#and elastic ankle cuffs

[tronform]

Finally arrived ! The New TRONFORM Astra Starburst Track Pants design fuse futuristic energy with modern streetwear elegance. Designed for those who move with confidence, the striking all-over starburst pattern creates a high-impact aesthetic, turning heads wherever you go. Crafted from premium, water-resistant fabric, these pants deliver superior comfort and durability, ensuring you stay sharp no matter the setting.

With a tailored relaxed fit, breathable mesh lining, and elastic ankle cuffs, these track pants are built for versatility—perfect for the streets, the lounge, or the city at night. Functional luxury meets precision craftsmanship.

Not just track pants—an embodiment of confidence, authority, and forward-thinking style.

TRONFORM it now: https://www.tronform.co/products/men-s-tronform-astra-starburst-track-pants

#TRONFORM #LuxuryStreetwear #FuturisticFashion #explore #explorepage #StarburstDesign #RefinedStreetStyle #BoldAesthetics #ModernElegance #LuxuryMenswear

[tf-servant2]

The Slow, Inescapable Nerdification of Jake Thompson

Jake didn’t notice the first change.

Monday

It started with his socks.

He was running late, barely awake as he yanked on a pair and shoved his feet into his sneakers. He didn’t think twice about it—why would he?

But by third period, something felt off.

His socks were too high.

At first, he thought maybe they had just bunched up weirdly, but when he sat down in math class, he noticed the tops peeking out above his sneakers. His white socks, which should have been ankle-length, had somehow stretched halfway up his calves.

A small frown tugged at his lips. He didn’t own socks like this… did he?

“Yo, Thompson,” Connor snickered from the next desk over. “Going for the grandpa look?”

Jake rolled his eyes, shoving the socks back down under his jeans. Whatever. Must’ve grabbed the wrong pair.

He ignored it.

Tuesday

His jeans were wrong.

When he pulled them on that morning, they felt tighter than usual, especially around the waist. He tugged at the waistband, frowning as he tried to adjust them, but they refused to sit at his hips where they belonged.

Instead, they rode high. Too high.

He scowled, yanking at them, trying to get them back to normal, but it was no use. No matter what he did, they stayed hitched up, awkwardly cinched around his waist.

And worse? His cuffs didn’t quite reach his ankles anymore. His stupidly high socks were peeking out again.

At lunch, Connor pointed at him and laughed. “Dude, what is going on with your pants?”

Jake clenched his jaw. “Shut up, man.”

But deep inside, unease started creeping in.

Wednesday

His shirts were gone.

Every T-shirt. Every tank top. Every hoodie.

Vanished.

In their place?

Rows and rows of short-sleeved button-down shirts.

Crisp, stiff, neatly folded, and completely uncool.

His hands trembled as he rummaged through his drawers, yanking out one nerdy shirt after another—plain white, plaid, light blue—all of them looking like they belonged on some dork from a math club.

His stomach twisted.

No.

No way.

He grabbed the plainest one he could find, hoping no one would notice. He threw it on, rolling the sleeves up to make it look less lame, but the second he tucked it into his too-high jeans, he realized—

When did I tuck it in?

His fingers fumbled, quickly pulling it loose, but by third period, he glanced down—

It had retucked itself.

Thursday

His underwear had changed.

Jake barely noticed at first. He yanked on a fresh pair from his drawer, only to freeze. The fabric was… wrong. Too stiff. Too tight.

His breath caught in his throat.

Instead of his usual boxer briefs—

He was wearing tighty-whities.

Thick. Dorky. Unforgiving.

He ripped them off, grabbed another pair—same thing.

All of them had transformed.

His stomach churned.

At school, he felt exposed. The waistband of his too-high pants rubbed uncomfortably against the elastic. Every time he moved, the briefs clung to him in a way that made him cringe.

And then came the wedgie.

Jake barely made it to his locker before someone yanked his waistband up hard, the fabric digging into him with humiliating precision.

“WEDGIE BOY!” someone jeered.

Jake gasped, his face burning, hands flying to his backside.

But he couldn’t fight back.

His body felt weaker, slumped forward, his reflexes slow. His usual confidence had vanished.

For the first time in his life, he was just… a victim.

Friday

The pocket protector appeared.

Jake didn’t put it there.

It was just there, perfectly tucked into his shirt pocket, pens lined up with military precision.

His breath hitched. He ripped it out and threw it away.

By next period, it had returned.

His sleeves had started to creep up, buttoned tightly at the cuffs. His pants kept riding higher, no matter how much he pulled them down.

He barely made it through the day before another wedgie struck, worse than the last.

The laughter was louder.

His resistance was weaker.

Saturday

The tie came.

Jake woke up, groggy, feeling strange. His clothes from yesterday were still on—he must’ve been too exhausted to change.

But something was off.

His collar felt tight.

His hands flew up, fingers trembling—

A tie.

A stiff, perfectly knotted tie, looped around his neck.

His breath hitched. No. No, no, no.

He yanked at it, trying to loosen it, but it was perfectly tied, snug against his buttoned-up collar.

He ran to the mirror, heart pounding.

His reflection was a stranger.

The tie. The short-sleeved button-up, now plaid. His pants, practically strangling his waist. His pocket protector, firmly in place. His socks, now knee-high.

And then—

His shoes.

They weren’t sneakers anymore.

He lifted his foot in horror.

The fabric had hardened, the rubber soles thickening, the laces vanishing. The color darkened into stiff, polished black leather.

His sneakers had transformed into loafers.

Big. Bulky. Uncool.

His stomach churned.

And then—

A snap.

His pants tightened further, his stomach constricting—

Braces.

Metal, clunky, suddenly affixed to his teeth.

Jake let out a strangled gasp, fingers flying to his mouth. His reflection mimicked him, eyes wide behind—

Wait.

His glasses.

When had those appeared?

Thick. Oversized. Sliding slightly down his nose, forcing him to meekly push them back up.

His hands trembled.

He tried to yank them off—

They reappeared instantly.

His stomach dropped.

A knock sounded at his door.

“Jake, honey, are you ready?”

His mother’s voice.

Ready for what?

Then he remembered.

Monday.

The first day back at school.

The wedgies would be worse.

The bullies would never stop.

And Jake…

Jake was trapped.

[genderlessghoul]

I've been wanting to do this post for a while now so here is EVERYTHING I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT THE GHOULS' IMPERA COSTUMES.

Buckle up because I have a LOT to say about those, this is gonna be a very long one.

The costumes were designed by B Åkerlund, a Swedish costume designer who's worked with Ghost since at least Meliora (that's as far back as I was willing to scroll on her Instagram page lol). B Åkerlund has also worked for many other musical artists such as Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Madonna, the Rolling Stones, Ozzy Osborne, Blink 182 and Hollywood Undead (information from her own website)

The masks were made by Bob Basset, a visual artists who works a lot with leather. I find his work fascinating, you can look him up on Instagram (nsfw warning, there's a few naked ladies).

Fun fact! The horns are real cow horns. That's the reason some of them have gold tips, to hide the imperfections that come with working with actual horns.

He does have a shop where he sells his items, there's a mask there very similar to the Impera ones. You can also buy Papa's batwings if you happen to have 2500$ lying around!

The jackets are made on the same model as one of Papa's. The back is decorated with a spine-like design made from leather and cording. It's adorned with a few of our classic Impera buttons. Some of the hems were left raw and some deliberate weathering was done to make it look old and worn.

Fun fact! The shoulder pieces are not sewn into the garment, I would assume for easier cleaning. I don't know if they're held by strong magnets or snap buttons.

The vest (my beloved 😩) is made from flocked velvet in a paisley pattern, the front hems embellished with satin piping. It closes in the front with custom metal clasps that are riveted into the garment. The D parts are attached with what seems to me like wide elastic, which would lessen the pression on the clasps when moving around a lot. The back is made from two different types of fabric, I'd have to touch it to be able to tell you what they are. I assume the panels closer to the sides have some mild stretch to them. The top of the shoulders are decorated with Impera grucifix patches.

