost addictive.

You were practically singing as he picked up speed, your walls fluttering as he hit seemingly every sensitive spot inside you repeatedly. You were seeing stars with the way he fucked you.

It took more focus than you were currently capable of to hold yourself up, the more he slammed into you the more jello-like your legs became. As you began slipping he wrapped his arms around you, bringing your back flush with his chest with no pause to the almost rhythmic pace, his movements unrelenting. You could have collapsed as he teased your clit, your orgasm slowly approaching. You were practically throbbing with desire as he fucked up into you, his mouth latching onto your neck. You could barely move your hips to meet him halfway anymore, the exhaustion beginning to set in. Although he seemed perfectly fine doing it all on his own, his movements never ceasing for a second as he cursed in your ear, his words barely making any sense to you.

It was a string of filithy compliments, sweet praises for you and disgustingly lewd comments about how you felt wrapped around his dick. You couldn't make sense of much, far too focused on the way you fluttered around him, your walls clenching as you rose higher and higher towards an orgasm. Your breathing came heavy as he fucked into you faster, your mewling and newly tensed legs signaling to him what was fast approaching. He circled and teased your clit relentlessly, encouraging you with words full of filith.

"I-I'm, I can't–Masky!" You couldn't push the words out, all your attention on the way your stomach coiled as your release got closer. Your hips were back to rocking against him, chasing the feeling and spreading your legs further to give him more room.

"Love when you say my name, go ahead and scream it for me." You did just that, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and a song all in one. His place slowed as he kissed down your neck and shoulder, leaving marks behind and praising you endlessly. He fucked you through it as you slowly came down, his praise only serving to light you on fire again. You'd never heard him speak so much, much less to compliment you like this. He slipped out, the emptiness not doing as much to you as the immediate burn you felt afterwards.

"Wait, you didn't cum?" You questioned him worriedly, horrified at the thought that maybe he didn't enjoy it. He only laughed, motioning towards your legs. You looked down and only then did you feel the sticky wetness that slowly dripped from your entrance and down your thighs. You had no idea when he came or how he continued afterwards, but the evidence was clear.

“Not a chance in hell I wasn't cumming with you choking out my dick like that.” That comment had your face heating, as if you weren't already flushed and sweaty despite the cold. You nervously met his eyes, wondering what exactly this changed. Would he still want to meet with you like you had been for the past few months? Or was he done with you now that he'd gotten something? You figured worrying about this when you hadn't even pulled your pants up from where they laid at your ankles was a bit premature, but your brain didn't seem to agree.

You didn't have to worry for long though, Masky didn't waste any time in pulling you to his mouth, practically devouring you where you stood. You'd never been kissed like that in your life, his teeth biting at your lower lip as his hand held your head in place, pressed against him. He pulled away only after you began squirming, watching you with a satisfied gaze as you gasped for breath.

“Do you regret it?” You faltered, surprised he was the one asking that and not you. “Huh?” is all you managed to sputter out. Speaking didn't seem to be your strong point tonight.

“Do you regret me?” You shook your head almost violently, protests falling out of your mouth now in a jumbled mess. You couldn't believe he'd ever think that, as if you weren't just screaming his name against a tree of all things.

He hummed, watching you slowly rise from pulling up your bottoms. “That's good, ‘cause even if you did it wouldn't matter much.” He twirled a strand of your hair absentmindedly, his eyes locked on yours in a way that could only remind you of a predator. “You're mine now. Entirely.” Maybe you should feel put off–scared, even–at his words and the tone he says them in. The only thing you feel instead is pure, undiluted joy in the fact that he's claimed you so confidently. You'd never imagined being with a man that was clearly dangerous in so many ways, but something about him had changed you fundamentally as a person. Him or something about him had done something to you and your nature. Something irreparable.

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pricegouge · 26 days ago

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Access Road 46

part two of my horrtober collection | on ao3 | taglist

Synopsis: Reader gets lost on a snowshoeing trip. Eldritch!Gaz tries to help

Cw: dubcon masturbation. monsterfucking but make it no contact. (reader kinda gets like electroshocked rhythmically until it does something for them). reader has a pussy but no genered language is used. READER DEATH. drowning. depression and suicidal ideation. please let me know if i've missed anything. MDNI

A/N at nearly 11k, this one is a monster to be posting all at once. if it's easier for you, i have broken it down into five parts over on AO3

Divider by @/cafekitsune

The cabin is a dingy, desolate place but for how cold and lost and helpless you'd been, it may as well be the Waldorf.

When you'd first spotted the low slump of its roof rising above the snowdrifts around it, you'd thought you were hallucinating, some perverse inverse of a mirage brought on here by exhaustion and borderline hypothermia. You didn't believe it until your gangly snowshoes were tripping up the stoop steps, the cheap, peeling door solid under your fist. You could tell even at a glance that no one was home, likely hadn't been for some time, but the instinct to be polite and civil even in the face of what would certainly be your death wouldn't be ignored. The last thing you needed right now was some pissed off hillbilly hunting you down for trespassing, after all. It's locked up for the season - for its slow death, maybe - but your ski pole crashes through a bedroom window easily enough. You take your jacket off and lay it over the broken glass in the sill, shivering and shuddering as your cramped muscles pull you up and through. Your snowshoes catch in the frame (stupid, should've taken them off) and your hand catches your weight before you can roll onto the glass, a small shard sticking into your palm. You hiss as you reach back and unclasp your boot, let it take your weight so you can relieve your hand and get your other foot sorted. When the snowshoe thunks into the drift outside, you collect your coat and give it a good shake, clearing it of glass before putting it back on, grimacing when the exposed windbreaker material brushes against you.

You're the coldest you've ever been in your life but it won't do you any good to huddle up if the window's left open so you force yourself into motion again, tearing the sheets of the bed and hanging them in the curtain rod. You tie them off there and then push the bed to trap the bottom against the wall, hopefully preventing it from billowing in the wind that is slowly picking up outside. You stumble through the cabin in search of duct tape, or nails and shut the door behind you. Without power, you stumble through dark corners and cabinets aimlessly, unwilling to give yourself enough time to assess the small kernel of fear building in your stomach each time you open a door and find shadows lurking in every corner. Thankfully the kitchen junk drawer yields a flashlight, dull and cheap but serviceable, and after that supplies come quickly to hand.

It takes about an hour to get the window good and insulated, a pile of trash bags taped to the frame to keep the worst of the winds out followed by two layers of heavy blankets for insulation. It's not good enough to keep the room warm but you're unwilling to sacrifice more blankets and with the door to the room kept closed, you're hoping you won't need to anyway.

The living room houses a wood stove which you determine is safe enough to use after shining your flashlight up the flue. A dining room chair and a cheap paperback is sacrificed for fuel and tinder, the long ignition matches thankfully kept right next to the stove. The chair lights quickly but burns cold and despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily upon you, you know better than to sit and warm yourself just yet, peeking through every window until you find a dilapidated woodshed not too far from the back door. You miss your snowshoes, but with the sun rapidly setting you're not about to waste time going to find them, instead beelining it to the she and wading through drifts which climb to your hips. It's cold enough to radiate through your layers but you don't stop until you're at the door, groaning in frustration when you find it padlocked. You'd cry, but know your tears would only freeze to your face. Instead you channel your frustrations out by kicking through the cheap, boarded door, ripping panels out until you can squeeze through.

Inside, frost clings to cloudy windows like the dust that settles within. Your eyes move quickly over tools and supplies, settling first on a tarp which you lay outside and weigh down with the planks you'd ripped from the door. As suspected, the tarp was keeping a wood pile dry and you collect as many split logs as you can manage, cringing when you find them cold even through your glove. They'll have to work, though you're not sure how.

You drag your makeshift sleigh back to the cabin weighed down with wood and a shovel, a small maul you're not sure you'll even be able to wield but feel stupid leaving. It's too heavy in the snow, sinks to the ground and plows a wake behind you, gets you grunting and sweating by the time you reach the porch. Panting, you turn to inspect your handiwork and ready it for the haul up the steps and stop, breathless, when you catch sight of the broad, black sheet of glass beyond the treeline.

Past the far side of the lawn, down a small ravine, a lake glints under the moonlight. It is black as coal and striped with snow drifts that slither and slide, pick up their skirts and tip toe across the frozen surface in delicate little leaps as if it is too cold even for their frigid toes. The south shore creeps in across the way, its boundaries blurred by the dark. You scan the long line of it for any trace of human activity but if there are more cabins over there, you sigh in defeat when you realize they must be vacant for the winter.

A sharp wind cuts through the snow drifts on the lake. You watch as they morph into something solid, a wall of cold, before it cuts up harshly and heads north. The snow stings sharply when the current reaches you and you get the message, bundling up your loot and heaving it up the steps.

***

"Your destination is on the left."

You startled out of your reverie and stopped the truck, assessing. On your left, a swamp sprawled out about 300 feet; same as it did 100 feet back, same as it did 100 feet forward. It made for a pretty sight, dotted as it was with little islands, peat moss hanging down onto the frozen water from under the blankets of snow that covered them. A pretty sight, yes, but a serviceable nature trail it was not. You'd been driving four hours into increasingly desolate back woods and at least twice now you'd wondered why you were even bothering when you didn't particularly even want to be doing this. But your mom had made you promise you'd try to get out more, kick the winter blues, and she'd even gone to all the trouble of finding local trails you could explore, gushing the whole time about how you used to love to snowshoe.

There were a lot of things you used to love to do.

Sighing, you fumbled with your phone as you tried to find the pinned location in relation to your current one. It chirped about having arrived at your destination and you scrubbed a hand down your face, frustration mounting. On screen, your notifications revealed a missed text from your sister and two calls from your mother. You swiped them both away and huff when the GPS had the audacity to ask how you would rate your trip. You had no service. You considered driving into the icy marsh and calling it a day.

There was a gas station a ways back, you recalled, retracing your route back through the convoluted network of rambling back roads you'd taken to get this far. You thought it was only three - maybe four - turn offs since the last time you'd seen another car, but you couldn't quite remember if the station was before or after the main drag. It would probably take you a half hour or so to make it back, just to be told you'd been in the right area the whole time. Or more likely, to have the minimum wage employee behind the counter not know how to help you find Access Road #47.

Your eyes hurt, weary from the long drive and the snow blindness which had been plaguing you in flashes between pine groves ever since the sun had started its lazy ascent an hour ago.You opened the GPS and pulled the trip you'd just 'successfully' completed back up, trying to remember if the road it says your on is even the road you'd actually pulled onto. But street names became less important on back roads like this where 'take the next left' meant 'take the only left' and you definitely weren't paying close enough attention.

