#Electrical Measurement Tools

[shiro-tora3]

Using this as brainstorm

So when Svarog wants to fight off Wildfire he doesn't just go ham. He requests permission.

We know he was made by the Geomarrow Development Group, I think. Or at least stationed there, and when they left 'our big friend Svarog' there to protect the place?

So presumably they had this central database that he frequently accesses that I THINK is seperate from his on board memory banks. It would make sense kinda that, with how advanced the tech was before the Fall as I'm calling it cause I can't remember what it is in-game, that there is an overarching program of sorts to monitor all thwir automatons.

We know the CURRENT ones roaming about are models that were made using PARTS OF OLD BOTS. These ones are known to have gone rogue and attack people. I doubt that happened in the past and I feel this database has so.ething to do with that.

Pascal needed to be connected to it to be reformatted into a clean slate so that his behavior would no longer pose a threat to others. It likely has some algorithms that can be asked for different things.

Such as allowing access to Stellaron information.

Or granting permission for Annihilation Protocals based on the given information by the machince to be given permission.

Like, to make sure he doesn't go rogue.

'Prototype 3 monitoring automaton Svarog'

This COULD be taken as maybe one of the Auxiliary Arm Units as they can be seen 'Awaiting Orders' in the fight. But I think instead it's whatever granted permission for Svarog to engage basically all the weaponry at his disposal.

Redundancies are important when advanced algorithms are involved because things can quickly spiral out of control. If-thans can just loop perpetually, maybe leading to some behavioral problems. A monitoring program that can idk monitor behavior parameters and then stop the code or whatever that is causeing the issue, fix it to behave correctly.

The other hand is maybe its not that deep and I'm just a little obsessed.

But I mean, in the absence of information there must be conjecture.

And if no one else is gonna build this guys character and the Svarog Base and Claras room in their little house in the robot settlement than I WILL.

At least until my adhd is like 'oh look new hyoerfixation'

SPOILERS FOR NEW TREASURE HUNT EVENT

EDIT: Treasure Hunting event just dropped a little lore.

The automaton IS the prototype, it's called a Monitoring Automaton, there are more Svarogs djsjdksndjdnd

'Automated control unit left behind by the Geomarrow Development Group'

And look I know this is just to provide more content without making new enemies or bosses but it makes SENSE Svarog is unit 3, the one in the cave is unit 2 so even older?

Anyways.

[legitbusinessinfo]

Unlocking Precision and Reliability: A Comprehensive Guide to Technical Equipment Trading and Industrial Solutions

In the rapidly evolving world of industrial operations and technical equipment, staying ahead requires more than just cutting-edge technology—it demands precision, reliability, and expert knowledge. For businesses seeking to enhance their operational efficiency and ensure top-notch performance, understanding the landscape of technical equipment trading, calibration solutions, and global industrial services is crucial. This guide explores key aspects of these areas, offering insights into how businesses can leverage these resources to achieve their goals.

Understanding Technical Equipment Trading

Technical equipment trading encompasses the buying and selling of specialized tools and machinery essential for industrial processes. This sector plays a pivotal role in ensuring that companies have access to the latest advancements in technology, which are crucial for maintaining competitive advantage and operational efficiency.

Key Aspects:

Market Dynamics: The technical equipment market is characterized by rapid technological advancements and changing industry standards. Keeping up with these changes is vital for businesses to remain competitive.

Supplier Networks: Building strong relationships with reliable suppliers ensures that businesses have access to high-quality equipment and services. This network often includes manufacturers, distributors, and service providers.

Choosing an Industrial Equipment Supplier

Selecting the right industrial equipment supplier can significantly impact a business's operations. An ideal supplier not only provides high-quality equipment but also offers comprehensive support and services.

Factors to Consider:

Reputation and Reliability: Researching suppliers’ reputations through customer reviews and industry feedback helps in assessing their reliability.

Product Range: A supplier with a diverse product range can offer tailored solutions to meet specific needs.

Support Services: Look for suppliers that provide robust after-sales support, including maintenance and troubleshooting services.

Sources:

"The Importance of Choosing the Right Equipment Supplier" - Industry Today.

"How to Evaluate Industrial Equipment Suppliers" - ThomasNet.

"Supplier Selection Criteria for Industrial Equipment" - Manufacturing Global.

The Role of Calibration Solutions

Calibration solutions are essential for ensuring that equipment performs accurately and consistently. Regular calibration is necessary to maintain precision and reliability, which are crucial for both safety and performance in industrial settings.

What Calibration Involves:

Accuracy Check: Calibration involves comparing a device's output against a known standard to ensure its accuracy.

Adjustment: If discrepancies are found, adjustments are made to align the equipment with the standard.

Benefits of Calibration:

Enhanced Accuracy: Regular calibration ensures that measurements are accurate, reducing errors in production processes.

Compliance: Many industries require compliance with regulatory standards, which often include regular calibration.

Sources:

"Understanding Calibration and Its Importance" - NIST.

"Why Regular Calibration Matters" - Quality Digest.

"The Calibration Process Explained" - Control Design.

Exploring Global Industrial Services

Global industrial services encompass a wide range of solutions designed to support industrial operations on an international scale. These services include everything from equipment supply to technical support and maintenance.

Components of Global Services:

Technical Support: Offering remote or on-site assistance to troubleshoot and resolve issues.

Training: Providing training for personnel to ensure proper equipment use and maintenance.

Logistics: Managing the supply chain to ensure timely delivery of equipment and parts.

Advantages:

Scalability: Global services allow businesses to scale operations efficiently across different regions.

Expertise: Access to specialized knowledge and resources that may not be available locally.

Sources:

"Global Industrial Services: An Overview" - Engineering News-Record.

"How Global Services Enhance Industrial Operations" - Industrial Equipment News.

"Managing Global Industrial Services Effectively" - Manufacturing.net.

The Importance of Electrical Test Equipment

Electrical test equipment is crucial for diagnosing and maintaining electrical systems. These tools help in identifying faults, ensuring system integrity, and verifying performance.

Types of Electrical Test Equipment:

Multimeters: Measure voltage, current, and resistance.

Oscilloscopes: Analyze the waveform of electrical signals.

Insulation Testers: Assess the integrity of electrical insulation.

Applications:

Preventive Maintenance: Regular testing helps in preventing equipment failures.

Compliance Testing: Ensures that electrical systems meet safety and performance standards.

Sources:

"A Guide to Electrical Test Equipment" - Electrical Engineering Portal.

"Choosing the Right Electrical Test Equipment" - Test Equipment Depot.

"Electrical Test Equipment and Their Uses" - IEEE Spectrum.

Ensuring Reliable Test Solutions

Reliable test solutions are essential for accurate data and successful outcomes in various industrial applications. These solutions encompass a range of testing methods and tools designed to ensure equipment and systems perform optimally.

Key Considerations:

Accuracy and Precision: Reliable test solutions must provide accurate and consistent results.

Ease of Use: User-friendly equipment and software simplify the testing process.

Benefits:

Improved Performance: Accurate testing leads to better performance and longevity of equipment.

Cost Savings: Prevents costly downtime and repairs by identifying issues early.

Sources:

"The Role of Reliable Test Solutions in Industry" - Test and Measurement World.

"Selecting Reliable Test Equipment for Industrial Applications" - Electronic Design.

"How Reliable Testing Impacts Industrial Operations" - Automation World.

Precision Measurement Tools: The Backbone of Accurate Operations

Precision measurement tools are fundamental for ensuring that industrial processes are carried out with the highest level of accuracy. These tools are used in various applications, from manufacturing to quality control.

Types of Precision Measurement Tools:

Calipers and Micrometers: Measure dimensions with high accuracy.

Gages: Assess the quality and tolerance of manufactured parts.

Laser Measurement Systems: Provide non-contact measurement for enhanced precision.

Importance:

Quality Assurance: Ensures that products meet specified standards and tolerances.

Process Optimization: Helps in refining processes and improving efficiency.

Sources:

"Understanding Precision Measurement Tools" - Metrology World.

"The Role of Precision Measurement in Quality Control" - Quality Assurance Magazine.

"Advancements in Precision Measurement Technologies" - Precision Measurement Solutions.

Conclusion

Navigating the world of technical equipment trading, industrial equipment supply, and calibration solutions requires a deep understanding of the available resources and their applications. By focusing on reliable suppliers, effective calibration, and precise measurement tools, businesses can enhance their operational efficiency and ensure the highest standards of performance. For those seeking to leverage these resources effectively, staying informed and choosing the right partners is key to achieving long-term success.

For more information on technical equipment and industrial solutions, visit Sukma Trade.

[hellenhighwater]

Do you carry any other fun and whimsical things in your purse besides the brass measuring tools? can we see them??

"What do I carry in my purse" is actually a really long answer! Not very whimsical though.

I don't carry a very large purse but it is actually jam-packed with stuff. Obviously the usual—credit cards, ID, badge, money, car keys.

But the rest is taken up by a tidy little lineup of things that are useless 99% of the time and crucial 1% of the time. Some of it (most of the top row) floats loose in my purse; most of the bottom row packs into the little bag there. My sketchbook du jour is usually carried separately.

So: top row:

Sketchbook and the little brass drafting tools, which I carry inside the sketchbook, and also a little metal ruler that has honestly become redundant.

Then, a bunch of pens and marking tools: A ballpoint, some pencils, paint pen, permanent marker, white gel pens, white paint pen, white mechanical pencil, and eraser. This varies depending on what I'm working on and what I've absently left in the wrong place.

Some lip gloss, hand sanitizer, concealer, chapstick, nail polish, and heavy lotion (clay dries your hands out SO hard) and a hair pin. Usually there are several sword shaped hair pins also; I took them out while working on a project and they'll migrate back when I'm done.

Headphones, a couple knives, and a tiny foldable gerber multitool. A little flat card multitool, with a heavy needed shoved into its case also, and a pack of clear sticky notes.

A two-port USB brick; I usually also carry a power bank but it's charging in the car right now.

My change purse and my wallet, which is just the IDs; my actual cards are in a pocket in the purse that also has a little nail kit. My car keys, which have a bottle opener and a combined window breaker-seatbelt cutter, a 64 gig USB key, and keys to my studio, house, garage, and the courthouse.

The bag itself is metal mesh, which means it’s durable but also somewhat see-thru.

That little tin is a tiny first aid kit, which probably I should have unpacked, but it's got bandaids, bandages, skin tape, blistex; antiseptic, itch, and burn cream; eyedrops; several small packets of common meds (tylenol, advil, etc) and a little folded chart for meds, since I’m terrible at remembering which can be taken with which; a breath mask. There's also a razor and some safety pins tucked in there. It's held shut with a hair tie.

There's some single-use earplugs and some zip ties, some more eye drops, and a tiny vial of liquid breath mint.

A deck of mini playing cards.

A tiny sewing kit--needles, pins, earring backs and pin backs, some heavy black thread on a bobbin, a measuring tape, and some foldable scissors. There's a couple glasses screws in there from before I had Lasik.

Another little multitool, some binder clips, a tiny level, a 120 gig USB, and some bobby pins.

Matches and a lighter, a flat pen, and coils of 20 lb fishing line, picture wire, and monofilament, as well as two short USB cords.

A tide pen and a glasses screwdriver.

The bag contains cardboard strips with several yards of tape: Electrical, packing, scotch, duct, gaff, and skin tape. Superglue. A spare piece of heavy cardboard to use as a cutting surface if needed.

An Xacto knife with the blade reversed (learned my lesson after jamming my hand into my bag and taking a chunk out of a finger when a springloaded switchblade opened itself) and spare blades.

Some more clear sticky notes and a tiny lined notebook for when I just need scratch paper.

