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diy-secrets · 1 year

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Popular Stainless Steel Nails

Stainless steel nails are an essential part of any construction project, as they help to keep materials firmly in place. As such, it is important to choose the right kind of nail for the job at hand. Different kinds of stainless steel nails are designed to offer different levels of strength and durability, depending on the type of material they are being used on. For instance, a thicker nail may be needed when attaching heavier materials, while a thinner nail may be better suited for lighter materials. Stainless steel nails also come with several types of heads, ranging from flat heads to oval heads and even decorative heads; these varieties provide extra options for those looking to create specific effects or have something that stands out aesthetically. Ultimately, these different types of stainless steel nails ensure that homeowners and contractors alike have the best possible choice for their projects.

Stainless steel is a popular material for nails due to its strength, durability, and resistance to corrosion, which makes it an ideal choice for outdoor applications where nails may be exposed to environmental elements such as rain or snow. The material is also relatively light, which makes it easy to transport and use. Additionally, they are highly resistant to mechanical wear and tear, so they can often last much longer than traditional nails. They are available in a variety of sizes, shapes, and 304 and 316 stainless grades, making them suitable for many different types of projects. Using stainless steel nails can help ensure that your project will stand the test of time, making them a great choice when you need something that will last for years. If you are looking to purchase high-quality fixing products, I recommend browsing BS Fixings' website, which specialises in everything related to fixings, fastenings, and stainless steel!

There are numerous types of nails to choose from, to suit your specific requirements, but in this blog post, I am going to talk about annular ring nails!

What Are Stainless Steel Annular Ring Nails?

Stainless steel annular ring nails are a type of fastener that is used to join two pieces of material together. The nail has a unique design that features a round head, an annular ridge on the shank, and a sharp point making it perfect for use in construction projects. They are corrosion-resistant and provide extra strength, making them ideal for outdoor use in areas exposed to moisture and direct sunlight. They come in a variety of sizes and lengths to suit any project, and they can be easily driven into wood, sheet metal, concrete, brick and other materials with ease. Due to their small and narrow size, they are also great for joining hard-to-reach places, making them essential components for all kinds of DIY projects. They are designed with a ribbed shank, which offers a great level of holding power, keeping materials nice and secure.

When searching for annular nails, there are two common terms that pop up and they are A2 and Lost Head. If you don't know what these mean, then carry on reading!

Lost Head Nails

Lost head nails are manufactured with a small round head, that can be hammered into the desired material where a concealed finish is required, forming a secure bond and creating an attractive, finished look. Unlike other types of nails, lost head nails have no protruding parts once they are installed, providing a seamless look. This makes them ideal for projects like flooring, skirting boards, and moulding installation where the nail heads need to remain hidden. The small size of the head also allows it to fit in tight spaces where it would be difficult to use other types of fasteners. They offer superior strength and durability compared to other fastening methods, making them perfect for any construction project that requires a high-quality finish.

Especially for tasks using wooden materials, this kind of nail is popular, as it does not cause any splitting in the wood. Plus, they can be used simply with just a hammer!

A2 Stainless Steel Annular Ring Nails

Now, you might be surprised to find out that A2 stainless steel actually refers to the type of grade! As mentioned above, nails are commonly created out of 304 and 316 steel grades, and A2 is the former. A2 grade contains around 8% nickel and 18% chromium, meaning it is incredibly hard and has dimensional stability.

A2 is a type of stainless steel that is highly versatile and can be used for a variety of purposes. It offers excellent resistance to corrosion, making it ideal for all-purpose fixings and fastenings. The material is strong and durable, meaning it can handle high levels of stress and pressure, while still providing a secure hold. It also has low magnetic permeability, meaning it won’t interact with other metals in the vicinity. A2 is easy to work with and can be used in a range of different settings, from industrial settings to residential applications, making it an ideal choice for any fixing or fastening job. Its cost-effectiveness also makes it attractive to use over other materials such as metal or plastic.

Generally, annular ring nails are great fixing, that can be used for a multitude of applications!

#fixings #nails #stainless steel #annular ring nails #construction #diy

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peachesofteal · 25 days

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ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here

Six thirty in the morning might be your favorite time of day.

It’s the before.

Before anyone else comes in, before the morning rush, before the chime of the front door’s bell, before the shop is filled with lines of people, before it all upends you.

At six thirty in the morning, you sit in the back, perched on the prep table, with a fresh cup of coffee. You leave the side door open, screen separating you from the world, fresh air mixing with the smell of strawberry basil scones, cinnamon coffee cake and mini kolaches, fruited with whatever jam you’ve managed to throw together. Steam rises, semolina spills, the sun dawns, and the world wakes… all well after you’ve had your breakfast.

This corner of the city is busy, and the shop always hums like a well-oiled machine in the dregs of a rush, the front counter team churning out specialty coffees and teas effortlessly. It’s cyclical, similar faces every day, morning commuters rushing in and out, locals settling in a nook with their laptops and lattes, people swinging in for a quick bite. You hide in the back, usually, elbow deep in sudsy warm water with your mountain of dishes, answering the occasional shout of 'do we have more of-' and 'just sold the last-'

This morning in particular, cranberry orange scones, pumpkin muffins and mini quiches are the only things left cooling on the speed racks, waiting patiently for their turn to be placed in the display case, an endless cycle of replenishment lasting until the rush dies down, morning fading into afternoon, triple shot monstrosities turning into decaf coffees.

It’s laborious, this routine. Five, six, sometimes seven days a week, going to bed with the sun, rising before it. Your wrists ache from rolling dough, cutting dough, scraping dough. Your back weeps when you lift the bowl from the mixer stand every morning, and your joints fare no better. You need new boots, and new insoles for your new boots, and probably a new standing mat, though you know your boss will never go for it.

You’re tired.

The exhaustion settles into your bones easily today, wearing you down until you’re allowing your eyes to close, wilting atop the butcher’s block-

The shop phone rings.

You heave yourself down and swing through the double doors to the front, scrambling for the classic corded receiver, nearly fumbling it in your hands.

“Hello?” Shit. You always forget to answer with the shop’s name. You’re not exactly the customer facing part of the operation. “Galaxy’s.” You correct and… wait.