Still, the odds of you having made a wrong turn were pretty much nil when the grid was so wide and rambling and you decided to press on for now, hoping for the best. Flicking on your blinker, you checked your mirrors out of habit before crawling back onto the road. Of course, no headlights followed this far out.

It had worked out in the end, the sign for Access Road #4 - hanging limp and broken off a tree at the next turn off. You'd driven until you'd found the snowmobile crossing, just as the reviews had said you would, and then parked as close to the ditch as you dared, complaining the whole while about the road having not been plowed recently. In retrospect, this really should've been the first sign that something was amiss, but you'd plowed up the trail stubbornly, desperate to get your trip over with so you could call your mother and tell her you'd done as she'd asked and gotten out of the house.But what had started off as a necessary outing quickly turned pleasant, the mid winter sun shining pale and tepid on the unblemished path which unfolded before you. It was a clear day, a rare occurrence for January, and by noon the sun was warm enough to have you sweating lightly under your layers. You'd taken off your coat and wrapped it around your waist, luxuriating in the freedom of being able to walk outside in nothing but your base layer for the first time in months. Winters were long this far north and by January, you're usually convinced the sun was just some mass psychogenic hallucination humanity had cooked up once to give themselves hope, so you have to begrudgingly admit that indeed you had needed this.

When the clouds began rolling in, you hadn't thought much about it beyond a general disappointment that they'd taken away your paltry warmth. But it was still a relatively nice day and you were having fun so instead of turning around, you carried on, trudging along in search of the switchback you'd been led to believe would eventually fold you back onto the start of the path and grinned in satisfaction when you found the fork in the road, the one path veering wildly backward on your left.

You're not sure how long you'd walked it, but by the time you'd realized the path had leveled out and you were indeed walking perpendicular to your original course, the sun had already passed its zenith. Panic wormed its way into your belly, a slow simmer at first which you refused to assess too closely as you turned to follow your scraping prints back up the path. You sought your phone out, upset but not entirely surprised to find you had no service. It wasn't the end of the world, though - you knew exactly which access road you were on and your tracks were easy to follow, so if needed, you could call emergency services and be picked up within an hour. But it was early yet and you didn't want to upset your mom by needing to be extracted from an excursion she'd encouraged you to go on, so you ignored the slowly building pit in your stomach and carried on, only beginning to panic in truth when the wind and the clouds picked up so bad you knew you were about to get dumped on. Swallowing your pride, you took your phone out of your pocket again and cursed a blue streak when you found the cold had drained your battery.

Fear made you stupid, made you branch off from the path you're on in an attempt to cut the corner and stumble back onto your original path sooner. You could feel that you weren't maintaining a straight enough line, but you consoled yourself to know that, so long as you didn't manage to turn completely around and follow parallel to the path you'd just abandoned, you would have to intersect with either the access road or the snowmobile trail eventually, hemmed in on either side as you were.

But you must have turned completely around, and as the sun began to disappear behind the western ridge, it began to get cold.

***

You end up sacrificing more chairs before you can get the logs thawed out enough they'll catch, drying out at a glacial pace from their perch on the stove top. Sleep calls for you in yawning rolls every time your adrenaline cycles low, but each time you stand and ready yourself or the house in another way because you can't fall asleep with only kindling burning you will die.

Instead, you busy yourself by blocking off the large archway into the kitchen and shoving the bookcase in front of the hallway. It lessens the space needing to be warmed, stems the sap of heat - but it also makes you more claustrophobic, sitting as you are in a stranger's home. You've no doubt they won't return until spring, but that doesn't stop the irrational fear in you, jumping every time the wind knocks a branch against the siding. You've no idea what you'll do if anyone comes knocking now, no way to guarantee they won't shoot first and ask questions later. Briefly, you consider finding the gun cabinet you're sure is here somewhere, but even if it was unlocked, being an armed intruder would only make you more threatening. So you wander meekly, mapping the house and jumping at shadows. It's filled with the chintzy old furniture typical of hunting camps, a pea green recliner and a mismatched blue couch in the living room.They sit across from the woodstove and a CRT TV respectively, a cute little circle you struggled to picture a group of grown men sitting around, decked out in camo and gear. Behind the couch was the bookshelf, before you'd moved it, full of second hand hunting books and Tom Clancy novels for spice. There are trinkets and found treasures dotting the shelves: robin's eggshells, scraps of velvet sheddings. You silently promise the owners you won't use them for kindling. Overhead, a loft saps your heat but there's not much you can do to stem it. The living room opens to the kitchen, a small thing with a cramped island and an attached nook, a stacked washing machine/dryer combo, a rickety table and a single remaining chair under a window that looks out toward the lake.

Before blocking the hallway, you followed it back to find the bathroom and the bedroom you'd broken in through, raiding all the blankets and pillows and towels you could find. It's a decent haul - an old woven hospital thermal, a wool blanket, and one of those funky-colored afghan throws everyone’s grannies were crocheting back in the 80’s - but you were still happy to find the linen closet after and nab some flannel sheets, too.

In the kitchen, you take inventory of the cupboards, relieved to find about a year's worth of canned veggies and soups, and you shovel a cold can of beef ravioli into your mouth like an animal at the sink, the pangs in your stomach having gone unnoticed before that moment. Even when you're done you keep scraping the cheap sauce from the can in a subconscious effort to get more while you think about your predicament, spoon pulling across the grooved tin with a sound like a güiro. It's obnoxious, but it keeps you awake and alert while you weigh options and mull over just exactly how fucked you are, fluctuating wildly between hopelessness and determination as you consider the snow collecting on the windowpane and the fact that your mom will definitely be worried by now. It's strange to know you're probably fairly well set until spring here, stranger still to think about whether it's safer to stay than to try navigating the trails where your tracks have most assuredly been covered. You're resolute when you tell yourself it won't come to either, your mom likely having already called in your missing status because sometimes it pays to be paranoid. In the morning, mounties will come trekking out to the trails and they'll find your truck exactly where it was supposed to be and they'll canvas for you, even if your tracks have been covered. You're not too far from the trail, all told, and you can't be too far from civilization if there's a lake within a stone's throw - humans have always huddled around waterways and now you're no different, clinging to it like a lifeline while you wait out the storm and search and rescue alike. Maybe, if they don't find you tomorrow, you can go down to the lake and write an S.O.S. on the ice, provided it's thick enough. Any helicopters out searching for signs would see that easily enough. Sighing, you toss your empty can and dirty fork in the sink though you know the main is either shut off or frozen. You'll melt snow in the morning, be a proper little houseguest and clean up after yourself.

Feeling better about your predicament, you return to the living room and refashion the tarp over the archway. Finding the logs dry enough to burn, you throw one in and replace it with the next soggy block on the stove. In the dim light from the port, you begin assembling your nest, happy now that your belly is full and you're slowly warming enough you can risk taking your coat and bibs off. You'd removed your boots a while back, replaced by a thick pair of wool socks you'd found in the dresser of the bedroom. They're thawing out next to the couch now, on a mud mat you'd found by the door. There's nowhere to hang your outerwear by the stove though, so you drape them from the curtain rods, telling yourself it's just one more layer of insulation between you and the thin window pane. If it also serves the purpose of hiding the mounting drifts from you, you don't mind.

***

You wear silt like gossamer, fine and thin and dancing over your skin in a gentle sway. It's not enough to be a proper current, no source for one either. The ground simply shifts beneath you - heavy, steady, even - and takes everything with it, a low roll of debris pulling over you before returning on the exhale. Detritus catches in your hair, twigs and leaves scraping your skin gently. You feel soft and water-logged and when you open your eyes, your skin is pallid and bloated.

It is cold here, too cold. Something at the back of your mind tugs at that, worried, but you can't bother to be troubled when you feel so at peace, studying the way pale moonlight refracts through the thin sheet of ice which covers you. You feel like a faerie tale - ophelia, or the slumbering princess awaiting her kiss. You are quieted, there is no pain, so you're understandably upset when your hand raises from its watery bed of its own accord and reaches up, eclipsing the moon, and delicately taps on the sheet above you, the thin coat breaking apart easily as spun sugar. Water floods the branching cracks, overwhelming the delicate shelf. Your hand spreads beneath the surface, trying to catch a piece of it in your palm, but suddenly the moon is changing, pale light turning thin and gold. Life teems in your basin, the slow breaths of the depths bubbling to the surface where algae blooms, feasting on the rot of winter. Minnows hatch and grow, their smooth scales glinting faintly under a sun which grows warmer with each second. They nip at your pruney skin irritatingly, get you swatting and rolling, kicking up debris from the bed. It clouds the surface, vague dark shapes which close around you from either side.

Your breath heaves when you sit up, hair plastered to your skin as murky water slips down the valleys of your body in lines which leave dirt caked to your skin. It stinks, gaseous byproduct and stagnant water. You sit in the filth a moment longer, trying to make sense of your situation and your nakedness though everything beyond the sun above escapes you. Foliage filters the light now, fresh green buds and growing stalks of ferns. Somewhere high in a sentinel, a whippoorwill trills but nearer still, a bullfrog's call silences the static of crickets. You blink, turn toward it -

And find yourself in the warm glow of the wood stove, eyes trained on the tarp which blocks off the kitchen.

Thoughts sleep addled and thick, it takes you a moment to realize you're sitting up, skin painted in the golden hues of the stove. It's warm, enough so that you've kicked off most of your nest in sleep, though you blessedly haven't broken a sweat yet. You rub your eyes in confusion, trying to ascertain how long you've been out, though you know it can't be too long if the fire hadn't died down much. Restless from your dream, you climb out of your nest and creep to the window, huffing in fear and frustration when you move your coat and find the drifts have climbed halfway up the woodshed's siding. It's still cloudy, wind still whipping. It shows no sign of stopping but you're grateful it's no longer a white out at least. You stand there a while longer, trying to decipher the skyline enough to figure out the hour but it's hopeless in this overcast and you return to the couch, defeated, staring into the screened coals as you try to walk yourself back from the general anxiety of your dream and your position.

Hopelessness has always clung to you, a shawl you've worn around your shoulders since you were a kid. Dour, reserved. It leaves you ill-equipped now, spiraling in the dead of night into a depression you know will kill you if you let yourself succumb to it. Out here, hopelessness is just as deadly as the elements and you can't give into it, no matter how much you want to tighten the valve, bank the coals, slip back under that frozen mire. So you sigh, try to steer your thoughts to something more proactive. You need sleep, but your head's clearer now than it was earlier so you peer around looking for anything that might need tending. There's still nothing to be done for the loft, but the logs which had been drying on the stove shouldn't stay there all night, and now that they're dry you can swap them for a new set. Your knees creak when you pull yourself up, blanket swishing around you. You pull the coffee table closer, place the first block off to the side, and then jump a foot when you reach for the other one and nearly burn your hand on the empty stove pan.