The shirts were not custom made for the ghouls, altho they were altered. The original shirt in the vintage painter linen shirt from Punk Rave and it is still being sold. Some of the cuffs were altered, removing the ruffles for some of the ghouls, but not all. They were removed for Dew, Mountain and Phantom, Aether's didn't have them either. As far as I can tell, all the ghoulettes still have them.

An unfinished piece of linen serves as an ascot, that piece is decorated with a metal devil skull. The colour of the skull doesn't appear to be consistent between each ghoul, Dew's looks gold almost bronze while Phantom's is a silver-like colour.

Another modification is the buttons, a small portion of them were removed in favor of our Impera buttons. Some of the ghouls have more buttons replaced than others, which is still a mystery to me.

The pants are called Jodhpurs, they were invented in the 1800s as horse riding pants. The wide part at the hips and thighs allowing for better movement. The ones the ghouls wear don't reach all the way to their ankles, they stop a bit past the calf muscle, hidden by the boots. (Yes, the ghouls are effectively wearing capri pants)

The boots are motorcycle riding boots, decorated by a grucifix. Like the shirt, they can still be bought online through the All American Boots website, altho the price tag is... Headache inducing to say the least.

The cape is a piece of costume that was only briefly worn on stage by the ghouls, Aurora being the only one who still wears one. I would assume it gets in the way of playing very easily. The cape itself is made of two fabrics, a light blue satin and a dark grey suede. The two pieces are not sewn together at the bottom, they move freely from each other. The cape is attached on the left shoulder with a harness piece that has one strap across the chest, decorated with a metal buckle, and one under the armpit.

Aight that's it for me, have a nice day byyyyye!!

[karlachismylife]

In the long run

#PriceGazWeek

Day four: Long distance

I swear I'll finish all of the prompts even if exams eat me alive.

CW: NSFW (Price has a lot of Thoughts watching Gaz running laps)

Early morning is gentle with those who dragged themselves to the training grounds outside. Sun isn't scorching yet, just quietly drying the slippery dew to help avoid injuries, fresh breeze isn't choked out by the smells of overheating tarmac and transportation exhausts yet, sky is softly powdered with feathery clouds. The air is cool and tangible on bare skin and ready to fill lungs like a mountain creek fills spongy soil, feeding lush greenery.

Yet both Price and Gaz are burning up.

Rubber surface springs under Kyle's running shoes on each step. He's doing his laps, testing his endurance on the long distances with additional weights, and has already several kilometers behind his back. There's a familiar slightly metal taste in his throat from the increased blood pressure, a scratchy burn in his calves and sticky sweat on his skin, coming out hot and liquid and drying in the headwind into a thin film. Exercising keeps his head clear, anxiety and thousands of pressuring thoughts often clouding his mind incinerated in the heat his body generates into the world with every flex of his muscles - and it reflects on his face, peaceful with a hint of a smile even, despite the scorching exhaustion.

For Price it's the complete opposite. Standing outside with a simmering cigar in hand, relaxed and groggy after another almost sleepless night that left him with barely any power to generate thoughts, he catches sight of Gaz running and immediately gets stuck with his eyes glued to the lean figure. Kyle is full of springy, tight strength, coiled in the firm muscles, each one taut and perfectly elastic. Rather slow pace he chose for the long distance run allows Price to see it all in detail: he watches Garrick's sculpted thighs flex and jiggle from the impact of his steps and feels his mind sink to his gutter almost against his will.

Kyle is perfect. Wite sleeveless top with large dark stains of sweat soaked through clings to his chest so tight that John wonders how it's still in one piece; his skin is glowing with sunlight bouncing off sweaty curves of his shoulders, weights taped around his ankles somehow turn into beaded cuffs and bracelets instead of boring pieces of equipment - all thanks to Kyle's effortless beauty. John wets his lips with a little tobacco crumb stuck to them and imagines himself tearing these weights off with his teeth, Garrick's perfect legs resting on his shoulders in a bent position that shows off incredible landscape of his back and inner thighs.

This short 25th frame turns out to be the gateway drug for the rest of unsavory thoughts that flood Price's mind with little to no resistance from him as he shamelessly ogles his Sergeant on his morning run. When Kyle raises his arm to wipe sweat off his forehead and flashes dark armpit hair, John gulps, vividly remembering that same sight from another angle, with Garrick panting above him, lean arms resting against the headboard of the creaking bed to support his hip movements. This emphasizes the elegant shape of his pec lined with a neat curve down from his arm, peeking from the tank top just enough to remind Price of the generous squshy meat there - John's fingers twitch instinctively, wanting to latch onto Kyle's chest and knead it, brushing his thumbs over the firm nipples and dark dusting of hairs slick with sweat.

He wants - no, he needs to pull Gaz in his lap, get a posessive grip on his perfect arse, sliding up under his shorts to cope a feel directly; needs to feel Kyle's thighs squeezing his own in an effort to grind desperately and get some relief on the desire pent up in the evident bulge in his crotch; needs to kiss Garrick until their lungs burn like after thirty kilometers of running, tasting salty sweat soaking Kyle's moustache. His Sergeant feels like a tight new gun of his favourite model in hand: precision, comfort and the right amount of stubborness that distinguishes him from a more compliant, older arm - and Price is fully leashed by this almost-tamed strength.

Passing his Captain for the third time, Gaz finally notices the way Price stares at him - a heavy, heady gaze, full of promise of big rough hands smelling of cigars running up and down his arching back and firm, demanding kisses of lips that no one knows are the softest - and slows down to send John a wink.

"Help me with stretches after this, sir?" he asks cheekily, turning to run backwards - anything to see the effect his mischief takes on Price.

"You're playing with fire, Sergeant," grumbles John into his beard, trying to discreetly adjust himself. "Don't make me wait or the burn from laps will be the least of your worries."

They both know Gaz would never be late.

[hannahssimblr]

It’s an innocuous day in January when, for the first time, I realise my life can come apart just like anybody else’s. Like theirs, mine is a seam, a thousand tiny threads holding it firm, an analogy somewhere about a stitch saving time. Or nine. I don’t remember. My mother is too high class to sew her clothes. When they tear or wear at the elbows and knees, she buys more, because people like us don’t need to repair. 

Friends at school with fraying cuffs on their uniform sleeves, hems of their trousers unrolled and hanging raw about their ankles. Shirts, a rectangular echo of a pocket on the breast of the thing worn for years after being attacked in the hallways by boys who tore them off for fun. Happened to me too. Inevitable. A rite of passage on my first week of school. I wore a shirt still creased from the packet the next day, because my clothes never had to be old, worn, damaged. When something tore, another one appeared in my room. I was from the big house on Vernon Avenue. I had the PlayStation 2 before everyone else. My clothes were always new.

But this, all of this, is like when Jen’s school trousers ripped up the back the time she tried to climb on the cistern to have a cigarette out the window. The threads had been giving for a while. They just waited until that moment to let her know, in a violent display of embarrassment in front of the girls she was hoping to impress. It’s like when the elastic in your swimming togs gives up one day, falling to bits around your body after months of cooperation, eaten secretly by the chlorine the whole time. 

It starts with nothing. A pretzel. The bakery near the university I get my breakfast some mornings. Simple, a bagel and a coffee which I’ll take with me to class. Tuesday, that day. The day I have art history at nine with Steffen, the lecturer that fancies my girlfriend and loathes me. It’s my most dreaded hour of the week, one that calls for the comfort of a pretzel and a coffee, essential to get me through the slog of it, keep me sane while he pretends he cannot understand my German and corrects me sneeringly in front of everyone, determined to embarrass me. 

Card declined. 

“Ah, weird.” Trying again then, and another denying beep. Smiling sheepishly at the barista, explaining I don’t have cash on me. 

“It could be a problem with the machine. You can take it. You come here all the time, so just pay later if you want.”

Thank her. It was nice of her. Tell her I’ll be back in a couple of hours, after my classes, but I won’t be. My card is declined in the little Italian deli where I’ve met Astrid for lunch. It’s awkward this time. They’ve already made our sandwiches up. 