There’s no response.

You think you can hear someone breathing, something rustling, but it’s too faint and difficult to make out.

“’Lo?” You try again, but still, there’s silence. It’s an unending moment, you on one end… who knows what on the other, and you hold your breath, straining to hear, to listen.

The line clicks dead in the next second.

Odd.

The shop girl is chewing gum.

You’ve told her a million times not to chew gum when she’s working the counter, but clearly, she’s never heard of norovirus, and you’re not the boss, or the owner, so being the broken record only gets you so far.

“There’s someone out front to see you.” She snaps it between her front teeth, and your molars grind together like stone.

“Who?” You toss a clean towel on the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen with a frown. You don’t really get visitors here, most of your friends are in the same industry, and either work the line too late to be up in time to even get coffee somewhere, or are already at work, buried beneath a bain-marie and the never-ending sound of a ticket printer.

There’s dried, caulked dough caked to your fingers, shoved up underneath your nails, and you brush them self-consciously against the ratty old apron stretched across your waist.

The surprise lingers on your tongue, and then explodes when you spot the massive dusky blonde from the other day, the one who was with the guy who split the coffee all over your favorite dress. He’s too tall, and too broad, and too imposing, everything in your sense of self-preservation screaming at you to run when he notices you approaching, gleam of a predator sparkling in his eyes.

Still, somewhere, tucked away, it thrills you, the idea of them, the balancing act, two halves of a whole. He’s etched from stone, strong and steady, while his partner is saporous, vibrant, and riotous, crystal blue eyes sparkling in the mid-day sun.

You wonder what they're like. What they talk about. What they do.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Your skin prickles once you fall into his orbit, immobilized by the molten toffee pooling around his irises. You float for a second, tracing his knife’s edged jaw, the fullness of his lips, imperfect pieces puzzled together to make a masterpiece, and then crash back to earth quickly, realizing you’re standing in front of him… staring.

“Uh. Hi.” What is he doing here? How did he know where to find you?

“Sorry to barge in on you at work.” He starts immediately, wallet appearing from his back pocket like a magic trick. “Wanted to make sure we settled up.” Thick fingers hold a folded nest of notes, and you stare down at them, slowly processing what he means.

Cash?

“Oh, I… I have… venmo. Or we could use apple pay, you didn’t have to come all the-“

“Don’t have venmo.” His mouth tilts, and you go with it, head listing to the side like a wayward buoy. “This is easier.” He pushes it into your hand, peeling your fingers back to enclose the money in your palm, heat sparking up your spine.

“How did you know where I worked?” You blurt, unable to keep it at bay any longer. The question singes, settles uncomfortably in the sparks between you.

“Saw you in the back yesterday, when we were in for a cuppa.” Oh. Suspicion sheds, snakeskin left behind on a cold, dusty trail, suspension of disbelief settling in the back of your mind. Sure. After all, this is where you ran into them last week, on your day off. They do come here.

“Well. Thanks.”

“It’s our pleasure. Hope the stain came out okay.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s… still at the cleaners.” This is absolutely false, but he doesn’t need to know that. The spare bills will probably go towards your energy bill, and the ruined dress will go in the trash.

It is what it is.

“Couldn’t help but notice when I was comin’ through the parking lot that the back door is open.” His voice swoops low, dropping into a rumble, and you blink, lips parting.

“Oh, um y-yeah. I like the breeze.” He shakes his head, a simple rejection, leaving you spinning.

“City’s not the safest right now, yeah?” Oh, yeah. Of course, you knew. Rival factions of organized crime were leaving a red sea of bodies in their wake all over town, a new murder popping up in the headlines nearly every week.

But you were safe. You were fine. Galaxy’s had never been stained with the bloody touch of any of them, and you took it as fact. Permanence.

You agree reluctantly, watching the storm clouds roil on across his expression before evaporating. You shrug, hands clutched in your apron, doubt and skepticism clear on your face.

His expression shutters. His eyes turn cold.

His thumb and forefinger dart through the air, latching onto your chin.

You freeze. You should tug away, jerk backwards, yell and scream and hiss, but all you can do is stand there, caught in a trap and trembling as he leans forward to murmur in your ear.

“Lock the door, little doe.”

#peaches writes #guess the au?#ghoap x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #still written on the phone so #mind the mistakes

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cassidyzzvhardy · 2 years

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Nails Vs Screws: The Best Fastener For Any Project

My thinking on this topic has changed over the years as a end result of I’ve been able to see what happens to decks over time. Years in the past as a younger carpenter / builder, I thought nails were nice. After all, we used nails to border homes and houses have stood for tons of of years being nailed collectively. Now I’m of the state of mind that nails are an inferior fastener when constructing a deck that gets wet on an everyday basis. One such instance could be some picket playsets the place the entire hardware is provided... ss deck screws Some of them will cut up, crack, and dent, ruining what can otherwise be an excellent decking board. They’ll also be capable of set up your deck rapidly and effectively, with each nails or screws the place they’re wanted. We discovered Sam and his Dad at Brazilian Wood Depot, and defined everything that happened. Further extra the utilization of screws on plywood has a more a good lock on the wood they do that by creating their very own channel, inflicting the bodily bond on the wooden to be stronger. The last thing you'd need to do is, have a construction accomplished at your personal home done wrongly. If you build a deck with the incorrect screws, you may end up with a pile of rubble. Wood screws are available in a variety of completely different forms to go properly with numerous woodworking initiatives. The last option is to install the subfloor with screws, this being probably the most safe potential method of attaching the subflooring. Plywood in home building is nearly always supported by 2”x 4” framing, with the plywood being nailed to the framing, via the thickness of the plywood. There isn't any threat of the plywood splitting on this case, because the nails aren't getting into into the edge of the plywood. All the screws are rated and really helpful for decks. I suppose they are much simpler than nails, and elimination in case of mistakes is WAY easier. If you have plenty of joist hangers find a metallic connector nailer. They shoot 1.5" nails with constructive placement, meaning you could shoot them into hangers with dead on accuracy. Once I received one I not often return to screws or hand nailing them.