My car actually includes two slightly different emergency bags—one for regular roadside emergencies (including emergencies in blizzard weather) and one for camping emergencies, and a bit more of an extensive first aid kit.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

commonly confused words

accept: to receive except: with the exclusion of

advice: recommendation (noun) advise: to recommend (verb)

adverse: unfavorable averse: opposed to

affect: to influence (verb); emotional response (noun) effect: result (noun); to cause (verb)

aisle: space between rows isle: island

allude: to make indirect reference to elude: to avoid

allusion: indirect reference illusion: false idea, misleading appearance

already: by this time all ready: fully prepared

altar: sacred platform or place alter: to change

altogether: thoroughly all together: everyone/everything in one place

a lot: a quantity; many of something allot: to divide or portion out

angel: supernatural being, good person angle: shape made by joining two straight lines

are: plural form of "to be" our: plural form of "my"

accent: pronunciation common to a region ascent: the act of rising or climbing assent: consent, agreement

assistance: help assistants: helpers

bare: nude, unadorned bear: to carry; an animal

beside: close to; next to besides: except for; in addition

boar: a wild male pig bore: to drill a hole through

board: piece of wood bored: uninterested

born: brought into life borne: past participle of "to bear" (carry)

breath: air taken in (noun) breathe: to take in air (verb)

brake: device for stopping break: destroy; make into pieces

buy: to purchase by: next to; through the agency of

canvas: heavy cloth canvass: to take a survey; a survey

capital: major city capitol: government building

choose: to pick chose: past tense of "to choose"

clothes: garments close: to shut; near cloths: pieces of fabric

coarse: rough course: path; series of lectures

complement: something that completes compliment: praise, flattery

conscience: sense of morality conscious: awake, aware

corps: regulated group corpse: dead body

council: governing body counsel: advice; to give advice

dairy: place where milk products are processed diary: personal journal

descent: downward movement dissent: disagreement

dessert: final, sweet course in a meal desert: to abandon; dry, sandy area

device: a plan; a tool or utensil devise: to create

discreet: modest, prudent behavior discrete: a separate thing, distinct

do: a verb indicating performance or execution of a task dew: water droplets condensed from air due: as a result of

dominant: commanding, controlling dominate: to control

die: to lose life; one of a pair of dice dye: to change or add color

dyeing: changing or adding color dying: losing life

elicit: to draw out illicit: illegal, forbidden

eminent: prominent imminent: about to happen

envelop: to surround (verb) envelope: container for a letter (noun)

everyday: routine, commonplace, ordinary (adj.) every day: each day, succession (adj. + noun)

fair: just, honest; a carnival; light skinned fare: money for transportation; food

farther: at a greater (measurable) distance further: in greater (non-measurable) depth

formally: conventionally, with ceremony formerly: previously

forth: forward fourth: number four in a list

gorilla: animal in ape family guerrilla: soldier specializing in surprise attacks

hear: to sense sound by ear here: in this place

heard: past tense of "to hear" herd: group of animals

hoard: a hidden fund or supply, a cache horde: a large group or crowd, swarm

hole: opening whole: complete; an entire thing

human: relating to the species homo sapiens humane: compassionate

its: possessive form of "it" it's: contraction for "it is"

knew: past tense of "know" new: fresh, not yet old

know: to comprehend no: negative

later: after a time latter: second one of two things

lead: heavy metal substance; to guide led: past tense of "to lead"

lessen: to decrease lesson: something learned and/or taught

lightning: storm-related electricity lightening: making lighter

loose: unbound, not tightly fastened lose: to misplace

maybe: perhaps (adv.) may be: might be (verb)

meat: animal flesh meet: to encounter mete: to measure; to distribute

medal: a flat disk stamped with a design meddle: to interfere, intrude metal: a hard organic substance mettle: courage, spirit, energy

miner: a worker in a mine minor: underage person (noun); less important (adj.)

moral: distinguishing right from wrong; lesson of a fable or story morale: attitude or outlook usually of a group

passed: past tense of "to pass" past: at a previous time

patience: putting up with annoyances patients: people under medical care

peace: absence of war piece: part of a whole; musical arrangement

peak: point, pinnacle, maximum peek: to peer through or look furtively pique: fit of resentment, feeling of wounded vanity

pedal: the foot lever of a bicycle or car petal: a flower segment peddle: to sell

personal: intimate; owned by a person personnel: employees

plain: simple, unadorned plane: to shave wood; aircraft (noun)

precede: to come before proceed: to continue

presence: attendance; being at hand presents: gifts

principal: foremost (adj.); administrator of a school (noun) principle: moral conviction, basic truth

quiet: silent, calm quite: very

rain: water drops falling; to fall like rain reign: to rule rein: strap to control an animal (noun); to guide or control (verb)

raise: to lift up raze: to tear down

rational: having reason or understanding rationale: principles of opinion, beliefs

respectfully: with respect respectively: in that order

reverend: title given to clergy; deserving respect reverent: worshipful

right: correct; opposite of left rite: ritual or ceremony write: to put words on paper

road: path rode: past tense of "to ride"

scene: place of an action; segment of a play seen: viewed; past participle of "to see"

sense: perception, understanding since: measurement of past time; because

sight: scene, view, picture site: place, location cite: to document or quote (verb)

stationary: standing still stationery: writing paper

straight: unbending strait: narrow or confining; a waterway

taught: past tense of "to teach" taut: tight

than: used to introduce second element; compared to then: at that time; next

their: possessive form of "they" there: in that place they’re: contraction for "they are"

through: finished; into and out of threw: past tense of "to throw" thorough: complete

to: toward too: also; very (used to show emphasis) two: number following one

track: course, road tract: pamphlet; plot of ground

waist: midsection of the body waste: discarded material; to squander

waive: forgo, renounce wave: flutter, move back and forth

weak: not strong week: seven days

weather: climatic condition whether: if wether: a neutered male sheep

where: in which place were: past tense of "to be"

which: one of a group witch: female sorcerer

whose: possessive for "of who" who’s: contraction for "who is"

your: possessive for "of you" you’re: contraction for "you are" yore: time long past

commonly confused words part 2 ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[is-this-fascism]

My plan to escape homelessness. I need your help to get started before winter!

hello friends! i'm a homeless queer guy living in a tiny car. it's been like this for most of my adult life, and i'm trying to make a change! I want to convert a van into my new home! my plan involves these stages:

Stage 1: acquire a van.

while still living off donations in my car, i'm fundraising. as soon as i can afford one, i'll purchase a van. the market shows most used vans that would be suitable are around $3.5-4.5k give or take. we're already about halfway there!

I'm really hoping this stage can be complete before november, as my car is not suited to survive another winter and it could be devastating to attempt it.

Stage 2: survive winter

since winter is approaching, i'll need to quickly put insulated walls in the van and make sure i can live in it. at this point, it'll already be an upgrade to my car, but i won't be able to do much building in cold weather, so it'll just be the bare minimum i need to survive the winter.

during this time, i'll be taking measurements, drawing plans, researching appliances, and generally preparing for the build process. i'll continue fundraising to make sure i can afford all the materials and tools i'll need. i may also take care of any maintenence the van might need. i'll also clean and sell my car so i have some cash from that as well.

Stage 3: build my home!

when it gets warm enough, i'll start doing the actual build. i'll document this on video as much as i can, and post the process on my youtube channel for not only the people who helped me, but for anyone who's curious. i'll start with solar panels and an electricity system, i'll add countertops and kitchen appliances, a shower and sink with plumbing and warm water, a toilet, a real bed, lights, climate control. it'll be essentially a house on wheels, and just the right size for me!

Stage 4: whatever comes next

once i have my new home, i'll need an income. i may take a regular job to support myself at first, and that will actually be possible when i have a shower. but, i've been considering making content pretty much my whole life, and now i think i have a great chance to actually pursue that. i'll use some of the money from selling my car in stage 2 to get some basic equipment (laptop, mic, camera). i'll be posting my van build at first, and after that i'll probably start by telling stories about my time being homeless, but i'm also interested in streaming and video essays. thanks to all the generous support i've been getting from my followers and other people on the internet, i feel my opportunities are wide open!

Please consider donating to my fundraiser to help me change my life!

GFM

2115/10k

[allroseshave-their-pricks]

My roommates keep stealing my tools because they don't have any, so I'm curious

[lewismcqueen]

it ain't right, and it ain't natural.

hades!lh44 x black!reader

summary: you return to the underworld after six months above ground, and are met with a world--and a man--that you no longer recognize. a/n: uhhh kinda freewrote here because the idea flew into my head suddenly and I just love the image of Lewis as a more reluctant but efficient ruler of the underworld who just wants his wife to love him lol. this one's angsty. haven't done that before. enjoy!

That was not six months, you thought with a huff.

It felt like only a cough and a sneeze separated you from summertime; you could've sworn you'd just had taste of well-aged dandelion wine on your lips while bathing in the sun on your own balcony a mere second ago. Now, you watched with a frown as the sky blackened overhead with the smog from your husband's sprawling factory came into view, black as the coal coming out of the mines.

The hem of your spring-green dress swish-swish-ed around your boots as you stepped off the train, the clanging of mine workers' tools getting louder and louder the closer you got to your destination. The chill of incoming winter already began to nip at your skin, making you pull your white fur coat tightly around yourself. You ran the pending conversation with the man through your head. Something, something, production costs. Blah, blah, bottom line. The mint. The mills. You'd have to get some fruit of the vine imported if you were gonna make it through the winter.

The smell of distant smoke and fog seemed to recede as you stepped into the building, climbing the spiraling steps up to his office. That familiar frosted door window greeted you, the name HADES in bold letters painted neatly across. The glare from an electric light illuminated the name, casting an ominous glow over the door in an otherwise dim hallway. That's new, you thought.

It was unlikely that the god had arrived yet at such an hour, and he usually kept the door unlocked on the day your train rolled in every six months in some distant attempt at offering an olive branch.

"What's mine is yours," he'd said with a hint of a smile, which quickly faded when you replied flatly, "All this could never be mine."

Still, you occasionally sat in it while sipping imported moscato, the sight of factory roofs the closest thing you'd ever get to a view.

You tried the brass doorknob, which gave way to reveal a sight that nearly made you drop your suitcase. Your expression tightened.

"You're early."

"Well," your husband, dressed in a tailored velvet burgundy suit, leaned forward in his seat. He tried on a thin smile. "I've missed you."

You rolled your eyes, already about to spin on your heel to leave. "I'll be in my suite--"

"Hold on a moment," he held up a ringed hand with measured calm, but the crease between his brows suggested a bit of restlessness.

"I wanted to show you something. Come with me, I think you'll find it quite interesting."

You sighed as he rose from his seat, adjusting his lapels. He moved with a grace and quickness that used to be reserved for swing dancing, once upon a time. His feet barely made a sound as he made his way towards you, despite the hard leather dress shoes on his feet. One never heard him coming, but you could feel his presence. Like a ghost.

That's why you caught a couple of workers jump and scatter as soon as Lewis entered yet another one of his vast factory rooms with you in tow. But something was quite different about this one.

"Why's it so damn hot down here?"

Lewis was too busy proudly taking in the loud bustle of the place to notice you fanning yourself off with a grimace. He folded his hands behind his back.

"I got bored while you were away, you know. So I've built a foundry for metalworking," he looked down at you and winked. "It's as hot in here as you make me."

Standing stiffly, you didn't respond to the joke. Your gaze had been drawn to the shiny reflective mask of one worker pouring a barrel of molten liquid into a cast. It looked like a waterfall of lava cascading over black cliffs. There were thousands of these barrels, and you started to wonder if this is what mortals imagined hell to be like. Sweat had begun to gather and moisten the fabric of your dress where your armpits were, making you shift uncomfortably.

"I'd like to leave now," you said tersely. "I'm startin' to chafe."

Lewis pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he had expected this response but was disappointed nonetheless. "Alright."

For the first time, the feeling of icy wind slicing against your face was a bit of a relief as you descended the factory steps, your husband not far behind.

The steps spilled out onto a newly-laid sidewalk. The heels of your boots click-clacked against the white concrete until you stopped suddenly. You looked around, furrowing your brows as you scanned the empty street.

"Where's the carriage?"

You heard rare chuckle from Lewis as he moved past you towards a large black machine, smooth black paint reflecting bits of streetlight. It had matching leather seats and wheels much smaller than your carriage, with a steering wheel in front. He leaned on it and crossed his arms, grinning with self-assurance.

"We've done away with those. This is an automobile. It's got replaceable parts made in the factories and an engine. Instead of horses, we've got horsepower. Isn't it splendid?"

He must've noticed the way your eyes narrowed, because he got up off of the car and extended a hand towards you. You took it gingerly, allowing him to open the door to the passenger's side.

Unfortunately, you did have to admit that the ride into town was much smoother than it would've been had you taken the carriage. Of course, there were still a few horse-drawn carriages left on the streets, but you saw flashes of finely-dressed couples in vehicles identical to your husband's. Only flashes, though. Gods, everything passed by so fast in this thing.

Lewis took his foot off of the gas and began to cruise once you entered town. You had to shield your eyes from the gawdy flashing marquees and neon signs that accosted your senses. Those definitely weren't there last winter.

You couldn't believe it--darkest time of year, and it was brighter than daylight. Not the golden sunlight that you would bring back with you in six months time, but a cold, headache-inducing mockery. Lewis drove one-handed now, his left arm hanging leisurely outside of the vehicle. His satisfied smile as he pulled over in front of a movie theater created a spark of rage within you. Did he think you'd be impressed by this?

"Is there a carnival happenin' down here that I don't know about?" you remarked with a scowl.

"Laid down a power grid, now the whole town's got electricity. Can you imagine it? Light in the pitch-black wintertime, 24/7!"

He turned to you with a look in his eyes that you hadn't seen in a long, long time. Wonder. It used to make them sparkle back when he would show you his plans, the factories a mere idea on parchment paper. Your expression softened, if not only a tiny bit.

"Don't see why it ought to be as bright as day in the evening."

Lewis' face fell, and you felt a faint pang in your chest. "Well, my guys work well into the night. It's more convenient--"

"It's unnatural," you snapped. "And it's givin' me a headache. Take me home, Lewis."

He spoke more carefully now. "I just...thought you might like it if it wasn't so dark all the time."

"You thought wrong."

"Come now, a bit of extra light couldn't possibly be that bad." Irritation had begun to seep into his voice now, but you couldn't help but go on arguing.

"It damn sure could be, the way I see it. Light ought to come from the sky--"

"I did all of this for you, Persephone!"

A few heads turned at the sudden outburst, his voice wavering at the tail-end of the sentence. He sighed, suddenly very interested in staring at the floor of the car and messing with his signet ring, solid gold with a blood-red ruby in the middle.

