#plastic and rubber testing

[effectivelabindia]

Where can we get a good and reliable ozone chamber & what features should it have?

In today's competitive production scenario, the product's reliability is crucial. For industries that work with various other materials exposed to rubber, polymer and ozone degradation, an ozone testing chamber is not just equipment; This is an important investment in quality control and the life of the product. If you are in India looking for a good and reliable ozone chamber, do not look more closely compared to reputable manufacturers and suppliers such as Effective Lab India.

Why is an Ozone Testing Chamber needed?

Before we buy it, let's quickly understand why ozone test chambers mean something. These chambers follow the effect of ozone exposure on materials such as rubber, polymer and plastic, which are usually used in products such as tires, gaskets, wires and seals.

An ozone chamber of high quality causes manufacturers to consider:

So, if you build something that can withstand the ozone exposure, you need a reliable ozone room for quality assurance and product testing.

Your Reliable Destination: Effective Lab India

While searching for a reliable manufacturer of ozone chambers in India, a name stands out - Effective Lab India.

With 15+ years of experience designing high-performance environmental testing chambers, Effective Lab India has established itself as an important ozone chamber supplier, which is with a solid reputation for distributing durable, accurate and user-friendly machines.

Know why our chambers are more reliable than others

Let's talk features, because not all ozone chambers are made the same. Here, you should expect a high-quality Ozone aging test chamber and what Effective Lab India delivers:

1. Precise ozone concentration control

A reliable ozone chamber should offer accurate monitoring and control of the ozone level, often from 10 to 300 pphm. This is necessary for reproducible results in rapid aging tests.

2. Uniform airflow circulation

Effective Lab India Chambers is designed with high-deficiency fans and air circulation systems, even to maintain ozone distribution, so that all samples get the same exposure, giving you more reliable test data.

3. Programmable Logic Controller (PLC)

Effective Lab India's modern chamber comes with a user-based PLC-based control system. This allows users to enter test parameters like:

You can automate your test process and save precious time.

4. Safety facilities

The ozone gas used is very reactive. This is why their chambers include the underlying safety alarms, automatic shutdown features, and ozone destruct units, which safely neutralise the remaining ozone before you vent.

5. Strong construction and compact design

Effective Lab India understands that the laboratory is valuable. Their ozone test chambers are compact, smooth and robust; both are ideal for industrial laboratories and R&D centres.

6. Customised size available

Depending on sample size and volume, you can request a custom chamber size. Effective Lab India offers bench tops and floor-standing models, giving you the flexibility to choose what your setup fits.

Ozone chamber price in India - what is expected?

The price of the ozone chamber in India varies depending on size, automation level and customised functions. On average, you can expect to start from about 1.5 lakh for basic models and can go up to 5-6 lakhs for advanced programmable devices with temperature and moisture control.

Effective Lab India provides competitive prices, and their machines are supported by fast customer assistance, installation help and training.

Why do you need to choose Effective Lab India?

Still wondering why so many laboratories, manufacturers and quality control departments throughout India choose Effective Lab India?

Here are quick answers:

In short, they do not just sell machines - they provide solutions.

Final Thoughts

When you invest in laboratory testing instruments like an ozone chamber, you need reliability, performance and expert support - and that's what you get with Effective Lab India.

Their machines are packed with smart features, which are complete and ready to meet the needs of modern testing and standards.

Therefore, if you are looking for a reliable ozone chamber manufacturer and supplier in India, do not look further. Effective Lab India provides the right balance between technology, price and support.

Are you ready to upgrade your content test games? Contact Effective Lab India Today and get an offer that matches your needs and budget.

Do you need more details or a customised solution?

Call: +91-9555155525

Website: www.effectivelabindia.com

[sophieguo]

Complete Guide to 20-Ton Tension Strength Test Devices

Meta Description Looking for a 20-ton tension strength test device? Explore key features, applications, and industry standards. Learn how to select the best machine for your needs and check tension strength test device price Introduction A 20-ton tension strength test device is essential for evaluating material tensile properties across industries, including metals, composites, and industrial…

[maeon-labs]

Material Testing Labs in Chennai

Material Testing Labs in Chennai offer comprehensive testing services to ensure the quality and compliance of various materials. Our expert analysis includes mechanical, thermal, and chemical testing. Trust us for reliable results and enhanced material performance.

[kiyorndlab]

Welcome to our world-class material testing laboratory, proudly standing as the best in Chennai. As a trusted hub for testing various materials, we ensure the quality and safety of materials across different industries. Clients choose us for our precision, dedication, and the accuracy we bring to every testing endeavor.

[fanservices123]

Raw Material Testing Lab Mumbai, Pune, Nashik, Chennai, Hyderabad, India

[sofiyalabtronus]

Rubber-weiss plasticity testing machine

Rubber-weiss plasticity testing machine pressurized heavy hammer slides moves in up and down axial direction to measure the material's ability to deform and flow under certain conditions .Apply controlled forces or deformations to rubber samples and check the material responds to different levels of stress. It ha Auto –timer alarm function, "Temperature range=50-deg-to-300-deg; Temperature accuracy=± 1°; Measuring range=0-01-to-25-mm; Accuracy=± 0.01 mm; Load=49 N ± 0.05 N; for more visit labtron.us

[trashytracktales]

GIRL DONT HOLD BACK

WRITE THE LANDO NORRIS HELMET SMUT

Finders keepers | LN⁴

🟢 summary ──── A moment of boredom turns into a game of control and restraint, with Lando pushing boundaries neither he nor his girlfriend expected on such a busy day.

🟢 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🟢 rating ──── explicit

🟢 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, swearing, semi-public setting, soft!dom Lando, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, overstimulation, messy finish, Lando low-key losing it.

🟢 word count ──── 3.3k

🟢 date ──── Mar. 4, 2025

🟢 a/n ──── This one has been HIGHLY requested after one of you guys sent in this ask, so I shall deliver. I hope you enjoy it as much as you imagined & can’t wait to hear your thoughts 🤍

Also, yes. This is the second one-shot of the day, because I ACCIDENTALLY posted this Charles Leclerc piece earlier. It’s very short and I was supposed to post it after this one OOPSIES get greedy & go check it out. Thank you, love you all 💋

THERE IS HARDLY enough room for more than two people in the driver’s room. A physio table is pushed against the wall, a couple of chairs sit tucked under a desk covered in notes, post-its and water bottles, and a row of plastic shelves is holding some race suits, a change of clothes and toiletries, and a spare helmet. There is a faint scent of fresh rubber and overall newness of the place in the air that blends with the smell of rain, and something so distinctly Lando, a mix of his cologne and fabric softener.

She has been waiting for hours now. Day two of testing in Bahrain is dragging, and even though she loves watching her boyfriend hit the track, the long hours spent doing nothing are starting to wear on her. She finished reading three books in two days, rewatched her favorite TV show, and scrolled through her feed until the app informed her that there were no new posts.

She sighs, running a hand over the edge of the desk before deciding to tidy up a little. Not that there’s much to clean, since McLaren keeps these rooms nearly spotless, but at least it gives her something to do. A few minutes later, the post-its are arranged on the wall by color, the documents are organized in chronological order, and the water bottles have found a new home, crammed under the table.

Out of curiosity, her fingers brush over one of Lando’s new helmets, freshly designed for the pre-season testing. It’s sleek, predominantly black with neon streaks and intricate models running along the sides. On impulse, she lifts it, feeling its surprising weight before slipping it over her head. The padding presses snugly against her ears, muffling the distant sounds of mechanics still at work in the garage.

She can’t help but feel a vague claustrophobia surrounding her, but the feeling isn’t necessarily bad. On the contrary, it gives her the impression of safety, even if it inhibits her other senses.

Grinning to herself, she pulls out her phone and angles the camera for a selfie. The reflection in the visor catches the glow of the overhead lights, giving her an futuristic look. She continues to snap a few more photos, adjusting the tilt of her head, until a blurred figure appears in the background of her screen.

“Having fun all by yourself?” Lando’s voice is amused yet he sounds tired, and before she can turn around, she feels his arms wrap around her waist from behind. He leans in, lips ghosting over her shoulder in a lazy kiss.