#deck screws #stainless steel nails #ss deck screws #ss nails #stainless steel decking nails #stainless steel deck nails #deck nails or screws #deck nails #screws or nails for deck #decking screws or nails #deck screws or nails #stainless steel nails for decking

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dabisbratz · 1 year

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been fantasizin! — izuku midoriya x male reader

w.c: 2.1k

WARNING: heat cycles, bunny quirk, ear-pulling, creampie (x2), toy use, overstimulation, manhandling, dacryphilia, soft dom!izuku, praise, kissing, drool/spit, body worship, dirty talk, breeding mention, use of the word “pussy” as a synonym for (ass)hole, amab reader

“Honey?” There’s a soft click of the front door as it unlocks, a tall pro-hero setting foot inside with a few grocery bags in hand. The penthouse is homely, not at all too large for it’s two inhabitants, with a nicely decorated living room and fully applianced kitchen. The kitchen island outlooks the living-room, and the living-room outlooks the balcony, with a pretty, twinkling view of Musutafu’s bustling city. Izuku couldn’t have asked for a better home, a better boyfriend, a better life. He fought hard for it, anyway. “I’m back!”

The home is draped in domesticity, well lived in with a few misplaced remotes and a blanket scattered across the pleather couch.

He can’t find you anywhere, not in the kitchen making a snack, not hiding behind the couch, with floppy ears that match your hair and give you away. Not on the balcony, where you like to lean too far out for your viewing pleasure and his dismay. He frowns, freckled cheeks puffed out in a pout and eyes dimly lit. It’s unusual for his bunny to stay where he is, typically he waits by the door for his boyfriend's return, ears bouncing excitedly the second the door is unlocked. There’s only really one place you could be, but he has a few things to put away first.

The groceries end up where they shouldn’t be, apples in the freezer and thinly cut beef stacked inside the fridge, but Midoriya just can’t focus when his day has been knocked off its path like this. He slams the fridge door much harder than intended, the stainless steel shaking in his grasp and nearly threatening to fall. It doesn’t, but the display almost has Izuku panicking again, sights set on two things at one.

So he makes his way to the bedroom.

It’s shared between the two of you, a large, soft, and warm mattress with even softer blankets (you picked them out), and some nice blackout curtains when city lights ended up too overwhelming. The door creaks quietly, nothing compared to the sound that doesn’t seem to be quieting down any time soon.

You’re grinding your cock down against the midsized plushie Izuku had won you on one of your first dates back in highschool, ruining the soft fur with your precum. It must be because it smells just like him, having previously been wearing one of his hoodies, and you’d referred to the bear as Izuku Jr. It’s wet and sticky, almost like the air in the room, which fills with desperate moans as your hips rock back and forth against the plush. Izuku can see the bounce of your ass as you rock it back against a silicone toy, slippery with lube and dribbling onto the bed. He frowns.

Your heat cycle must have started while he was away. His poor boy, his poor baby, was left alone to fend for himself, fucking himself against nothing but a fake for the last few hours. Your pretty thighs must be aching and tired by now, on fire and sore, wrapped around a teddy bear when it could’ve been him. Izuku sighs, shedding himself of his jacket before rolling up his sleeves, and slowly padding over to the bed.

He’s careful not to tear you away, you get very territorial of your ‘nest’, instead tracing his fingertips up your calves, the back of your thighs, the swell of your ass. It’s only when he gives a sharp squeeze to your backside do you notice his presence. Your big ears twitch, swaying along as your head whips back to finally register the man beside you. You can’t say much, throat hoarse and tired from cries that fell on deaf ears, but the look on your face is enough for Izuku to scoop you up and cup your face.

“Don’t stop ‘cause of me,” He whispers against your lips, gently scraping his nails behind your ears. You keen against his touch, chasing his palm until his freckled thumb is slipped into your mouth. You can feel a scar that runs across his thumb, similar to the veins in his dick. “Cockdumb bunny, you’re so pretty like this. How’d this happen, sweetpea?”

You moan around his thumb, suckling and rutting your hips against his clothed thigh, which is already starting to collect sticky stains of pre. There’s a small tug on your ear, hard enough to get your lips to pop off his finger until you’re looking up at him, eyes sparkly and wet. Izuku wipes your drying tears with his big hands, then tugs harder. “I know, too much thinking gets you riled up. Just need an answer, honey, then we can take care of your needy hole.”

‘Zuku’s hands are always better. When your brain isn’t fully online he’s there, all smiles and big hands to touch you just right. He slides his hands up your torso, actively avoiding your cock as he smears the cum on your bellybutton up to your chest, massages it into your hard nipples while you tremble in his hands. You fist the sleeves of his shirt, right where the neckline meets shoulder, pulling him in closer until his breath ghosts i’ve your nipples. You can’t take the lingering touches, you need something constant. Something intense.

But instead you whine, too needy to form any actual complete sentences or thoughts.

“Thought of— wanna be good. Need— M’a good boy. ‘Zuku. Need you.” It’s more jumbled than anything, a pathetic noise leaving your body as he pushes you back down against your plush, dildo discarded somewhere by the headboard. Such a silly thing, you got too far in your head and really thought some silicone was good enough to satiate your needs.

“Just stayed sweet for me? Thought about the stretch of my cock inside you— your mouth, your ass?” Midoriya responds absentmindedly, strong jaw clenched as he lifts you up by the hips, keeping you bent over until your face is smashed into the sheets, bunny ears alert and twitching as he rubs them soothingly. He tuts, sliding his hands down to your ass and spreading the thick cheeks apart wide. He’s met with your overstimulated hole, sloppy and needy as it winks up at him. “Or is this a cunt, honey? Made for breeding? It already looks like you’re gushing.”

He’s partly grateful you’re not positioned to face him, a sharp shade of red dusting his matured cheeks as you nod and press your ass down into his palms. Your thighs are sticky and soaked with lube, must’ve been leaking out of you since you’d gotten up to greet him. Your voice sounds whiny and high, ears bouncing with each downward thrust you make, bouncing against his hands like you’re trying to fuck yourself on his cock, despite it not being out yet.