It's funny how quickly the sense of not right can cut through the miasma of depression and tiredness. You know you replaced the last log you used. You remember it intimately, the cold, wet lumber nearly squishing under your thumb. You inspect your hands for evidence, brows drawing tight when you find them clammy and dirty. Exasperated, you open the vent and inspect the coals, shaking your head and sitting back on your heels when you find evidence of an old log smothering under a fresh, popping belt of cedar. Closing the door, you try to collect yourself rationally, reasoning that you'd been sitting up when you came to and therefore it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibilities that you'd grown cold in the night and decided to feed the fire, too exhausted to wake up properly as you did so. It made a sort of sense, explaining parts of your dream at least. No doubt the sensations of opening the hatch and feeding the fire, basking in the warmth of it had informed your vision, your hand on the sheet of ice and the way the season had changed around you. It's small comfort, knowing you'd played with fire in your sleep, but at least it makes sense. Means you're not going crazy.

In the kitchen, a bullfrog sings its agreement.

Despite the crackling of the fire, ice creeps through your veins worse than when you'd been stuck out before the storm. You'd like to say you whip around, seek out the source of the sound confidently and casually. You'd like to say the call of a bullfrog - or something - didn't scare you. But when you turn toward the kitchen, your head swivels about slowly, eyes taking in every inch of the room on their way. You sit frozen in place, shaking like a leaf when the tarp rustles in a draft, breaths coming quick and shallow. You're unsure how long you sit like that, locked in place by fear, entire body wound so tight the next pop of cellulose has you flinching, but it's long enough for the draft to dissipate, the tarp folding back in on itself as it settles to the floor. Long enough for you to understand that whatever's made that noise also informed your dream, that you were already looking for it when you woke up.

Your feet are silent on the threadbare carpet when you slink to the wall and grab the maul, eyes and ears peeled as you advance to the shroud that separates you from the kitchen. There's no silent way to get past the tarp, but if you sit next to the doorway long enough, you just might be able to peek inside the next time a draft kicks it up. So you try, tears burning your lash line because you don't trust yourself to even blink when you catch a series of little croaks emanating from the other room. It's not a frog. It can't be a frog, it's below freezing out there.

So what the fuck is croaking in the kitchen?

Cold air bites through your borrowed socks. The tarp rustles and raises, the edge of it pulling away from the wall enough you can peer through the crack in bits and pieces, brain stitching the image together until it makes a whole: empty, glowing pale in the moon glow. You rip the tarp away and storm through, maul raised against a threat you can't see. You tear through cabinets in your terror, even checking the washing machine before accepting you're alone. Your breath heaves as you glance around, desperate to make sense of the croaking noise that had awoken you from a sleep so deep you'd managed to work a wood stove without waking. But it doesn't make sense, the kitchen just as abandoned as the rest of the house, counters picked clean but for your empty tin of ravioli and the -.

The maul falls to the ground with a heavy thunk as you step closer, retracing your steps from earlier in the night much as you had when you couldn't make sense of the fire having been fed. You'd put the mess in the sink, told yourself you'd clean it when you melted snow in the morning. Why would you put dirty utensils on the counter when you'd just have to clean that up, too? Confused and doubting your very sanity, you reach out to touch the fork as if in confirmation and gasp when you find it hot to the touch, condensation clinging to it as it rapidly cools in the frigid air.

You think you mumble something about 'no fucking way,' but you're unsure, fingers scrambling for the tap quicker than you can register. It groans at first, protests. You go to slam the tap shut before the pipes can burst but just as your hand connects with the knob, the flow spurts to life like an artery, long pulses which grow in steadiness until it fills the sink, steam billowing like smoke. It's not possible. You'd checked - hadn't you? Perhaps not, maybe you'd just assumed the main would be off in a winterized home… you rack your brain, trying to remember but come up short. Unlike everything else tonight, you can't pinpoint the exact moment you'd checked the taps and it makes you groan in frustration with yourself, momentarily distracted enough you forget about the strange croaking noise, or the way the dishes had been washed. You even try the switch above the sink just to be sure, but you're unsurprised to find it does nothing, the display on the oven behind you still blank.

So you sag in relief anyway, distracted and happy to have running water. Until you lean forward to shut the water off and your chest brushes the tin before you, knocks it just enough it totters a moment before tipping into the sink as well. As it falls, the corrugated side scrapes the edge and you freeze, a bullfrog call echoing throughout the kitchen.

***

You don't sleep much after that, rest eluding you as you toss and turn on the couch, waiting for the storm to blow over. Time slips by inconsistently when you've no phone to check but you keep yourself grounded in the long pre-dawn hours by cataloging the texture of the couch underneath you and the quiet drip of the faucet in the other room.

It had seemed a waste to let the taps freeze just because you were scared.

After last night you'd searched the house high and low again, even wandering up to the loft to check closets and beds. You were alone, as expected, but you can't shake the feeling that something is with you.

You've never been very superstitious but you can feel it in your bones, in the framework of the house. You imagine if you were to step outside you'd feel it peering at you from the treeline with owl eyes. Barely a thought spared for how quickly you'd accepted it as true, how you'd never once questioned your own sanity. You should, all things considered - no one could fault you for turning a little batty under these circumstances.

But you know it's real, whatever it is.

You suppose most delusions feel like that.

The storm overstays its welcome, rolls out just as languidly as it had passed over. All told you'd bet the snow had fallen for a solid ten hours and the accumulation certainly seems to reflect that. You're not overly familiar with the yards surrounding the cabin, but there are post caps patterned evenly in the fresh blanket outside the front windows, beyond them vaguely spherical mounds and a sudden drop into a more shallow plain. If you'd had to guess, that would be a front porch and the bannister was completely swallowed.

Snowed in, if you happened to care about such things as property damage.

You try to wait out the overcast, hoping for better daylight and some reassurance the skies won't open up on you again, but a full hour passes unchanged, and the only thing obscuring your view of the lake from the kitchen is your own breath clouding the window pane. You're burning daylight, and there's not very much of it to begin with.

The room you'd broken in through houses two windows. You choose it as your exit point because the drifts outside look shallowest here and because you know you'll be leaving your entrance open all day. It's no use freezing the den you'd worked so hard to warm, so you pull the bookcase back into place behind you and head down the hall, fully dressed. You throw the undamaged window open after inspecting your patch job for weak spots or damages, oddly proud to find it up to par. The broom you'd pulled from the kitchen stands chin height when you lean on it, but the drift outside the window still swallows over half of it when you test the depth by pushing the handle through it. If the snows too powdery you'll fall through it and your snowshoes will be more hindrance than help, but you don't relish plowing through hip deep snow all the way to the lake so you risk it, clipping into your shoes as you sit on the sill and branching out into the world like a little fledgling after shutting the window as much as you dared, awkward and gangly on feet that sink a good four inches into the fresh powder before catching properly. It's not perfect, but it will have to do.

Shovel in one hand and ski pole in the other, you make your way to the lake slowly and carefully. It's impossible to pick out the features of the unfamiliar terrain under so much snow and you worry with every step that you're about to put too much weight on a thicket of brambles, or have your foot go crashing through felled trees. You imagine breaking your ankle here and half your speed yet again, putting all your weight on your ski pole as you test each next step. The shoreline is the most harrowing as you've no clue if a dock lies dormant under foot, if your next step will have you plummeting off a shelf of dense snow and crashing through the ice.

But you make it, and the ice withstands all the beatings you lay on it with broom and shovel and unearthed rocks, and much as it scares you to take the first step onto the thin ice of the shoreline, it holds fast and you set off toward deeper water with a grim determination, steadfastly refusing to think of how stupid you're being.

You take note of the surrounding cabins as you walk, checking diligently for signs of life. But the windows stare blankly back, indifferent to your plight. The wind whistles through the basin the further out you go, drifts shifting like waves across the top layer of snowfall. It gives you pause, anxiety building as you wonder if your bravery will go unrecognized when the dunes shift and bury your message, but the deeper layers of snow remain hard packed and you won't gain anything by doing nothing so you try anyway, shovel digging a trench deep and wide enough for you to fall in to, abandoning your snowshoes before you do lest the grip claws scratch the ice.

It wouldn't do anything to harm its integrity, but it makes you feel better anyway, especially when the ice creaks underfoot some hours later, shelves settling more firmly against each other. It's a natural process but it leaves you weak in the knees momentarily, breath panting with more than just your strenuous labor.

Scale is a hard thing to grasp when you feel no bigger than a speck in a giant's eye. You work so hard you break into a sweat, your bibs folded down at the waist to keep you regulated. It's a dangerous game you're playing but you don't want to soak your layers lest you get stuck in them on the return trip when your sweat cools and your temperature plummets and you're not willing to bet money the hot water at the cabin will still work when you return. But despite your effort, when you crawl out of the ditch to inspect your handiwork you're underwhelmed, your message seeming small enough to barely be visible from the cabin let alone the sky.

Which stares apathetically back at you, unblemished by chopper or cloud break. You inspect it back, check for signs of the hours passing. The only indication you receive is a general darkening on the eastern horizon.

You sigh, tugging your snowshoes back on. You're not sure which is worse, the prospect of a longer day and therefore more time to work yourself to the bone on a message which may never pan out, or the idea of lugging yourself all the way back up the shore. You scan the coastline apprehensively, plotting out your return trip now that you can get a better lay of the land -.

Hang on.

Fear claws its way up your throat, sudden and damning. None of it looks familiar because of course it doesn't, and the harsh winds have covered your tracks just like they'd done when you'd strayed off course and found yourself in an abandoned cabin. God, you'd been so stupid - how could you not have learned from your mistake the first time?

Unbidden, tears burn the chapped skin of your cheeks as you scan the horizon, noting the smattering of empty structures with a growing sense of dread. You know your cabin sat further back, barely visible from the shore, but beyond that you've no clue where to go, no visual bearing to follow. You should have propped that broom up somehow, or piled a wall of snow on the shore which might have been visible from some distance.