She huffs out a laugh, nudging at his arms, “I told you to stop sneaking up on me like that. You scared me.”

Lando chuckles, hands splaying over her stomach, thumbs brushing absentminded circles through the fabric of her shirt. “Sorry. Didn’t expect to catch you playing dress-up with my stuff.”

“Finders keepers,” she says in a singing voice, making Lando chuckle again.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“It looks cool,” she admits, “Therefore, it makes you look cool.”

Lando squeezes her a little tighter, “That mouth on you,” he teases.

The girl giggles, “Am I wrong? Also, you should’ve knocked, by the way,” she continues, reaching up to pull at the visor so she can actually see him.

“I should knock on a door that has my name on it?”

“Yeah, you do!” she sounds revolted, “Especially when you know there’s a lady waiting for you inside.”

Lando’s gaze darkens ever so slightly as he takes her in. She looks like a mirage under the dim light of the small room, her curls coming untamed from under his helmet and her eyes so bright and filled with love, looking back at him.

He nods with a boyish smile, “I’ll try to remember that next time.”

Maybe it’s just exhaustion making his eyes so heavy-lidded, the lingering adrenaline from a long day fading into something softer. But when she catches him staring, Lando has the same soft gaze he does whenever they sit on the couch and he’s about to doze off; he looks unintentionally hot like this, worn out but content.

“Alright, racer boy. Can we go now?” she asks, pressing back against him slightly.

Lando sighs, reluctant. “Not yet. I still have a couple of hours to go. Gotta go over the data with the engineers,” his fingers tighten briefly on her hips before he steps back. “You can head back to the hotel if you’re bored. I’ll get you a car.”

She pouts, “It’s not as fun without you.”

That wins her another chuckle, but this time, there’s something else in Lando’s expression. His gaze is shamelessly dragging over her with an intensity that makes her pulse stutter. It’s only now that he really registers that she’s wearing his helmet, his name and number stamped all over.

She’s worn his clothes before — his hoodies, his merch, his team’s attire — but this feels completely different. It makes his mouth dry and head spin, and he might be exhausted, but suddenly, swallowing the lump in his throat, Lando realizes he’s so turned on.

“Then stay,” he encourages her, “I have half an hour to decompress before going to debriefing. I’m sure we can find something fun to do.”

His suit suddenly feels tighter, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He swallows again, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he exhales slowly.

“Is that so?” she challanges him. “Something in mind already?”

He runs a hand through his curls before reaching for her again, “Maybe,” his voice is low, amused but laced with something indulgent. His fingers skim her waist, tracing the hem of her shirt as he tugs her closer. “You’re pretty inspiring.”

She tilts her head slightly, the visor still lifted so he can see the teasing glint in her eyes. “Well, that’s new,” she laughs. “But I was just messing around.”

Lando hums, unconvinced. “Sure you were.”

She moves to take the helmet off, but his hand catches hers mid-motion.

“No, leave it,” says Lando, thumb grazing over her knuckles. His breath is warm when he leans in, his next words spoken directly against its glossy material. “You have no idea how hot you look right now.”

A shiver rolls down her spine, and it quickly goes south, right between her legs. It makes Lando grin subtly, then he reaches for the visor, pulling it down with a definitive, loud click. At that, her world narrows in an instant, and the limited view somehow makes every touch and every breath between them more intense.

Lando walks her back until she’s perched on the edge of the physio table, her pulse hammering as she watches him, excited, but mostly curious about his plans. They have thirty minutes, so his movements aren’t rushed in any way. Quite the opposite. They’re almost lazy, but there’s something precise about the way he reaches for the zipper of his race suit.

He rolls his shoulders, loosening up, then adjusts the height of the table so that when he sinks to his knees in front of her, she’s exactly where he wants her to be. Patiently, his fingers trail up her legs, making slow work of the button on her jeans. There’s no hurry in the way he peels them down, taking her underwear with them in one go, but the moment he gets rid of them, there’s a shift in his demeanor.

Lando exhales sharply, his large hands splaying over her thighs as he looks at her, half-lust and half-serious. “You gotta keep quiet, baby,” he says, a hint of mischief curling around his words. “These walls aren’t real, and anyone passing by the door can hear us blink.”

There was a little giggle stuck in her throat, but now she barely has time to react before his fingers part her, his touch light at first, just exploring while he preps her with the dexterity of a man who did it countless of times before.

Her breath catches at the first slow stroke, her thighs tensing as he traces circles where she’s most sensitive. The first sound she makes is barely a whisper of a whimper, that Lando trained his ears to hear, since is muffled inside the helmet.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, “Is that my cue?”

Before she can answer, Lando leans in.

Initially, his mouth is warm and merciful. He licks into her with a sort of tamed hunger that’s out of his character, savoring every little shift of her hips, every shudder she tries to suppress. Even so, it sends her a clear message: even though his energy is low from the long day, his need to taste her is anything but.

The world outside their room hums with noise — faint conversations, the occasional shuffle of footsteps, the distant whir of power tools in the garage. But all she can focus on is the way he’s lapping at her clit, the slick sound of it embarrassingly loud in the small space, her own whimpers barely contained behind the visor.

Lando chuckles against her, the vibration making her head tilt back slightly; the weight of the helmet forces her to let her head fall against the wall, which positions her even better in front of him.

��Gonna have to be quieter than that,” he teases, slipping his fingers between her folds, pressing just enough to make her squirm.

She barely manages to shake her head, her breath ragged. The visor fogs up as a result, which forces her to close her eyes, since her sense of sight is officially useless.

Lando looks up proudly, fingers pushing deeper as he settles in, more than happy to test her limits. He knows how to curl them just right, the wet sounds obscene in the stillness of the room.

His free hand grips her thigh like he’s starved, holding her open for him, his name echoing softly inside the helmet — muted yet desperate. He feels the way she gets even more aroused with each passing second, coating his fingers with every slick stroke, her body responding to him exactly as it does every single time he takes over.

Startled with new sensations experienced in the dark, she brings a shaky hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the moans threatening to spill out, only to realize, all over again, that she can’t. A frustrated whimper escapes instead, the same hand scrambling for something to support herself. Finally, her fingers clutch at the edge of the table, but it’s useless; her hips are already rolling against Lando, chasing more.

“Mhm,” he hums, his voice shallow. “Getting so wet for me, should’ve done this ages ago. Why didn’t we?”

She gasps, trembling on the edge and so ready to agree with him, but then Lando stops, and the loss of his fingers is almost unbearable. Before she can think, a loud, frustrated moan slips past her lips, making him laugh at her impatience.

She’s too gone now, drunk on the feeling, and the weight of the helmet is definitely not helping. Not when she’s melting under his touch, making it hard to move, and pretty much do anything but stay there, waiting. Aching for more.

Lando watches her for a moment, dark-eyed and smirking, already hard just from seeing her like this, her body so pliant and responsive under his hands. He pulls himself out with one hand, stroking lightly, and with the other, he grips the edge of the helmet, forcing her to look at him.

“Alright, baby, I’m serious. No more of that, okay?” asks Lando. “If someone hears us, it’s gonna be bad. And we don’t want that, do we?” he continues, watching her gathering all her strength only to nod slightly. “That’s right. The second I hear you moan, I’ll have to stop.”

Even Lando knows it’s a lie, but he had to say it, just in case.

She swallows, nodding again as best as she can, her pulse a frantic rhythm against his fingers when he drags his hands down her sides, holding her still. Then, with a precise snap of his hips, he buries himself inside her, stealing the breath from her lungs.

The force of it sends a shudder through the physio table, the legs creaking against the floor. She barely has time to adjust before he thrusts again, deeper this time, pressing her body into the table like he’s trying to mold her into it. Her thighs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, desperate to keep him there, to keep him buried inside her where she needs him most, the weight of him, the pressure and the friction maddening.

Lando swallows a moan, but some of it manages to slip past gritted teeth, “Fuck, you look—” he cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath. He doesn’t even have words for it. The way she feels around him and the heat of her pulling him back in every time he dares to pull away, it’s enough to make his mind go blank.

The table shifts again, inching against the floor with every thrust. She grips at the suit still clinging to his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, but there’s no escape from the way he’s driving into her, every drag of his cock making her shake beneath him.