“ ‘Zuku, ‘Zuku, ‘Zuku,” It’s a mantra of sorts, loud and rushing blood straight down south to Izuku’s stiff cock. You can’t think of anything but him, the stretch of your entrance as he pushes himself impossibly deep into your guts, the feeling of his hand supporting your tummy so he can feel himself sliding in and out of you, the praise that leaves his lips when he’s shooting a load into you, keeping you still on his dick until it finally stops spurting. “Ohh.”

“I think it is, baby,” Izuku purrs, letting you grind against his cock for contact when he removes the warmth of his hands, undoing his fly to free himself from his boxers. He’ll start off quick for now, just to get you coherent again, then fuck you nice and slow, how you deserve it, once you’ve had a load to nurse. He lines himself up quickly, tracing your entrance with the fat head of his dick. “All mine, right? Barely fits, even after all that training you’ve been doing. C’mere, honey. Feel.”

His other hand takes yours to trail it down your hips and past your ass, dipping into the crevice of your ass until your fingertips are pressed against your hole, dipping into the entrance as his cock is slapped against it. He’s right, it barely fits, fat and curved perfectly, you shed a few tears when he slips inside, your hole stretching around his length and swallowing him up despite the intrusion.

“Just gotta fuck it right, don’t I, pretty? Gotta use it nice and sweet, get you all pliant and dizzy just how you like it,” You’re nodding, lips parted and panting loudly against the sheets, drooling onto them and ultimately getting it all over your cheek, but you don’t care. Izuku’s cock is right there, inches away from being inside you, from breeding you and using you like you deserve.

“Did you know you have a really pretty hole, baby? Just as cute as your face!”

He sounds lewd, but it’s genuine. His dimpled smile is enough to tell you that, you can hear it in his voice, even if it’s a little ragged and breathless. He’s rambling again, something about pumping you full until you can’t do anything but twitch against the mattress, but it doesn’t matter. Not when his cock is pushing inside you, not when your own is starting to spurt out rope after rope of cum once he’s inside.

Your hole convulses around him, sucking him in deeper and deeper until it’s clenching around the base of his cock, his curly, dark pubes peeking out from his pants and resting against your ass. He uses you like a toy, rocks you up and down while you ride the wave of your millionth orgasm tonight, tongue rolled out of your mouth and ears droopy against your cheeks. Your pants rival the sound of his balls against your ass, a harsh smacking sound as he increases the speed of his strokes, groaning when you claw at the sheets for support.

“Fuck, you’ll take all my cum, won't you? Yeah, think it'll catch? All this hot, sticky cum inside you?”

Your ass crashes against him, shining under the dimly lit bedside lamp. Bunnies do what they do best, bouncing on and off his cock until you’re delirious, tears streaming down your handsome face. Izuku barely needs to touch your cock, instead meeting your bounces half way while he grabs your wrists, bending them behind your back for leverage. You sob, a pathetic, loud noise that has Izuku groaning soon after, and he knows you’re crying now.

Midoriya shoots deep inside you, thick, creamy ropes of cum pooling inside you just to seep out your puffy, abused hole. It spills over the sides of his cock, dropping down your thighs and your toes curl, a happy sound leaving your throat since you’re finally full.

But Izuku wants one more, just for safekeeping.

He spoons up the cum with his fingers, pushing it back into your hole alongside his sensitive cock, his head falling forward as he melts into you. He gets it now, the neediness, he wants to fuck you full, feel you tighten and squeeze down on his cock because you can’t take it, praise you for being such a good, warm hole for him and his big dick. He’s just as desperate as you, fucking the cum deeper against that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you lose your voice.

“Say thank you, bunny. Aren’t you grateful for my cock? My cum inside you like you’ve always wanted? Fuck, I love this hole. Don’t forget your manners, baby.”

You’re responding before you can process the question, letting him manhandle you up and down on his cock, your overstimulated hole struggling to keep up with his pace. You'd fall flat on your face if it weren’t for his supportive hand, spread on your tummy and pressing into that delicious bump of his cock every time it fucks up into you.

“Th—ank you, thank you, ‘Zuku, love your cum n’my bunnyboy pussy.” And— oh, he never gets used to it, your sweet voice repeating his words with the promise of a few pats to the head, a scratch behind the ear, a kiss to the forehead. Izuku’s emerald eyes roll back in his head, his thrusts sloppy and unsteady as his balls tighten.

He’s cumming again before he knows it, the familiar clamp of your hole making his hips stutter as you cum too, collecting glob after glob of his cum inside you, feeling it stick to your gooey walls.

“Stay— stay ‘nside.” Your words are slurred, alert bunny ears now limp and tired as you lick your lips, shimmying down on Izuku’s spent cock. There’s a slight bias behind you, but the man doesn’t protest, instead grabbing you by the hips to resettle into a comfortable, spooning position, his hot skin already cooling by the second.

He’ll change later, maybe fuck you against the shower door if you can get up, but for now he’s content with holding you, even if his clothes are sticky and damp. His arm is behind your head, earning a small nuzzle as you sigh into his forearm.

If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s his love for you.

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cerisereids · 2 months

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i think we all know now that steve harrington’s love language is acts of service. so, when he accidentally stumbles upon your sephora wish list, he’s out half his paycheck by the time he’s done scrolling through the whole thing.

you’d been scrolling the site on your laptop just moments before, having gotten up to get some water. steve meanders himself over to your open laptop, eyes scanning the electronic items. you must have had at least 100 different pretty times saved to this list. he sees lip glosses, lip liners, lip oils (he still doesn’t quite understand the difference between the three), foundations, and various colorful palettes that overwhelm him. he knows enough about your makeup routine, having seen you perform it so many times for his adoring eyes. looking at your plentiful list, though, he doesn’t quite understand how highlight is different than blush, and what possible occasion could prompt wishing for hot pink eyeshadow. his heart hurts, though, to see how much his baby’s been wanting, knowing you don’t treat yourself nearly enough to these things. he simply thinks you should have everything you’ve ever wanted in the entire universe. the fact that he could’ve been buying you these things this whole time doesn’t sit right with him, not when he can spoil you as much as he wants. it makes his chest puff up when he sees you sitting pretty in a cute little outfit he bought you, or when your eyes sparkle after getting a manicure he treated you with. he’s proud to provide for his girl. he allows you the financial independence you need, and he knows you could buy these things for yourself if you wanted to. but it warms his heart to be able to take that load off of you, to shower you in nice things just because he loves you.

your now full water bottle announces your return, ice rattling against the stainless steel as you walk. he doesn’t look up, though. he feels you slither under his one arm, wrapping yourself around him like a koala. he holds you to him with one big hand, pressing kisses to your cheek, eyes never leaving the screen as he presses ‘add to cart’ on nearly every item.