“I’ll pay it,” says Astrid after a long, uncomfortable pause, and presents a little blue debit card while it strikes me I’ve never actually seen it before. Never knew what her debit card looks like, and sort of assumed in some sense she didn’t even own one. Why would she? I think. What does she ever have to pay for?

The sandwiches, I suppose. Tasting worse than ever now, they are spoiled by the pungency of my guilt. We eat them by the river, hands freezing around the tinfoil wrapping, frowning at the water, as the wind lifts white peaks from its surface. “So weird about my card,” I say, but Astrid is disinterested, doing that flippant waving thing with her hand. “Sometimes the machines just don’t work as they’re supposed to. That’s why having cash is good.” She wants to talk about this Iranian film she and Dalia saw in an indie theater. I let her, all the distracted by thoughts of my bank account. It’s fine, surely. I have money. People like me have money. 

Early evening, with my earbuds in on the gym’s treadmill, and I hear a message chime. Jonas. I wipe the sweat from my brow and read it. It’s about the water bill. A message so unbelievably dull that usually I’d ignore it for a few hours, but now my stomach twists. I went back to the bakery after college to pay for my breakfast, and my card was declined again. It looks like I stole that pretzel now. I told the barista I’d come back in the morning with actual euros for her, and she smiled in this vacant way that made me feel like a liar, wanting so badly to explain to her I’m not, like, poor, or whatever. I can pay for it, while knowing that explanation would only make me look worse. 

And now Jonas is asking about the water bill, saying I never paid it. I step off the treadmill and stare at my phone. A drop of sweat hits the screen, magnifying the pixels, little dots of coloured screen, and emphasises the word paid for me, like I didn’t already understand the central theme of the text. As in, I have not paid my share of the bill. 

“I have,” I respond. “It should just come out of the account automatically.”

“It hasn’t,” he says, and sends a photograph of the bill, big überfällige Zahlung across the top of it in terrifying red lettering. Overdue payment. Surely not. My legs start feeling a bit weak, which is very dramatic. It’s fine. I have money. I hold on to the arm of the treadmill anyway, in case I decide to fall over. Someone is asking if I’m still using it. I tell him no and head for the changing rooms. 

I call Jonas from the UBahn on the way home, immediately confrontational on the phone to him. “I paid that bill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” he’s eating something. “If you had, then the letter would not say ‘überfällige Zahlung’.”

“That’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” rustling noises, him unfolding the paper for further examination. “I have never seen a mistake before like this, if that is the case. It’s more likely you didn’t pay.”

“I’ve direct debit set up, so.”

“Okay, then maybe your account is empty.” He says it so casually, mouth full of whatever he’s having for dinner. The nonchalance enrages me. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” I hiss, and someone on the train looks over. “There’s no way. I have loads. There’s something going on with my account today, is all. This is normal.” I have no idea whether it’s normal or not, but am sure there’s merit to saying it with such conviction. 

“When did you last check your account balance?”

Well, I’ve never checked it. The sight of it frightens me and reminds me of the drain and eventual cessation of life. Completely reasonable reason. “Jonas, I am telling you that this is a mistake.”

“You can check. When you get home, check.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up as the train hurtles from a station into a black tunnel, rumbling through the darkness. 

“You look unwell,” Jonas greets me as I arrive and untangle my scarf from my neck, choking me now, and kick my boots outside the door. Indeed, I do. My reflection is pale and wild-eyed, hair tousled from grabbing at it, like one of those Wall Street guys in the documentary my economics teacher made us watch to explain the recession. 

“Where’s my laptop?” I already know where it is. Need to look. Can’t bear to. Pushing through the apartment now with everything in a dizzying blur, shaky cam, the smell of Jonas’ cooking, him trailing behind, offering me a plate of it, as if I can even think about putting food into my mouth. 

My laptop is on the bed, tossed all casually on the rumpled duvet. Macbook. How much are these things worth? I never cared before this moment. Jonas is in the door as I type the banking website into the address. My codes then. Fuck sake. Don’t know them. I have to navigate through a chat with my mother to find them, heightening the suspense. Then punch them in. Check balance. 

It’s like being punched in the head, the feeling. Then there’s this long, deathly silence, because Jonas knows without me having to say it. He knows by the look on my face. 

“Do you–”

“I have four euros in my account.”

We look at one another for one endless moment, and I can tell he wants to laugh a bit, because it’s a funny kind of shocking. Four euros. A comically depressing number. 

“It’s fine,” he’s saying now. “You just top it up with more,” and then I look at him with the most scathing look I have in my repertoire, because for the first time, he’s the one who looks like the privileged idiot. I feel I have to speak to him slowly to control the emotion in my voice. Tremors anyway, wobbling there beneath every word. “Where do you suppose I get the money to top it up, Jonas?”

He falters. “I thought your parents gave you money.”

“They don’t.”

“But you… We all thought they were funding your lifestyle.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“But Jude,” he says, shaking his head at me. I don’t like that. “You were spending so much money all the time. We all thought you had an unlimited amount.”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I wasn’t, really.”

“The holidays you went on. The gifts for Astrid, the way you eat at restaurants every day…”

“Those things didn’t feel expensive. I thought I had enough money to cover it, or, I don’t know, I didn’t think. When I sold my car, I–it looked like…” I break off helplessly. “I got an A in maths, Jonas. How can this happen?”

“It’s basic subtraction.”

“This shouldn’t be happening to me.” my laptop fades to black now, the account disappearing from sight, but the reality still ringing in the surrounding air. I think of all I am about to lose. A vision of my life crashing down around me like a house of cards. “Astrid! Oh, God, Astrid. What is she gonna do?”

“She will have to buy her own things for once.”

I groan, head in hands, unable to formulate a response. How can I speak when my life is basically over? Condemned to the streets. One of those people rummaging through skips with holes in my shoes, saying mad things to people at the bus stop, terrorizing the feral pigeons in the town square. There he is, crazy bird man, a cautionary tale. He got an A in maths in his leaving cert, and this still happened to him. 

Jonas, there by the door, deciding it's the perfect time to ask whether I've paid rent this month.

Without looking up. “No,” One glance at my account was enough to show it’s been struggling along for a while. Hundreds becoming tens, whittling down through December to the last few euros. Pocket change. It’s been bad for a while. “No, I didn’t pay rent.”

“Hm,” he says. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Looking at him in despair, considering, briefly, a tantrum of some sort. Pure childhood panic. If I cause enough of a scene, this will all go away. Looking into Jonas’ face is frightening, because I can see it there. He doesn’t know what to do either. He isn’t going to help me. 

“What do I do?” I ask, as if he knows. Pity in his eyes, watching me flail. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps you can get a job.”

A job. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. A job. An actual job. Kill me. That’s the last thread. The one causes the seam to give and ruins my life. You don’t understand. I want to explain. I’m from the biggest house on Vernon Avenue. I had a PlayStation 2 before everyone else. Instead of saying that, I lie here like a corpse, staring at the ceiling, wishing some heavy piece of furniture would crash through it and turn me into one for real. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, not understanding how bad it really is. Unable to fathom the intricacies of my life. 

I don’t bother to answer. It’s the financial equivalent of being pantsed in the schoolyard. The blankets ripped off my sleeping body on a winter morning. I am a creature accustomed to the shade beneath a rock, exposed at last to the light, nothing left to shelter me.

A job. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[guemarasims]

Introducing the ultimate fusion of style and comfort for your Sim's wardrobe, my latest creation, the Urban Comfort Jeans for Sims 4! These trendy jeans feature a modern silhouette with ankle elastic cuffs, adding a touch of urban flair to any Sim's outfit. Complete with a drawstring waist and convenient side pockets, these jeans offer both style and practicality. Whether your Sim is hitting the streets or lounging at home, these jeans are the perfect choice. Available now, upgrade your Sim's wardrobe today with the Urban Comfort Jeans! Thank you very much for your support!