“Lando…”

He knows. He feels it too. The way they’re teetering on the edge of something dangerously intoxicating, and the way they’re doing that together.

His hands tighten on her, his next thrust shoving the table another inch to the side. “Shit,” he breathes, voice husky with restraint. “Hold on, love. A little more, yeah?” He grips the edges of the table and snaps his hips forward again, watching the way her body reacts to him. “Fucking hell,” he spits, eyes dark as he watches her fall apart under him, little by little. “Keep me in, baby. Like that.”

She clings to him without hesitation, like she was made for this, for him. He’s marking her and he knows it, his fingers moving back to her waist, digging into her soft flesh. Lando’s name is all over her, in ways that only he can see, in places only he gets to touch. And the way she lets him, makes his head spin.

In the haze of it all, a sudden, foreign thought crashes into him like a gut-punch: her name next to his. It’s ridiculous, completely out of place in a moment like this, but it paralyzes him for a second. Until his body reacts on its own, fire spreading through his veins. He leans forward, caging her in, his thrusts becoming sharper, more desperate. His forehead presses against the cool surface of the helmet for just a moment, grounding himself, before he pulls back and looks at her.

He can barely see her eyes, wide and glazed over, but it’s enough. His fingers tighten on her hips as he slams back into her, dragging her flush against him, letting her feel every inch of his length. The sharp noise that the table makes underneath them is lost in the delicious sounds of their bodies moving together, of their heavy breathing, of the desperate way she silently whimpers his name like she wants to keep it on her tongue forever.

He’s spiraling, drowning in the heat of her, in the thought that she lets him take her like this, lets him ruin her for anyone else.

Yet somehow, it’s still not enough.

Her hands fly up instinctively, grasping at the helmet, knuckles turning white as she tries to steady herself against the overwhelming feeling of him.

Outside the room, voices pass by again, too close, and Lando clenches his jaw, fighting his own demons as he’s forcing himself to stay quiet.

Luckily, she’s close. He can feel it in the way she tightens around him, the way her body shakes as she tries her hardest to stay silent. Inside the helmet though, her breathing is shallow, small cries coming out of her parted lips.

“Come on, pretty girl,” says Lando in a demanding yet soft tone. One of his hands clamps around her neck, guiding her into each thrust. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

Lando doesn’t slow down one bit, rolling his hips in a way that he knows it drives her wild. As a result, her body tenses, trembling as pleasure overtakes her. A choked gasp echoes inside the helmet, and Lando smirks, watching her unravel. He’s so utterly captivated by the way her walls tighten around him and the way her thighs quiver in his hands, as if she can crumble if he’s won’t be careful. It’s almost too much for him, but Lando manages to pull out just in time, watching as her release coats his throbbing length, as she shudders through the aftershocks.

“Yeah,” he breaths, running a hand up and down her thigh. “Such a good girl, baby. Let it all out.”

She slumps back against the table, panting inside the helmet, her body overly sensitive. Keeping his eyes on her, Lando gives himself a few slow strokes, exhaling hard through his nose; he’s so close it’s painful.

“You okay?” he asks her, his voice as hoarse as if he screamed for hours at a concert.

Slowly coming back to her senses, she exhales sharply, “I’m good,” she manages and, before she gets the chance to ask him the same question, Lando slaps her thigh in order to catch her attention.

“Down on your knees, then. Come on,” he rasps, guiding the girl to her knees, his patience wearing out quickly, as he tilts her chin up with two fingers.

The glow of the light catches on the sleek surface of the helmet, and something about it — about her like this, still catching her breath, still his — makes his stomach flip.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the edge of the visor as he grips the helmet gently. “Obedient little thing.”

She doesn’t speak — can’t, really — just watches him through the darkened shield, completely at his mercy.

Lando’s breathing stutters as he pumps himself faster, the tension coiling tight in his core. “Gonna make a mess of you, yeah?” he asks, mostly rhetorically. “Right there on my—”

He barely manages a breath before the orgasm crashes into him, blinding and all-consuming. His grip tightens, a sharp groan breaking free as heat pulses through him, spilling in thick streaks across the dark visor. Each of his breath is shaky, his mind fogged with pleasure and a sudden possessiveness.

She stays still, letting him ruin the helmet just like he ruined her, and the sight leaves him dizzy.

His fingers twitch as he pushes sweat-damp curls from his forehead, exhaling a laugh, wrecked and breathless. The sound of it fills the space, mixing with the muffled hum of voices just beyond the walls. But all Lando can hear is the quiet, pleased sigh that leaves her lips, her fingers scratching against her thighs, as if she wants to touch him, as if she wants to taste him.

His stomach clenches at the thought, the aftershocks leaving him lightheaded, wrecked in a way he’s never felt before. He exhales sharply, looking down at her, at his helmet, at what he’s done.

Then, Lando’s fingers are flexing against her head before he finally loosens his grip, running a slow thumb over the mess he’s made.

“Hell,” he pants, still catching his breath. Then, softer, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “Might have to fuck you like this more often.”

She exhales a quiet, amused breath, tilting her head slightly. “Guess that means I’m actually keeping it.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[sixeyesonathiel]

you should've known satoru gojo, your teasing little shit or a husband, would turn "helping" you take the pregnancy test into another of his freaky games.

cw: domestic filth, light humiliation, urination, oral sex (f receiving), bodily fluids, teasing, overstimulation. 2.4k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : this is the demon of a drabble i mentioned last night omfg, i really REALLY tried to tone it down i swear—the first version of this was much more NASTY because it’s with yandere satoru so i really watered down the nasty in this version 😔🥀

the lace chafes. it’s new, obviously—he likes dressing you up for different occasions, and apparently today’s theme is humiliation.

the pink lingerie clings like a sly wink, crotchless, with frilled cutouts that bare your nipples, flushed and peaked, your slit exposed, slick and warm under the bathroom’s vanity light. rhinestones catch the glow, glinting like they’re in on his joke. a tiny silver charm dangles from the straps, brushing your collarbone, etched with your wedding date—a honeymoon keepsake he picked with a smug grin.

you’re squatting over the toilet, thighs spread wide, knees trembling, heels teetering on the glossy tiles, your wedding ring glinting on your left hand—a slim, polished white gold band, cool and sleek, cradling a small, pale blue diamond that shimmers softly. the inner band hides an engraving, “mine, gently,” in his handwriting, a secret he loves tracing. the ribbon straps tug your shoulders, tied with a flirty bow by his nimble fingers, his teasing hums—bright, mischievous—still echoing as he dressed you up, smirking like he’s won a bet.

he kneels close, all cheeky adoration, white shirt unbuttoned halfway, flashing the lean curve of his chest, a faint mole dotting his pec. his sleeves are rolled up, forearms flexing, damp white hair clinging to his forehead, one stray lock curling over a sparkling blue eye full of mischief.

his wedding ring gleams—a brushed white gold band, matte and minimal, with a hidden etching of the day he met you, a detail he fidgets with when he’s bored. it catches the light as he holds the pregnancy test under you, angled to catch your stream, his grip steady but his fingers twitching with eager impatience. those eyes, too blue, too smitten, trace your slick folds, your hardened nipples, drinking in the way your lips purse, the way tears of embarrassment pool in your eyes.

“do you really have to be here?” you mutter, voice laced with reluctance and a sassy edge you’ve picked up from him, your annoyance sharp like a flicked rubber band. your hands hover near your face, fingers twitching, nails neat and glossy, your ring catching the light as you fidget, trying to mask the blush searing your cheeks.

satoru’s unfazed—his lips curl into a grin, eyes glinting like he’s just heard a challenge, and he shifts, knees scuffing the tiles, to grab your wrists, easing them away with a gentle, teasing tug.

“no hiding, angel,” he teases, voice dripping with mock innocence, eyes wide, lashes batting like he’s pulling a prank. “i gotta see my pretty wife. you’re too cute when you’re all annoyed.”

he leans closer, his breath tickling your cheek, and kisses it away, lips quick and warm, a quiet chuckle bubbling up. he holds your wrists loosely with one hand, keeping your face bare, while the other steadies the test under your slick slit, the plastic brushing your inner thigh, cool and startling.

he insisted on this—helping you take the test, to hold the test himself, ever since you both decided to check if your honeymoon efforts paid off. you’ve been trying since the wedding night, tangled in each other’s arms, laughing through kisses, and now, weeks later, you’re both antsy for the result.