‘what’re you doing over here, big guy?” you croon, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

big guy. that name, as well as your long nails (that he also paid for) scratching the hair at the nape of his neck, makes him shudder. he feels your breath tickle his skin as you huff out a sweet chuckle.

“you’re a brat,” he mutters, “y’know you’re gonna get everything you want from me, hm? ‘s that why you hid this list from me for so long? can’t handle it when i spoil you the way you deserve, huh baby?” he punctures his question with a wet, sloppy kiss.

“i can handle it,” your whisper fans gently across his face, a breathless, “thank you, thank you,” escapes your lips as you press a gentle kiss to his neck, your chin resting against his shoulder and your arms clinging to his neck like a lifeline. “too good to me,” you mutter under your breath. steve catches it, though. he always does.

“none of that,” he says between gentle kisses all over your face and neck, “i want to. let me.” he’s only satisfied when he feels you nod against him, squeezing him tighter, prompting a sweet “i love you” to tumble past his lips.

“i love you more,” he can hear the grateful tears in your voice.

“not possible,” he presses one last kiss to your lips before regretfully unwrapping you from him. “i need to go get my credit card,” one more kiss, “i’m buying everything on the list,” one more kiss before he jogs away, cheeks hurting from his wide smile.

#sugar daddy steve save me #sugar daddy steve #save me sugar daddy steve #stranger things #belle’s blurbs s.h.#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington concept #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you

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wynnyfryd · 1 year

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Steve comes into the kitchen fresh from the shower, finds Eddie with his head in the sink, scrubbing his soaked curls over the basin.

“Uh,” Steve says.

Eddie flips upright, sending a spray of water across the backsplash. He shakes his head out like a dog. “Morning!”

“Were you just shampooing your hair in the sink?”

“Yeah.”

“…Why?”

“Water was still warm from the dishes,” he shrugs, as if that explains a damn thing. “You want coffee?”

Steve stares at him, horrified. “Eddie… for the love of God, please tell me you did not just wash your hair with dirty dish water.”

“Ew! What??”

“You just said the water was still warm from the dishes!”

“The water from the tap was still warm,” Eddie gestures emphatically at the tap in question, at the empty and sparkling stainless steel basin, “from where I scrubbed the sink clean after draining the dishwater. Jesus Christ, Harrington, what kinda man do you take me for?”

“I don’t know! The kind who washes his hair in the sink??”

Eddie cackles at that, swings himself around the kitchen island into Steve’s space, his movements free and loose with amusement.

“It was clean water, baby, honest,” he swears as he squeezes Steve’s face between his hands and peppers him with kisses until his deeply offended frown eases into an only slightly put-out pout.

Steve does his best to maintain his glare. “Did you even use conditioner?” he asks.

“It was two-in-one?” Eddie tries.

“Okay, nope! No. Absolutely not, get your ass back upstairs, Munson, we’re doing this properly.” He drags Eddie from the kitchen by his wrist, muttering angrily under his breath as he stomps up the stairs. “Two-in-one. Of all the stupid fucking…”

Later, when they’re lying sated in bed (Steve on his back with an arm under his head; Eddie sat up and purring like a cat as Steve’s blunt nails scratch down his spine), after Eddie’s hair has been combed through and set into pretty little ringlets with no less than five different products, Steve props himself up on his elbows and levels Eddie with a suspicious look. “…Was this all a ploy to get me to do your hair for you again?”

Eddie doesn’t even bother trying to hide his grin as he lets his head flop over his shoulder to look at Steve. “And also to get you to fuck me in the shower first, yeah.”

“You little shit!” Steve laughs, kicking at Eddie’s back. Eddie yelps and scrambles off the bed, safely out of attack distance.

“You still want that coffee?” he offers.

Steve chucks a pillow at his head, and Eddie dodges. “Ugh, you’re the worst.”

“Mmhm,” Eddie agrees, “But you looo-ove me.”

Steve does, is the thing. He really, really does.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie drabble #steddie fluff #my writing #this is very silly i’m sorry or you’re welcome

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wesupplyfixing · 1 month

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#polymer headed nails #buy stainless steel screws #stainless steel #wesupplyfixings

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pomfiores · 2 years

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@mageshot:

“Ah, that’s---”

⇒ They’re trying not to curl their fingers inwardly and dig their nails into their own palms any more than they tend to do, because it’s probably what got them into this situation in the first place. That, and their tendency to chew their nails and cuticles until they had to cover them in little bandages to keep from leaving blood smears on their homework. Lotion? Sunscreen? Did people actually have those things around? Lyric had gotten some of the trail sized bottles before in giftbags or handouts, but they usually forgot to use them and then threw them out. They assumed their dry, sometimes cracked skin was just a side effect of their draconic heritage, not a personal care issue.

“C Can I go? I have to study...”

If they so much as dared to think they could themselves before having Vil dismiss them, they’re sorely mistaken. In fact, Vil doesn’t show any signs of releasing their hands — he’s even pulled their hands further onto the table, resuming his examination. “ Quit moving. This’ll take longer if you can’t behave yourself. Seriously, aren’t you with Diasomnia? I expected the head of that dorm to know proper grooming techniques and enforce that standard to his students. ” It’s like no one around this school knows proper maintenance. He has to demonstrate everything around here.