Then he continued more quietly, "It gets lonely, waiting for you. Then when you finally return, you manage to make me even lonelier. It's very impressive."

You turned away, massaging your temples. "Just take me home, Lewis."

He placed a hand on the wheel before pausing.

"I will, but tell me this one thing. What have I got to do to get you to look at me? To speak to me? You know I'd give you anything you asked for in a heartbeat. Why make it so fucking difficult?"

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the sound of horse hooves, lively chatter, and the rumble of automobiles. Whenever Lewis felt you slipping farther away from him, he built mills and factories to fill the distance. As if assembly lines of dead souls would bring you any closer. You wanted that young man you met in the garden back. The one who was so nervous on your first date that he couldn't think to do anything else but sink down onto one knee and kiss your hand. How was that so hard to figure out?

You scoffed, "It's not difficult at all. I never asked for your fancy machines, or your electricity. And I certainly didn't ask to be cooped up behind some iron wall--"

An edge crept into his voice. "That wall is there to protect you."

"Sure. And my boots have got wings that'll let me fly away."

Lewis turned to you. "Is that what you want? To fly away?"

When you turned to meet his eyes, they were glassy with hurt.

It always felt good to take a good stab at him in the moment. To say something nasty and cutting before slamming the door in his face. Now, stuck in this car, there were no doors to slam behind you or walls to separate. It was not so fun to have to watch him bleed. You sighed heavily.

"Well I don't know. I'd certainly like to fly away from," you waved a hand vaguely in the air, "This."

His expression became cold and hard before he turned his eyes to the road ahead. He said flatly, "Then I'll find someone else who won't."

You were unable to hold back a bitter laugh, unbecoming of a goddess of spring. "Good luck."

The ride back home was very quiet.

[robolvrr]

medical malpractice. ‿⁠✷｡

pharma x human! gn reader.

warnings: medical play. sharp objects. temporary blindness/sensory play.

nsfw under the cut. this is a bit darker but this is pharma we are talking about here. not enough of this rat on my feed.

"are you sure ratchet isn't available?"

the cooling bulbs shine bright in your eyes and you itch the sleeves of your uniform, gaze wavering between the flawlessly polished floors and an elaborate monitor with a screen that easily dwarfed you lengthwise.

the fucker doesn't speak for an uncomfortable five seconds. you are convinced he purposefully does this just to have the pleasure of your wariness wither.

"yes, my dear. he has far more pressing matters than a simple organic check-up. i do apologize if my cycles of experience in this profession is.. lacking for your standards."

his back is all you see when your face twists, mouth slack as you struggle to seek a response.

sarcasm must be a species thing. almost every cybertronian on this ship seems to have a snippy remark.

"it's not that."

you don't know how to describe it. pharma is sardonic and precise. the crew members don't seem to have too negative of an opinion as his performance precedes his mannerisms.

when he first laid optics on you, there was a tiny voice in the back of your head that itched.

he did not share the warmth of his companions. granted, it was not as if you were adored by all mechs — plenty still had their reservations of allowing such an easily harmed creature aboard on a personal journey that they could not even hope to relate to.

however, unlike the other medics, you felt trapped under his leer. vivisected no matter the layers of insulation and nylon hiding flesh that blazed under unrelenting attention.

he never strayed far from your thoughts after that introduction. you can hear his croon at night and see those genuine, icy stares when you close your eyelids to toss and turn to sleep.

he's dangerous.

no one shows to share your beliefs. you don't speak of them out of fear of alienation. he triggers your survival instincts so strongly it starts to make you angry, because he hadn't done anything to warrant the disapproval.

he's a voyeur to your discomfort. sooner or later, you learn his subtle language and realize he's pleased.

you make efforts to avoid him. it's easy, given your skills don't overlap with his duties. you're just an engineer and more than half of the technology they possess is outside your education. you forget about his stalking frame and find members that treat you nice, treat you gentle.

this very situation is nightmarish.

"distracted, little dove?"

a yelp leaves your lips. his helm is eerily close and his smug smile remains firm on his dermas. you're so alarmed you don't notice the velcro round a forearm until he clasps the straps, tight.

the iv bag is clear. you breathe shakily.

"please keep in mind i do have your best interests in consideration."

"... just get on with it, doctor."

he hums, doesn't react to the bite. his digits graze your elbow. when did he yank up your sleeve? goosebumps freckle up your skin and he pinches.

consideration. the gravity of that word sinks in the pit of your gut. too easy to miscontrue.

"i understand your.. unease. alone, far from home, far from your own kind. under the scrutiny of what you cannot predict."

the medical stretcher slowly creaks back. the rusty pop of cogs startled you. a giant light nearly hides his calm demeanor, just the shadow of himself and a halo of sterile white behind him.

the electricity sparkling in your veins runs blood hot. faint beeping climbs in measure — you assume the thumping pattern of your heartbeat is what that is.

suddenly, your mouth is coaxed open.

metal - tool and him - slide across your tongue in a practiced sweep. it clinks against your canines and molars, scraping inner cheek until you feel just shy of pink, sticky sinew shredding.

a swab is after. it isn't rough but far from tender. this is no lollipop ending appointment and you become faintly aware of a chemical stench starting to waft around your vicinity.

"healthy. teeth all accounted for. funny, how these bones work. brainstorm had spoken to me about ah, what is it called for you. cavities. fascinating, your inner workings aren't close in nature and yet it can poison you, just by chance. find that small, plump heart and send it right into failure."

this conversation tinges dreadful again. you make a protesting noise that careens into a groan before he shushes you, sifting through equipment. having him in your mouth has your jaw throb sore.

"yes, yes, i know, keep it quick. while we are on the subject of brainstorm however i want to be frank. he has assisted me in creating a method to better examine your parts. you're just so.. fragile. small. i would hate to hurt you."

".. and what exactly does that entail?", you whisper dubiously, twitching at the thought of anything from brainstorm being near you in a ten mile radius.

he laughs.

"well", you blink and he is still difficult to see with all the lights and proximity, something wet and slimy dropping in both of your eyes. you squirm with a gasp and go to rub out of nature. he stops you.

"it's difficult to explain on your terms. but it's dropped into your eyes. microscopic cameras are effortlessly mixed with the solvent. it'll adapt to the shape. almost like a thin casing. it connects to my screen aaaand.."

you can't see. confusion driving the monitor to grow louder and louder.

"you put fucking cameras in my eyes? wh— what?! i can't fucking see! does ratchet know-"

"ratchet is not here. i suggest you find your bearings before you scare yourself to death, dear."

he sounds unapologetic. you fully drift to panic and think about the crawling sensation around sclera, unsure where your imagination and reality separate.

pharma sounds distant. this very room is almost closing in and your senses heighten in natural hopes to extend your survival.

his voice is charming and thick with something you can't identify. whispers hot in your ear. a cut has been made.

"excellent, little one."

this is torture.

one by one, the pain of an incision you can't even detect when it was sliced sutured with practical movements. unwoven, stitched again. you start to huff.

thumb catches moisture. you hear a rumble and it isn't the ship engines, it's him.

"just what else can the human body do?"

your throat closes up.

"how much could you take, hm? i simply want to know. there is no... allure of a broken body. perhaps in a dream. perhaps in my fantasies."

in and out, you fade. body trembling, hair sweaty on your forehead. he is an issue you cannot solve.

"perhaps, perhaps."

------------------------

"how did the examination go?"

ratchet doesn't pull from his work. the gruffness and bitter edge you have learned to navigate and know his inquiry is made out of concern, not forced.

"i... fine, i think. i can't remember."

ratchet keeps working, though his pace has slowed.

"... mm."

[backwardshatnick]

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗋𝗍

in which chris helps you with your vanity table before becoming a human canvas.

pairing: bsf!chris x bsf!reader wc: 2.1k notes: fluff, friends to (potential???) lovers, kissing, clueless!chris who enjoys being teased by reader. inspired by this post by @sunrisemill (thank you 😇🎀) [divider credits to: @uzmacchiato]

It was a cool Saturday morning when Chris arrived at your house, the bright blue sky not filtering the sunlight as it casted its cool glow throughout the living room when you opened the door to let him in.

“You’re late,” you teased, an eyebrow raised while your head gestured towards the half-assembled vanity table in the corner of the room. The said corner was indeed a mess, white wooden bars strewn everywhere, nuts and bolts of varying sizes scattered like confetti on a kid’s birthday party and electrical appliances and other affiliated tools put on one side where they were likely to block someone’s way.

Chris shrugged, “I know, I know. Sorry, kid. I got chased by some bull terrier called Buster on my way here so I really had to stop by the shops to get some… motivational comfort snacks. They’re for your parents too if they’re home,” he grinned with a shy smile, holding up a bag of pickled onion-flavoured crisps and a large bottle of Pepsi.

You rolled your eyes and laughed but soon turned your back to the vanity pieces that were laid across the floor, “You’re the worst. But okay, fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

He made a promise to you a week ago that he would come by your house and help you assemble the vanity table that you had been gushing over for weeks arrives, saying that it would be “good practice for his masculinity and chivalry and gallantry” and “to prove to Nick and Matt that he wasn’t the thot daughter that he is.”

“When they know that I did this, they will know what to pay. Those dicks,” you remember him saying with an eyeroll, fingers cracking open a can of Pepsi before chugging it in large sips.

And so, when the UPS guy who finally came ringing your doorbell with a comically large box in hand passed the package to your dad, you were eager to text Chris and let him know that the time for him to shine has finally come.

The both of you had spent the next hour putting the table together, screwing each nail in their designated spots, tightening every rivet that could potentially be loose and making sure that each wooden planks were fastened according to their measurements. But of course it was not done without Chris muttering every now and then about the confusing Ikea manuals and their doodles alongside you making occasional sarcastic and mocking commentaries about his lack of handyman skills. Despite the sporadic hiccups though, the both of you made a good team and had managed to get the job done. The white vanity table looked exquisite and sleek, the golden handles accompanying the cream drawers, the large mirror encompassed with also gold embellishments and the smooth white wood reflected the sunlight in just the right places.

You both stepped back to admire your creation, knees and hands covered in a mixture of sawdust and sweat.

“We’re like professional furniture builders now,” Chris nodded, his right hand bearing the weight of his frame as he rested it on his right hip.

“Absolutely,” you agreed, though your attention quickly shifted to the ginormous pile of makeup that you had placed on the coffee table, “but we still have this to organise though.”

His eyes looked like they were to pop out of his head, looking at the sheer amount of lipsticks, eyeliners and what seemed like pouches and pouches of makeup brushes that were stacked within each other, “Well, let’s move this table to your room first so we don’t struggle with carrying it full afterwards.”

Chris sat on the edge of your bed, watching you tread to and fro the table and the box of makeups, pulling open drawers and sorting through lipsticks, lipglosses, lip tints and other paraphernalia. You were meticulous, carefully arranging each item by colour, shade and type with their own intention and purpose, and Chris found himself more intrigued than he had expected seeing you in your current element.

“You really love makeup, huh?” Chris asked, leaning forward a little, “How come I never see you wear the fun-coloured ones, though?”

You paused in your activity and glanced at him with a playful smug etched on your lips, “Well, who’s the boy who loves to rush me when we go for our weekly alphabetical movie nights? I mean, it’s more than just makeup, you know? To me, personally at least, I am my own human canvas so I just self-express my emotions on myself. It’s fun. It’s like art and it’s a nice way to relax.”

He raised an eyebrow as his intrigue multiplied.

“It seems like a lot of work, but I respect the art and effort put into it.”

“Maybe,” you replied with a shrug, “But if you’re willing to be my human canvas, I could show you the magic behind it.”

The silence shared between the two of you was marked by Chris’ hesitation, but there was just something in your eyes that he noticed, something that was twinkling with a glimmer of something playful and daring.

“Fine,” he chuckled as he dragged his pointer finger across his jawline, “do your best on this chiseled face.”

You blew him a raspberry in reply, but soon rubbed your hands together in a villain-like manner when you caught a glimpse of the bunch of brushes and foundations and concealers which were conveniently placed next to each other.

You went to your bed where he was seated, placing a palm and prodding Chris’ face, you said, “Well, your skin is all pretty and smooth, except for this scruff that you have going on, but I wouldn’t want to disturb it ‘cause I know you’ve been wanting to grow that beard. Do you mind if we play with the lipsticks instead?”

“Girl,” he answered in a tone imitating Nick’s, “just do whatever you like. I’m your human canvas, remember?”

A giggle escaped your lips as you reached out for a lip primer, “Okay, okay. First, we will start with this primer and I’m gonna use a this rounded brush to apply it. It’s gonna feel a bit cold though but it will help making sure that your lipstick stays put.”

You squeezed out the primer from the beige tube onto the brush, a small pea-sized amount now on it and went in to apply it over his lips in soft and gentle taps. Chris could feel the velvety texture gliding smoothly against his skin until he stuck his tongue out of curiosity to lick the primer.

“Chris!”

“What?” he innocently asked, batting his eyes all child-like, “I am just curious… This shit tastes awful. It’s like a stale burnt kiwi skin, minus the hair.”

You couldn’t hold your laughter, “You’ve eaten that before, haven’t you?”