“i’m your husband, i’m all in,” he’d said, pulling the test from the pharmacy bag with a smirk, eyes twinkling like he’s up to no good. now you’re squatting, thighs aching, his eyes fixed on your wet, pulsing slit, watching slick glisten on your folds, dripping to the tiles. your bladder’s barely cooperating, but your annoyance is a simmering spark, and he’s loving it, the way your breath hitches, the way your hips twitch, the way your cheeks blaze.

“come on, sweet girl,” he murmurs, poutier now, lips jutting out, his white hair shifting as he leans closer, nose brushing your knee. “you can do it. don’t keep your man waiting, yeah?” his thumb strokes your thigh, grazing a faint mark from last night’s antics, and you flinch, thighs trembling, trying to close but bumping his hand, warm, eager, his ring glinting.

“you’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” he says, voice low, eyes glinting, soaking up your tears, your pursed lips, the way your ring sparkles as your fingers twitch. “just let go for me, okay?”

you roll your eyes, a sharp, sassy flick you’ve stolen from him, your annoyance bubbling like a kettle about to whistle. “you’re ridiculous, toru,” you mutter, voice shaky but pointed, “hovering like some weirdo. it’s embarrassing.”

of course, your annoyance only earns his amusement. he laughs, a bright, delighted sound, his grin widening like you’ve just made his day, his eyes crinkling with glee.

“weirdo? ouch, baby,” he teases, leaning closer, his tone all mock offense, his free hand squeezing your thigh like he’s sealing a deal. “i’m just helping my wife make our baby dreams come true. don’t roast me now.” his eyes sparkle, eating up your sass, and you huff, cheeks burning, embarrassment swallowing you whole.

you just want this over with. your bladder’s not even full, but you force it, a reluctant, warm stream hitting the test strip he’s holding, splashing softly against the bowl, a few drops trickling down your thighs. your face burns, blush flooding your neck, and you squirm, hands jerking to cover your face, your ring glinting like a tiny star.

“toru, please, get out,” you whisper, voice cracking, tears spilling, dripping onto your chest, catching on your bare nipples, the charm at your collarbone. “it’s so embarrassing, i can’t stand you watching.”

“embarrassing?” he chuckles, warm, teasing, eyes locked on your slit, watching slick glisten, a faint dampness lingering like a shadow. “angel, it’s perfect. you’re perfect, all shy and open for your husband.” he holds the test steady, letting the stream soak it, his lips curving into a grin, his throat bobbing as he swallows, eyes flickering with that eager, hungry edge.

“there you go,” he breathes, voice thick with adoration, “my good girl, doing so good.”

he lifts the test, inspecting the wet strip under the light, his eyes squinting, a soft hum in his throat as he sets it carefully on the counter. then he’s pulling you up from the toilet, hands under your armpits, gentle but quick, your heels wobbling as your legs shake, the tiles cool under your feet.

you stumble, a tiny whimper slipping out, but he’s got you, turning you around, pressing you against the cool bathroom wall. your bare nipples graze the tiles, your slit still dripping, and he’s right behind you, breath warm on your neck, hands sliding to your hips, his ring cool against your skin.

“can’t leave you sitting there,” he murmurs, voice a teasing worship, lips brushing your ear, his hair tickling your shoulder. “too messy for my pretty wife, even if i’m so inlove with you like this.”

he drops to his knees, tiles creaking, hands spreading your thighs, his nails grazing your skin softly. you feel his breath on your slit, hot and ravenous, and you squirm, pressing against the wall, tears streaming as you try to pull away, your ring scraping the tile as your fingers curl.

“no—toru, don’t,” you gasp, voice breaking, hands fumbling for the tiles, nails slipping, your blush a wildfire. “i just went, it’s gross, please stop.” your protests are soft, desperate, but he moans, a low, hungry sound, like your embarrassment is his favorite flavor.

his tongue hits first, a slow, obscene lick through your folds, tasting the thick, musky slick of your arousal, a faint, barely-there trace of dampness from before, like a whisper of your earlier flush. you gasp, a shaky, mortified sound, hips twitching to escape, but he’s ravenous, lapping long, dripping stripes, his lips smacking loud, wet, filthy, like he’s devouring a rare treat.

“god, you taste like my fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled, tongue dragging from your leaking hole to your clit, sloppy and greedy, spit and slick pouring down his chin, splattering the tiles.

his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, ring digging into your skin, and he’s a wreck—chin drenched, lips glossy, white hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, moaning like he’s unraveling. he buries his face deeper, tongue plunging into your slit, licking deep, messy, slurping every drop like he’s trying to merge with you.

satoru’s eyes lift, locking onto yours, those blue irises blazing with a teasing, unrelenting hunger, watching you lose your mind above him. your breath snags, eyes widening, tears streaming as you squirm, but he doesn’t look away, his gaze pinning you like a vow as his tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, around your clit, sucking it hard until your hips buck, a choked moan spilling out.

“toru—no, stop,” you whimper, voice cracking, but your protests are fading, your mind splintering under his stare, his tongue, the way he’s consuming you. he moans into your slit, loud and shameless, spit dripping down his jaw, his neck, soaking his collar, his nose mashing against your clit as he licks, lips smacking, tongue fucking into you with a wet, squelching frenzy, spit bubbles bursting at the corners of his mouth.

“don’t want to,” he mumbles petulantly, lips smacking, tongue dragging through your folds, slow and sloppy, teasing every sensitive inch, his eyes still fixed on you, watching your lips part, your eyes glaze, your breath turn ragged.

he sucks your clit again, rough, then gentle, alternating until you’re gasping, your thighs shaking, your mind a fog, your ring glinting as your fingers claw the wall. his fingers join, three, stretching you wide, pumping fast, curling against that spot that makes you bite your lip, the wet sounds echoing over your whimpers.

“look at you, losing it so prettily,” he groans, voice slurred, lips smacking, his chin a glistening mess, spit and slick dripping onto his chest, his shirt ruined, his hair a sweaty tangle.

he drags it out, licking slower, messier, long, dragging stripes, sucking your clit with a lazy rhythm, then diving back in, tongue swirling deep, teasing every pulse, every twitch. his eyes stay locked on you, watching your tears fall, your lips tremble, your breath hitch as you claw at the wall, nails scraping, trying to hold on, your face a map of desperation and pleasure.

he’s relentless, lapping at your hole, sucking your folds, dragging spit and slick into his mouth, moaning like it’s his lifeline and he’s the one getting his soul eaten out of him, his lips red and swollen, his chin dripping like he’s been dunked in you. “can’t stop, sweet girl,” he pants, words slurred, lips smacking, spit dripping onto the tiles, his shirt soaked at the chest. “you’re too damn perfect, my perfect wife.”

he lingers, dragging his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every shiver, every pulse, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your face crumple, your breath turn to pants, your body melt against the wall. he sucks your clit again, long and deep, then flicks his tongue, quick and merciless, until you’re trembling, your thighs clamping around his head, your ring catching the light as your fingers dig into the tiles.

“toru,” you gasp, half a moan, half a plea, and he hums, a teasing vibration against your slit, his eyes glinting with mischief as he pushes you further, his nose rubbing your clit, his tongue plunging deep, sloppy and unhinged, spit pooling under him like a testament to his greed.

satoru pulls back for a breath, just to grin, lips glossy, spit dripping down his chin, and dives back in, tongue flicking fast, then slow, teasing until you’re gasping, shaking, your mind a haze of heat and want, his gaze burning into you like he’s etching your ruin into his soul.

he keeps going, licking deeper, slower, his tongue tracing every curve, every sensitive spot, sucking your clit until you’re a trembling wreck, your mind blank, your protests gone, your body a live wire under his touch. his fingers pump steady, wet and loud, curling just right, and he’s moaning, groaning, face buried like he’s drowning in you, his eyes still fixed on yours, watching every twitch, every gasp, every shudder, like he’s collecting every moment of your unraveling.