Your eyes trail overhead instead, hoping to remember which side the sun had been on when you'd trekked out, but with the dense cloud coverage it had been impossible to know, even the vague time of day having eluded you. Breath steams from your lips, clouds your vision when you inspect the treeline, trying to discern how much daylight you have left. Already the sky darkens, night creeping in from the east with greedy fingers, reaching over the horizon to greet a snow squall on the southern shore. You bite your lip, a flake of dead skin catching and ripping between your teeth. The small storm hangs ominously close, a dark smudge of gray underlit by -.

You blink. Blink again.

"Fuck!" you hiss, running as best you can in your unwieldy shoes.

The flue - were you sure it was opened? Had you properly banked the coals to a low simmer? Had the logs you'd been drying been removed from the stove top before you'd left?

You felt just as crazy as you had the night before, confusion clouding your every memory from that morning. Had you really been that exhausted? Could you have set your one safe haven on fire?

Smoke hangs in the clouds like a bad omen, billowing wider across the clearing as if laying stagnant, unaffected by the thin winter winds which bobbed the pines. It acts as a beacon, calls you to it with unquestioning feet. In retrospect, you won't be sure why you even follow, why you don't break into a neighboring cabin and start all over again. Perhaps you thought it was a hell of a way to call any potential search and rescue to you. More likely, you'd been unable to look away from it, like a bad train wreck, the morbid curiosity overriding all your better instincts.

But the cabin still stands when you round the corner of the treeline, windows just as shrouded as all the others that lined the lake. The smokestack glows like a cherry, but the house still stands and you've no control over yourself when you're rounding to the back room window again, ducking your head through the opening to take a good whiff, surprised when it doesn't spark a coughing fit. So you heave yourself through the window again, muscles protesting loudly.

You ignore them in favor of tearing down the hall in clattering snowshoes, pushing the bookcase right over in your haste to assess the damage.

But there is none. The wood stove barely even glows, its belly cold when you hover a hand over it.

Tears spring unbidden again, exhaustion and confusion weighing heavily on you as you try to make sense of what's happened, figure out what freak combination of events could have led to this. Exhaustion, mostly. Delusions brought on by stress. Deep down you know there will be no good explanation.

***

You were wrong about the hot water situation. You were wrong about a lot of things.

The shower matches the rest of the cabin, old and dingy but blessedly providing. Steam builds thick enough to carve in the frigid air but you don't let it bother you, luxuriating under the stream for far too long in an attempt to wash off even the most stubborn of anxieties knotting your back. You stand on washcloths to avoid fungal infections and make due with a bar of Unilever and a mostly-empty bottle of Dove three-in-one which leaves your hair dry as hell. You're no longer sure if it will even matter soon.

You're so exhausted it's difficult to even stand, feet dragging as you pat yourself off and wrap your wet head in a towel. The hallway is freezing when you exit the bathroom, wind rattling the panes of the bedroom whose door will no longer stay shut. The window you'd left cracked earlier had been wide open when you'd returned, something you'd only noticed when you'd gone back to close up shop after ascertaining there was no real threat.

It doesn't do you much good to dwell on it so you don't, just make sure the windows are closed and locked still before closing the door again. You hear it creak back open as you lift the bookcase back into place but you don't dwell on that either.

The eggshells and velvet sheddings you'd promised not to break are ruined, irreplaceable curios shattered on the floor. It's strange how apathetic you feel about it now, picking up the pieces you can. Mostly, you're too tired to care anymore, and relief floods you when you lay out on the couch after feeding the stove. You've only three logs left inside. You tell yourself you won't need to grab any more.

***

You were wrong about the electricity too, it seems, the soft popping of the CRT turning on blending seamlessly with the quiet sounds of the fire. You don't wake until the screen warms, electric fuzz reflected in the static on screen. You blink awake in the blinding white light, lay deadly still as you scan the deep shadows of the room for any signs of an intruder, your first instincts centering around your dishwashing friend from the night before. Another miracle - just what you need.

"Luvie."

Something with too many legs and too many teeth makes a home in your left ventricle, tickling and tearing as it spins a web in your aorta tight enough to seal it shut. Your eyes slide up - up, up - following a wood panel to the peak of the ceiling, crawl across the banister of the loft and land directly above. There's someone up there, shape barely discernible in the erratic light of the TV. They're tall, built like a man. They do not speak with a human's voice.

"You're all alone out here?" Water drips onto the chapped skin of your face, frigid and shocking.

The lighting morphs, a soft click heralding the changing of the channel. On screen, the snow cuts short, replaced by the overprocessed blue glow of channel two. You do not look away from your visitor even when the VCR chunks, the FBI warning wavering to life on screen.

"You need help, luv," the voice warns, cold and distant and possibly completely in your head. "You're cold."

"'M'not," you gripe - or at least you try to, your voice so weak and garbled you're unsure he's heard you. You try again, realization dawning on you when your voice remains thin and reedy. You're sleeping. This is all a dream. Relief floods over you like a physical thing, muscles relaxing with a sigh. Above you, your visitor hums, a bass noise which seems to rattle the panes. It's the wind, you tell yourself, more external stimuli altering your dreams. You're unsure how you can reason so clearly.

"I can help," the voice suggests anyway, and the tension returns tenfold, entire body locking up so tight you briefly worry you're having a seizure. You shiver like that a moment, fist wrapped around an electric fence, and then your body relaxes, breath ragged and panting as you try to make sense of what just happened.

It happens again, and again. Sweat drips from your temples, pleas and pants fall from your lips. A steady drip of water rains on you, cooling your overheated skin as your body continues to seize up on you. From above (from within), the voice alternates between apologizing for the unconventional tactics, and telling you you should be thankful it's deigned to help you at all. You can't catch your breath enough to tell it off.

The episode ends in rolling waves, each cycle dimming in intensity, but lasting longer. You focus on breathing, try to move your hands. It's no good - somehow you're still asleep.

And somehow, your clit is very much on board with the rhythmic clenching and the pseudo-breathplay.

It's almost enough to make you laugh, an exasperated huff curling your lips into a grin which tenses and grits with the next wave, a bitten off groan hissing through your teeth when your cunt tightens around nothing, your hips rocking against the plush tops of your own thighs. You flinch when another water droplet falls on you, splashing against the back of your exposed fist, but it's like the paralysis that's bound you washes away with it, your fingers immediately finding the hem of your waistband. It's solace you seek, eyes squinted shut. Even out here amidst this frozen hell you need reprieve and you're not going to deny yourself relief when it comes so easily, skin slick and pulsing with the after-shocks of whatever episode had woken you up. You cum when the voice says so, when the droning of the CRT builds to a crescendo, the image on screen distorting technicolored static before the whole thing gives a violent pop, sizzling out with enough static make your hand stand up even from your position on the couch. With it, your body locks up so tight you can't move again, clit pulsing against your fingers hard enough to finish you off.

After, gasping for breath, too tired to even clean yourself properly, you scan the loft for any trace of your apparition and sigh to yourself when you find none, already trying to convince yourself the whole thing - the TV, the dripping water, the man - was a very vivid dream. It's something you might have convinced yourself of, if given enough time, but you fall asleep summarily after, whole body wrung dry.

***

There's dirt dried on your face, some on your hand. A series of perfectly circular stains, one or two carving harsh lines down the slopes of your cheeks. As if someone had dripped dirty water on you and let the water evaporate. The only thing that keeps you from panicking about it is the steady leak you'd found dripping from the roof to the loft, overflowing onto the couch. The kind of leak that only comes with heavy melt off.

Outside, the snow is slushy, caves under your shoes. Melt off flows steadily as rainwater from every surface, the weighted boughs of the pines springing to life when their heavy burdens give up the ghost and drop unceremoniously to the earth, glistening under the pale yellow light of a spring sun.

It is January.

'You're cold. I can help.'

This isn't real. None of it. Tears stream down your face as insistently as the melt off; you feel just as out of place as the sun overhead. You're exhausted, sick of fighting so hard to maintain - to pretend it's all going to be okay. You want to sleep. You want to die.

Down on the lake, the ice emits a series of knocks, adjusting to this new development just as poorly as you are. Your eyes scan the surface almost absently, noting the crystalline shelf with some level of wonder until it registers.

"Shit," you hiss, bolting for the shoreline as fast as you can through the slush and snow.

An entire day wasted, all your work melted away with the mother of all unseasonable warm fronts. A good two inches of water now lays over the ice, all the snow you'd plowed through to leave your SOS having melted under the bright morning sun and the balmy southerly wind. You could have tried to trek back, left bootprints carved all over the trail. Maybe they could've found you then.

Frustration weighs heavily, nearly compresses you when it tests your fatigued muscles. You don't want to plow through miles of slushy snow. You want them to see you - from your message or your smokestack or your wildly waving arms, you don't care - and come save you, bundle you up in a shock blanket and take you home. You want to sleep on the dock, absorb the pale sun rays and let it warm your bones, too. You're sick of fighting.

Indecision makes you lax. The sun slips in and out of thin clouds as it carves its way across the sky. It passes its zenith - low on the horizon, just another reminder that this weather should not be - before you move again, the low echo of brush breaking shaking you from your reverie.

To your right, far along the shoreline, something big is moving.

Sound moves strangely across the bay, echoes first into the basin before making its way to you. It's hard to pinpoint its exact origin, harder still to discern its nature. You frown at its vague direction, ears perked for every little noise. A branch breaks; something sharp which might be a shout; laughter peals through the valley like church bells.

"HELP!" you shout, jumping to your feet. "OVER HERE! HELP!" Your voice thins as it echoes, each return quieter than the last. The other party falls silent, you imagine them trying to pinpoint your location much the same as you had theirs. When you call out again, they return with your name.

Search and rescue. Finally. But, what are they doing so far out? They call for you again, voices stretching the long miles. You'd say five by shoreline, three as the crow flies. It's not right, why are they so far off? You cast back through your memories of the day you'd arrived here, retracing steps. You'd been so diligent about remaining on the path right up until that last branch; you can't have gone that far off, so why -?

Unless it was before then, when your GPS had failed. You'd rerouted, adapted, but -. The sign, Access Road #4-, with the last digit cut off. You'd been wrong about so many things.

"HELP! I'M HERE!"

Three miles as the crow flies. You can manage that.

The ice doesn't protest much like you'd feared it would when you lower yourself down from your perch on the dock. It seems despite the sun's best efforts, the thin layer of water that covers it isn't enough to melt it just yet. Your shoes plap plap as you take off but you're too distracted to remove them just yet, caught up in the strange mix of fear, panic, and anger which knots your belly. Your shouts thin out, breath shuddering as you work to keep moving, each step a massive effort.