Download (Patreon, Early access)

[dumpsterfire-daydreams]

Evil Ghost, protective Price, protective König, TW: Blood, TW: Torture, TW: Cutting, TW: Hostage situations, TW: Physical Abuse, TW: Intimidation, TW: Gunfire/gunfight

Reader POV:

Your scalp burned as Ghost dragged you across the room, his hand tightly knotted in your hair. You kicked and screamed the whole way, but nothing you did stopped Ghost as he wrestled you into the chair across the room. He used his full weight to hold you in place and forced your arms behind the backrest. The joints of your arms twisted painfully as the surface dug into your biceps and upper back. But your discomfort was the least of his concerns. As if to confirm that thought, Ghost reached down and produced a pair of handcuffs from his vest.

"I'd hoped I wouldn't have to use these," he said, his eyes saying quite the opposite. "But you've pissed me off for the last time, princess."

You tugged helplessly against his bruising grip, trying to pull your arms free. But he made quick work of clicking the cuffs in place. He secured them much tighter than necessary and you gasped in pain when the cool metal cut into your already bruised wrists.

Seemingly satisfied with your current state and confident you couldn't break free, he sauntered back to the bed. For a second, he rummaged beneath it. When he stood, he held in his hands a long coil of rope. He sawed at it with his knife until he had two even pieces before tossing the remaining bundle at your feet.

As soon as he was within range, you kicked at his shins as hard as you could. Ghost successfully grabbed one of your legs mid kick and forced it in place before tying it down to the chair leg with elaborate knots. But with your other leg, you managed to land a strong kick to his thigh. You had been aiming for his groin, but he'd shifted his hips away at the last possible moment.

He finished his last knot, yanking the rope excruciatingly tight. You cried out as the rope squeezed into your ankle, the coarse fibers gouging into your skin.

"Sit still," Ghost yelled, shoving your other leg down and binding it just as tightly. "You and I are gonna have a little chat."

After securing his last knot, he returned to the bed and pulled a thick roll of black fabric out from under it. He placed it on the mattress and untied its fastenings before unrolling it with care. Inside sat rows and rows of knives. Each were different shapes and sizes, each held in place by an elastic cord. Hunting knives, daggers, cleavers, kitchen knives, and even a few surgical scalpels. He trailed his fingers back and forth over each one, admiring his collection like a kid in a candy shop. He smirked, occasionally glancing in your direction just to watch your mind spin.

"Please don't hurt me," you begged, continuing to struggle as your terror increased. "Please!"

Your words fell on deaf ears as he continued to take his sweet time selecting a suitable tool for his task. He saw your eyes go wide when his hand hovered over a large knife with a leather hilt. The blade was sharpened to a fine edge along one side before transitioning to jagged teeth along the other. And both dualities converged into one precise point.

He slipped the knife out of its place, flipping it in his hand to test its weight before stalking back towards you.

"Looks like we've found a winner."

He sank down on his haunches in front of you, watching you squirm and tug against your restraints. But you froze with a whimper as he let the smooth edge of the blade dance lightly across your thigh.

"Now," he began. "I'm going to make this very simple. I'm going to ask you some questions. And since having a choice is so important to you, I'll give you some choices."

His eyes held a strange mixture of rage and glee as the blade skimmed across your hip, making you shiver.

"Here are your choices: me or him. Well, I suppose you could also choose silence. Though I would strongly advise against it, you're free to choose it as you please." He let the blade catch against your skin ever so slightly, emphasizing his point. "Understood?"

"Ghost, I don't wanna do this," you rushed in a cold sweat. "You're scaring me!"

"Lovely. Let's start with an easy one then," he quipped, tilting his head inquisitively. "Who do you belong to, princess?"

There were a few seconds of silence, but you quickly spoke the moment he raised the knife. "Um-I… I don't belong to anyone! I don’t belong to anyone!"

"Very clever." Ghost chuckled. "Let's see what that answer earns us, hm?"

You screamed as Ghost pressed the tip of the knife into the center of your thigh and dragged it down about an inch before twisting it, changing directions. The blade was so sharp that it sliced through the skin with no resistance at all, leaving a fiery line of blood in its wake. In contrast to your response, Ghost remained calm and focused on his craft as you screamed through the awful pain. And by the time he finally stopped, your throat felt raw. Your whole thigh trembled as the burning pain continued to linger. And as you gasped for breath and looked down, you could make out a faint shape within the smeared blood. It was the letter 'G'. A choked sob of horror overcame you as you stared at your mutilated flesh in disbelief. He truly was a monster.

"Maybe you'll choose more carefully this time, maybe you won't," Ghost shrugged, watching the blood continue to well up within his masterpiece. "But as always, the choice is yours. Let's try that one again, then. Tell me. Who do you belong to?"

Your brain really stalled this time. What the hell were you supposed to choose?? If you said it was him, it'd be a lie. And he already knew you were a terrible liar. But if you even mentioned König's name, you were certain you'd earn another cut. Or something far worse.

Ghost shook his head, clicking his tongue as the knife began the first agonizing strokes of an 'H'.

"You! You!" You yelled, suddenly willing to do or say anything as long as it meant he would stop. Even if just for a moment. "I belong to you!"

The knife went still before retreating and you let out a shaky sigh of relief.

"That's a good answer, don't you think?" His eyes squinted like he was smiling. "But I've heard those words before. So, are you lying to me, princess?"

You bit your lip as he waited, twirling the knife in his fingers and enjoying the way the sunlight flashed across its edge.

"Because you should know by now that lying doesn’t end well for you. In fact-”

Ghost froze in stunned silence and so did you. You didn’t know where the urge had come from, but his rigged games were starting to get on your nerves. Any answer you gave to his new question would simply bring more pain, more wounds, and more blood.

So, instead of picking your poison from the given answer choices, you had granted yourself a brand new one: spitting in his face. You could see the fury boiling over in his smoldering glare, your saliva splattered across the white material of his mask.

“Fuck you!” you hissed, glaring right back in defiance. If you were truly going to die here, you at least wanted to go out fighting. If this was where your story would end, you’d feel a tiny bit better knowing you’d made your final moments as inconvenient as possible for him.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and strolled back to the bed. He wiped the blood-stained blade on his jeans a few times before carefully returning the knife to its assigned place. Then, swiveling on his heel, he stalked back towards you. All you had time to register was his arm reeling back in a blur before your whole upper body jerked to the left, the back of his hand colliding against the side of your face with a loud slap. The stinging welt it left on your cheek made your eyes water and left you gasping in pain. Your jaw throbbed, the pain shooting through your whole head. But you maintained your steely glare, despite the tears that began to spill over your cheeks. And as Ghost drew his pistol and pressed it against your forehead, you held your ground.

"You wanna do this the hard way? We’ll do it the hard way,” he growled, venom lacing his every word. “I won’t ask again. Was it a lie?"

You didn’t cower and you didn’t shut your eyes. You wanted his last memory of your face to be the challenge in your eyes as you silently stared him down. You wanted the haunting image seared into his mind for all of eternity.

But just then, a flicker of movement appeared out of the corner of your eye. At the very edge of the window, something was there. Darting your eyes past Ghost’s threatening presence, you saw Captain Price carefully peek into view. He was pressed against the outside of the cabin, pistol drawn and tense. But he gave you a reassuring gesture. To say you were happy to see him would have been an immense understatement. But you tried to keep your face as neutral as possible as Price ducked back out of sight.

Despite your efforts, Ghost immediately detected the faint change in your expression and that was all the warning he needed. He spun to face the window, hand darting for his handgun. But before he could pull it from its holster, the window exploded in a shower of shattered glass. Ghost grunted as a bullet firmly embedded itself in his thigh, instinctively dropping to the floor and swiveling behind your chair for cover. You whimpered as the barrel of his gun quickly pressed against your cheek.

"Come in here and the girl dies," Ghost called out. His eyes remained fixed on the jagged, gaping hole of the window.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Ghost," Price yelled from just out of view. "Let's keep this between you and me. Let her go."

Ghost scoffed. "As if you’d do this alone. Who's with you? Soap? Alejandro? Her boyfriend?"