“...No.”

“Right,” you said, still dubious but not wanting to waste time, you pulled open the top drawer of the vanity and took a bright terracotta lipstick from the collection, “This is my holy grail lipstick and I wear it often. It has this brick red shade and it’s called Sandstorm.”

“Like the song by Darude!” Chris laughed out in amusement, “This is actually going really fun. Tell me more.”

“Okay, okay,” you chuckled, fishing through the drawer until you found a deep, but bold plum lip cream, “I think this one might suit you. Rose French Toast Lipaholic. It’s bold and it’ll really pop on your skin.”

Chris was not confident on how he felt about the colour yet, but his curiosity made him sit still. You uncapped the lip cream and twisted it, revealing the rich mauve shade and with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times, started carefully applying it onto Chris’ cushiony bottom lip before moving onto the top, where his cupids bow was beautifully prominent. The cool sensation coming from the lip cream made him shiver, but your delicate touch made him relax as you continued to gently swipe the bright colour across his lips, each layer thin but vibrant until the shade was equally distributed and symmetrically framing Chris’ mouth.

When you were finished, you voiced out a question, soft but full of concern and attention, “How do you feel?”

He pursed his lips together before puckering them and looking at himself through the vanity’s mirror, “Strange, but it’s not bad as I thought. I feel fabulous.”

“Yay! Okay, so let’s try this other colour then. Midnight Cherry Kisses, kinda looks like blood but you know, we’re getting creative,” you murmured, wiping off the previous lip products that you applied to replace them with a new one. You repeated the same process, primer then moving on with the lip tint using the applicator that it had as you applied a thick layer onto his lips. The texture was a lot more pronounced this time and it clung on his lips a lot more, and as you were working on it, Chris seemed to have found himself mesmerised by your focus.

You leaned in slightly as he had moved his head backwards, the tips of your fingers now grazing his stubble on his chin to adjust the angle of his face. The closeness of your presence sent a strange electric feeling coursing through him. Not sure if it was the coolness of the makeup on his lips or was it the warm minty breath coming from you, or if it was something else, something quieter and more familiar, but Chris was definitely sure that his heart started to beat a little faster.

Once you were done with the lip cream, you were tempted to layer it with a shiny gloss and thus took a plain tube of it, tapped a small amount onto your fingertip and started dabbing it onto his lips which were now glossy and almost mirror-like.

“Perfect. You look like you just stepped straight out of a makeup shoot. Just drop dead gorgeous.”

Chris was staring at his reflection through the mirror, his teeth showing as he tried out different poses with the freshly painted red lip. That was until he met your gaze, looking at you in a way that felt different. There was an intimacy in the way he stared at you with his blue orbs, as if it bore something more than just friends.

Without even thinking, he turned back and leaned in, closing the distance between the both of you and kissed you. It was not rushed nor awkward, but was slow, tentative and emotional, as if he had finally allowed himself to feel what he had hidden through his words, jokes and even smiles and stares. You did not even feel the need to pull back, but instead respond to it as if it was a question that desperately had to be answered, the satisfaction of finally being permitted to act upon your feelings gave you a drive to proceed with the kiss.

When the both of you finally pulled back, faces still close and breath mingling in between, you rested your fingers on his sharp jaw when you could hear the pounding of Chris’ heart as you looked into the fiery ocean in his ironically warm stare.

You whispered, voice barely above a breath with lips tinged in a pale ruby hue, “I’ve fucking liked you for God knows how long.”

Chris smiled and this time gently brushed your cheek with his own hand, “And I think I’ve always known that it would one day reciprocate.”

He leaned in once again, this time with absolute certainty of something new and exciting unfolding between the both of you, basking in the new fervour of knowing that you had felt the same way too. As you had parted away from him, you both sat in silence for a moment, still absorbing the shift in the relationship.

“So now what?” you blushed, lips curved into a soft smile.

Chris once more grinned wider than he had done, if it was even possible, his hand finding yours to gently rub his thumb across the back of your hand, “Well, first, we finish arranging your makeup stuff. Then, we can figure out the rest.”

“Sounds perfect,” you laughed, fingers now lacing with his, “Thank you so much, Chris.”

The air surrounding the both of you was a lot more intense, but in a good way. The room felt charged with a possibility of laughter that makes everything better, a future that you both knew will be filled with new experiences and new lip products of varying shades which all had flourished and will continue to blossom simply from the seed of being more than just friends.

tags: @vanteguccir

[noorvell]

Holdfast

pairing: Jackson!Joel x F!Reader

summary: Joel works quietly beside you, his hands shaping something steady while your fingers trace uncertain curves. In the space between touch and silence, love lingers.

The studio smells of kiln heat and sawdust—sharp, mineral, earthy. It’s a scent that’s settled into you now, soaked into your skin and clothes, a fragrance that no longer belongs only to you, but to this shared space. The air hangs heavy with it, mingling with faint traces of cedar and damp clay, like the room itself breathes and remembers every shape you’ve coaxed from its raw materials.

This place hasn’t been built all at once, like some tidy studio with polished surfaces and labels. No—it has grown around you both, slowly, like a wild thing claiming territory. Walls layered in tools you don’t remember sorting, shelves bowing under the weight of unfired clay and cedar offcuts, stacks of sketches curling at the edges, a scatter of brushes left to dry. Each object tells a story, or at least a habit, a memory you both share even when unspoken.

You breathe it in deeply, letting it root you here, in this cluttered room that has folded itself around you both like a slow, deliberate embrace. It’s not pristine or designed; it’s lived-in, layered with quiet history. The walls sag slightly with weight—tools hung on nails you don’t remember hammering in, shelves bowing under the quiet pressure of ungainly piles of unfired clay, crooked stacks of cedar boards, and the scattered detritus of unfinished things.

Morning light spills through the windows in long, lazy ribbons, tracing a golden path across the workbench, where a curl of wood and a half-thrown bowl rest frozen mid-creation. Joel’s hand lingers on the spine of a carving knife, still, like it’s waiting for something—waiting for you.

You sit cross-legged near the corner, your elbow dusted with slip, the faint grit of drying clay rough against your skin. A shallow bowl lies beside you, drying unevenly on purpose, its imperfect shape a quiet act of rebellion against order and expectation. Your thumb moves slowly over the curve you coax from the wet clay, focused, measured. You don’t look up, but you sense his gaze—watching, waiting.

You wonder, for a moment, what he sees when he looks at you like that. Is it the same mix of irritation and something softer that you feel when you look at him?

There’s a particular kind of closeness in being annoyed by someone who knows how you take your tea without asking. A warmth disguised as eye-rolls. You tell yourself it’s just the way he always leans in with one elbow when he’s carving—like the world can wait for his hands to finish. That it’s just the way his voice drops half a register when he asks you if you’re tired, and you know he means more than sleep.

There’s something intimate about this—the space between you where no words are needed. Not the charged kind of intimacy people talk about, but something older, quieter. A kind of knowing built from repetition, from choosing to stay. The soft sound of your fingers shaping wet clay, the rasp of his knife over woodgrain. The faint, steady churn of the pedal-powered wheel as you press your foot down in rhythm. You refuse the electric one he offered you months ago—not out of stubbornness, not really. It’s about control. It’s about the resistance. The way your body meets the wheel, engages with it. The way the motion answers you. You like that it requires effort, that it pushes back.

And he likes that you like it. You’ve never said that out loud, and neither has he, but you both know. It’s there in the way he keeps it oiled. In the way he watches your foot on the pedal when he thinks you’re not looking.

He wipes his hands on a rag and leans back in his chair, his spine groaning slightly against the old wood. You don’t look up, but you feel the shift in the air as his attention moves—like the gravity in the room subtly realigns. You hear the pause before his next breath, the slow turn of his head as his eyes catch on the shelf above you both. The mugs.

Your mugs.

Thrown quick, deliberately imperfect. Thin in places where they shouldn’t be, warped lips and slanting handles that don’t sit quite right. But there’s a truth in them. Something honest about the way they fail to conform. They lean and wobble and refuse symmetry, and you like them that way. You trust things more when they’re a little off. You trust yourself more when you allow it.

His own pieces are nowhere to be seen—at least not by his design. He keeps them tucked away in drawers, crates beneath the bench, behind cabinet doors he never quite closes. As if he’s unsure whether they’re finished. As if hiding them makes them safer.

But you know where they are.

You’ve seen them all. Lifted each one into the light with the kind of reverence he pretends to hate. They are, in their own way, astonishing—perfect in the way only things made with absolute focus can be. His hands carve what his mouth won’t say: an owl mid-turn, feathers detailed to the vane; a wild horse, frozen in the strain of its rear legs; the muscular coil of a cowboy astride a bull, hat caught in the moment before flight. He never gives them names. Never calls them art. Just shrugs and says, “Keeps me busy.”

There are hands, too. Half-carved, emerging from blocks like something unfinished trying to speak. You always pause at those the longest.

And then the other things—quieter things. A bowl, small and square-edged, shaped to sit beside your mugs on the shelf. A slender ring of bent wood, sanded soft, to hang the ceramic flower charm you’d made from leftover glaze. No flourish. No signature. Just utility dressed in care.

You know he keeps them hidden not out of modesty, but out of something older, tighter in the chest. Like they are too much. Like if he looks too long, they’ll say something he isn’t ready to hear.

But you take them out.

Every time.

You dust them off and set them on the shelves that line the studio walls, nestle them into the bookcase where your notebooks and glaze samples live. A quiet act of defiance. Or faith. Maybe both. You never ask permission. You just do it. And he never stops you.

There’s something sacred in that rhythm, the way you undo each other's secrecy without fanfare. He stores. You display. He retreats. You witness.

And still—your own pieces remain crooked. Intentionally so. Glazes that run, handles that tilt like crooked teeth, lips that lean toward the light instead of staying level. Your mugs don't match. They were never meant to. You call them a family—strange, stubborn, misshapen—and love them harder for it.

Where his are flawless in silence, yours are flawed in defiance. And still, somehow, they find one another. Your cup, his bowl. His carved spoon left on your wheel. The way your flower charm hangs from the ring he whittled for it.

That contrast—it means something. A balance you don’t talk about but feel in your bones.

Because the truth is: you make imperfect things to prove you’re still healing. And he makes perfect ones to hold himself together.

And in the space between your mug and his matching bowl, your cracked glaze and his precise carving, is the quiet understanding that you’ve both survived something. That survival is an art form too.

Your foot lifts from the pedal. The wheel slows. The shape beneath your hands has taken form without you quite realizing it—slumped slightly to one side, heavy-bottomed, the curve imperfect. You run a thumb along the edge, smoothing it, not fixing it. Just… accepting. Beside you, the scrape of his blade pauses, and you hear him shift again, folding the rag between his palms.

He clears his throat like he might say something, then doesn’t. You don't push. You both know how to live inside the unsaid.

But what he evokes in you is not silence. Not really.

It’s pressure. It’s pause. It's that strange alertness you only get when you’re near something that could hurt you, if you let it—but also might not. That might hold. That might last. It’s the way you catch yourself listening for his breath when he’s quiet. The way you feel steadier when he’s nearby, and how that steadiness unsettles you.

Because you’re not used to being witnessed this gently.

You can still feel the weight of his eyes on the shelf above your head, as if by looking at the mugs, he’s looking at you. Not the version you offer the world, but the one who works in uneven lines, who forgets symmetry, who builds crooked things and calls them beautiful because she had to learn to love her own faults that way. He never asks you to explain. Never offers to “help.” Just keeps carving, keeps showing up, keeps filling the silence without crowding it.

Joel leans forward in his chair, scraping the edge of a wooden spindle with the blade, lazy and precise, the rasp a low hum beneath the stillness. “That thing gonna stand straight?” he asks, voice rough but casual, not looking up.

You don’t smile, not exactly. Your mouth twitches in that way it does when you’re pretending not to be amused—an almost-smile, half-hidden. “It’s supposed to.”

He hums low in his throat, a sound of disbelief and amusement tangled together. “Supposed to and gonna are two different animals.”

“And yet it always bothers you more than it bothers me.”

He pauses in his carving, just long enough to let the silence stretch between you like a thread pulling taut. “You make things crooked on purpose just to piss me off, don’t you?”

You reach for the wire cutter and don’t answer, letting the quiet hold its weight.

There’s a kind of intimacy in this space between you—not touch, not words, but a rhythm you move to together. The soft sound of your fingers shaping wet clay. The gentle rasp of his knife over woodgrain. The faint, steady churn of the pedal-powered wheel you refuse to give up, even when Joel offers to fix you an electric one.

He wipes his hands on a rag and leans back, gaze drifting to the cluster of mugs on the high shelf—yours, thrown thin and off-balance, each one a little different, a little wrong in a way that makes them right.

“Ellie passed by” He nods, flicking a thin shaving of wood from the carving knife with his thumb. “Dropped off some dried herbs from the greenhouse. Called you ‘Queen of the Mugs.’”

You snort softly, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your fingers trail over the uneven rim of the shallow bowl beside you, feeling the gritty slip still drying there. “That’s not even a title. That’s a threat.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, the sound rough but warm, like worn leather softened over years. He leans forward, tapping the handle of his knife rhythmically against the spindle, sending faint echoes across the room. “She’s right, though. You’ve got too many. There’s like… a whole army of them. We could arm the whole town with ceramic weapons if we needed to.”