The search party calls back, but their voices are moving further away, perhaps confused by the way your voice carries up the lake.

"Wait!" you wheeze, stumbling to a halt as you try to catch your breath. "I'm here!"

They don't even bother to answer this time, likely not having heard. You groan and fall to your knees, gloved fingers fumbling with the clasps of your snowshoes. In your panic, you botch it twice before taking a deep breath to collect yourself, eyes slipping shut as you try to remember you'll save time long term if you can just take a few extra moments now. You wait until your pulse calms a fraction of a beat per second, until your breath evens out. When you open your eyes, your gaze falls first to the ice beneath your feet and you nearly lose your Spaghettio breakfast.

You've never seen anything so clear. Under direct sunlight, the ice comes alive, rendered so transparent it may as well not exist at all. Vertigo sets in, your brain convinced there can't be anymore than an inch of ice beneath you and you have to focus on the thin cracks which run through the shelf to orient yourself. They web their way through the glass pane - thin and cloudy as gossamer - about twelve feet deep, the only indicators that there is anything solid underfoot at all.

On your right, deep below, small dark shapes flit in and out of vision, return to a larger dark mass further out. You assume they are the brave excursionists of a school of perch, darting close to check out what is moving on the surface.

It's not that which tests your nerves.

Further below them, at the very bottom of the viewable basin, vague tendrils slink down into the black depths. They twist gently towards the shore, lapped at by some underwater current you imagine you can hear in the beats between their swells and lulls. Seaweed, must be. The lake can't be too deep here. Shallow enough you can see the body, at least.

"Oh, my god," you breathe, situation momentarily forgotten as you watch him bob along in a strong undercurrent, dark skin striped by the fronds which caress him. He's achingly beautiful, bathed in the pale light which filters down to him and veined through with the shadows of the ice cracks. As you watch, the seaweed parts, reveals an expanse of naked flesh. He seems perfectly preserved in the cold water, so much so that you're not immediately certain he's dead. His skin lacks the waterlogged quality you'd expect, still tight and vibrant where it stretches across his envious musculature. He's beautiful, full lips parting gently as another rolling swell of current drags him along. You crawl along after him, helpless against his pull.

He has to be dead - right?

So why do his eyelids seem to flutter when your fist thuds against the ice? Why does the current seem to pull him up even as it pushes the lakebed down?

Why do you keep following him along blindly, ignoring the calls of your rescue team? Even as the ice begins to creak beneath you, thinning out the closer he pulls you toward a brackish section of shore. He looks so peaceful, undisturbed. Your voice warbles as you emit your last call for help, barely more than a whisper. When your fist falls to the ice to try and wake him, thin veins of white web deep into the shelf in warning.

He's much closer now - far too close, in fact. Barely more than arm's length. Finally, it registers how much danger you've gotten yourself in, but all you do is belly down, shimmying along the ice like a snake. You feel connected to the man beneath you like this, flush toe to tip if not for the glass that separates you. Water floods through the zipper of your coat, that fresh melt cold as sin where it soaks through your base layers and pebbles your nipples. It's cold, cold enough that it finally dawns on you exactly how dead this man is. You can't help stroking your hand over the ice sympathetically, grieving a man you never knew in his lonely grave. A chain around his neck catches your eye as you study him one last time, try to commit his image to memory. You follow it to where it floats somewhere above his head, a familiar metal plaque on a ball chain. Dog tags.

You follow him along a little further, willing the necklace to spin just right that you may learn his name. If you can just reach the search party in time, make it home, you could bring his identity to the authorities, perhaps resolve another missing person's case alongside your own. Overhead, your name rings out, further than ever. You call back weakly, all you can manage from your belly. There is a part of you that notes the urgency of the situation - how desperately you need to get a move on to catch up with the party. You listen to it as if from underwater. Muffled, confused. Surely you don't want to leave this peaceful place?

The dog tag glints when it spins, a lure catching refracted light. Sgt. K. Garrick is pushed further in, heavy body thudding against the ice from below. More ice splinters, one fine crack running all the way up to the surface where it bleeds like a fresh wound, warm water flowing up through the shelf to web yet more threads.

Garrick doesn't flinch because he is dead, and you will be too if you do not help yourself.

This time when you scream, your voice shakes snow from the shoreline pines. It thumps through the ice there ominously. The search party quiets again, a series of ice knocks reverberating in the silence that follows your call. One shouts back, the first echo coming from behind you now instead in front. They've turned around.

You call out again, bellying backwards toward the thicker ice. Your shoes scrape ominously and you curse, pulling your soaked gloves off with your teeth so you can shimmy your legs up and take your snowshoes off. Your fingers are much more confident now, making little little work of it. You leave them with Garrick and try to turn from him, but the tide shifts with you and brings him back out, rolls him along until he follows you, his weathered knuckles tapping along the underside of the shelf. Your calls for help turn frightened, frantic. You think you babble about the man in the water, though you can't concentrate enough to be sure.

Below you, the ice continues creaking and cracking, growing more and more damaged every time you shift your weight or Garrick's knuckles come rapping. They widen and flood, water rushing up to fill them. The surface layer bubbles with it, as if the lake is beginning to boil. The next rush of current which comes to pull Garrick along drags along the underside of the ice like a knife in your belly, a physical thing you can feel through the thin shelf as its relative warmth eats away at the last few layers. You feel it beneath your palm like placing your hand on an old, drafty window pane during a windstorm.

When you call for help, you sound like you are being killed.

Your feet break through first, heavy boots trying to pull you under. The reaction is delayed, your whole body seeming to forget to register the sting of pain brought on by such extreme cold. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out, palms heavy where they slip and slide across the slick surface. You heave yourself out by some miracle, breaths coming too harshly to respond when you hear the rescue party calling to you.

Above their calls - below their calls -, the voice from last night tells you you're cold again. You want to laugh; more moments of clarity coming to you in your last moments. There was nothing here with you besides your externalized desire to give up and give in.

"You need help," it says, everywhere and nowhere. Garrick's knuckles rap against the ice.

You don't want to die here, laying forever in a bed of silt. "Not from you," you hiss, and plant your fist to drag yourself on.

But the ice breaks open under your hand, your palm crashing through to collide with Garrick's shoulder. It pushes him down, gives you distance. His own hand floats up in his wake, fingers brushing against the sleeve of your coat. Your fingers wrap around his bicep on instinct, the hard-earned drive of every human to keep eachother safe irrepressible. His eyelids flutter in the current. You slip forward after him, sparing a passing thought for how odd that is, odder still how warm his skin is against yours.

The scream you emit when his fingers wrap around your elbow and pull bubbles on the surface, frozen lake water seizing your lungs when it rushes into your mouth and chokes you, pouring down your throat into your belly.

Garrick's eyes are black as the depths when he opens them fully.

#spooktober 2024 #access road 46 #dubcon cw #gouge horror #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader

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motimatcha · 10 months ago

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Characters: Gekko, Phoenix, Yoru, Chamber

Gener: fluff

On a cold winter night, when the temperature outside drops to minus thirty-five degrees and a cold wind blows through the windows...

Gekko will offer to seal the cracks with tape. This hardly saves you, despite the fact that you used two rolls of tape.

Phoenix will turn on the heater to warm up the entire apartment, but this action, like trying to warm up the entire street, will have no effect.

Yoru, who is equally comfortable in the heat and in the cold to wear light clothes, will not offer anything better and more reasonable than to call the repair service and go to his home.

Chamber has never encountered this problem because he is rich and can afford to install insulation on his windows.

#valorant x reader #gekko x reader #pheonix x reader #yoru x reader #chamber x reader #valorant yoru x reader #valorant gekko x reader #valorant phoenix x reader #valorant chamber x reader

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gaybananabread · 1 year ago

Note

Hi I love your fics! I was wondering if you could write a lee bakugo and ler best jeanist? If your requests are closed you can just ignore this, I thought it could be cute though!

Have a great day! Remember to take care of yourself!

TickleTober Day 2 - Accidental

Okay, kinda lucked out! I was gonna wait till November to do this request, but I liked the pairing and needed an idea. You didn't request it as TickleTober, but that's what it is now. Changes nothing, just gives me an excuse to write it as such lol. Ignore any sewing-term errors, I don't sew anything. Anywho, I hope you Enjoy!

Lee: Bakugou

Ler: Best Jeanist

Summary: Jeanist thought that Bakugou's suit needed some special touches. The blonde obviously protests, leading to some rather giggly measurements.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don't like that, scroll away!!

Bakugou's hero suit was…well, it wasn't bad. It just lacked a certain flair the pro hero was looking for. So, with him mentoring the teen and all, Jeanist thought it his responsibility to spruce up the slightly drab suit.

The rapidly approaching fall season was a decent inspiration for him. With fall comes the changing of leaves, carving of pumpkins and cooler weather. Jeanist made sure to insulate the suit, knowing the blonde needed to sweat for his quirk to work. He kept the theme mainly orange, yellow and black, adding in a few splashes of green for style.

By the end of his lunch break, he had drawn up a new seasonal suit for Bakugou. It was time for the hard part: getting his measurements without the boy exploding.

“I don’t need a new suit! Nothin’s fucking wrong with it!” Bakugou was not putting up with another change. His poor hair had been the first change. That damn comb over…he’ll never get over it. Now he wanted to switch up his suit design? Fuck that.

The pro hero sighed, expecting this reaction. “No need to be so dramatic. It’s just a little…seasonal makeover. Trust me, you’ll be much happier.” Bakugou huffed, shaking his head. Yeah right, he had said the same thing about the hairstyle…

Bakugou's choice of words wasn't his best idea. He was getting a bit pissy, letting his temper get the best of him. "Fuck off. My suit is fine, no more makeovers!" He glared at the pro, but that temper faded when he saw the look on his face. The look that meant Jeanist was done with his shit.

"Quite the mouth on you. I believe I said something about censoring your f-bombs, did I not?" Threads flew towards the teen, wrapping around his limbs and getting him positioned. When Jeanist was done, Bakugou was standing tall, his arms and legs spread just enough to get perfect measurements. "I would say 'stand still', but I don't think that'll be an issue now."

A bit dramatic, but he needed it. Bakugou thrashed and tugged on the thread, but everytime one broke, three more were quick to replace it. Jeanist was careful not to hurt the boy, just restrain him. "The fuck?! Get these damn threads offa me!"

The pro rolled his eyes, grabbing his measuring tape and approaching him. "What did I just say?" Jeanist first ran the tape around his chest, getting the bust measurements. He wasn't expecting the other blonde's gasp when his fingers grazed his ribs. "Bakugou…are you hurt?"