“fall apart for me,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your slit, his gaze searing into you as he sucks hard, pushing you closer, his nose nuzzling your clit, his tongue a relentless storm, spit and slick dripping down his throat, his chest, his shirt a ruined mess.

when you come, your vision whites out, body convulsing against the wall, pleasure slamming through you like a tidal wave, fierce and unstoppable. your thighs clamp around his head, slick gushing from you in a messy, uncontrollable squirt, soaking his face, his chin, dripping down his neck in glistening rivulets.

satoru doesn’t falter, licking you through it, drinking every pulse, every drop, his tongue sloppy, ravenous, moaning louder than your cries, his eyes still locked on yours, watching every jerk, every gasp, every shudder, like he’s carving your ecstasy into his very being. his hands tighten on your hips, steadying you as your legs buckle, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor you, his ring cool against your fevered skin.

his face is a wreck—lips swollen, chin drenched, spit and slick dripping down his throat, his chest, his shirt a soaked ruin, hair a sweaty tangle plastered to his forehead. he doesn’t stop, tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, a teasing, relentless swirl that pulls a whimper from you, your body twitching under the too-much, too-good sting of overstimulation.

he hums, a low, greedy sound, lips grazing your pulsing folds, drawing out every last shiver until you’re a trembling, breathless mess. he pulls back, panting, face flushed, and kisses your thigh, soft, lingering, his breath hot against your skin, his lips leaving a faint, wet mark like a whispered promise.

satoru reaches for the test, picking it up with shaky, slick fingers, holding it to the light. a pout forms, dramatic and teasing, his lips jutting out, but his eyes glint, playful, promising more. “negative,” he sighs, voice soft, mock-sulky, but that spark in his eyes says he’s already itching for another round of “trying.” “guess we’ll keep trying, huh, sweet girl?”

[effectivelabindia]

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[icanbetrustedwithnukes]

items taken from both eric harris and dylan klebold’s residences, credit to petsalamander on reddit (items may be repeated):

Taken from the Harris residence:

Sony 8MM video camera, green Steno book, piece Steno paper w/computer information, two glass test tubes w/plastic caps, eight 1½" x 2" mirrors, metal pieces, magnets, four boxes pellets, 9mm bullets, paper bag w/2 metal boxes w/nails, canvas bag w/shot, two boxes match sticks, broken jar w/metal pieces, floppy discs, misc. documents, Gateway 2000 CPU, misc. components and cables to computer, misc. discs, NEC 3FGX computer monitor, HP 682C printer, contents of trash, paperwork of Eric Harris, poster, "DANGER" sign, batteries and packaging, Micronta tester, heavy duty lamp bulb, two pieces of PVC pipe, Sony micro cassette recorder, two 2.5 gallon AMF oil containers, roll duct tape, cardboard box, papers, videotapes, micro cassette tape (Maxell), roll black electrical tape, baggy of broken glass fragments, photographs, bank account information, knife and tool, Dylan Klebold's papers, one shotgun barrel w/fireworks shell tube, roll electrical wire, 4 fuse, detonation cord, nails, end of rifle barrel, blue case w/shot, purple case empty, wire connections, plastic dish w/small rocks, misc. electrical parts, cigar box w/ shotgun shells, firecracker fuse, 1 firecracker, misc. electrical components, duct taped papers, five Doom books, receipts, card, school books and papers, two handwritten notes on Day Planner paper, two Schematic and note, fireworks, small rocket engines, 8mm tape, 1 empty shell case, 2 slugs, empty case w/ wood, stock of gun, PVC end cap, box playing cards, metal rods, 2 Morse code, electrical parts, US Calvary magazine, packages of ignitors, fireworks catalogs, tools, igniters, Anarchy cookbook document, bottle of Jack Daniels, glove, web straps, black BDU's, black torn t-shirt, two lighter fluids, gray file case, shotgun shells, detonator fuse, ball bearings, fuse cord, notebook, CDs, magazines, wood target, black toolbox marked "explosives" and contents, papers w/names and numbers, wood plaque, yearbooks, Black Cat bag, Black Cat paper, Maxell CD, diagram, folder w/papers, Hobby Lobby bag, Klebold label, bag shotgun shells, knife box - empty, gun box - empty, notepad map, yearbook '98, voodoo doll, match sticks taped, laser disc, calendar, stuffed bear w/CO2 cartridge, bullet, laser pointer, calendar, five cut fingertips from black glove, torn calendar page, three pictures of suspect, graduation announcement, five pages graduation list, Marine info packet, spool wire, Quick Tite glue, class schedule for Eric, report card in State Farm envelope, two '96 and '97 CHS yearbooks, medicine bottles, handwritten note

Taken from the Klebold residence (a considerably shorter list):

misc. wooden matches, batteries, newspaper article, homemade brass knuckles, misc. paperwork, misc. piece of radio and shotgun wadding, 8mm tape, electrical components, micro cassette, micro cassette recorder, lighter fluid, knife, shotgun shell casings and boxes, four 9mm, report card, BB's in dispenser, plastic case w/BB's, cassette tape and paper, shotgun barrel, metal tube, two pictures, documents and mail of Dylan Klebold, Acer CPU marked "Larry Brooks," Daisy CO2 BB pistol, BB's in box w/BB pistol, Remington mag bullet, Apple CPU, Newsweek magazine article, yearbooks and notebooks, scopes, wiring, two ladies watches, UMAX Astra 1220U scanner, mini tower CPU, catalogues, keyboard and mouse, NEC MultiSync 3FGX monitor, inert grenade, dish, turquoise suitcase, discs, two black t-shirts, film negatives, alcohol bottle, wall decoration of KMFDM (spelled in the police report "KMFDDM" which I find amusing), coat liner and belt, destroyed Coca-Cola can, CDs, black nylon bag, seven VHS tapes in bag, Marilyn Manson CD and electrical wire w/Alligara, three papers in bag, rubber hose, jar of black colored powder, broken electronic pieces, pipe w/end caps, two Daisy 856 BB rifles, twelve misc. floppy discs, can of Zippo lighter fluid, pink and black box containing BB's, misc. items

[kaivenom]

Hi! Can i ask a one piece headcanons with the dilfs where the reader is extremely clumsy with k*nifes or Weapons in general and almost get stabbed everytime? I dreamt of this and it was so funny

The One Piece Dilfs with a reader who is clumsy with weapons HCS

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks

A/N: OMG this week people are going crazy with requests for these amazing men. I hope you like it

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

When he discovered, he started to put his sword on his cover everytime he is at home or nearby.

Pretty much thinks is a divine sign to start to get careful with his sword, he is the best swordsman but the universe wants to remind him that he is also human and needs to be careful with his loved ones.

His knife/weapon room is closed with key, since the day he found you admiring his knifes and dropping all the shelves and cutted yourself.

He thought you were going to die, luckily no knife got actually stabed on your guts.

He is always watching you when you go outside, to the point when he is about to fight someone he just takes a moment to stop everything and ask you to step out.

Donquixote Doflamingo

He loves it and makes a good experiment from it.

Since you are his partner he wont let you get stabbed but he likes to test from afar, how bad its your clumsyness.

One time he put knifes all over the bedroom floor, and you cutted your feet a little.

That prank experiment was a little to much that even his team told him to not repeated again.

When you are siting on his lap, he tents to play with knifes, sometimes asking you if you want to try.

He obliges you to use plastic kitchen knifes, its a little humiliating but thats the proof that he cares about you.

Sr. Crocodile

He is obliged to out a rubber top on his hook or leave the hook on the clóset everytime he gets home.

Once you tripped and almost got impaled on his hook.

He is a calm men but that time, he thought he was having a heart attack, everytime he remembers it he starts to get cold sweats.

He likes to carry you, so when he needs to move you safely he just throws you over his back.

You always have a guard or a Minion to watch you with especific orders or not letting you alone with nithing Sharp.

Smoker

Suposing you are both marines he panics always and a lot when he sees you on the base or around the ship.

He tried to convince you to leave the field work and take an office job, if you said yes, problem solved.

If not, expect him to not ket you touch anything Sharp. Example: you are taking a sword for a raid and he goes from behind and straight gets the things out of your hands without discussion.

Sometimes people laugh about how he looks like a cat owner that is yelling at his for breaking something.