"It's just you and me, Ghost. So let's put down the guns, alright? Walk away from her and let’s talk this out man to man."

Ghost ignored him, yelling out a warning to any threats he couldn't see. "You hear me, König? Don't do anything stupid! Don't think I won't do it!"

"I don't think you really wanna do that, Ghost. It's clear you have a… fondness for Y/n."

"If I can't have her, no one can."

Though it would hurt him too, Ghost actually meant it. He'd avoid it if he could. But he'd rather have Y/n bleeding out on the floor than back in König's arms again. It would be one final "fuck you" to his rival. One last gut punch.

"All this time, you wanted us to be friends," Ghost went on, nudging your cheek with his weapon. "And now you want me to let her go? We were having such a nice time together. Isn't that right, princess?"

"Price, help me," you whimpered, trembling as the pistol dug into your cheek.

From outside, you could hear Price’s voice as he tried to keep you calm. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'm right here, I won't let him hurt you. Just breathe for me, okay?"

Ghost smirked. He knew there was no way Price would risk another shot as long as his pistol was aimed at you. Price was quick, but Ghost was confident he was quicker. So, feeling he had the upper hand, Ghost slowly moved out from behind the chair. "Go home, Price. You and your friends do that and no one-"

The instant Ghost’s body shifted past the edge of the chair, the other window disintegrated into a mist of glass shards as a loud gunshot sounded from behind. Ghost yelled and stumbled forward, clutching his shoulder. Price leapt into action, clambering through the window, pistol aimed towards Ghost's voice. But he’d vanished, repositioning in pursuit of cover. He reappeared on the other side of the room as he slid towards the bed, raising his firearm with you directly in his sights.

In a split second, Price lunged forward kicking the legs of your chair. Ghost fired and, as you toppled over with the chair, a streak of molten heat grazed your shoulder. Ghost had missed, but just barely. If it hadn't been for the captain’s quick thinking, you'd have died right then and there. But you weren't dead. Instead, you were landing on your side with a loud crash. Your shoulder bore the brunt of the impact before your head smashed against the floor. As your perspective had tilted sideways, you heard another gunshot. But both men were still locked in a desperate struggle for dominance.

The fight was ruthless and dirty. Price tackled him to the floor, scrambling to disarm him before he could send another bullet your way. But Ghost rolled, snapping his good leg up to knee the captain right below his ribs. Price grunted as the strike landed, but maintained a firm hold on Ghost’s right hand and continued trying to force it to the ground.

“Drop the gun!” he hollered, dropping his knee directly into Ghost’s thigh wound. “Drop it now!”

Ghost gritted his teeth, sending the heel of his boot flying into Price’s abdomen. The kick was powerful and successfully knocked him back, giving Ghost time to jump to his feet. He raised the gun again and immediately pulled the trigger, this time aiming for the captain. Price swiveled out of the bullet’s path, grabbing hold of Ghost’s arm and locking it in his grasp. With a yell of exertion, he hoisted him over his shoulder. When Price didn’t let go, Ghost's arm twisted at an excruciating angle as his back slammed against the floor at the captain’s feet.

Price twisted it further, fresh blood spurting from Ghost’s shoulder as the joint dislocated with a loud pop. As it went limp in his hold, he pried the handgun out of Ghost's grasp. Ghost managed to yank his mangled arm free with a loud cry, but Price released the gun’s magazine with a click before sending both parts clattering across the floor behind him. He then crouched into a fighting position, facing off with Ghost who now wielded a large shard of broken glass. He was gasping in pain and swayed ever so slightly as he tried to keep his weight off of his injured leg.

Anyone else would have been on the ground and writhing in pain. They would have quickly surrendered or begged for death. But Price knew Ghost well. Once he had his mind set on a mission, there were only two possible outcomes: Ghost would succeed or he would gladly die trying. Price did not enjoy the idea of the second option. In all their years as friends and teammates, it was an unspoken understanding that they would only lose each other to retirement or the dangerous nature of their work. He never once imagined that it would end like this. But the only other option would mean that Ghost would win. And that was an outcome Price would lay down his life to prevent.

I know this story includes some pretty dark themes. But at the end of the day, I care more about the well-being of my readers than I do for hits or kudos. Period. I never want my writing to conjure up emotions or feelings that negatively impact you beyond the story. This story can be dark and uncomfortable at times. But it is always intended strictly for fun and fantasy. If at any point along the way it stops being a pleasurable experience, please please close this page and walk away. My stories are never worth your well-being, loves.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ISN’T SHE A DOLL?

Pairing: Dave York x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

Word Count: 1978

Summary:

Dave York comes over to play.

Dear Reader:

This work is a contribution for the Haunted Hoedown! If you liked this fic, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging 💕 Support and MDNI banners by @saradika and dollhouse divider by me

Content Warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), dubcon - stockholm syndrome, captive reader, dollhouse au, begging, breath play, dom/sub dynamics, cockwarming, mirror sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), cum play, vaginal fingering, pet names, praise.

Every morning with Dave is the same.

His alarm rings at 5 a.m., jolting you from a light sleep. He groans, a tan arm reaching for the alarm clock and smacking it until the shrill noise stops. You stare into the inky darkness of the room as he pulls you against his body, the hard length of his cock pressing between the cheeks of your ass.

“Morning,” he says, deep voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” you whisper back.

“Better go fix your hair up.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You don’t want to make me late, do you?”

“Of course not,” you reply, slipping from his grasp and getting up from the bed, stepping lightly across the wood floor to the en-suite bathroom.

You go through your skincare routine, dutifully applying the serums and lotions in the order the bottles are lined up on the counter. You brush your teeth and fix your hair to Dave’s preferred style, scrutinizing yourself in the mirror before you join him again in the bedroom.

He’s sitting at your vanity now, watching you through the mirror as he fixes the cuffs of his dress shirt, his pants around his ankles and his boxers pulled down. You swallow nervously as you approach.

“Don’t have all day, doll,” he says, patting his thigh. His other hand grips his hard cock at the base, the flushed head already weeping as you stare at it.

You hook your fingers into the elastic of your sleep shorts, sliding the silk material down your legs until it pools at your feet. You steady your shaky hands on the vanity as you straddle him and he positions himself at your entrance and urges your body down his length, groaning as you envelope him in your heat.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. The stretch of him is near painful and you bite your lip until you taste copper as you adjust to him. “You better get started.”

You reach for the makeup bag and take out each item you’ll need, lining them up in order of application. Dave presses kisses to your neck as you work, his lips focusing on your pulse point because he likes to feel the rapid beat of your heart when you’re at his mercy like this.

You’re coating your lashes with mascara when his hand wanders between your spread legs, calloused fingers finding your clit and drawing slow circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. The mascara wand clatters to the vanity.

“Lean back,” Dave commands. You do as you’re told, your head resting against his shoulder. “Watch while I play with you, sweetheart.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror, his dark eyes drawing you in like a moth to a flame. Your hips chase his fingers, silently begging him for more and the unspoken desperation has him chuckling.

“Squeezing me so tight,” he says. “Always so pretty wrapped around my cock, aren’t you?”

You nod your head, knowing he wants an answer but not trusting your voice with the task. Heat gathers in your low belly, your muscles growing tense with the release he’s expertly pulling from your body.

“Come on,” he growls. A hand wraps around your throat, fingers digging into the sides hard enough to have you feeling light headed. “Come for me.”

Your pussy clenches around his cock, drawing a deep groan that you feel against your back. Your fingers curl tightly into his thigh as your orgasm washes over you and leaves you gasping for breath. When you start to come down from the high, he’s gently prying your fingers from his leg and tapping your hip in a signal to stand up.

You slowly lift yourself from his lap and drop to your knees, the cold floor biting into your skin. Dave stands, his glistening cock level with your face.

“Clean it up,” he demands. You lean forward and take him into your mouth, glancing up to watch his head drop back and the muscles in his neck tense as you suck hard and move your mouth quickly, just as he likes it.