Shit… "No, go away! Get these damn threads away from me!" He tried thrashing his way out, but nothing was working. Jeanist was too good at keeping him in place.

"Bakugou, if you're hiding an injury, you're only hurting yourself more. I only think less of you for getting injured if you don't tell me about it." His tone was serious. The pro didn't mess around when it came to his others' well-being. Giving Bakugou a stern look-over, he could tell the explosive teen wasn't lying. But if he wasn't injured, why'd he gasp? Jeanist knew he wasn't getting a straight answer; best to run a test…

Ignoring his protests, Jeanist got back to measuring. He did the bust measurements one more time, his fingers grazing Bakugou's ribs again. The teen was prepared, though, biting his cheek to keep quiet.

Okay, no noise that time…moving onto the waist. He moved the tape down, fiddling with the ends of it to find the exact measurement. He pressed his fingers against the boy's lower stomach, taking mental notes of the numbers.

Bakugou's breathing was a bit shaky, his cheek starting to hurt from biting it so hard. Why couldn't Jeanist measure somewhere that wasn't ticklish? Literally any other place would have been fine. He just had to start with his ribs. Things only went downhill from there…

Now for hip girth. The tape was moved once again, running around his hips. Bakugou struggled not to react when he felt his mentor's fingers brush his hips. He could feel his cheeks heat up, the embarrassment and stupidity of his situation getting to him.

Jeanist heard how shaky his breathing was getting, glancing up at the teen's face. What he saw shocked him. A blushing Bakugou, struggling not to smile. Why would he…wait a minute. He got a wonderful idea. And oho, it was perfect.

The measuring tape was pulled away, Best Jeanist's fingers leaving his torso. Bakugou huffed, sparing a glance at his mentor. He instantly regretted it. The pro hero's smile was as wide as it was mischievous. The measurements were done for now, he could've released him; but he didn't. He knew. Bakugou was fucked.

"Jeanist I- don't you FUCKING dare! I'll blow you into the stratosphere! Back off!" The blond pulled at his thread restraints, but Jeanist was too good with his quirk. He could barely wiggle around, much less escape.

The pro hero chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow, again with the language. What's it gonna take for you to clean up your act, Bakugou?" He tucked his arms behind his back, slowly getting closer to the teen. He knew exactly what it would take. He just wanted to have a bit of fun with his temperamental mentee.

"Maybe…something like this?" He went behind the teen, squeezing his side. Bakugou huffed, jerking as much as the threads would allow. How were things as simple as threads keeping him restrained so well?

"Lemme go! I swear, if you touch me one more time, I'll fucking blast you-" He couldn't even finish his sentence before Jeanist squeezed his side again, cutting his words off with a yelp. "There's that word again. You've really got to stop using it. Children aren't going to want to be near a hero who uses such scary language."

To be completely honest, Jeanist didn't really care how the boy spoke. It wasn't up to him, he wasn't going to dictate how he communicated. Still, the cursing gave him an excuse to tickle the other blonde. An excuse he wasn't about to let go of.

Deciding to just go for it, Jeanist scribbled across the teen's stomach. He was pleasantly surprised to hear Baku's poorly-restrained giggles. He wasn't putting up much of an effort to conceal them anymore. "Shihit- nohoho! Get ohohoff!"

It was nice to hear the aggressive, loud teen giggle like that. After all, he was still a kid. A teenager, yes, but still a kid. The boy deserves to laugh. And, by the looks of it, he doesn't really mind.

"You'd think that you would stop cussing, but no. Honestly, do you ever learn your lesson?" The wiggling fingers move upwards, heading for his ribs. Bakugou's giggling got louder, still lighter and bubbly. At least he was on the right track.

Jeanist slowly moved up Bakugou's ribs, scribbling between each bone. The teen squirmed and thrashed as much as he could, his pink cheeks deepening to a vibrant red. The giggling was now borderline laughter. Just needed that one extra notch to get there.

"Goho awahahay, ohohold mahahahan!" The pro scoffed, pausing his tickling for a second. That kid was in for it now… "Old man?! I'm 35, thank you very much! That's a perfectly normal age for a hero. I think you need a lesson in manners…"

The pro's hand suddenly darted upwards, scribbling mercilessly on the spot where his underarms meet the top of his ribs. Bakugou all but screamed, loud cackles replacing his giggling. "NOHOHO! GEHEHET- NOHOT THEHEHERE!"

Jeanist just chuckled as he continued his ticklish fun. He was enjoying himself, seeing his mentee laugh like that. The boy never let loose besides fighting, it was a nice sight. "There we go, improvement. No insults, and not one swear word!" He didn't really have a definite reason for tickling Bakugou, besides the fact that it was fun. Excuses would help, though.

Laughter echoed around Jeanist's office, bouncing off the walls and lively the place up. The denim-clad pro experimentally squeezed Bakugou's hip, smirking at the squawk he got in return. His fingers moved away from the teen's death spot, fully moving his hands down to focus on his hips.

"OHOHO MY- IHIHI'LL KIHILL YOUHUHU!" Bakugou was trying to continue his sort-of squirming, but he was tiring out. The tickles, paired with that morning's training and patrol, had him beat. He managed to keep his head held up, laughing as the pro went at his hips.

His thumbs drilled into the boisterous teen's hips, smirking as he pulled laugh after laugh out of him. The kid definitely had a nice one; much better than his normal demented cackling. His eyes wandered down to Bakugou's legs, questioning if they'd be half as his upper body. Lucky for him, he forgot a measurement.

"Oh, my bad! I forgot to measure your inseam! We'll need to take care of that, now won't we?" Jeanist pulled the measuring tape from his pocket once again, holding it against Bakugou's thigh. Only this time, he actually poked around the area, purposefully tickling him while getting the measurement.

Thigh tickles are a completely different experience from anywhere else on the body (imo). As such, Bakugou's laugh was a brand-new shade of adorable. The fiery teen giggled and squeaked, pitchy laughter replacing his cackles.

"CohOHOme ohohon! Youhuhu AHA- uhum, j-jeheherk!” To his mentor’s surprise, Bakugou actually filtered his language. True, he had begun to call him an ass, but he took the effort to stop himself. It was kinda cute, even if he didn’t truly care about the other blonde’s language.

Jeanist chuckled, easing up on his student’s hips. “Would you look at that, he can learn. All it took was some tickling!” Said student groaned, his cheeks reddening as Jeanist said the word. Normally, he can hear and say the word just fine. That time, however, he was being teased and restrained by someone he looked up to. It’s waaay harder to stay composed when you’re giggling like an idiot.

Finally, the tickling and teasing got to him. Bakugou actually tapped out. He didn’t exactly say “uncle” or anything, but he did say one word that hadn’t been spoken since Jeanist started. “S-STOHOHOP IHIT! JeHEHEAnihihist noho mohOHORE!”

And stop it he did. The pro hero pulled his hands away as the threads holding Bakugou in place snapped. The teen fell forwards, a bit dazed from laughing so hard for so long. Jeanist caught the giggly student before he could hurt himself. “Woah, careful. I didn’t go too far, did I?”

Bakugou shook his head, hiding his red face in his mentor’s shoulder. “Sh-shuhuhut uhup…” That was the only response he needed to know that everything was fine. The older blonde wrapped his arms around him, keeping the boy upright and letting him know that there was no judgment.

“Alright, I’ll stop. Still, you have to admit you enjoyed yourself just a little.” Bakugou groaned, weakly punching his mentor’s side. That just made him laugh and muss up the teen’s hair. “I’ll take that as another yes.”

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Jeanist’s head as he remembered the whole reason the silliness started. “Oh, I almost forgot! Now that I’ve got your measurements, I can start on your new suit!” He walked over to a nearby couch, laying the teen down to rest. Bakugou wasn’t totally spent, but he could use a breather. He grumbled something, but didn’t protest any. He wanted a quick nap, and knew Jeanist wouldn’t tease him for it.

The pro went over to his personal work-area, grabbing the fabrics for Bakugou’s new suit. Hopefully, by the time his student woke up, he would have a starting point on the garment.

Their playful exchange had given him some good ideas on where to add extra padding, as well as some pops of color. Bakugou might have been a bit temperamental, but he was a good kid. A good kid deserves a good suit. As he cut the first length of fabric, he thought of the happy smile that was on his mentee’s face as he tickled him. He would have to take measurements more often…

#mha tickle #lee!bakugou #ler!best jeanist #ticklish!bakugou #tickletober 2023 #augtickletober2023 #sfw tickling community #tickle fic #tickle #my hero academia tickle #mha tickling #bnha tickle #mha bakugo #mha best jeanist #tickletober

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roboticchibitan · 10 months ago

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I once, a decade ago, made a custom dressform using water activated paper tape and spray insation foam following a tutorial I found online. The paper tape was only used as a mold for the spray foam. The finished dressform came out if the paper tape mold and was just a foam copy of my body. It wasn't the most durable foam, but the closest tutorials I can find now call for plaster bandages, and expanding two part foam that costs $160 to make something in my size. Whereas a couple rolls of paper tape and three or four bottles of spray insulation foam is about $40.

I cannot for the life of me find this tutorial or even a mention of it and no tutorials I've found reference spray insulation foam so I'm wondering if there's a reason this method didn't survive the test of time. I did find one person on Reddit filled their duct tape dressform with spray foam but I couldn't find any other mentions of it.

#v's fiber arts tag #sewing #dressform #diy dressform

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nothasideblog · 2 months ago

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Problems of All Sizes

Cal comes down with a cold and tries to power through. ---

He hates to say it, but shoveling would be much easier without Kata's “help.” Every fifteen minutes or so, she shouts, “Wait!” and scrambles down to pluck out a bug or root, spilling dirt into the bottom of the hole.

She’s just trying to be helpful, he knows, and she is, in the long run. The likelihood of finding pyrite is pretty high on Koboh, and the plants she sees tend to be useful.

But Cal isn’t thinking about the long run. He’s thinking about the growing crick in his neck and ache in his–...he pauses thoughtfully and rolls out his wrists.

Everywhere, he decides. He aches everywhere. He wants to be done with this.

There was a problem with Pyloon’s electrical system. Cal woke up to the lights sporadically flickering and Greez swearing up and down. Cal quickly discovered that tinkering with the breaker box would not fix the problem. Hence, digging in the sand for wires.

“Cal? Why’s your lightsaber blue?”

He also might want to be done with this because Kata has been asking a lot of questions lately.