You lift your gaze to the mugs clustered on the high shelf, fingers lingering on the curve of a particularly thin-walled cup, its glaze crazed and cracked in a way that makes it feel alive. “I’ve seen your drawer, Joel.”

He shrugs, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he adjusts his grip on the knife. “That’s different.”

You tilt your head, tracing the grain of the wood on the workbench with a fingertip, watching the fine curls of shavings pile up at his feet. “It’s not. You’ve whittled seventeen spoons.”

He glances at you, eyes twinkling with a mix of mock offense and pride. “They’re useful.”

You laugh quietly, watching as he carefully lifts one of the spoons, holding it up to the light like a delicate bird’s wing. “You made one shaped like a bird.”

“That one’s decorative,” he replies with a smirk, spinning the spoon between his fingers like a small treasure.

You finally look at him—really look—the way you always do when teasing stops just short of tenderness. Your gaze lingers on his hands, rough from years of carving and work, steady and sure despite the knots beneath the skin. “You like having your things next to mine.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts in the chair, then looks down at the wood in his hands like it might offer him a way out of the moment. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Joel shifts in the chair, the blade pausing against the spindle mid-stroke. You don’t look up, but you feel it—the way his attention slides off the thing in his hands and lands somewhere over your shoulder. He squints slightly. You can hear it in the silence: the tilt of his head, the subtle weight of a breath pulled through his nose.

“You moved ’em again,” he says finally.

You press your thumb into the clay just a little too hard, feel it give under the pressure, a small collapse on one side of the bowl. You don’t fix it.

“I like them where I can see them.”

He hums—not disapproving, not quite. Just that low gravel sound he makes when he’s chewing on a thought he won’t spit out yet.

You know which ones he’s staring at. The horse, probably. Maybe the owl. You placed them high on the middle shelf this time, between a small coil pot and a row of your older mugs, the ones with the warped bases and glazes that pooled like dried blood near the rim. You liked the contrast. Thought it said something truer than symmetry ever could.

Joel leans forward, elbows on knees, hands loose between them.

“They’re not finished,” he says, not to argue, just to explain.

You glance at him. “Then why do they look like they are?”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. Just watches the way your hands move, slow and certain again, smoothing over the bowl’s ruined edge like it was always meant to be there. He’s seen that before—in the way you treat broken things. Not just clay, but people too. The stubborn reverence. The refusal to toss what could still be held.

“Because you keep putting ’em out,” he mutters, half to himself.

You smile, but not with your mouth. Just a soft exhale through your nose, a pause in the rhythm of your thumb along the curve. The wheel’s slowed now to a near-stop. The clay still glistens, heavy and wet. The kind of imperfection you can’t take back.

He reaches for the rag again, wiping his hands clean even though there’s nothing left to wipe. You can feel the question behind his silence, the way it flutters just beneath his ribs like a bird that never settles.

You decide to let him sit with it.

“I know you don’t like people seeing what you make,” you say, soft now. “But I do.”

Joel shifts again, not quite restless—just uncertain. He scratches behind his ear like he’s trying to work the discomfort out through muscle.

“They’re not supposed to mean anything,” he says.

And maybe they don’t. Maybe the cowboy, the bull, the hands—maybe none of them carry the weight he thinks you’re assigning. Maybe they’re just the shape his mind makes when it’s quiet. But you don’t believe that. Not really.

You reach for the wire cutter and draw it through the base of the bowl, lifting it clean from the wheel. The bottom’s a mess—slumped too far on one side. You don’t care. You place it beside his spoon on the bench like it belongs there.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything to you,” you say. “Still does to me.”

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t argue either.

He just leans back, gaze drifting again toward the shelf, toward the horse mid-lunge, the owl mid-turn. You can almost feel it—the quiet war happening in him, the tug between wanting to be unseen and wanting to be known.

“You even dusted ’em,” he mutters.

You reach for another lump of clay. “You’re welcome.”

And something in his face softens—barely—but enough.

He doesn’t say thank you. He never does. But when he gets up a minute later, it’s to take one of the drawers from beneath the bench, set it on the table near you, and begin sorting through the things inside. Quiet, deliberate, as if maybe—just maybe—he’s going to leave one out this time. Maybe he won’t put it back.

And maybe that’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to offer.

You don’t notice it at first. Not really. You’re too caught in the rhythm of your hands, the way the clay gives under your palm like muscle, like breath. The studio is still warm—kiln heat still clinging to the walls, dust rising lazy in the sunlight that slips through the slats. Outside, the wind shifts through high branches. Inside, the silence has settled into something companionable.

It’s only after a few minutes that you realize he hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t moved from his chair, either. Not really. Just sat there, leaning slightly forward, one foot braced, the other loose. His hands are working—but not the way they were before.

You glance sidelong. His carving knife has changed angles. Smaller now, precise. He’s not shaping a spindle anymore. The block in his hand is new—soft-grain pine, not the hardwood he usually favors. His wrist moves in a tight arc, the blade drawing slow lines along the edge.

He’s not rushing. In fact, he’s being almost absurdly deliberate.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just let your gaze drift back to the spinning clay as your fingers press the lip of the bowl inward, folding it gently toward itself. The shape is a little off. The curve too sharp on one side. You leave it that way. A little off is closer to true.

The sound of the knife against wood is different when he carves like this. Less scraping, more whispering. The soft rhythmic hush of effort he’s trying not to show. Every so often, he pauses—brushes his thumb over what he’s made so far. Then picks up again.

You let it draw on. You know this rhythm. It’s the same one he falls into when something is for you. He never says so outright. But there’s a kind of tell, in the stillness. In the way he breathes through his nose like he’s trying not to feel too much.

Eventually, curiosity tugs your eyes back to the shape forming in his hand. It’s small. Thin. No moving parts. Just a wedge of wood, carved to a gentle point, notched through the middle with a deep groove. You know what it is before he’s finished—but only because you’ve used one before. Years ago. Back when you still thought of reading as rest instead of retreat.

A page holder. The kind that fits over your thumb so a book stays open in your lap.

You feel your chest go still.

He’s never seen you use one. But he’s seen the need. The way you curl yourself around books like you’re trying to disappear into them. The way your elbow sometimes slips when sleep finds you too fast. The way your fingers ache after holding something open for too long in the cold.

It’s not the sort of thing someone notices, unless they’re looking close. Unless they’re always looking.

He finishes the first pass and sets the knife down, rubbing his thumb along the inside of the notch. His callused hands make it seem effortless, but you know better. That curve didn’t just happen. He coaxed it out, a fraction at a time, with the same steady patience he uses on jammed hinges, on dented toolboxes, on people.

Then he reaches for sandpaper—his coarsest first, then finer—and begins the slow work of smoothing each edge. His fingers darken slightly with resin. He blows the dust off every few minutes, but it keeps settling back, as if the thing is resisting its final form.

You don’t stop working—but you slow.

Your eyes stay on your clay, but your attention lingers sideways, circling him like a tide that won’t leave.

He wipes the piece clean. Rotates it once, twice. Frowns a little at one corner, takes it back to the blade for one more pass. Then finally—finally—he nods to himself, not with pride, just quiet satisfaction. Like it’ll do.

He places it on the table beside your bowl, in that quiet, unceremonious way he always sets down things that mean too much. His hand hovers a moment before pulling back.

You glance at it, and then at him.

“For your thumb,” he mutters. “So you don’t have to fight the damn thing every night while it’s trying to close on you.”

You stare at the holder. Pale wood. Edges beveled so finely you almost can’t feel them. The groove is deep but narrow, made to cradle a page without creasing it. It’s elegant, but not fussy. Not a gift, exactly. More like an understanding, carved into form.

You reach for it slowly, like touching it too fast might make it disappear.

Your thumb slips through the curve. Perfect fit.

Your voice catches in your throat, but you speak anyway. “How’d you know?”

Joel shrugs, reaching for the rag again, always fidgeting when words want to settle.

“Saw you once,” he says.

A pause. Then, quieter—like the memory makes him feel something he’s not ready to look at too directly:

“Actually—most nights. When you’re trying to read in bed. Think you forget I’m still awake.”

Your breath stills, just slightly.

“You’ve got the book jammed open with your knee,” he goes on. “Elbow under your head, spine bent sideways like some kind of pretzel. One hand trying to keep the page from closing, the other poking at the blanket like it’s in your way. You keep trying to shift without waking me. Always look like you’re in a fight you’re pretending not to be in.”

He huffs a dry sound, almost a laugh. “Your fingers start cramping and you don’t even stop. Just frown harder like that’s gonna convince the book to behave.”

You feel the heat rise at the back of your neck. Not embarrassment. Not quite. Just that strange ache that comes from being seen in a moment you thought belonged only to yourself.

You blink, but your gaze stays on the page holder. “You were watching me?”

His reply is immediate. Quiet. Sure.

“Yeah. Of course I was.”

There’s no irony in it. No smirk. Just fact.

You glance at him then, really glance, and find him not trying to look away. He’s sitting with his hands open now, rag in his lap, expression unreadable but steady. And it strikes you that maybe this isn’t the first thing he’s made for you with this much attention—maybe it’s just the first time you’ve realized how long he’s been paying it.

You thumb the smooth notch again. The way it fits, the comfort of it, the fact that he thought of it at all—it all lands at once. Gentle. Weighted. Real.

A book page holder. A small piece of peace.

You let out a breath that sinks deep.

“Well,” you murmur, throat catching a little. “Guess I can stop wrestling the paperback every night now.”

Joel’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t quite smile. “That was getting hard to watch.”

And then, softly—quieter than the tools, the kiln, the wind outside:

“Didn’t want to fix the way you read. Just figured it might hurt less this way.”

Your heart catches somewhere under your ribs. The way he says it—it’s not just a kindness. It’s a philosophy. Letting you be crooked and coiled and stubborn, but making space for you anyway. Easing the strain, without ever asking you to change.

You nod once. Small. Grateful. Your fingers close around the holder like it’s a promise.

And in the space between you, something warm blooms—not loud, not sudden. Just steady. The kind of warmth that builds night by night, unnoticed, until it’s everywhere.

You reach for him before you quite realize you’re doing it.

Not dramatic. Not planned. Just a slow drift sideways, your body remembering the shape of him like it’s done it a hundred times in dreams you never told anyone about. You sit beside him on the old bench, the wood groaning faintly under your weight, your thigh brushing his. He doesn't move—not away, not toward you. Just stays.

The silence stretches, long and low, like the breath before rain.

Then—your hand finds his. Not tentative, not bold. Just steady. Like truth spoken under your breath.

His palm is rough, warm, callused where the carving blade lives. You let your fingers slip into his slowly, as if the moment might shift if you move too fast. He meets you there, without flinch or flourish. His fingers curl around yours with the same unthinking care he carves with—the kind that says I know this shape. I made space for it.

You turn your hand under his, lacing your fingers where they want to go, your thumb grazing lazy circles at the base of his. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. The gesture is quiet, but full. Like setting down armor. Like saying, Yes. This is where I meant to be.

Joel shifts, barely. Then exhales—low, long, like he’s let go of something he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His head tilts toward you, and then his forehead rests against yours, solid and warm. Grounding. You close your eyes. The world draws smaller. The air smells like cedar dust and clay, like heat and effort and the hush of something sacred.

This isn’t fire. It isn’t hunger.

It’s anchor. It’s recognition.

When he kisses you, it’s not new—it’s just arrived. Soft. Certain. A slow press of lips that asks nothing but to stay. Your hand comes up, clay-dried and cooled, and cups the back of his neck, thumb at the ridge of bone behind his ear. His skin is warm. Familiar.

You lean in without hesitation, the kiss coming softly—not the sudden flare of desire, but something slower, a steady warmth pressing gently against your lips. His mouth is sure, patient, a quiet offering that doesn’t demand or rush. The weight of his hand, rough and steady, cups the back of your neck, thumb tracing the ridge of bone just behind your ear with a tenderness that surprises you. Your fingers, dusted with drying clay, rise almost instinctively to his nape, your touch cool and grounding against the heat of his skin.

The world narrows to the simple contact—lips meeting, skin pressing skin, the slight roughness of his beard tickling your palm. There’s a rhythm here, slow and deliberate, like the carving strokes he lays down with the knife: purposeful, thoughtful, intimate. You return the kiss, not out of passion but as a quiet thank you—thank you for seeing, for the care folded into the page holder he’s been making, for the patience he’s given without fanfare. It tastes faintly of sawdust and old wood, mingled with the faint scent of sun-warmed cotton and the lingering trace of his collar.

You breathe him in—familiar, steady, the scent of a life crafted from scraps and resilience. Your heart softens in the presence of this simple, unassuming connection, a fragile but unbreakable tether built from shared moments and quiet understanding.

When you pull back slightly, the space between you is warm, charged but calm. It’s not fire, not hunger—just belonging. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need words or urgency, just the gentle assurance of being exactly where you are meant to be.