It doesn’t take long before his cock pulses in your mouth, warm cum splashing against the back of your throat. He slips himself from your mouth and reaches down to tip your chin back.

“Open,” he says. You open your mouth to show him the cum gathered on your tongue and he smiles.

“Good girl. Swallow.”

And like always, you do as you’re told.

Dave pulls up his pants and leaves you to clean up your vanity. He returns with a blue dress in his hands that he gently lays on the bed, smoothing out a wrinkle with his hands. You step up to him and lift your arms, allowing him to pull your silk camisole over your head. He gathers the dress, pulling down the zipper and kneeling at your feet, holding it open.

You step into the fabric, your hands on his shoulders for balance, and he slides the dress up your bare body, his hands leaving goosebumps in their wake. He fixes the sleeves on your shoulders then turns you around, pulling the zipper slowly up your back.

“Perfect.”

You’ve just set the vegetables in the oven alongside the chicken that’s been roasting for an hour already when the front door alarm sounds and heavy footsteps echo through the front hall, approaching the kitchen. You wipe your hands clean just as Dave appears in the doorway.

The furrow between his brow eases when he sees you, his lips spreading in a grin that makes your pulse race. “What’s for dinner?” He asks.

“Roasted vegetables and chicken,” you reply dutifully, though he knows the answer. He picks the menu.

“Sounds good, doll,” he says. He pulls a chair away from the dining table, removing his suit jacket and draping it over the back of it. As he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves to his elbows, exposing toned forearms, he asks, “How long until the chicken is ready?”

“Thirty minutes.”

His eyes grow dark. “Excellent. Just enough time for an appetizer.”

You panic for a moment because an appetizer wasn’t on the menu, you don’t have anything prepared, but he smirks and crooks his fingers, beckoning you over, and you quickly realize he doesn’t mean food.

Your heels click on the tile floor as you approach the table and he pats the wood surface twice, indicating the place he wants you to take a seat. You lift yourself up, your legs swinging over the edge as you wait for instruction.

“Make room, sweetheart,” he says, sitting down on the chair and scooting it closer. You spread your legs for him and he gathers the skirt of your dress in his hands, hiking it up over your hips and exposing your bare pussy.

He drapes your legs over his broad shoulders, your nude stilettos against his back as he leans in and kisses the inside of your knee, his eyes locked on your face. His lips move higher, higher, until they land in the crease between your thigh and pussy.

“You smell good,” he comments, hot breath ghosting across your heated flesh. “You like that new perfume I got for you?”

“Of course,” you reply, voice uneven. He hums, licking through your folds and your head drops back at the sensation.

Dave knows your body well by now. He knows exactly how to swirl his tongue around your clit to make your thighs shake around his head and he knows that slipping two fingers into your soaked cunt, curling them with each drag from your body will finally have you unable to hold back the noises he’s desperate to pull from you.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You whimper, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the sensation he’s building in you, your core hot and tight and your nerves on fire. He pulls your clit between his lips and hums, his fingers pressing pressing deep inside of you as you shatter with a cry of his name. He pulls back, a smile on his face that’s equal parts satisfied and sinister.

Dave stands, the chair screeching across the tile as his hands wrestle with his belt. He tugs the leather strap free, tossing it carelessly to the floor and undoing the fly of his pants enough to shove the fabric down his hips to expose his leaking cock.

“Say you want my cock, doll,” he demands, a fist wrapping around the base of his length. He slides himself through the wetness he’s created, coating his cock in your juices before he notches the thick head at your entrance. “Be a good girl.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I want your cock.”

“I think you can do better than that,” he taunts. “Say it again.”

“I want your cock,” you repeat.

“Where’s your manners, doll?” He asks. “Say ‘please’.”

“Please.”

Dave drives his cock into you with so much force the table shifts and you cry out at the sudden fullness despite how thoroughly he’d prepared you. He’s immediately pounding into you, all the frustration he carries through the day being taken out on your body. Gone is any of the gentility he’d afforded you earlier that day — Dave is on a mission to use your body to his liking.

He grabs your shoulder and drags you up into a seated position, a hand around the back of your neck pulling your lips to his in a sloppy kiss, his teeth digging into your bottom lip so hard that you swear you taste copper with the next swipe of his tongue against yours. His kisses shift across your jaw and to your neck, his teeth latching over your pulse point and sinking in as you shout.

“Fuck,” he growls. “So goddamn tight for me.”

Your cunt clenches tightly as his words and he moans your name, your real name. Not doll or sweetheart or baby, and hearing it has you gasping, unable to breathe with weight bearing down on your chest.

“Dave,” you murmur, reaching up and tangling a shaky hand into his short hair. “Say it again. Please,” you beg.

He does. He repeats your name like a prayer and hearing him say it has you unraveling, physically and emotionally, tears spilling from your eyes as your orgasm washes over you. Dave’s thrusts grow sloppy until he’s slamming deep inside of you, warmth erupting in your core.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breathing labored. When he lifts his head, his palms come up to frame your face and he pulls you into a deep kiss. His thumbs wipe away the tracks left by your tears and he brings one to his lips so that he can lick the salty essence away.

The oven timer goes off and Dave steps back, fixing his pants as you hurry off the table to retrieve the chicken before it burns.

After dinner, when everything has been cleaned up and the kitchen is once again spotless, Dave’s phone rings.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “Yeah, my plane just landed, I’ll be home in about an hour.” A pause. “No, no, you don’t have to worry about dinner, I already ate. Are the girls in bed already?” Another pause. “Alright, I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

His smile drops as soon as the call disconnects and he reaches for your hand, pulling you against his chest.

“I have to go. Be a good girl while I’m gone,” he says, pressing a rough kiss to your lips. “I’ll know if you’re not.”

You nod and just like that, Dave York returns home.

And you remain in your perfect box until he’s ready to play with you again.

[1emon-vii]

[2025-04-01] Jamie Siu Cosplay Modification

Tonight, I spent few hours making some modifications on the pants for my Jamie Siu cosplay from Street Fighter 6. The entire costume is store-bought from Taobao but I've made few modifications on it previously - I'll make a separate post on this another time! But I did also debut this cosplay for the first time at Super MAGFest this year in January. And before anyone else mentions it, I will also make a separate post on how I made the braid extension another time.

Photo credit: @seelomiguenphotos

Again, the modifications I made tonight are on the pants. As you can see in the reference photo below, the waistband and the bands on the cuffs are flat, unlike mine which were scrunched up with the elastic bands tucked inside the fabric.

Having the biggest brain rot for Jamie ever since I got into fighting games last year, I wanted to be as accurate as possible. So, I started off by taking the waistband and the cuffs apart with a seam ripper. I measured the circumference of my waist, calf, and ankle and cut the 3-inch wide elastic wide I bought from my local fabric store accordingly.

Having to un-stitch things with a seam ripper is always a huge pain in the butt (and neck), but watching Apothecary Diaries throughout the process helped me stay motivated and focused - I'm really enjoying the series. It's so cute and interesting! Couple things to note, I'm still an amateur at sewing, so I made it one of my new year resolutions to improve on it and make more cosplays from scratch. This was also my first time working with an elastic band this large... I was quite literally wrestling with it to sew it properly with the fabric of the pants.

First attempt turned out okay, but there was some minor errors on the measurements for the waist and the calf. So, I had to go back to un-stitching those two parts, and cut off few inches of the elastic bands.

Second attempt, where I sewed the fixed elastic bands back on turned out much better and I'm quite satisfied! It feels nice on the skin, too. Side note, I've been working out to lose weight and get fit. So, I'm sure in the next couple months, I'll most likely have to alter at least the waist band. But since I now have experience on it, it should be easy when the time comes to alter it!

The next thing modification/improvement I need to make on this cosplay is figure out a way to keep the rope belt on the waist without letting the weight of the gourd weighing it down and causing it to become loose. The gourd is 3D printed and while it's an empty shell, it still weighs the belt down quite bit and it becomes loose over time. Obviously, I'll need to go with a method where I put some kind of attachment on the waistband of the pants to keep the belt up, but I'm wanting the attachment to be as unnoticeable as possible while also preventing the waistband from being flipped outward from the weight.