Usually, he can come up with something semi-intelligent to say. But, right now, he struggles to find any answer that satisfies her. He blames the heat getting to his head and the fact she gets sharper every day.

“That’s a good question. I don’t know. Why do you think it’s blue?”

She hums, turning over a sprout in her hand. “Is it because it’s your favorite color?”

He laughs a little, something catches, and he coughs once before saying, “I’ve honestly never really thought about it. I guess so.” He digs the shovel's tip under a stone and thinks of the glint of Merrin’s hair. Was silver a color? “Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe blue isn’t my favorite.”

“I didn’t think so. Red wasn’t Papa’s.”

“I-hhheehh--HEt’SH!” Whether it’s a blessing or a curse, Cal sneezes, the shovel slips forward, and his head collides into the dirt wall.

It’s all pretty embarrassing. Luckily, Kata reacts with grace–she holds her stomach and kicks her legs and she snorts-laughs so hard it has her choking for breath.

Cal can’t help but let a little smile quirk at the corner of his mouth. He grabs her foot, shaking it with false venom, “Laugh it up. If I’m sick, guess who finishes the job?”

She jerks her sandal from his grasp and stands up with a grin, “Merrin! I’ll go get her.”

“I meant you!” Cal calls after her, but she’s already around the corner. She’s faster than usual, and he swears he sees a hint of green. Merrin must be teaching her things. Good. That was good, right?

Cal shifts his weight onto the shovel's step, and he meets the resistance of the wire’s rubber coating. He kneels to get to work, brushing away dirt with his hand to find the wire’s insulation cracked. He begins stripping away at it.

A flash of green cracks to his right. He doesn’t need to look away from his work. He knows who it is, “Kata said you needed help,” Merrin’s alto voice rings out.

“Well,” He starts taping over the newly restored wiring, “The hard part is over.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He turns to face her, “Of course, I don’t want you to–what?” He falters when her eyes flick up to his forehead and she smiles, not unsympathetic.

He rubs at it with the back of his hand and it comes back with dirt. He can feel his ears turn pink.

Merrin takes the shovel from his hand first and reaches down to help him out of the hole. Once he’s above ground again, she wordlessly begins finishing the task, pushing dirt back into place. Cal helps to the best of his ability, kicking it in with his foot. “Did she tell you how–…” “She told me how it happened, yes.” She shakes her head and uses her thumb to wipe the rest of the dirt off his face, ”What is wrong with you?”

Ears pinker still, he says, “Thanks. Nothing major. I, uh, think I might have picked up a bug.”

She regards him carefully, eyebrows raised, “A parasite?”

“I think it’s-a-cold..!” As if confirming its presence, Cal pitches forward. This time, he covers it with the crook of his arm. “HAT’SHh’uH…ugh.”

He feels a tug at the back of his neck and hears a tearing noise. Merrin pushes something into his hand—a piece of cloth. Bewildered, he sniffs, “Did you rip this off the back of my scarf?

Merrin pinches the edge of what’s left of it behind him between two fingers. “Was it not more of a cape? Did you need it?”

“I guess not.” Cal huffs out a laugh and turns away to blow his nose.

They walk back to Pyloon’s together. The doors slide open, and he’s relieved that half of the bar’s lights hold steady with a healthy hum. The other half remains disconnected and black. He’ll take it as a win.

“Cal!” He turns to see Kata with a grin so wide he worries it’ll crack her face. “I helped make you something! Be right back!” He clears his throat to reply, but she’s already rushing towards the kitchen, weaving between customers. The regulars side-step her, used to her bursts of energy.

Merrin slips into a booth, and Cal sits across from her. He swipes a few napkins from the dispenser and shoves them into his pocket. He pulls out three more and uses the first to swipe under his nose.

Merrin’s dark eyes watch him, and she smiles, amused, “You are like a Moog hoarding food for the winter.”

“Well, at the rate I’m going, I won’t have much scarf left by the end of the night,” He huffs.

“Excuse me!” Kata’s voice rings out around the corner. Cal pokes his head out of the booth to see her stepping heel-toe towards them, eyes glued to the giant steaming bowl of soup in her hands. It sloshes wildly from left to right. He morbidly thinks of how it’s a perfect representation of how his stomach feels watching the piping-hot liquid get dangerously close to her skin.

He’s at her side instantly, lifting it from her grasp, “Is this for me?”

Kata follows him to the booth, crossing her arms, “Yeah but I had it!” She insists.

“Sorry. Do you want it back?” he asks, though he’s already set it on the table and reclaimed his seat.

Kata rolls her eyes, “It’s okay, I guess,” She scrambles up next to Merrin and sits on her knees.

Cal scoops up a heaping spoonful and sticks it in his mouth. It’s still steaming when he swallows it, but he can barely mind the burn when it’s wonderfully salty with something akin to dill. He chews on a bite of potato, “Did Greeze help you with this?”

Kata grins, “How did you know?”

Cal shrugs, “Because it’s delicious.”

“Really?!” She plants her hands on the table to lean over to look into the bowl. Her eyes reflect the golden blobs floating in the broth. They look like stars.

I saw the entire galaxy in her eyes.

He feels a wave of nausea, but he pushes through and shoves the spoon back into his mouth. Under the table, Merrin taps his foot a little. He glances up and she gives him a questioning look. He smiles at her and hopes it’s reassuring.

“Tell us how you made it, child,” Merrin says, tucking a strand of hair behind Kata’s ear.

“Greeze chopped the vegetables, but I added the spices,” Kata lights up, “They’re from the garden.”

Cal eats while she talks. The broth is rich and coats his throat, and the steam makes it easier to breathe. He should make sure Kata gets a bowl, one that hasn’t been contaminated with whatever head cold struck him this time. Unfortunately, his nose starts running before he can say anything. He ducks his face into another napkin, “Hih-HIt’SHuh!”

“Sounds like you’re coming down with something nasty.”

Cal sniffs, teary-eyed, as Greeze saddles up next to them and leans against Merrin’s side of the booth. “It’s not so bad. I ended up getting free soup out of the whole thing.”

“You get a free bed along with it, too,” Greeze jerks his thumb towards Cal’s room, “Might as well make use of it.”

The thought is tempting. His head feels too heavy and too light simultaneously, “Thaahhnk-Hih!…” He catches himself, turning and blinking away the feeling. It leaves his nose buzzing. “Sorry, thank you. I’ll head down in a minute. I haven’t had a chance to catch up with Merrin.”

She shares a look with Kata, who grins and asks, “Who’s Berrid?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Cal smiles, despite himself, “Our beloved Nightsister has nothing to say to that?”

“Don’t make fun of the ailing; it’s not honorable,” Merrin’s voice remains steady, but her eyes dance with laughter. “My day was fine, Cal.”

He rests his cheek in his hand. She looks nice in this light. He wonders if everything looks different to her nocturnal eyesight. He sniffs and bites down a curse as his nose starts to itch again. “That’s good. You went book huh-hunting?”

Her dark lips quirk into a smile, “I found an old text on magnets and galaxies. I left it on your bed.” Merrin had been exploring caves on Jeddah to help Cal link something–anything to figure out how to fix the compass. The design was so advanced, Cal struggled to even get the damn thing open.

“HehH…!!”

But, reading books is a nice, non-physically exhausting activity, something to look forward to. He would be so lost without Merrin. He would be so dead without Merrin.

“RRt’SHHuh!” He buries his face into his napkin and tries to recover as casually as possible, but, “MPHHsshuh!!!” He blinks, dizzy.

Merrin squeezes his forearm, “You should go take a look.”

“...Yeah, alright,” Cal lets his shoulders slump and he begins to get up, stiff. “Wait,” He squints, his focus hazing. He turns to Kata, “There’s enough soup left for you, right?”

Greeze laughs, “You don’t usually just make one bowl of soup, Cal, there’s a whole pot.” He seems a little disturbed, but that’s nothing new. Greeze is routinely unsettled by a lot of things Cal says these days. The thought makes him ache.

A flash of green and a cool hand on his forehead diverges him from his thoughts. He’s having trouble holding onto those today–thoughts. But Merrin is taking his arm, so he’s fine with whatever happens next.

“Goodnight Cal!” Kata calls after him.

They turn the corner and he slurs, “S’the middle of the day.”

Merrin pushes his hair back. He fights a shiver creeping up his shoulders, and she whispers, “On’sila,” in his ear. He doesn’t know what it means, but the words are nice little puffs of air on his neck. She scrapes her nails down his scalp, and he finds his eyes closing. Her other hand guides him to lie down, and he recognizes the soft comforter of his bed.

When did they get here?

The floor crackles and he hears the doors slide open. “What about the ‘old magnet text?’” He asks, and he winces when his voice breaks on “text.”

There are a few moments of silence where he worries he’ll fall asleep. But, soon enough, he feels the heavy weight of paper and leather as she drops it, rather heavily into his lap.

“You won’t last 15 minutes,” She wagers.

He blinks his eyes open and sits up on his elbows. The world spins momentarily but settles, and he begins thumbing through the pages,“C’mon, give me at least twenty.”

Merrin plucks it from his grasp. He doesn’t reach for it back but shoots her a questioning look. She meets it with a level stare, “I will read.”

Cal rolls his eyes and starts to reach for it again, but she jerks it away and hastily announces, “To practice my Basic.”

That gets him reconsidering and relaxing back into bed, so she begins. “Magnetic fields in the spiral arms of our galaxy are tilted away from the galactic average by a high degree…”

#Jedi Survivor sickfic #merrical #sickfic #Post-jedi survivor fic #jedi survivor #jedi survivor fic #found family #cal kestis #nightsister merrin #kata akuna #greez dritus

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wirewitchviolet · 11 months ago

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How a Computer Works - Part 3 (Miniaturization and Standardization)

For anyone just joining in, I'm writing a series of posts explaining perhaps haphazardly all there is to know about how a computer works, from the most basic fundamental circuitry components to whatever level of higher functionality I eventually get to. As explained in the first post on this subject, I am doing this just in pure text, so that if you are inclined you can straight up print these posts out or narrate them onto some audio tape or whatever and have full access to them should every computer in the world suddenly collapse into a pile of dust or something. Part 1 mainly covered the basic mechanical principles of circuitry and how to physically construct a logic gate. Part 2 covered logic gates in detail and how to use them to create a basic working architecture for a general purpose computer. Today we're going to be talking more about what you're looking at when you crack a machine open so you can make sense of all the important fiddly bits and have maybe a starting point on how to troubleshoot things with a multimeter or something.

Before getting into it though, I do have to shake my little donation can again and remind you that I do not know how I am going to get through the winter without becoming homeless, so if this is valuable to you, I'd appreciate some help.