You stay like that, temple pressed gently against temple, sharing the quiet rhythm of their breath—slow, deep, matching. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers curved just enough to hold you steady without pressure, a silent anchor that grounds you in the moment. You rest your palm flat against his chest, fingertips feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath rough fabric, warm and alive.

With your hand there, you sense the pulse beneath your skin, a steady beat that eases like a slow wave washing over you. Your fingers flex just so, almost unconsciously, guiding that rhythm—softening it, slowing it down, syncing it with your own breath. The subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm is a quiet assurance: here, now, you both exist in this fragile, shared stillness.

Outside, the light shifts as the sun moves, casting long, honeyed shadows across the worn bench and the scattered tools around the room. The scent of sawdust and drying clay hangs thick and warm, blending with the faint musk of his skin and the ever-present quiet hum of the pedal wheel turning somewhere just beyond the door.

Your breathing deepens, matching his, a gentle dance of in and out, a soft tether unspoken but deeply felt. Time slows, folding in on itself until nothing exists but the press of skin, the steady beat beneath your hand, and the small universe held between two people quietly learning how to be close without words.

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s full—thick with the unspoken, held lightly between you like a soft fabric draping the room. Your fingers remain entwined, the slow pulse of his hand a steady drum beneath your skin.

Minutes stretch and fold into themselves, time losing sharp edges. The faint scent of clay mingles with cedar and sawdust, the distant creak of the pedal wheel turning somewhere beyond the doorway. The light filters through the dusty windows in warm, lazy ribbons, catching on floating specks that drift like tiny stars caught in a quiet galaxy.

Then, breaking the silence, Joel’s voice comes—soft, low, a thread pulled tenderly through the stillness.

“Thank you.”

The words hang there, simple and honest, settling like dust motes in the sunlight. No need for more, for grand declarations. Just gratitude breathed into the space between you.

You squeeze his hand gently, your eyes meeting his in a quiet affirmation. The silence returns—deeper now, more complete, a calm that cradles you both like a shared secret.

Here, in this fragile stillness, you find home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: not really much to say about this, i missed Joel so here he is, all small gestures and big softness. likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated. hope you enjoy the reading, and see you next time.

[opencommunion]

I've seen a few posts circulating about the occupation cutting off electricity to hospitals, but nothing about them doing the same thing to prisons:

"The Palestinian Prisoners' Club stated that more than 5250 prisoners, including 39 female prisoners and over 170 children, are facing a real catastrophe. This follows the occupation's decision since yesterday to cut off electricity and water from some prisons, including the Naqab prison where more than 1,400 prisoners are held. The occupation also continues to close the canteen and withdraw limited food and cooking utensils used by prisoners for meal preparation. The Club confirmed that the catastrophe is escalating with the increase in arrest campaigns in the West Bank, which have targeted more than 200 prisoners since October 7th. This will inevitably lead to a significant overcrowding in detention centers, investigation centers, and prisons that receive detained prisoners. The Club stated on Thursday that raids of prisoners' sections, carried out by armed suppression forces accompanied by police dogs, are ongoing and have targeted all sections in the prisons to confiscate all prisoners' belongings, especially electrical tools. The Prisoners' Club further explained that the escalating retaliatory measures carried out by the prison administration, under the orders of the occupation's military leadership, which has been in charge of the prisons since October 7th, the day of Al-Aqsa Flood battle, have reached measures that directly affect the fate and lives of the prisoners. This comes especially after isolating the prisoners through intensified isolation measures imposed by the occupation, such as suspending visits by lawyers and families and imposing difficulties and procedures on the work of Palestinian human rights institutions." (via RNN Prisoners)

Keep in mind that in addition to criminalizing all acts of resistance, including speech, the occupation practices "administrative detention" (incarceration without trial or charge), imprisoning Palestinians—including children—simply for being Palestinian. The occupation's prisons play a key role in their genocidal strategy. Do not look away.

[rainandandy]

Bigger than the whole sky

Pairings: Rain Carradine X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Contains graphic depictions of violence, including public beatings and injuries that lead to death, themes of loss and grief, and the depiction of a harsh, dystopian environment with elements of oppression and cruelty. It also includes scenes of emotional distress, as characters witness the death of a loved one. Please read with caution.

Word Count:4209

Note: Kinda just went on with this one..... it hurt to write this and I based it off of the Gale beating scene in Hunger Games Catching Fire. Hope you enjoy (cry your heart out) with this

Life on Jackson's Star was steeped in bleakness, each day unfolding under the shadow of Weyland-Yutani's relentless control. The air was thick with dust and despair, the sky a perpetual overcast of smog that blurred the line between day and night. You, along with Rain and her brother Andy, had adapted to this harsh reality with a resilience born of necessity. Navigating through the oppressive regime required a careful balance of caution and subtle rebellion, as the omnipresent surveillance drones buzzed overhead like carrion birds waiting for a misstep.

The colony itself was a sprawling network of industrial complexes and cramped living quarters, all constructed with the cold functionality of corporate efficiency. The metallic clang of machinery and the hiss of steam were the constant backdrop to your lives, reminding you that the colony's primary function was to serve the company's interests, not the welfare of its inhabitants.

Despite the ever-present danger of being singled out by the guards for any perceived infraction, you three maintained a semblance of hope. In whispered conversations as you worked the barren fields or scavenged for parts among the debris, you shared dreams of a life beyond the company's grasp. These dreams were defiant sparks in the oppressive gloom of Jackson's Star, small but bright enough to keep the darkness at bay.

That day, as you toiled in the fields of Jackson's Star, the atmosphere was unusually tense, the air heavy with more than just the usual burdens. The rich, damp scent of freshly turned earth mingled oddly with the sharp, acrid tang of industrial exertion—a stark reminder of the unnatural union of nature and machine that characterized your existence. Clouds hung low, a somber gray canopy that seemed to press down on the landscape, intensifying the oppressive feel of the day.

The guards patrolled with heightened vigilance, their movements sharp and deliberate. Their fingers rested uneasily on the handles of their batons, twitching occasionally with a nervous energy that mirrored the electric charge of the air. Every step they took sent small shivers of apprehension through the ranks of laborers, their boots leaving deep, menacing imprints in the muddy ground.

Rain, ever the embodiment of resilience and quiet rebellion, had momentarily paused her labor. Leaning heavily on her shovel, she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her mud-streaked hand. Her chest heaved from the exertion, breaths coming in short, labored gasps that she tried to quiet, knowing all too well the dangers of displaying fatigue.

It was this moment of vulnerability, however fleeting, that drew the attention of a particularly ruthless officer. Known among the workers for his harsh discipline and cold demeanor, his eyes locked onto Rain with predatory precision. The badge on his chest seemed to gleam more fiercely under the overcast sky, a symbol of the unchecked authority he wielded. His approach was deliberate, each step measured to instill fear, his shadow falling ominously across the rows of bent backs and bowed heads.

As he drew closer, the underlying threat in his posture was unmistakable, his baton now an extension of his arm, raised not just as a tool but as a weapon of control. His presence loomed over Rain, a dark cloud in a field already devoid of sunlight, ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

The overseer's voice sliced through the humid air, a harsh interruption to the muffled cacophony of clanking tools and muted conversations of the weary workers. "Hey! No resting!" His tone was sharp, the authority in his command unwavering as his eyes fixed on Rain. With a menacing flourish, he raised his baton, the metal gleaming ominously under the harsh artificial lights of the work fields.

Rain looked up slowly, her expression unflinching, molded into a mask of steely resolve that seemed to stiffen her spine. Her hands, calloused and stained from the day's labor, clenched into fists at her sides. She met the overseer's gaze with a defiant fire burning in her eyes, her jaw set, bracing for the confrontation she knew was coming.

From just a few feet away, you witnessed the standoff, and a fierce, protective rage surged within you. The overseer’s blatant aggression, the threat looming so palpably in the air, sparked a primal defiance in your chest. Your muscles tensed, coiled springs ready to release. Without a moment’s hesitation, your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you forward.

"Leave her alone!" Your voice, loud and clear, cut through the tension like a knife. Every eye in the vicinity snapped towards you, including Rain's, which flickered briefly with something akin to worry and gratitude. The overseer turned his glare towards you, baton still raised, his expression twisting into one of surprise and then anger at your challenge.

"This doesn’t concern you," he spat, his words dripping with venom. But standing there, facing down the threat to someone you cared deeply about, you felt a steadfast resolve take root. This was your battle too, and you wouldn't back down. "She’s just catching her breath, sir," you said, your voice a calm contrast to the growing tension, trying to diffuse the situation. "We’ll get back to work right now."

The officer halted, mere inches from you, his shadow looming over you like a dark cloud. His face twisted into a sneer of outrage at your audacity to challenge him. "Double shift for you, then," he hissed venomously, his baton now lifted to emphasize his authority. The electronic hum of the baton was a clear threat as it activated, crackling with energy. "Think you can undermine me? You'll regret it."

Your heart raced as you maintained eye contact, refusing to show the fear that skittered down your spine. As the officer turned away, his message clear, you felt Rain’s hand reached out, touching your arm lightly, her expression tormented. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words seemed to catch in her throat, stifled by the oppressive atmosphere.

Seeing her distress, you turned to her, your eyes locking. It was a silent communication, filled with years of shared hardships and understanding. You shook your head slightly, a clear signal. "You’re finished for the day. Go home, I’ll manage," you murmured quietly, pushing her gently toward Andy, who stood a few steps behind, his synthetic eyes wide with a programmed concern that mirrored human fear.

"But I can help—" Rain started to argue, her voice low and urgent.

You cut her off, your tone soft but firm, "No, Rain. It’s better if you're not involved. Please, for me, just go back with Andy. Stay safe." The plea in your voice was evident, each word laced with your concern not just for your own welfare but profoundly for hers.

Rain's eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions passing through them—fear, frustration, helplessness. Finally, with a weighty exhale, Rain gave a reluctant nod. Her fingers tightened around yours, conveying a silent vow to return. "Be careful," she murmured, her words nearly whisked away by the brisk wind. She hesitated, her gaze lingering on you with a mixture of fear and resolve, before Andy gently guided her away. Even as they retreated, her eyes kept darting back to you, etching every detail into her memory, laden with palpable concern.

Rain and Andy hurried back to the sanctuary of your shared quarters, the familiarity of the space a stark contrast to the chaos of the fields. The safety of these walls, peppered with personal touches and memories of quieter times, stood as a silent testament to the life you had built together amid the harsh realities of Jackson’s Star. As the hours ticked by, Rains worry only grew.

The fleeting sense of relief vanished as the harsh chirp of the communicator shattered the tense silence. Rain's heart skipped as Tyler's voice, laden with unmistakable dread, crackled through the speaker. "Get to the square—now! They have her." The urgency in his tone sent a chill down her spine, each word heavy with a grim portent that sent them rushing into the cold, unforgiving night of Jackson's Star.

Rain and Andy raced through the oppressively dim corridors of Jackson’s Star, their boots pounding against the cold metal floor, the sound reverberating off the narrow walls, amplifying their urgency and dread. The dim lighting flickered overhead, casting ghostly shadows that danced along the walls, mimicking their frantic pace. As they emerged into the open expanse of the square, their breaths were ragged, steam rising in the chilled air, mingling with the low murmur of the gathered crowd.

The scene that unfolded before them was one of stark terror and injustice, staged in the heart of the colony under the harsh glare of floodlights. The square, usually a place of communal gathering, had transformed into a chilling tableau of authoritarian display. At its center, raised above the muttering crowd on a grim platform, stood you—your figure stark and diminished, bound tightly with rough cords that cut into your skin. The fabric of your work clothes was stained dark with blood, stark against the pale severity of your skin, lending a macabre tone to the scene.

Rain’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs, a stark contrast to the numbing coldness spreading through her veins as she caught sight of you. The captain of the patrol was there, his voice booming unnaturally loud through the speakers, reciting a list of crimes so absurd and fabricated that they would have been laughable under any other circumstance. His words sliced through the murmurs of the crowd, each one landing like a physical blow against Rain's consciousness.

"They’re going to kill her," Rain murmured, the realization slicing through her like a cold blade. Her words were barely audible, lost beneath the cacophony of the square, yet they carried the weight of an unbearable foreboding. Andy, standing steadfast by her side, reached out a hand to steady her, his own expression one of muted horror, unable to fully simulate human emotion but clearly programmed to respond with empathy.

Rain's face was ashen, the color drained as if she herself had been bled of life. Her eyes, wide and filled with a palpable terror, were fixed unblinkingly on you, witnessing the grim spectacle of the guards preparing their instruments of torture. The sight of the metallic electronic batons, glinting ominously under the artificial lights, sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

In that moment, the square felt colder than ever, the usual hum of colony life drowned out by the grave proceedings of this cruel justice. The crowd around them seemed to fade into a blur, their faces either grim or impassively curious, none daring to intervene. Rain felt a surge of helpless rage mixed with her fear, a tumultuous storm that threatened to overwhelm her senses.

The scene at the square was charged with tension and dread. The crowd that had gathered murmured and shifted on their feet, their discomfort palpable in the heavy air as the officers prepared for the beating. You stood defiantly, your back straight, jaw clenched, bracing yourself against the rough wood of the beam to which you were tied. The first blow came down hard, the sound of the baton striking you echoed through the square, a harsh clack that seemed to resonate in the chests of all who heard it.