“ You should have the proper time management skills to know how you can resume your studies after this, seeing as I presume you neglect your self-care like this to study. Even if that’s true, ” he’d like to believe it is. “ that still isn’t an excuse to neglect your care. ” He’s turning their hand over to note the calloused palms, shaking his head. “ This is absurd. Wash your hands over there. Don’t try anything stupid. ” It’s best that you do as he says, Lyric.

#mageshot #❧ ㅤㅤi'll show you how a real queen behaves.ㅤ( ic performance. )#small dogs are no threat to him #not even malleus who vil likes to mess with sometimes. u are gonna stay RIGHT here lyric akfjsa #like a chihuahua shaking on a vets table kafjsa the nails clicking on the stainless steel and everything #there's reason why everyone listens to vil. dont be the dumbass minority lyric pls

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dhampling · 14 days

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the kitchen two 18+, 2.7k

nobody pining over the potwasher with the pretty face and snide tongue, and it feels like such a damn shame.

this started as a joke and now you're touching astarion up out back of a pizza express/olive garden/insert generic chain restaurant you both work at.

part one here.

cw: fem!reader x astarion, 18+, astarion is a potwasher, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, fingering, frottage, workplace copulation, not beta read, porn without plot pretty much, oh no, not gn reader as tags initially stated because im awful and copy pasted them over

FATTEST THANK YOU TO @bhaalism AND @lipstickghoulie for DEALING WITH ME as always <3

“You need to get laid.”

You take the vape from a waiting hand and hold it in your teeth. Feel the ridges where his own have left small indents in the plastic and nestle yours in the shiny crooks.

“Hm?”

“You. You’re practically drooling.” He blinks slowly as you look up to the clouds.

“I’m afraid my harem of devastatingly beautiful lovers are all indisposed. On the yacht, obviously.” You pull a face, huffing a long inhale and releasing the smoke in soft stutters. He snorts.

“Ah. That’s why you reek of hormones, then?”

You smile.

“Probably. New schedule has done little for any conquests, I’ll be honest.”

Astarion takes a moment as you pass him back his vape, flipping it absentmindedly between deft fingers and scrunching his face.

“Unfortunate.”

You playfully slap his arm and he recoils in a brief snarling laughter, ending on some churlish half-smile as he leans back on the wall.

Those fingers. Slender, pale; always moving to some comment or chore with a slight flourish. You note how surprisingly unblemished they seem for his line of work, and the fact you’ve never seen him with hand balm. Even in the low light spilled scarce from the doorway they have a certain sparkle to them. Poise.

He knows you’re looking, and you’re a little surprised it seems to matter. Coy as he inhales something deep.

Obviously, it’s a possibility. It happens.

The nature of your work leads to frequent hookups amongst you, as it always has - some incestuous tangle of ex-lovers and yearning hopefuls all weaving the same sticky tables and navigating the age-old sore break-room banter when it inevitably cools between the sheets. Word travels fast, and not one of your workmates has escaped the hated minimum-wage service tradition of copulating with your colleagues in some drunken fumble after a particularly awful shift - but him, though. You can’t say that you’ve put out feelers per se, but his name has never been mentioned - either positively or negatively - on the grapevine, not that you can recall. Nobody pining over the potwasher with the pretty face and snide tongue, and it feels like such a damn shame.

In all fairness, he doesn’t lend himself to open fawning. He doesn’t mingle like the rest do. Never attends the seasonal socials thrown by upper management nor stays after hours drinking with the rest of the kitchen, as if he’d opted out of the greasy workplace ham-slamming ecosystem entirely.

Above it all. Godlike. You can’t have that.

You could invite him in, you think, as his head tilts ever-so-slightly toward you in the cool smoke. His nails tap mindless against gaudy green plastic and you picture little but those now-familiar obscene vignettes of him, those very same fingers taking the warm fat of your flesh by the fistful, bending you - pliable in the desperate chase of wanton heat - over the stainless steel of the chef’s station, with a forceful hand to the waist; smushing your face sideways on the counter as he humps you to visceral burning delight over and over, the relentless piston of hungry hips as he pounds into your drooling hole, and;-

“At least they have each other, I suppose. Aboard that gorgeous yacht.”

Your eyes meet his, a mutual hum. Silence as the rain smatters on gravel.

It’d be easy. Sidle past him through the walk-in door left slightly ajar - vaping, of course; why else would the pot washer be in the cooler? - and feel the looming hope of flesh so close. A crooked smile in silent greeting. Take your time in bending for the lemons, apron ties bowed over your rear as some awful present. He’d never slap your ass so crudely. The lingering want for a tap of flesh, for him to feel the soft jiggle of solid fat on a quick palm; never to move to touch you until you’d made your intentions abundantly clear.

Your intentions.

You could accidentally back up against him whilst still bent and oh-so lost in search for whatever perfect fucking lemon takes this long to find, ass smacking onto his crotch, mouth shaped as an ‘o’ where sudden realisation takes hold, through layers of standard-issue service garb - a barely-there cant of your hips at the surprise friction of his cock.

He’s been watching. Ogling. Angling himself toward you, as if having pictured how best to bury himself inside you should the opportunity arise.

Would he grab you by the hips? Take rough handfuls of heated skin and flesh, pull you in to rub over his growing erection with an obscene snarl and heavy lids in a sharp frenzy? Snaking a deft hand down the front of your apron and under the waistband of your trousers, unhurried but firm; searching for the evidence he can practically smell; proof that you’ve been melting, the pool of slick in your panties growing gummy between stolen moments of fantasization on the floor and the molten rumble of low-laughter as he bends you over the mesh shelving, his lower abdomen being thoroughly stickied with a liberal helping of your arousal.

“What are you doing tonight?”

You turn to him with a nonchalant smile and he groans, upper lip curling toward his nose.

“I’ll be here. Same as you, I presume?”

“Not for too much longer, though - how about after?”

Astarion runs a hand through his hair coolly, vape returning to his pocket as he stands off the wall.

“Not there yet. Who knows?”

The slight of a fox-wink as he twirls back through the door, jacket flaring out behind him before disappearing into the back-of-house once more.

Time passes as if stuck stiff under a violent gutter-sun.