Boards of Bread and Printed Circuits

With the things I've explained so far, you could totally build a computer right now, but it'd be a bit messy. You can totally buy resistors, transistors, capacitors, and diodes by the bagful for basically nothing, and cheap rolls of insulated wire, but there's all these long exposed pins to cut short and soldering things in mid-air is a messy nightmare and you'd just have this big tangle of wires in a bag or something that would almost certainly short out on you. So let's look into ways to organize stuff a little.

If you start playing around with electronics on your own, one of the first things you want to hook yourself up with besides raw components and wires is a breadboard or 12. And if you're watching people explain these things with visual aids, you'll also see a lot of them, so it's good to know exactly what they are and how they work. Your standard breadboard is a brick of plastic with a bunch of little holes in it. Incidentally, the name comes from how the first ones were literally just named after the wooden cutting boards for slicing bread people recycled to make them. Inside these holes there's some pinching bits of conductive metal which connect to each other in a particular way (pretty sure you can just see the strips that connect one if you pry the bottom off), so you can just jam a thing wire or prong into a hole, have it held in place, and make a connection to every other hole its connected to on the other side.

There is a ton of standardization to all of this. The holes should always be 0.1 inches apart () and split into two big grids. Everyone I've ever seen has 63 rows, each with 5 holes labeled A-E, a shallow channel through the middle of the board, and then another 5, F-J, and we generally have numbers printed every 5 rows. Down underneath, for any given row, the set of 5 pins on each side of the channel are connected. So, holes 1A, 1B, 1C, 1D, and 1E are all connected to each other, and nothing else. Holes 1F, 1G, 1H, 1I, and 1J are also connected to each other. There's no connection though between 1E and 1F, or 1A and 2A.

Most breadboards will also have a couple of "power rails" along the sides. These are just going to be labeled with a long red line and +, and a long blue or black line and -, and have holes in 2x5 blocks staggered out. With these, all 25 or 50 or whatever holes near the red + line connect with each other, and all the ones near the black line connect with each other. The gaps every 5 holes don't serve any purpose beyond looking different enough from the big grid so you hopefully don't mix it up and forget that these ones all connect down the length, and not in in little clumps across the width like everything else. The idea, for the sake of convention, is you plug a wire connected directly to the positive side of your battery or DC adapter or whatever into any red line hole, the negative side to any blue/black hole, and then tada, you can make a circuit just by plugging a wire in from red to a normal grid line, whatever bits you want span from that grid line to another, and eventually you connect the far end back anywhere on the black/blue line.

With a nice circuit board, there's also little snap-together pegs along the sides, and the power rails are just snapped on with those. So you can just kinda cut through the backing with a knife or some scissors, snap those off, connect multiple boards together without redundant power rails in the middle, and then just have these nice spare long lines of linked sockets. In the computer I'm building on these, I'm just using spare power rails for the bus. Oh and the big grooved channel down the middle also has a purpose. Bigger electronic components, like our good good friend the integrated circuit, are generally designed to be exactly wide enough (or more, but by a multiple of 0.1 inches) to straddle that groove as you plug their legs into the wires on either side, so they nicely fit into a breadboard, and there's a handy gap to slide something under and pry them off later on.

Typically though, you don't see breadboards inside a computer, or anything else. They're super handy for tinkering around and designing stuff, but for final builds, you want something more permanent. Usually, that's a printed circuit board, or PCB. This is pretty much what everyone's going to picture when they think about the guts of a computer. A big hard (usually) green board with a bunch of intricate lines, or "traces" running all over made of (usually) copper. And maybe with some metal ringed holes punched all the way through (they call those vias). These tend to look really complicated and maybe even a little magical, but they're honestly they're just pre-placed wires with a sense of style.

Most of the material of the board is insulated. The copper traces conduct real well, and manufacturers have done the math on just how close together they can be run without connecting to each other in places you don't want. The holes that go all the way through are for either plugging other bits in that tend to come with long legs you maybe want to keep intact, or just ways to run a trace through to the other side, where we often have traces on the back too to maximize our space. Most of what makes them look all cool and magical is how the traces run as close packed as possible to conserve space, and tend to only turn at 45 degree angles, which is just an artifact of how the machinery used to etch them out sued to be iffy about anything else.

So tada, you have all your wires pre-stuck to a nice sturdy board, and maybe even have labels printed right on there for where you solder all the various components to finish the thing. Oh and when you hear people talk about like, motherboards and daughterboards? The big main board you have for everything is a motherboard. Sometimes you need more than that, so you make smaller ones, and connect them up ether with some soldering or cartridge style with end-pins sliding snugly into sockets, and those we call daughterboards.

Integrated Circuits, or as they're also known, "chips"

The last thing you're likely to find if you crack open a computer, or just about any other electronic device that isn't super old or super super simple, are integrated circuits. Generally these are think black plastic bars that look like you'd maybe try to awkardly use them to spread cheese or peanutbutter on crackers in a prepacked snack or something, with rows of tiny little legs that running along either side. Kinda makes them look like little toy bugs or something. Sometimes they're square with pins along every edge, because sometimes you need a lot of pins. These are integrated circuits, or microchips, or just chips, and wow are they handy.

Sometime back in the 60s when people were really getting their heads around just how ridiculously small they could make electronic components and still have them work, we started to quite rapidly move towards a point where the big concern was no longer "can we shrink all this stuff down to a manageable size" and more "we are shrinking everything down to such an absurdly tiny size that we need to pack it all up in some kind of basically indestructible package, while still being able to interact with it."

So, yeah, we worked out a really solid standard there. I kinda wish I could find more on how it was set or what sort of plastic was used, but you take your absurdly shrunken down complex circuit for doing whatever. You run the teensiest tiniest wires you can out from it that thicken up at the ends into standard toothy prongs you can sink into a breadboard or a PCB with that standardized pin spacing, and you coat it all in this black plastic so firmly enveloping it that nothing can move around inside or get broken, hopefully.

And honestly, in my opinion, this is all TOO standardized. The only real visible difference between any two given integrated circuits is how many legs they have, and even those tend to come to some pretty standard numbers. They're always the same size shape and color, they all have the same convention of having a little indented notch on one side so you know which end is which, and they all seem to use just the worst ink in the world to print a block of numbers on the back with their manufacturer, date of assembly, a catalog number, and some other random stuff.

For real if there's any real comprehensive standard for what's printing on these, I can't for the life of me find it. All I know is, SOMEWHERE, you've got a 2 or 3 letter code for every manufacturer, a number for the chip, and a 4 digit date code with the last 2 digits of the year, and which week of that year it was. These three things can be in any order, other things can also be on there, probably with zero spacing, and usually printed in ink that wipes away like immediately or at least is only readable under really direct light, it sucks.

Once you know what a chip is though and look up the datasheet for it, you should have all sorts of handy info on what's inside, and just need to know what every leg is for. For that, you find which end has a notch in it, that's the left side, sometimes there's also a little dot in the lower left corner, and hopefully the label is printed in alignment with that. From there, the bottom left leg is pin 1, and then you count counterclockwise around the whole chip. You're basically always going to have positive and negative power pins, past that anything goes. You can cram a whole computer into a single chip, yo can have someone just put like 4 NAND gates on a chip for convenience, whatever.

OK, but how do they make them so small?

OK, so, mostly a circuit we're going to want to shrink down and put on a chip is just gonna be a big pile of logic gates, we can make our logic gates just using transistors, and we can make transistors just by chemically treating some silicon. So we just need SUPER flat sheets of treated silicon, along with some little strands of capacitive/resistive/insulating material here and there, and a few vertically oriented bits of conductive metal to pass signals up and down as we layer these together. Then we just need to etch them out, real real small and tight.

And we can do that etching at like, basically infinite resolution it turns out. It just so happens we have access to special acids that eat through the materials we need them to eat through, but that only work when they're being directly hit with fairly intense UV light. And a thing about light is when you have say, a big cut out pattern that you hold between a light and a surface, it casts a shadow on it... and the scaling of that shadow depends entirely on the distances between the light, the pattern, and the surface. So if you're super careful calibrating everything, you can etch a pattern into something at a scale where the main limiting factors become stuff like how many molecules thick things have to be to hold their shape. Seriously, they use electron microscopes to inspect builds because that's the level of tininess we have achieved.

So yeah, you etch your layers of various materials out with shadow masks and UV acid, you stack them up, you somehow align microscopic pins to hold them together and then you coat the whole mess in plastic forever. Tada. Anything you want in a little chip.

ROMs, maybe with various letters in front

So there's a bunch of standard generally useful things people put into ICs, but also with a computer you generally want some real bespoke stored values with a lookup table where you'll keep, say, a program to be run by feeding whatever's inside out to the bus line by line. For that we use a chip we call Read Only Memory, or ROM. Nothing super special there, just... hard wire in the values you need when you manufacture it. Manufacturing these chips though is kind of a lot, with the exacting calibrations and the acid and the clean rooms and all. Can't we have some sort of Programmable ROM? Well sure, just like build it so that all the values are 1, and build a special little thing that feeds more voltage through than it can handle and physically destroy the fuse for everything you don't want to be a 1.

OK that's still kind of a serious commitment. What if I want to reuse this later? Oh, so you want some sort of Erasable PROM? OK someone came up with a funky setting where you overload and blow out the fuses but then if you expose the guts of the chip to direct UV light through this little window, everything should reform back to 1. Just like, throw a sticker on there when you don't want to erase it. Well great, but can we maybe not have me desolder it and take it out to put under a lamp? Oh la de da! You need Electronically Erasable PROMs? EEPROMs? I guess we can make THAT work, somehow. They're still gonna be slow to write to though, can't have anything. I mean, not unless we invented like, flash memory. Which somehow does all this at speeds where you can use it for long term storage without it being a pain. So that's just kinda the thing we have now. Sorry I don't quite get the principles behind it enough to summarize. Something about floating components and needing less voltage or whatever. Apparently you sacrifice some read speed next to older options but hey, usable rewritable long term storage you just plug in, no jumping through extra hoops.

So OK. I think that's everything I can explain without biting the bullet and explaining ALUs and such. Well, there's keyboards (they're just buttons connecting input lines), monitors (these days, LEDs wired up in big grids), and mice (there's spokes in wheels that click X times or cameras checking the offset values of dust on your desk or whatnot).

Maybe throw me some money before we move on ?

CONTINUED IN PART 4

#computers #computer science #pcb #printed circuit board #integrated circuits #microchip #breadboards #education #electronics

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