You sometimes think he is being to rough or strict but the rest of the crew knows that when you leave him alone he just breaks like a custard.

Akagami Shanks

Doesn't let you go on raids or battle or even the armory.

He would laugh about It because "you are eating such a powerful men and being such a mess" but the moment something shiny gets near you, he panics.

Everyone has know a cover for the sword or weapon, you even felt bad about obliging them to have this measure that you bought ones yourself.

They didn't like It to much but Shanks warned them about not making you more sad.

He follows you around like a puppy or makes someone follow you, but without you knowing. He knows you try to be independent and he is proud of you, but he also know that you are a mess.

[sophieguo]

Choosing the Best 1 Ton Tensile Strength Testing Machine for Accurate Material Testing

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[maeon-labs]

Plastic Testing Lab Chennai

Plastic Testing Lab offering detailed mechanical, thermal, and chemical analysis for all plastic materials. Ensure your products meet industry standards and regulatory requirements. Our expert testing services guarantee quality and reliability for your plastic materials.

[kiyorndlab]

Plastic Testing NABL Accredited Lab - Kiyo R&D (kiyorndlab.com)

In today's industrial landscape, ensuring the quality and safety of plastic products is paramount. This is where NABL accredited laboratories play a crucial role. These labs adhere to stringent quality standards and are recognized for their competence in testing and calibration. In this article, we delve into the significance of plastic testing in an NABL accredited lab and why it's essential for businesses operating in the materials, plastic, rubber, and metals industries.

[babybobbysstories]

A Bedwetter's Beginning - Chapter One

Note to the reader; This is the first chapter of the prequel to my Mikey series which can be found in my writing section here. Stay tuned for more chapters to come!

These are the chapters that make up the entire series;

A Bedwetter's Beginning Kendra Training a Sissy A Sissy Becomes a Baby Cuckold Penis Reduction Therapy for Sissies Milking my Sissy on Date Night Taking Control From a Sissy Nana Comes to babysit Two Sissies--One Babysitter A Playdate for Two Sissies Nana's Retribution

Mike was bored stiff.

It was 10:35 in the morning on a Wednesday and as he stared at his work computer screen idly, he wondered, not for the first time, if this was all there was to life.

It was times like these, that Mike’s mind began to wander, and he would start to daydream about the past. This was not a particularly productive diversion, as there were many shameful secrets he really wished he could forget.

Tapping his pen on the mouse pad before him, his cheeks reddened as he recalled one particularly humiliating event or another, mulling over the shameful memories and wishing life had dealt him a different hand.

The fact was, all throughout Mike’s childhood, he had been a chronic bedwetter. After his mom had taken him to several doctors, only to have them pronounce him physically fine, she decided the time-tested solution of diapers and plastic pants was the best way to deal with the situation. After placing several large orders online, she began stocking up on cloth diapers, plastic panties, pins and everything needed to accommodate her incontinent sissy boy. Although disposable diapers were probably the more popular and modern choice, she had chosen traditional cloth for their absorbency and the fact that her boy would be forced to be surrounded by his wetness until she decided to change him, whereas disposables tended to wick away the wetness from the skin, rendering them as less of a deterrent.

Believing that shame was the best method to bring about a change in her errant son’s behavior, his mom had chosen very babyish looking plastic and rubber panties for his diapering. They were in pretty pastel colors and cute nursery prints that would have gladdened the heart of any grandmother with a new baby girl to dote over.

Later that night, his mom led her prissy son into the bedroom where she’d laid out his “protection” for the night. Mike immediately threw a hissy fit, but his mom wasn’t having it—she knew quite well how to handle his childish tantrums and what he needed at that moment was a good, hard spanking. Yanking him over her lap, she paddled the fussy boy until he was repentant and prepared to behave. With his bottom hot, throbbing and stinging, Mike wiped the tears from his face as his mom laid him down for the first time since he was a toddler, on the thick stack of baby-soft diapers she had prepared.

“These will be your underwear each and every night until you decide to stop wetting the bed,” she explained firmly.

Whining and whimpering, he had to lay there as his mom slathered his blazing red cheeks with diaper rash cream before powdering him and pinning the voluminous diapers around his slender hips.

“This is for your own good,” she scolded him as she pulled a cute yellow pair of nursery print plastic panties up his legs.

It took some getting used to; the slippery, soft bulk of his diapers between his legs and the infantile scent of baby powder following him everywhere.

That night, and for the following four nights in a row, Mike completely soaked his diapers—thereby proving without a doubt, his absolute need for them, but at least his bedding remained dry. His mom soon put up a bedwetting chart to monitor his progress (or lack thereof), but she warned him in no uncertain terms that seven wet nights in a row would earn him another trip over her lap. Mike struggled to stay dry, but he nevertheless found himself getting spanked on average at least twice a month.

The fact was, Mike was no stranger to being spanked.

At school, his teacher, Ms. Sterne felt strongly that the best way to remedy an errant student was a good dose of her hard wooden paddle. Mike had been on the receiving end of it numerous times, and he could still painfully recall having to bend over her desk, facing the rest of the class, as she pulled his pee-stained underwear down and gave him thirty blistering swats of her Spencer paddle. Mike would stamp his feet and bawl like a baby as he looked at his classmates through tear-filled eyes, the cruel slaps of the paddle putting a cherry hot glow to his bare bottom.

Her students soon learned that obedience was paramount in Ms. Sterne's class.

On occasion, Mike would also have accidents at school, where he’d come home having wet his pants after a particularly traumatic incident. This often happened when Melissa, one of the cheerleaders, would bully him or when he received a wedgy from one of the toughs hanging out in the hallway. After discovering the front of his pants wet, his mom would threatened to diaper him during the daytime too, but she never actually made good on it.

His aunt, on the other hand, had no such qualms, and there were numerous weekends he had stayed over at her house, pinned into his shameful diapers and plastic panties day and night. This made for some interested (albeit humiliating) conversations whenever his aunt happened to be entertaining visitors. Poor Mike just had to stand there foolishly in his pampers as his aunt explained to her guests, her nephew's chronic bedwetting habit. Not surprisingly, and much to his utter shame, such conversations often led to Mike helplessly wetting his diapers before them.

One particular event stuck out in his mind as Mike pondered his often times humiliating history with his aunt. She had needed to go shopping one weekend and she didn’t trust Mike to be alone in the house without supervision. This was always something that grated on the sissy teen—the notion that he needed a babysitter, but his aunt was firm in her convictions and she didn’t tolerate any back talk from the boy. After changing his wet nighttime diapers and pinning him into a very thick set of new ones, she had given him a thin pair of shorts to wear, and they’d left the house to run her errands. Mike was mortified by her choice of clothes because not only had she chosen a particularly crackly and noisy pair of plastic panties for him, but the thin shorts did nothing whatsoever to hide his diapered condition. Indeed, pretty much without exception, everyone that saw him, stopped to stare at the young man, his hips bulging from the bulky set of diapers pinned around his waist. Most of the older women that saw him, smiled knowingly and he blushed terribly at their attentions.

Alas, it was all too much for the anxious young man and while waiting impatiently beside his aunt in one of the stores, he managed to wet himself. He had hoped to keep it a secret, but just as they were standing in line to be rung up, she reached down and made an obvious point of checking him, slipping a finger inside the legs of his shorts and discovering the soggy wet cotton of his diapers.

Mike blushed furiously and looked away from the others around him.

“I’m sorry but my boy seems to have had an accident and wet himself—is there somewhere I might change his diapers?” she asked the young salesclerk.

Stifling a giggle, the young woman pointed the way to the public changing room in the back of the store.

Mike’s cheeks flushed a deep red with shame as his aunt patiently led him down the aisle and into the empty room which had a raised counter and a package of baby wipes nearby. Lifting the whimpering boy up, she sat him down before pulling his shorts down and off from his wet diapers. Digging into her diaper bag, she reached in to get a new set of fresh cloth diapers for him. With maternal efficiency, she unpinned the soggy trio around his waist and dropped them into a plastic bag, along with his plastic panties. Humming to herself, she swiftly positioned him on the stack of fluffy Birdseye cloth, powdered him with Johnson’s baby powder, and proceeded to pin the layers of bunny-soft cloth around his slim hips.