The softest visions of him lit by the dented metal of the big old dishwasher, shifting to adjust himself under linens; and after much thought you decide he’d be so very pretty, touching himself something mad. Even more so than usual. Leaky and hot and gasping in mindless carnality under the blacklight of the back bathroom with penis in hand, wincing at the fevered paw moving dumb to offer any relief in his plight. A delicious sigh whilst rolling the hot skin back, bit-by-bit from the tip, working the gathering glisten ever-so-softly over his aching slit in delicate strokes.

A stolen glance through the service window, through the bumbling hordes in their whites; a shock of silver hair, short sleeves cuffed, brows furrowed as he scrubs at some porcelain bowl with a strange blase determination.

It’s effortless. He’s not posing, wholly unaware that you’re watching. Scalding from the heat lamps as your fingertips press into the ledge, waiting for plates for one of your tables and teetering back and forth into the gap. He picks another bowl from the crate with a practised hand, tossing it gently into the other and dunking it in the water with finesse. Scrubs. Holds the curving gloss to the light for a moment and narrows his eyes before repeating the process, then loading it onto the dishwasher crate.

Mindless.

God. All mindless. You could offer to help him after a busy evening, perhaps; take charge of the pre-wash as he loads the machine, well oiled in your steps as they grow ever closer to one another - surprisingly so, with your lack of practice. Let the hose spray free down your front in a fumble with the pressure lever on the side, and the moment of shock as you gasp; the warm water turning ice cool on your chest, no disguising the quick pebbling of your nipples underneath your sodden underclothes.

Maybe it’s panic that compels him to dab at your chest with a dry towel as opposed to throwing it to you in a tight-scrunched ball and continuing to load the washer - but maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s something else altogether. Those red eyes darken to a plush carnal smoulder and he tilts his head, begging you to close the gap, to give him permission; to stretch a palm just a little further over to the swell of your breast and cup the soft, heavy flesh through the thin layer of wet cloth.

He’s right, of course. Desperately so.

You do need to get laid.

Black sky overhead, speckled with pinpoint stars and laced with the twinge of cold that makes your nose feel funny - and you suspect he’s one of the last to leave this evening, so you wait a minute or two for management to finish their final walkthrough.

He appears with a flourish. Your lean-back on the wall remains as composed as it can as he barrels through the doors, bag high on his shoulder; and begins to fish in his back pocket for his vape.

“Astarion!”

He spins and meets your gaze with a fantastic grin, incisors sharp as his vape meets his lips. You can do this. A quick fuck. Everyone here does it, christ.

“Yes, love?”

“Have you got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

Purring. He’s purring.

You wave management farewell as they lock the doors - a small smile, yet you can’t let him slide from you. You can’t let the moment falter. The wet patch in your pants becomes horrifically apparent as you shift from side to side in the cool air, and you surmise that this needs resolving before your humility suppresses the want to have him between your legs - so you extend a hand. You reach for the vape between his lips and you bring it to your own, ever so slowly; holding it between your teeth in a coy stand-off.

“Bold.”

“I’m feeling bold.”

“Oh?”

“Walk with me.”

He offers you an arm in an exuberant display of mock-chivalry, bowing almost; and you take it to pull him closer to your side.

“You’re in a good mood.” You muse, steering him down the dark alley and toward the main street whilst he sighs a laugh.

“I presume you’re about to buy me a drink, which is always most welcome.”

“I’ve never bought you a drink?”

“The pleasure is more in the receiving of the drink, not whoever’s buying it.’

He turns to look at you while you walk, tugging you closer.

‘Unless you’d like me to find pleasure in you, my generous benefactor?’

You stop in your tracks, and he grins in place.

‘Because that’s what this is about; isn’t it, little lamb?’

Time stops, signalled by the slow stutter of your heart as his voice drops silken, taking both of your wrists in hand.

‘I can practically smell it, you know.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He pulls a face. Looks at you softly.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Sorry.”

“I won’t pretend it’s not been on my mind, though.”

“Hm?”

Astarion sidles closer, toes touching; breath cool on your cheeks. Mint.

“Burying myself inside you. All kinds of-’

His hands gesture lightly around his head, controlled as they close in on your face.

‘Wicked images. The things we could do.”

Your eyes flutter closed as he cups your face, lips grazing the edge of his palm.

“I watch you too, you know - oh, it makes me hard just thinking about it. Humping the sink counter like some wanton… bitch;- whenever can I get a moment, just to get some friction, clothes ruined time and time again over obscene visions of myself buried deep inside-’

Takes your chin between pointer finger and thumb.

‘Your. Desperate. Cunt.’

He breathes a giggle.

‘Just as I assume yours are now, hm? Ruined? Oh, the sheer debauchery.”

Tuts. The breeze fades and he comes impossibly closer, hands ghosting the broad of your shoulders then cutting across to the dip of your waist and you inhale and that smell of him. The scent of by-your-side and beleaguered evenings, laced with something heady. Salt. You whimper when you eke the words out.

“You smell so good.” Practically whining, metaphorical drool linking the two of you as if invisible string. A deep beat of laughter.

“Sweet one. So do you.”

His nose buried in your hair, fingers grasping at the warmth of your hips through layers of sweaty workwear. Your core blazes white hot, legs failing you - he’s here. He wants you. God, you’d never thought it’d feel this good, even in your wildest fantasies; and yet you’re standing out in the bitter cold locked tight in by his hands and it exceeds every conceivable outcome for this conversation, ever, despite his cock not yet prodding you once.

He takes the vape from where your fingers hang frozen and puts it into his pocket, guiding your fingers to the front of his trousers in your obscured embrace and pressing your palm to the front.

Hard. He’s ridiculously hard. Warm and pulsing with strong hips writhing as your hand gives him something to push against.

“Fuck.”

“Nicely, now.”

His hand moves under your coat and to the front of your own trousers as you feel him through his, scrunching your fingers around his length; whilst he slides deft under the fixings just as you’d imagined he would. Ice to a fire. Moves quickly in the search for your slick like a moth mindless toward a flame, when he finds your slit and takes a single finger to press between your folds.

“Ah. There she is.’

Your breath catches on his words,

‘My darling girl, you’re soaking. How long have you been like this?”