You didn't give them the satisfaction of hearing you scream. Your teeth were gritted, each breath through them a hiss of pain and defiance. The guards, emboldened by your silence, continued with increased ferocity, each strike aimed to break your resolve.

At the edge of the crowd, Rain's face was a mask of agony. "Stop it! Just stop, please!" Her voice broke through the murmurs, shrill with fear and desperation. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms, drawing blood that dripped unnoticed to the ground. She made a move to break through the crowd, to run to you, but Tyler and Bjorn caught her by the arms, pulling her back.

"Rain, no! You can't—you’ll only get yourself killed!" Tyler hissed, trying to anchor her back with his strength.

Bjorn added in a low, urgent tone, "Look at me, Rain! We can't help her by getting ourselves killed. We have to think this through."

Rain struggled against their grip, her eyes never leaving you, witnessing each brutal blow. "They're killing her!" she screamed, her voice hoarse with terror. "We can’t just stand here and watch this happen!"

As the beating continued, each impact sending shockwaves of pain through your frame, the reality of your situation sank in deeply for everyone present. This wasn’t merely a punishment; it was a spectacle designed to quell any thoughts of defiance among the workers. Your suffering was meant to remind them of their place under the oppressive heel of Weyland-Yutani.

Bjorn's grip on Rain’s arm was iron-tight, his voice a harsh whisper in her ear, cutting through the chaos with desperate urgency. "It’s a setup," he growled, his words laced with a bitter edge of realism. "They’re pinning all types of lies on her.”

Rain's face crumpled, tears carving clean paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks. She tried to move forward, to reach you, to scream out against the monstrous injustice, but her friends held her back, knowing any further action would only lead to more tragedy. "Please," she choked out, her voice strained to breaking. "They can't do this. Not to her."

The crowd around you swelled, a collective beast of spectators who watched as the guards, satisfied with their grim work, finally stepped back. Your body, so full of fight and spirit, now hung limp and defeated. The sight was a brutal blow to Rain, her knees buckling under the weight of despair. "No, no, no," she sobbed, her hands reaching out futilely as if she could somehow bridge the distance and bring you back to her.

As the guards finally ceased their brutal assault, wiping the dark smears from their metallic batons with nonchalance, one of them looked over to Tyler and the rest of your friends with a nod that bore the weight of finality. “They’re done,” Tyler muttered, his voice ringing hollow in the charged atmosphere, betraying the turmoil beneath his calm exterior. "We need to get her out of here." Kay, with her medical kit clutched tightly in her hands, was already bulldozing her way through the stunned onlookers. Her voice cut sharply through the tension, "Move!" she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. The guards, taken aback by her audacity, stepped aside, allowing her access to the platform.

Reaching you, Kay dropped to her knees, her hands moving quickly and efficiently as she checked for any sign of life. Her face was set in a mask of concentration, the lines around her mouth taut with concern. She pressed two fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. After a tense moment, she looked up, her expression grim but relieved, "She’s alive. Just barely. Help me get her back."

Rain, who had been frozen by fear and grief, sprang into action at Kay's words. Her eyes, red-rimmed and haunted, met Kay's as she helped lift your limp body. "Be careful with her," Rain whispered, her voice trembling as she and Kay maneuvered you down from the platform.

As they carried you through the crowd, which parted silently to let them pass, Rain’s mind raced with panic and fear, each step towards their compound

Back at the small, dimly lit compound that you, Rain, and Andy called home, the air was thick with tension and the lingering scent of blood. The cramped quarters, usually filled with quiet conversation and the occasional joke, now felt suffocating under the weight of the night’s events.

As you were laid gently on the makeshift table, Rain hovered over you, her hands trembling as they brushed the hair from your bloodied face. "Please, stay with me," she whispered, her voice breaking, barely more than a desperate plea.

Navarro, who had always been calm in a crisis, took charge immediately. "Clear the table," she ordered, her voice steady. She moved quickly, removing the few items that cluttered the surface. "We need space to work."

Kay, who had been training as a medic before Weyland-Yutani’s brutal regime took hold, was already digging through her kit. "We need clean water, towels—anything we can use to stop the bleeding," she instructed, her hands shaking as she unpacked bandages and antiseptic.

Andy shuffled awkwardly by the door, his eyes flickering with distress. "I-I’ll get the w-water," he stuttered, his synthetic voice faltering as he rushed to the small sink in the corner, fumbling with the handle before managing to fill a bowl.

The first thing Kay did was assess your wounds, her expression growing more grim by the second. "This is bad," she muttered under her breath, though Rain caught the words and felt her heart clench in response.

"Just tell me what to do," Rain said, her voice thick with fear but laced with determination. "Tell me how I can help."

"Keep pressure here," Kay instructed, guiding Rain’s hands to a deep gash on your side. The wound bled sluggishly, staining Rain’s fingers a dark crimson. "Navarro, I need more gauze, and a needle and thread. We have to stop the bleeding before anything else."

As Rain pressed down, she leaned close to you, her breath warm against your ear. "You’re going to be okay," she whispered, though her voice trembled. "I’m right here, baby. We’re going to get you through this."

You stirred slightly, your eyes fluttering open just enough to focus on her. "Rain..." your voice was weak, barely more than a rasp. "I’m... sorry."

"Don’t," Rain choked out, tears welling in her eyes. "Don’t apologize. Just hold on, okay? Just hold on."

The room was silent save for the occasional clink of metal instruments and the sound of your labored breathing. The bowls of water that Andy brought over quickly turned pink, then a deep red as Kay and Navarro worked to clean your wounds. The table beneath you was soon stained with blood, the scent of iron heavy in the air.

Kay’s hands moved quickly, stitching up the worst of the gashes, her face set in concentration. "We need to get her stable," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "She’s lost too much blood."

Andy hovered nearby, clutching a clean towel he had found, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and helplessness. "W-will she be okay?" he asked, his voice small and hesitant.

"We’re doing everything we can," Navarro replied, her tone a blend of reassurance and reality. She exchanged a look with Kay, who only shook her head slightly.

Rain noticed the exchange, her heart sinking further. "She has to be okay," Rain whispered, her voice cracking. "She has to."

Hours passed, and the night deepened, the oppressive silence of the compound only broken by the sound of your shallow breaths and Rain’s quiet murmurs. She held your hand tightly, her thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythm meant to comfort both you and herself.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the words she was afraid she’d never get to say again. "Please don’t leave me. Not like this."

You managed a weak smile, though it took all the strength you had left. "Love you... too," you whispered back, your voice barely audible. "Always."

Rain leaned down, pressing her lips to your forehead, her tears mingling with the blood and sweat that covered your skin. "Always," she echoed, her heart breaking with every passing second.

As dawn approached, your breath became more labored, the fight slipping from your body. Rain felt the shift, her entire world narrowing down to the weakening pulse beneath her fingertips. "No, no, no," she whispered frantically, her grip tightening as if she could somehow keep you anchored to life. "Please, don’t go."

You looked up at her, your eyes filled with a mixture of pain and peace. "It’s okay," you whispered, though it cost you everything to say it. "I’ll... always... be with you."

Rain’s sobs filled the room as your eyes slowly closed, your hand slipping from hers as your body went still. The silence that followed was deafening, a hollow void where your heartbeat had once been.

"She’s gone," Kay said quietly, her voice steady but carrying the unmistakable edge of sorrow. Her words cut through the room like a blade, the finality of it crashing down on Rain like a tidal wave. The compound, already dim and cold, seemed to grow even darker.

Rain didn’t respond immediately. Her body began to tremble, first just a slight shiver in her shoulders, then growing into a full, uncontrollable shaking as the reality of your loss settled in. She leaned over your still form, her tears falling in relentless streams, splashing against your skin. "No... please, no," she sobbed, her voice breaking, clutching at you as if holding you tighter could somehow pull you back from the abyss.

Andy, who had been standing nearby, approached hesitantly. His synthetic form seemed to sag under the weight of the moment, his usually bright eyes dimmed with a sorrow that was unnatural for a machine. "R-Rain," he stuttered, his voice halting and filled with a strange echo of human grief. "She... she loved you so much."

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with despair. Tyler stood off to the side, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. He stared at the floor, unable to look at you, unable to reconcile the brutal end you had met with the strong, vibrant person he had known. His chest heaved with the effort to keep his own emotions in check, but the tear that slid down his cheek betrayed his inner turmoil.

Bjorn, always the stoic, had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were fixed on Rain and your body, the usual hardness in his gaze softened by a quiet, painful understanding. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. For all his gruff exterior, the sight of Rain breaking down over your body pierced through his defenses.

Navarro, who had been helping Kay moments earlier, stepped back, her hands shaking. The blood that had stained her fingers felt like it was burning into her skin, a reminder of how close they had all come to saving you—and how far they had failed. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob that threatened to break free, her eyes brimming with tears.

As Rain's sobs grew louder, more desperate, the room's silence was broken only by the sound of her heartbreak. "Please, don’t leave me," she whispered through her tears, her voice small, broken. She pressed her forehead against yours, her fingers tangled in your hair as she pleaded with you, as if willing you to open your eyes, to take just one more breath.

Andy knelt beside her, his mechanical hand resting gently on her shoulder, though his touch was cold. "I’m s-sorry," he managed to say, his voice almost robotic but laden with the echoes of human grief. "She was b-brave."

Tyler finally moved, crossing the short distance between him and Rain. He placed a hand on her back, his own tears now falling freely. "She saved you, Rain," he said softly, his voice strained with the effort to keep it steady. "She saved us all."

Rain didn’t respond, her world having collapsed to just you and the unbearable loss that consumed her. She clung to you, pressing her face into your neck, her sobs muffled against your skin. "I can’t... I can’t do this without you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, wake up. Please."

But the silence that followed was deafening, the finality of your death sinking into the hearts of everyone present. Kay moved around the table, gently covering your body with a blanket, her movements slow and reverent, as if any sudden action might shatter the fragile hold they all had on their emotions.

As the hours passed, the reality of the situation set in. Rain never left your side, her fingers still entwined with yours, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Andy remained close, his presence a silent vigil, his circuits whirring quietly in the background.

Bjorn and Tyler took turns keeping watch at the door, their usual banter replaced by a heavy silence. Navarro sat in a corner, her knees drawn to her chest, staring at the floor as she tried to process the loss.

Rain’s heart ached with a pain so deep it felt like it would consume her whole. But through her grief, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: you had saved her, sacrificed everything for her, and that knowledge, though it brought her no comfort, would be the anchor that kept her from completely drowning in her sorrow.

She leaned over, pressing one last kiss to your forehead, her tears mixing with the blood still staining your skin. "I’ll never forget you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I’ll never stop loving you."

[blindbeta]

So, I've been writing a blind character who cooks. So far, I've written him as being someone who relies a lot on routine and habit, who navigates the kitchen by touch and by memory. He's a bit rigid, and insists on using his own tools, which are color coded (he can see them up close with what residual vision he has) and marked with braille, but I was wondering what other tools a blind person might use when cooking.

A Bunch of Stuff For Blind People Who Want to Cook

I don’t know where and when your story takes place, so what is used might change depending on the character. Here are some options to get you started. There are many tools and techniques devoted to making cooking easier. I don’t know as much about the subject, so I’ll do my best. Please add any other ideas in the notes.

First, the creator @canseecantsee on YouTube and TikTok is an excellent resource. She has lots of videos showcasing how she cooks and does various daily tasks. She demonstrates the use of many tools, such as heat resistant gloves and high contrast items. Here is a video in which she demonstrates chopping vegetables.

Notice the high contrast items such as the yellow chopping board and purple knife. In the video, she demonstrates use of the towel or a place mat beneath the cutting board to prevent slipping. As she cuts a cucumber, tomatoes, and onions, she also uses a technique that allows her to feel the edge of the item so that she knows where she wants to cut and how thick the slices will be.

Here is a video by TheBlindLife showcasing his accessible kitchen. He has excellent points on the importance of contrast, from color contrast to shape contrast. The video includes

bump dots

labels

high contrast colors of tools

high contrast plates and bowls

talking scale and thermometer

heat resistant gloves

and alternatives for glass cups

High contrast is important and can be created by being mindful of the kind of countertops or tables used. For example, in the video, there is a triangular plate that is decorated like a pizza slice. Eating on this plate might cause food to get lost visually, especially food that has the same colors as the plate. Much like the plate, counters or tablecloths with busy patterns might cause items to be harder to see due to lack of contrast. Plain counters, tables, or tablecloths make items stand out more.

Additionally, creating contrast between surfaces and the items on them is helpful. The table is a dark wood? Light plates, bowls, and cups it is. The counter is plain white? The plates and bowls are a dark color.

For glass cups, the video offers solid, colorful plastic cups that offer better contrast. The fact that glasses are clear makes them even more of a challenge and colorful plastic alleviates that concern. However, if someone wants to use glass cups, they can use some that are either made with colorful glass or have color somewhere on them. This might help depending on the contrast and lighting.