Pulling out two pairs of plastic panties, she smiled and held them before Mike.

“Today my little sugarplum gets a choice—white with polka dots, or pink nursery print.”

Just then, without notice, another mother abruptly opened the door and came into the room, holding the hand of her four year-old son. She stopped in shock and her mouth opened when she caught sight of the teenaged Mike getting his diapers changed like an infant on the counter and his aunt still holding his plastic panties up before him.

“Oh—I’m so sorry. I thought the room was vacant,” she said, even as she looked Mike up and down appraisingly.

“Not at all—it’s no problem,” his aunt replied breezily, “My nephew just needs his plastic panties put on and then we’re done.

“Come on now, Mikey,” she said, using the pet name for him she was fond of, “Which pair would you prefer?”

Mike’s face and chest blushed crimson and he gulped with shame, unsure what to say as he stared at the ground and swung his feet nervously.

“How about the polka dot pair?” his aunt asked, reveling in his discomfort, “I think you’ll look cute as a button in them.”

Without waiting for a response, she pulled them over his shoes and up his legs, working them over the fat, soft bulk of his diapers as he squealed with embarrassment. The ambient light reflected brightly upon the shiny plastic panties and he looked like an overgrown toddler as they were secured around his waist.

“Isn’t your boy a little old to still be wearing diapers?” the young mother asked incredulously.

“Well, Mikey has very little control—he’s always been a chronic bedwetter and sometimes he wets his pants too, so diapers and plastic panties are very much a necessary part of his life,” she explained patiently, “Some little boys just never outgrown their diapers, do they sweetie?”

Mike was too embarrassed to answer so he kept his eyes on the ground instead.

“Well, we’ve taken enough of this young lady’s time,” his aunt said as she pulled his tan colored shorts up his ankles.

Mike jumped off the counter and he held his aunt’s shoulders to steady himself as she pulled his shorts up his smooth legs and over his big, bulging diapers. Unfortunately, the thin material couldn’t disguise the playful pattern of polka dots on his plastic panties underneath and the young mother watched him with unconcealed interest.

“You’ve got a very caring mommy to make sure you stay dry,” the woman observed, and unconsciously, she gently patted Mike on his fat, diapered bottom affectionately.

Thinking back on this incident still made Mike blush to his roots and he tried desperately to return to his work on his computer but the memories seemed to flood his mind and he couldn’t bring himself to think of anything else…

Mike’s bedwetting, and his mom’s way of handling it, continued all through his high school years until he was finally able to move out. He was able to find a dingy apartment and with his mom’s help to cover the deposit, he was, for the first time in his life, living alone. Unwisely, he chose to discontinue his all important nighttime diapering routine with predictable results; the mattress in his new apartment was soon ruined in the first week and his bedroom started to reek of stale urine.

Living in a state of denial, he chose to simply ignore the problem, putting it out of mind whenever he was home.

This all came to a head about a week later. His mom decided to surprise him by stopping by for a last-minute, unannounced visit to his new apartment. It was when he greeted her at the door—and he tried to prevent her from entering, that she barged her way past him and immediately became aware of what was going on. The strong, pungent aroma of stale pee from his mattress filled the apartment with it''s shameful smell. As her features darkened ominously, she knew there was only one thing to do.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her oval-shaped wooden paddle and swiftly yanked her sissy son over her lap. His neighbors were treated to the loud, painful punishment that followed, with every cruel slap of the paddle on his bare bottom easily being heard through the thin walls, to say nothing of Mike's childish wailing.

That afternoon, his mom brought four boxes over from her house containing all of his diapering supplies with strict instructions that he was to resume wearing them each and every night. Just to drive the point home, she decided then and there, to pin him into his thick, sissy diapers and pull his plastic panties up for him, making the young man feel like an incontinent toddler all over again.

Ashamed and defeated, Mike knew she was right and that night, and from then on, he went to bed properly diapered as he was meant to be.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @insaneintheemembranev2

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

TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, mentions of hunting, mentions of dealing with hunted animals, suggestive catcalling, character death (off page)

Part 10

Dead Weight - Part 11

The air inside the hardware store is stale and thick, the kind of silence that feels too quiet—even for the world they live in now. The roof has caved in partially, letting in shafts of waning light. Dust dances in golden beams, clinging to the particles kicked up by every step.

Daryl moves slow, crossbow slung across his back, his boots scraping softly over cracked linoleum.

Most of the shelves are overturned, their contents scattered or looted long ago. Rusted tools hang limply from broken pegs.

Old paint cans sit like forgotten soldiers beneath a display that reads ‘Spring Prep Sale!’ in faded letters.

Glen's muttering something to Maggie outside.

Daryl barely hears it.

He’s scanning without really scanning—habit more than focus—until something catches the light beneath a rotted display case near the back.

He kneels. Wedges his fingers under the corner of warped plywood and lifts. The wood creaks in protest but gives.

Beneath it, tangled in a mess of old cord and crumbling paper, is a knife.

He pulls it free.

It’s not military-issue, nor anything tactical. The blade’s maybe five inches, stained but not rusted. The metal is good steel, just dulled by time and dirt. But it’s the handle that gives him pause.

Not plastic. Not rubber. But old wood—dark, polished, the kind of thing someone carried because it meant something.

Carved into the handle are vines—thin, winding stalks that twist around blooming wildflowers. Tiny leaves stretch up toward where the hilt meets the blade. The detail is almost too fine for something meant to be deadly.

He brushes his thumb over them. There’s grime in the grooves, but underneath is a careful handcrafted wood.

Someone made this with patience.

He swallows and nibbles his cheek as he turns it ovsr in his palm.

You don’t have a knife. Not a proper one. He’s seen you fumble with dull blades, seen your hands slip. Once you nearly sliced your palm open cleaning a fish.

He tells himself that’s why he’s taking it.

But there’s something in the flowers. Something that looks like you—not in shape, but in spirit. Stubborn and soft at the same time.

He tests the balance. Good weight. Good bones. Needs work.

“You find anything?” Glenn’s voice breaks the silence.

Daryl stares at the knife for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says, tucking it into his belt. “Somethin’.”

He wipes it on his pants and tucks it in his belt.

The night is quiet, the kind that presses close to the skin. Moonlight glints off the prison fences, casting shadows across the courtyard.

The dry rustle of leaves from a broken tree nearby is the only sound, besides the faint hum of insects and the occasional distant groan of a walker too far away to pose a threat.

Daryl sits with his back to a support beam by the western fence, crossbow laid beside him, bolt at the ready. But tonight, he’s not just keeping watch.

Balanced on his thigh is the knife.

It’s not much at first glance. The handle’s dull and the blade’s edge is chipped, but the shape is good, and the steel is strong. He saw that right away. What stuck with him—though he’d never admit it—was the carved design on the hilt. Wildflowers, dancing through a curling vine. Someone had taken the time to make it pretty.

It reminded him of you, and that thought irritated the hell out of him.

He huffs through his nose, reaches into the pack at his feet. He pulls out a rag, a whetstone, a small tin of oil he kept for bolts and blades. His hands work in silence, slow and precise.

Swipe. Swipe. Pause.

The rhythmic scraping of stone against metal becomes a kind of meditation. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed in concentration—but it’s not just the blade he’s working on. It’s his thoughts.

He tries to justify it to himself, You didn’t have a good blade. You needed one. You’re always tryin’ to do stuff for the group—cookin’, helpin’ with Carl, makin’ Beth smile. It’s only fair. Someone oughta look out for you.

But that ain’t really it.

He tests the edge with his thumb, wipes the blade clean, then oils it. The metal gleams now, even in the dark. He can’t do anything about the tiny chips along the back edge, but the blade is sharp enough to cut leather clean, and the handle’s tight and solid.

He wraps it carefully in a new piece of cloth—clean, white cotton, salvaged from one of Hershel’s spare shirts. Then he sits back against the beam again, his eyes scanning the tree line automatically. One hand drifts to the blade resting beside him.

The next supply run had returned just before dusk. Glen’s dividing up cans, Maggie’s organizing boxes, and Rick’s crouched over a list with Hershel. Daryl stalks through the space with his crossbow still slung over one shoulder, dropping items beside people like he's delivering mail—gruff, efficient, silent.