I'll brainstorm some ideas, reach out to my seamstress friends for their insight, and see what I can do. I'm also open to receiving tips from everyone here, too!

I will be bringing my Jamie cosplay to PAX East this year in May. Let me know if you're also going and what you're planning to cosplay!

Have this silly photo of me from Super MAGFest as Jamie as a bonus:

Photo credit: @seelomiguenphotos

[shopwitchvamp]

I'm fairly new to clothes with titles more complicated then sweatpants or cargo shorts so would you be able to tell me what "joggers" are?

I can't speak for all joggers, but in the case of my shop they're essentially sweatpants with ankle cuffs, an elastic waistband and drawstring, and huge pockets. They have a unisex cut despite how body type makes them look, and you can wear them high or low waisted. Not sure what else to add 🤔 so hopefully that covers it

PS this is really just for random followers to enjoy since I came across this now, here's a bonus ancient creepy eyes jogger picture I found of me wearing them low waisted before we'd made the legs longer 'cause originally the SM-MDs were too short for me to wear high waisted lol:

[salemruinseverything]

Hi salem :3 how does one go abt making Kandi (like what do I buy/how do I do it)

OKAY preemptively putting this under a readmore. BUT

so all you really need is pony beads and string. i personally recommend a cloth-wrapped elastic string because they're easy to tie + hard to break but basically anything stretchy will work. the absolute most basic and beginner-friendly kandi you can make is a single- just put enough beads on the string to fit around your wrist/ankle/neck [depending on where you want to wear it] and tie it off, and bam. you have made kandi. singles are a good way to get used to the very basics of making kandi, and if just pony beads feels a little boring you can add letter beads to spell stuff out, or charms to add a little bit of extra decoration! here's some examples of singles ive made btw i will take any chance to show off my kandi

probably about a step up from that is kandi stars which i will be using this pinterest tutorial to show you how to do because i cannot figure out how to describe that in a way that makes sense

i make them to take to concerts and give to people its super fun :3 you can also thread one of the beads on the tip of the points into a kandi single to attach it! its a little clunky but i personally think clunky charms are fun. i cant find a picture of it rn but i saw someone once with a kandi single that said "whip it good" with an empty can of whipits attached to it and while that is honestly one of the very few drugs i do not condone i still think that was cute as fuck

once youve gotten comfortable with those, you can move on to making cuffs! [or start making cuffs immediately honestly because that's how i started but honestly i would recommend you not do that because it took me five tries to make a single cuff.] there are two common stitches for cuffs- peyote stitch [make a loop and then go back around putting a bead on the string, skipping over a bead, and then sticking the thread back in so that the two beads stick on top of each other], which is less flexible but easier to make more detailed patterns in, and x stitch [basically the same as kandi stars but bigger and taller, making a kind of x-shaped look], which is more flexible and better for the base of big complicated cuffs. the easiest, though, is a ladder cuff. i would show you abother pinterest tutorial for this one but i couldn't find one. but the tl;dr is that you make a row of beads and then stick the thread in from both sides. and then do it a bunch so it stacks

here's some video tutorials for peyote stitch & x stitch

anything more complicated than that i cannot help you with but 1. this is a good start 2. youtube has tutorials for everything

glhf!!!!!!!!!!! 💛💛💛💛

[danses-with-dogmeat]

🐐🌵- Boone with a dominant partner? I've always been curious about how Boone would be in a more submissive position 😈

You know, me too! I always thought of Carla as being the more dominant one in the relationship, so this is definitely something I've considered.

Now I'm glad I have the excuse to explore it 😏

... and explore it, I did. Please heed the warning below! Smexy stuff starts right out of the gate on this one! I hope you love it 😁

NSFW below! Minors, please don't interact!

"Just relax, babe." Your hands smoothed over the firmness of his abdomen, every muscle there taut and rigid as your fingers grazed over the hills and valleys of smooth, bare skin. "Let me make you feel good this time."

Boone nodded at that stiffly, his expression almost grim, as you felt him begin to relax beneath your soothing touch. A smile spread to your lips at the long breath he released, the way his eyes fell closed and he made a clear and conscious effort to let you take charge.

"There." You purred, "Good, Boone."

He shuddered at the praise, or perhaps it was at the way your fingers grazed over the hem of his jeans, moving to the center of his waist to pop the button and slide down the zipper, slowly working the denim down and over his body.

"You don't want me to--" he started, his voice already thick with the arousal you'd been building up all evening.

"Shh, you don't have to do anything. I just want you to enjoy, baby."

You pulled the cuffs at the bottom of his jeans from his ankles, leaving your partner in nothing but his briefs.

He blinked up at you uncertainly and you noticed the way his fingers twitched where they rested on the bed.

"I promise, you can repay me," You added, "but right now... I want it to be about you."

His breath hitched as you pressed a light kiss to his bare stomach, the light fuzz there tickling your lips as they brushed over his skin.

"Okay." Boone whispered, and you felt his body relax even more into the mattress below.

You smiled at that just before you sunk lower, and your teeth met the elastic waistband of his undergarments, giving it a playful snap. Even in the dim of your room, you could make out Boone's blush as his hips jerked up and his eyes widened in surprise.

Giggling mischievously, your hands joined your mouth as you pulled down the last remaining piece of clothing, leaving your partner fully bare to you.

Your eyes stayed glued to his expression, the way his dark brows scrunched up his forehead, the way you could see his jaw clenching and unclenching as your hand moved to grasp at his half-hardened length. You circled your wrist, pumping at him rhythmically and feeling him begin to grow against your palm.

A groan escaped from his parted lips as Boone felt your own meet the sensitive head of his cock in a gentle, teasing kiss. Your hot breath caressed the sensitive skin, just before you let him slide into your waiting mouth.

Through half-lidded eyes, you saw the way his hands clenched, white-knuckled, against the mattress as you began to suck, keeping your hand at work pumping over the base of him as your tongue and hollowed cheeks worked sinfully over the tip.

Another groan left him at your measured movements, and you found yourself grinning around him.

Boone himself was always calculating, quiet, serious. Even when he was with you like this, even when he was intimate, his cold veneer was unbreakable.

Except when you took charge.

He couldn't keep the walls up the same way, not with your hand stroking over him, the way your lips caressed him, the way your sultry gaze held his hostage when it met with yours. Your voice... he would do anything for you to hear the way it spilled his name when he was taking the lead, but when you praised him? When you guided and commanded him, when you took charge? His own moans and sighs of satisfaction and acceptance spilled out unwittingly, much to your obvious pleasure.

"Mmm," you hummed around him before releasing his, now fully hard, cock from your mouth with a lewd pop, "That's right, let me hear you, Boone."

He gave a nod of understanding, making you grin again as you gave his length a firmer tug, causing his hips to stutter and buck up into your touch.

His grey-green eyes opened slightly, just in time to see the way your brow quirked at him.

Demanding more.

"I will." He breathed, relenting to your demand, and you gave another jerk of your wrist. "Ahh, I will, just, please."

"Please?" You repeated, almost mockingly, and rubbed the tip of your thumb in a tight circle over his reddened tip.

"Please, Six," It was like he was choking out the words, the labored sound of his arousal-heavy voice causing a satisfying tingle to run up your spine. "Just... keep going."

You hummed again as the smile on your lips split apart to take him back into your mouth. Your hand smoothed down his length slowly as your lips followed suit, and you watched, mesmerized, at the way his head fell back heavily as the tip of his cock met the back of your throat.

"Fuck..." He whispered out, that deliciously strained expression returning to his flushed face, scrunching it with pleasure.

From there, you pulled your head back, letting the flat of your tongue glide over the underside of his cock, before thrusting forward again, and taking him as far as you could without gagging.

Boone's breath began to hitch with each pass of your lips around him, each time your nose grazed his lower stomach and his length met the back of your throat. Your hand pumped faster over his shaft as you found your rhythm and you lost yourself in your swift, sensual movement.