In addition to memory, your character can also use labels and various markers. Sharpie, different colors and shapes, textural elements like bump dots, actual Braille or large print labels, tape, stickers, string, or ribbon. Label makers are great, but plenty of other options exist, particularly considering the aesthetic the kitchen has. He may also enjoy decorating this way since he has residual vision. Ribbons tied around containers of sugar, salt, and flour can be cute and functional.

A few other ideas after searching cooking stuff:

talking items, such as a blender, rice cooker, or microwave oven

marking speed on electric mixers or other devices

talking, high contrast, or large print timers

funnel or liquid level indicator

Braille or large print labeled measuring cups

individual bowls for portions, such as soup, rice, sauces, proteins, etc. Different shapes, sizes, or color could also indicate what food item typically goes in what bowl.

You can also come up with other ideas by thinking about what your character would use and how that might be done more easily. While I prefer characters use blindness techniques and assistive devices, people also naturally make things easier for themselves through organization and creating their own labels. A person who cooks might also be able to distinguish certain ingredients by smell or texture.

Another tip I have is to watch blind content creators on social media. Chances are, some of them show themselves cooking or discuss how they do it.

Lighting is also going to be a big deal. The kitchen will need good lighting, both overhead and under cabinets. Natural lighting is also great, although this is not as reliable or constant.

What he uses might also depend on various factors such as income; how often a character cooks; amount of available space; time period and setting; cultural practices around cooking, eating, and utensils used; access to the blind community; willingness to use assistive devices for blind people; any internalized ableism or ableism from family; and level of vision.

Hope that helps.

[sirfrogsworth]

Grampa's Antique Fan (2015 vs 2024 Edit)

As a young man, after coming home from the Second World War, my grampa got a job as an electrician for Emerson Electric. He didn't work on the actual electrical products. He just maintained the electrical systems that power the tools to make electrical components.

It was a "I heard you need electricity for your electricity" type deals.

The company was founded in 1890 in nearby Ferguson, Missouri by John Wesley Emerson. He was a Union commander in the Civil War and a lawyer and then a judge and then an author and then a historian... so he was clearly qualified to run one of the first electronics companies. (This is currently referred to as the "Law of Elon".)

Emerson (the company, not the dude) specialized in electric motors and was the first to stick their motors in a fan and sell them.

As you can see by the 4 protective fan guard loopies, these were very safe for kids to be around.

I mean, the biggest thing you could shove in there is a baby arm, which is the least important part of a baby. No baby heads were chopped off—which was the bar for consumer safety during that era.

Fans are rated by the volume of air they can push over a period of time and your average box fan can push about 1400 cubic feet per minute or "CFM". When this Emerson (the fan, not the dude) was produced they actually used "CCH" or cubic cubits per hour. Emerson (the dude) loved using odd standards of measurement much to the chagrin of his engineers.

Due to the small surface area, weak angle of attack, and heavy metal blades, this electronic beast could only push a baker's dozen cubic cubits per baker's hour—which was a confusing metric of time because people were very superstitious and they refused to put the 13 on the baker's clocks. They just left a mysterious blank void after the 12 and apparently several people had existential crises during the baker's hour. Some were institutionalized for a rare condition called Time Delirium.

Thankfully Emerson Electric was able to provide the electroshock therapy devices that cured several patients. This was achieved by erasing the memory of the traumatic time delirium events along with a few other unimportant details like what they did last Tuesday and their mother's name and one engineering degree that the guy wasn't even using.

My dad actually got the fan working and let me tell you... that bad boy could really work up a gentle breeze...

...if you stood behind it and blew.

And that fine American-made electric fan motor was just as quiet as a leaf blower on Saturday morning.

Over the last century, Emerson was bought and sold and bought and sold.

And bought and sold and bought and sold.

Was that 7?

Eh, close enough. We'll call it a baker's 7.

They changed their product line countless times over their 130+ years of existence. After fans they pivoted and made electric meat grinders. To this day, no one know what inspired that decision.

Currently, they make radar avionics and are majority-owned by the private equity firm, Blackstone. Which is a totally non-evil sounding name they chose for their company-eating empire. Please ignore that the CEO was one of Trump's policy strategists. This is a non-evil company with a non-evil name run by non-evil people, okay?

Despite Emerson Electric having to settle a baker's gross of lawsuits involving a few lightly scalp'd babies, they maintain a Fortune 500 status and are still headquartered in Ferguson.

They occupy one of the most boring ass buildings ever constructed.

Just rectangles all the way down.

That architect told every angle to get rect.

Of course, I forgot all of this cool history and sold this fan in the estate auction. I suppose it is a good thing I got a nice photograph to help assuage my current feelings of guilt. I mean, it is not baby scalping, time delirium guilt—but I would feel better if I knew my gramp-gramp's fan was in a good home with 0 babies.

[roseandxanderfics]

“Taming the Untamable” - Joe Goldberg x morally grey reader

⸻

Summary: Joe sets out to tame a fiercely independent, morally grey you—with slow, intense control, silk scarves, and dark promises. Pleasure and power collide in a dangerous dance where surrender is the ultimate choice.

A/N: This ones dark and smutty and intense. Beware.

————————

You pride yourself on being untouchable. Not just physically, but emotionally and morally — you’re sharp, a little dangerous, and you never let anyone get too close. Your world is yours alone, painted in shades of gray that no one else dares to navigate.

Joe Goldberg wants to change that.

⸻

Tonight, it’s just you and him.

His apartment is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners. The scent of old books and faint musk lingers, but underneath it all is Joe’s scent — warm, a little sharp, and intoxicating.

You stand just inside the door, arms crossed, eyes steady on him.

He doesn’t rush.

Instead, Joe closes the space between you slowly. His hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing along your jaw with a feather-light touch that makes your skin prickle.

“You think you’re untamable,” he says quietly, voice low enough to vibrate through your chest, “but I’m not here to break you. I want to show you a different kind of control.”

Your pulse quickens, a mix of challenge and curiosity sparking inside you.

⸻

He takes your hand and leads you toward the bedroom, where a soft bed waits beneath dimmed lights. Nearby, on the dresser, lie silk scarves, leather cuffs, and a blindfold — tools you hadn’t expected, but instinctively understand.

Joe kneels before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuttons your shirt with deliberate slowness. The cool air brushes against your bare skin as the fabric falls away, revealing the curve of your collarbone and the soft rise and fall of your chest.

His fingers glide over your skin, the sensation electric — not harsh or demanding, but a promise. A question.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice a low rumble.

You don’t answer. Instead, your breath catches when his hands wrap around your wrists, lifting them gently.

⸻

The silk scarves are cool and smooth as he ties your wrists together, the fabric snug but not painful. You flex your fingers, feeling the restraint, and a strange warmth blooms in your belly.

Joe’s fingers trail down your arm, tracing the path with patient care before pulling the blindfold over your eyes.

Suddenly, the room vanishes.

Darkness presses against your eyelids, and every sound sharpens — the rustle of his clothes, the faint scrape of leather, your own uneven breath.

Your skin tingles, hypersensitive without sight.

⸻

Joe’s hands find your neck first, thumb brushing along your pulse point with a soft pressure that makes your throat tighten. Then he moves lower, fingertips dragging lightly across your collarbone, down your chest, teasing the sensitive skin beneath your breasts.

You’re acutely aware of every sensation — the softness of his touch, the heat radiating from his body, the slight roughness of calloused fingertips.

He presses a kiss to your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to elicit a shiver.

“Not going anywhere,” he whispers. “You’re mine to explore.”

⸻

His hands roam freely now, mapping every inch of your torso with slow, reverent touches. When he cups your breasts, it’s gentle, his thumbs circling your nipples until they harden beneath his touch.

Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling faster.

Joe’s mouth follows, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking lightly, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub.

The sensation is deliciously torturous — the contrast between the softness of his mouth and the firm pressure of his fingers.

You arch toward him instinctively, craving more.

⸻

Joe slides his hand lower, past your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, his touch bold yet measured. Then his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing your skin just where you want him most.

Your body responds before your mind can catch up — a flush spreading between your thighs, a wet heat pooling low in your belly.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with control and promise.

You swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “You.”

⸻

He laughs softly, a dark sound that vibrates through you.

Joe’s hand slips inside your underwear, fingers tracing your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation is electric, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through your nerves.

When he presses a finger inside you, slow and sure, your hips jerk toward him, desperate for more.

He adds a second finger, curling them expertly, eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

“You don’t get to decide when this ends,” he says, voice low and possessive. “I do.”

⸻

Joe’s tongue follows, tracing patterns over your inner thigh, lips barely touching the most sensitive skin. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air of the room makes your body hum with anticipation.

He sucks gently on your clit, swirling his tongue in slow, tantalizing circles that have you trembling.

Your hands twitch against the silk, but you’re completely helpless — utterly his.

⸻

When he finally penetrates you with his cock, it’s slow and deliberate, the stretch and fullness grounding you in the moment.

His hips move with a controlled rhythm, deep and steady, punctuated by sharp kisses to your jaw and neck.

“Say it,” he commands, voice husky.

“Say what?” you whisper.

“That you’re mine.”

Your lips part, breath hitching as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you.

“I’m yours,” you say, voice trembling.

Joe’s smile is dark and satisfied as he picks up the pace, fucking you with a fierce tenderness that leaves no doubt who holds the power.

⸻

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave — intense, overwhelming, everything and nothing at once. Your body shakes, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Joe doesn’t relent. He keeps moving, dragging you through the aftershocks, until you’re spent and pliant beneath him.

When he finally pulls out, he slides his hands under your body, lifting you into his arms.

The silk scarves are gone, replaced by the warm press of his skin against yours.

He kisses your temple, voice soft now.

“I’m not here to tame you,” he says. “I’m here to hold you. And you choose to stay.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words and touch settle over you.

Maybe taming isn’t about breaking.

Maybe it’s about choosing who holds your fire — and letting them keep it safe.

[onion-souls]

In Bloodborne, there are aspects of the Beast Curse that implies its a failure to ascend (b/c people lose their minds), but some beast bosses are resistant to Kin-type damages (Bolt) and deal damage that's strong against Kin, which also implies that the Beast Curse is a counter measure against Outer Powers. What are your thoughts on this? (Also perhaps Kin beings, like the Emissaries are the real failed ascensions.) Because the precise, Ascended-Nature of beings is also unclear, like how Ebrietas and Rom bleed serum and blood, which also implies they're not quite ascended unto the level of Outer Gods like Amygdala and the Brain of Menses. Thoughts?

Yeah, I think you're correct. The text is pretty clear that beasts and kin are both failures of different methodologies and philosophies.

If you want to look towards real world 18th-19th century philosophy, the blood-and-beasthood faction has elements of Romantic conservatism, with the notion that regressing to a primordial state of man would bring about moral superiority. That is a good clue as to why the Healing Church was so readily accepted by the xenophobic Yharnamites- it's highly likely that they genuinely believe that they were once a great people (the Pthumerians) before outsiders ruined it. But blood and mythology does not make a people great, and we see that simply exaggerating the primal nature in man leads only to mindless savagery, if you want to have a go at the Rousseau-esque side of things.

Then we get the more rational and scientific side of the Bergenwyrth ideology that leads to kin. And here, Bloodborne critiques the coldness of scientism, and the idea that despite claims of reason and enlightenment, there is still a great deal of human frailty and narrowmindedness involved. Note that the Japanese word translated as "Insight" in English is actually more commonly used for "Enlightenment"; 啓蒙 (keimō). The tools of the enlightenment led to a lot of the certainty of the universe being lost, and here we start to see elements of that Lovecraftian Cosmicism creep in. Rather than being humbled by the unknown, the Choir and Mensis both doubled down on the notion that enough study would lead them to ascend. This is the coldness that leads to vivisection and human experimentation.

And there's a lot of this in the visual language of the game. The beast/blood side is very, well, hot-blooded, while the kin are characterized with cold blues, violets, white, and grays.

And I think that beasthood isn't a deliberate countermeasure to kin, but simply due to thr incompatibility.

The kin and the hunter's tools associated with their study, like the Augur of Ebrietas and A Call Beyond, are based on channeling cosmic forces, something that being a beast would diminish. Ludwig's boss fight tells this story. He fights in an extremely aggressive and bloodthirsty style until he regains his senses, upon which he starts using his sword to channel that cosmic blue power.

(And while the bolt resistance might be purely mechanical, the literal electrical resistance of beats and the kin weaknsss may be because it's harder/easier for them to channel such forces).

But anyway, the kin are failures because they are creatures of coldness, of the lab and isolated. Ebrietas was left behind. Rom is confined to a lake. There's a strong theme of abandonment, being discarded, or lost among the kin. Many of the kin and lower Old Ones have this sense of failed maturation. Rom is vacuous, Ebrietas and the garden of eyes have these big baby heads, the celestial emissary and its little copies have that exaggerated Neoteny of Greys and babies, the brain suckers are brain sucklers. Slime Scholars are, heaven forbid, eternal grad students

What finally causes a full ascension in the PC are the cords of the eye item, basically a psychic umbilical cord, symbolizing our understanding of the connection between mother and child. Maternity and surrogacy are massive parts of the plot and theming of Bloodborne, and it is through that maternal connection that we are finally able to bridge the gap between the primal, instinctual edge and the willingness to understand and mature without being stuck in a stagnant false childhood.