“Just today, or on the whole? I can’t remember a time where I’ve not wanted you, not since that first day outside.”

He groans quietly, eyes rolling back into his skull as he coaxes more of your spill forth onto the flat of his palm with a skilled finger toying at the hood of your clit. It feels incredible. Like a warm bath or fresh pizza times a thousand.

“Did you like the idea of my spit in your mouth, love? Forgetting your smokes on purpose, buying me treats just so you could share? So you could… take me, in your mouth, and wallow in having me there in secret? Bad girl.” A sordid whisper. Heady. Love. Bad girl. You’re struggling for air, newly weakened flesh bowled completely over by his brutal advances, and it’s heaven. You could die here in this alley and you’d be wholly satisfied with life knowing he touched you. He was hard for you, his cock desperately seeking solace in the warmth of your core, to christen your cunt with lashings of himself inside you. Yours. You.

You thought your resolve was stronger than this. That you could match him in whatever game he potentially wanted to play and do it with flair - but as he stands in front of you, hand crudely down your trousers round the back of your shared workplace; you have no desire to play coy any longer. He’s giving himself to you.

“Kiss me?”

And he does. A heady drawl as his lips stoop to meet yours, a string of yes-yes-yeses whispered flush into your open mouth as he moves with you, fingering with reverent strokes whilst your hand fiddles hungrily with his underclothes and he laughs with a satisfied ease as if a Roman Emperor, hosting a banquet on the eve of some grand resounding victory.

Right here, by the bins under the watchful eyes of the CCTV cameras dotted along the brick - it doesn’t work. It can’t happen here. Your brain fizzes all shades of yellow and orange as you take his arm, breaking the open-mouthed kiss with urgency and tugging his head down until his ear hangs dazed a hair’s breadth from your lips.

“Yours or mine?”

“Where’s closer?”

Gravel. Cheeks flushed, hands frisking your waistband once more as you swat him off.

“Yours, probably.”

“You checked the staff files, didn’t you? Naughty thing.”

You huff into a slight hunchback, bemused by his deduction.

“Maybe. Are you mad about it?”

Your hand grabs at his cock through his trousers once more and offers a hard squeeze, a stuttered moan from his mouth.

“Meh. So long as you make it up to me, yes?”

He pauses to press a chaste kiss to your mouth as you both rebutton and fumbles to take your hand in his.

“God. Yes. I promise.”

“Come along then, temptress. Mine -’

Another to the back of your hand, soft and deep.

‘- it is.”

#my writing #astarion x reader #bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion smut #astarion au #the kitchen #wip: the kitchen

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baeshijima · 9 months

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there’s an undeniable serenity which follows your voice. how it traverses within the room’s dome-like structure, reverberating through the surrounding space before ultimately touching the hearts and souls of those who hear your solo piece. it captivates and impassions, an underlying force woven beneath layers of harmonies forged under years of dedication holding one’s attention as they await in baited breath for the forthcoming emotions which swirl and soar at the mercy of your voice.

having never missed one of your performances to date, neuvillette believes he would know this best.

in his life, he has found there are many difficulties which arise when overseeing trials of various levels of severity — some being a life-defining case whereas others may delve into a more… menial aspect of things.

(“to bring some entertainment for once!” …is what he would usually hear in response to his unvoiced thoughts before having to reprimand a certain archon for levity in the court.)

but in spite of the blurred lines between professionalism and public entertainment, neuvillette finds himself at ease once he steps into the grand hall, finding his seat as stated on his ticket, waiting patiently as the chatters die down the moment the lights dim and the curtains draw, watching in content as vocals and instrumentals resound until the lights dim once more to signify the end of the opera.

amidst his day-to-day life, he has come to anticipate the dates which mark your performances.

ever since he first started attending, he has discovered that when sitting amongst the crowd enjoying your voice and performance, he is neither the iduex nor the chief justice of fontaine; he is simply neuvillette — a man who finds peace and respite in your presence, regardless of how near or far you may be from him.

he claps just as everyone else does, watching as you stoop into a bow on centre stage once the final note dissipates into the air where rounds of applause take over. there’s an ever-present smile stretching your lips, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you wave to the crowd surrounding him.

neuvillette recognises this expression as one you’d wear after a performance you deem satisfactory and finds his heart fluttering at the glow in your expression. (your smile doesn’t reach your eyes if you think it is anything less, despite his internal thoughts believing otherwise.)

he remains seated as the orchestra begins to arise and gather their instruments, as the conductor steps down from their podium, as the singers line up and shuffle off stage, as you turn and take your leave in close pursuit.

he glances at the bouquet settled atop his lap. oddly enough, the colours he chose coordinate with your attire, and he cannot help but to think this is some twist of fate playing with his convictions.

no matter, he thinks to himself as he rises from his seat, the bouquet cradled within his hold. with brisk steps, he makes his way past the crowd. it’s easier once people step away the moment they identify him and opt to gawk at his presence, allowing an easy passage for a quick escape.

it is not much later when he finds himself walking down a familiar hallway, the bright lights illuminating the name plaques hanging on the dressing room doors. his feet naturally come to a stop in front of a dressing room six doors down, the words [name] [last name] neatly engraved into the stainless steel nailed to the door.

his eyes trace over your name a few times, the flowers in his hand seemingly heavier than they were mere moments prior.

perhaps this time…

neuvillette attempts to push back the lump lodged within his throat. there’s a slight trepidation which hangs overhead as he gently raises a fist to your dressing room door, one which is all-too familiar in the way he hesitates and rethinks his actions over and over when in regards to you.

he stops before his knuckles touch the door. before he knows it he falls back into his usual routine: place the bouquet in front of your dressing room door, gently knock three times, turn and walk down the hall, disappearing before you can see him loitering around and make the connection of him being the anonymous bouquet gifter after each performance.

rounding a corner, neuvillette comes to a halt. with a glance over his shoulder he watches you peek your head out the door, looking around the hall in search of who knocked. when you take note of the bouquet he left, he fights back a smile of his own when you beam and thumb at the petals as he wills himself to turn and resume his exit.

perhaps after your next performance he will finally gather the resolve to speak to you.

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