As your partner grew noticeably closer to his finish, your free hand had to press down on his hips as Boone pulsed them up into you, making your eyes water from the force of his thrusts. Blinking rapidly through the growing tears, you looked to his face to see if he realized what he was doing, the way it was nearly causing you to choke; but Boone was lost, adrift in the sensations you were pouring into him.

"Six--" He half-groaned out your name, and you felt the heat smoldering in your belly kick up into a heady blaze.

"Can I... Please, I'd like to touch you." He whimpered out the plea, his voice high and uneven, and so unlike his usual deep, stone-cold tone.

A giddy sense of accomplishment rose up in your chest, and shone beautifully in your still-wet eyes as you blinked, and nodded your approval.

Not a moment later, both hands, twisted and tightened in the sheets and the mattress, sprung up to grasp either side of your head. The action was quick and direct, but not ungentle, as you felt his fingers press to the sides of your scalp, encouraging you to move faster over him, to take just a bit more than you'd thought you could handle.

But seeing him, feeling Boone, like this...

You knew you couldn't deny him.

Even through the brusque movements, you could feel his hot cock twitching and pulsing against your tongue, eager to spill his pleasure deep down the back of your throat.

Boone's breathing grew quicker, his moans becoming barely-contained shouts of pleasure, as his hands grasped you harder than before, as they paused their push and pull, holding you firmly in place as hips thrusted up into you one final time, and you felt a hot saltiness spill over the back of your tongue.

Your gaze clouded over with the satisfaction of pushing him over the edge, staying fixated completely on the way he lost himself, the way his walls crumbled and he gave into the vulnerability of unrestrained pleasure, of the feeling of your acceptance of him, your unconditional love.

A love he knew he didn't deserve, but that you gave freely anyway.

Yes, you'd gotten him to relax, to trust you to take the lead, to give in to your requests and guidance, but now...

Boone was already thinking of all the ways he meant to repay you.

[dexmckinnery]

"Skinny sweats" acquired!

Finally grasped a moment to start making Giacomo some clothes! First, his trousers. =) Canonically he wears "skinny sweats", according to the reference sheet that was released by Game Freak... which I was wondering "how on earth do I make 'skinny' anything to go over his feet as when you sew in seams, they have very little give?

The solution was using a stretchy jersey fabric and elastic thread on the waistband and ankle cuffs. So these are legit elasticated "skinny sweats" XD The draw string is real too, it's inside the waistband and travels through from one hole to the other. Success! These used up all my elastic thread though, oh well.

No longer bare!

[skarletchains]

LEGS!

Wardrobe Meme

[ Legs ] What kind of pants/skirts does your muse prefer? Baggy? Skinny? Short or long? Also, are there any favorite colors or motives?

Since he never knows when he would start fighting, Kurapika always prefers pants that fit a little loose. He has nothing against skinny pants, but if he needs to jump, they can get a little uncomfortable. As far as work pants go, classic black straight-cut pants are the best choice.

His clan outfit usually consists of, on the bottom, a cotton pants with an elastic waistband and elastics or cuffs at the ankles. If he is not wearing his clan outfit and instead chooses a chill outfit, he will opt for a pair of bengaline or gabardine "field pants" (Bombacha de campo). Like his clan pants, these have a cuff at the ankles and in opposite, have a waist with loops to pass a belt through. In addition, they are wide in the legs and if they are bengaline they are also quite elasticated, allowing for great comfort.

To sleep, he simply opts for his clan's white cotton pants, he doesn't need anything else.

Usually accustomed to an outfit that covers him from neck to ankles, Kurapika prefers long pants, but if it's too hot, he'd end up giving up and wearing some shorts.

[mrsjohnwilson]

List of my woollen clothing items available for my dress discipline and punishment

One of the new revised rules controlling my behaviour, activities and dress is that I must maintain and make available a list of woollen garments in my wardrobe to be worn either as part of my ongoing dress discipline or as punishment should I misbehave again.

I have had a request for this list which I am posting below. I hate having to wear woollen garments particularly wool cardigans so having to do this and make public this list is a further deserved lesson for me and will help improve my discipline. I hope too that seeing this humiliating list of garments will be a warning to other young women of the deserved humiliating consequences of misbehaviour such as mine.

I maintain this list as I complete new items. I do have other appropriate non-woollen conservative clothing e.g. long dresses and skirts in plain colours and long sleeved blouses in plain colours which I am permitted to wear not shown on this list.

1 pair brown wool knee socks

2 pairs grey wool knee socks

2 pairs grey wool ankle socks

2 pairs grey wool tights with elasticated waist

5 pairs of knitted thick grey wool knickers with elasticated waist and leg holes

5 pairs of knitted thick white wool knickers with elasticated waist and leg holes

5 knitted thick grey wool vests

5 knitted thick white wool vests

1 below knee length coarse grey nylon/woollen dress with a large collar and buttons at the neck

1 below knee length knitted thick maroon wool dress with a pleated skirt and a ribbed polo neck

1 full ankle length olive wool cardigan dress with a crew neck collar and buttons from collar to hem

1 blue knitted below knee length long sleeved wool dress

1 crew neck brown knitted woollen long sleeved sweater

1 crew neck olive green knitted woollen long sleeved sweater

1 V-neck brown knitted wool school cardigan

1 V-neck grey knitted wool school cardigan

1 V-neck maroon knitted wool school cardigan

1 V-neck bottle green knitted wool school cardigan

1 V-neck navy knitted wool school cardigan

1 crew neck brown knitted wool school cardigan

1 crew neck grey knitted wool school cardigan

1 crew neck maroon knitted wool school cardigan

1 crew neck bottle green knitted wool school cardigan1 crew neck navy knitted wool school cardigan

1 long blue wool knitted V-neck cardigan

1 long blue knitted wool crew neck cardigan

1 thick long knitted white arran cardigan

1 thick grey knitted wool cardigan reaching below my knees and with a wide ribbed collar

1 below knee length brown V-neck knitted wool cardigan

1 long pale green knitted woollen cardigan with a crew neck collar and buttons from neck to hem

1 knitted brown woollen beret

1 knitted grey woollen beret

1 knitted maroon woollen beret

1 knitted bottle green woollen beret

1 knitted navy woollen beret

1 white knitted arran bonnet

1 pair of white knitted arran mittens3 pairs of grey woollen mittens2 pairs of thumbless pale yellow mittens with wrist ties

2 grey woollen ankle length nightgowns with cuffs, large collar and three buttons at the neck

I will post separately the list of garments I have been instructed to make to add to my wardrobe by my mother-in-law and sisters-in-law.

[the-perverse-library]

Hi, sorry about the question from last ask, I mean, can Harley managed of being stuffed and eating if it’s a clinical insanity?

"Oh yeah! I forgot I got a clean bill a health from ol' Arkham." Harley giggled to herself. "I like enjoying life and all the little pleasures I couldn't experience as an inmate." The blonde former villainess confidently pawed at her belly. "As you can see, I have taken to enjoying myself to the extreme! I deny myself nothing!" Harley looked proud of herself as her entire body wobbled and jiggled from every playful touch and soft squeeze.

"But it's true. My wrists are too big for cuffs, and my tits, ass, and belly are too fat for Arkham's straight jackets."Harley giggled at the unique loophole she found that allowed her to still be a baddie with no real consequence. "But just cuz the cops or the quacks at Arkham can't stop me anymore, don't mean Batsy lets me get away with being a bad girl," Harley noted as she wolfed down a jelly-cream doughnut.

"He developed... a special type of ... hmmm... elastic cuffs," Harley raised a leg to show off her bi-colour ankle cuff. "He lets me go once I gain fifty pounds; I think Batsy thinks that if he can make me big enough, I'll stop being a villain," Harley said with a full mouth as she finished off the sweet, sugary treat. The villainess grinned as she plucked another one off of a silver platter. "I mean... he's right though. If Alfred keeps feeding me like this... I just might never leave Wayne Manor."

[Thanks for clarifying your Ask in PMs :)]