You’re sitting on your haunches beside one of the crates, helping sort the medical supplies.

Your hair’s a little mussed from the long day, your hands raw from soap-making earlier that morning.

"Here,” Daryl mutters.

You look up—and before you can say a word, he drops a small, wrapped bundle of cloth next to you. Doesn’t wait for a reaction. Doesn’t make eye contact. He’s already turning away, muttering something to Glen about batteries.

You unwrap it slowly, uncertain. Inside is the knife.

The one with the delicate filigree.

It’s beautiful. Not just useful, but thoughtful.

You don’t say anything then. You just stare at the knife, your fingers gently running along the edge of the design, and tuck it away like it’s something sacred.

The prison is quiet. Shadows stretch long down the concrete halls. Cell Block C has settled into sleep, the shuffle of Carl’s breathing in his bunk, the rustle of someone turning over. Far off, a moan of a walker echoes against the outer wall, but inside, there’s only stillness.

The cell block quiets down slowly. The adults speak in hushed tones. Somewhere below, a mattress creaks.

Daryl settles into the thin mattress on the grated landing above the cells. He hates the idea of the bars. Hates being shut in. So he sleeps up here—half wild, half watchful.

Tucked just beneath the edge of his pillow—he almost misses it—is a small object wrapped in soft linen. He pulls it free with a frown, unfolding the cloth cautiously, like he's expecting a trap.

It’s a pendant.

Just a circle of smooth, polished antler, still warm from being handled. The marrow has been scraped from the center with careful hands, leaving it hollowed out and faintly golden in the lamplight. It’s threaded onto a short length of dark cord—simple, rough, handmade.

But it’s beautiful.

Not store-bought beautiful—real beautiful.

And tucked inside the cloth… a note.

Your handwriting is small, delicate. Careful.

"I made this from your deer."

"Tch. Whatever" he huffs.

But he doesn’t move for a long time.

His fingers rub over the smoothed antler.

Without another word—he tucks it into the inside pocket of his vest, right above his heart.

The entryway is warm from the makeshift oven. You and Beth sit across from each other, sorting portions of squirrel jerky into strips while Carl lines up a row of playing cards. Lori sips weak tea nearby, her expression finally relaxed for the first time in days, hand absentmindedly stroking her pronounced belly.

A faint melody hums from Beth’s lips—some country lullaby that doesn’t quite make it to words.

The moment is soft. Domestic. Rare.

Then the voice cuts through it like a blade dragged along a cinderblock.

“Well damn,” a man drawls, slow and syrupy, from behind the metal bars just across the hall. “Ain’t this the prettiest picture I’ve seen in a long while.”

You stiffen. Everyone does.

It’s one of the prisoners, tall, muscular, with eyes that look like they haven’t blinked enough in years. He leans lazily against the bars, separated from you by only a layer of metal, but the tone in his voice closes that distance fast.

“Lil’ blonde thing, you even legal? Don’t look it,” he coos, tongue dragging over his bottom lip like a tick. “Hell, don’t matter. Not anymore, right?”

Beth freezes mid-reach, her hand still hovering above the bowl of crumbs. Her fingers tremble before she retracts them into her lap.

“You look sweeter than anything we’ve had in months.”

The air in the room goes cold.

Carl starts to get up, but Lori lays a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down. She’s gone pale—jaw clenched, eyes like she’s already calculating how fast the man could get through if something went wrong.

You stand up slowly, not out of courage but instinct. Your heart races in your throat. Your hand goes to the table, fingers brushing your knife.

His gaze slides over to Beth again. His eyes crawl up her body like roaches through an open vent.

Beth makes a noise in her throat, soft and frightened. You see her jaw tremble. She doesn’t speak.

“Little housewife like you, it’d make this cage feel a hell of a lot more like home.” he says, wide-eyed and manic.

It’s disgusting a reminder that these men weren’t chosen, they weren’t saved. They’re surviving behind those gates, and not all of them have any interest in playing by Rick’s new world rules.

You step forward, even though your knees feel weak.

“Back off,” you say, voice not loud, but shaking. “Get away from the gate.”

He grins wider. “Or what?”

Lori rises now too, hand inching toward her belt—not for a weapon, but out of readiness. Carl’s eyes are wide, darting from face to face like he’s looking for a cue.

Beth is silent, looking at the floor like she’s trying to make herself disappear.

You look at Carl instinctively, trying to gauge if he even understands what’s being said.

But Carl’s not looking confused.

He’s calm.

Too calm.

Before anyone can react, before even Lori can grab his arm, Carl draws the pistol he keeps holstered at his hip, and levels it—hands steady—at the prisoner through the bars.

“Get away from us,” he says. Not loudly. Not angrily. Just flat, like he’s done it before.

The prisoner stares, blinking, unsure if this kid is bluffing. Carl doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“Now,” he says again.

You can’t breathe.

Lori lunges, one hand trying to push his arm down. “Carl, no—”

He doesn’t budge. He keeps that pistol aimed square at the man’s chest, eyes narrowed, like he’s on a battlefield.

It takes everything in you not to cry.

Not out of fear of Carl—but of what it means.

He’s just a boy.

A boy who plays cards, who still likes stories before bed, who gets embarrassed when his voice cracks.

But there he stands, acting like a man because the world he's in is making him be one.

Finally, slowly, Carl lowers the gun. Lori yanks it from his hand, her face flushed with panic and guilt. “You don’t ever do that again,” she hisses through clenched teeth, voice shaking. “You don’t ever—”

The prisoner, still rattled, backs away with raised hands and disappears back down the corridor.

Carl stalks away before Lori can say more.

The air is damp with the promise of rain.

It hangs low in the sky, thick and heavy, like the clouds aren’t sure whether they want to break or just smother the world in silence.

The trees along the edge of the forest are losing their autumn golds, giving way to bare limbs and crunching underbrush.

Every step you and Glen take toward the long-abandoned gas station echoes, leaves cracking beneath your boots like paper bones.

You glance at him with a small smile. “Thanks for taking me on this run”

Glen scoffs. “Are you kidding? You’re shaping up to be, a pretty good apocalypse buddy.”

You roll your eyes, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you round the shattered gas pumps.

He gives you a wide grin. “Means I gotta keep you away from walkers with a vengeance through.”

He pushes the door open with his shoulder—it creaks loud, alerting any lingering danger. The station is dim inside, windows long since broken, a faint chemical smell still hanging around the pharmacy section.

But it’s clear.

Glen lets out a low whistle. “This place has been picked clean but…” He hops the counter, rummaging through plastic bins and cracked drawers. “People always miss the bottom shelf.”

You crouch near the snack aisle, fingers running along dusty wrappers and empty shelves. The silence between you is comfortable.

You’ve grown used to this rhythm with Glen—the way he chatters when nervous, the way he checks over his shoulder for you every few seconds.

The way he lets you feel useful without making a show of it.

“Got any plans for powdered milk if we find some?” Glen calls.

“Pancakes,” you answer without hesitation.

He peers around the edge of the shelf, grinning like a kid. “hell yeah”

You hold up a dented can. “Is mystery meat stew our staple to now? Shall we name it ? Like a family recipe?"

Glen chuckles. “Okay, okay how bout ... regret?”

The two of you laugh.

Glen finds a pack of playing cards. “Score. We’re gonna need this for tonight.”

You grin. “To teach Carl poker?”

“To make you lose at poker,” he says dramatically.

Just then, a gust of wind cuts through the broken windows—sudden and cold. It carries with it the faintest sound distant, metallic, unnatural.

Your smile fades.

Glen freezes. Slowly, he lowers the box in his hand.

You both listen.

And then, there it is again—the unmistakable wail of sirens, howling over the trees. Your heart drops.

“Is that the prison ?” Glen says, already moving.

You don’t hesitate. You follow, your breath catching as the peaceful warmth of the run evaporates like morning mist.

The sound curls around your ribs, making your blood go cold. You don’t speak as you run—don’t have the breath or the courage.

You just run.

Boots thudding against cracked pavement, weaving through overgrowth and chain-link. Your lungs burn, your knife bouncing in its sheath. As you draw closer the alarms drown out everything but the pounding in your chest.

As the gates come into view, your blood runs cold.

The light is fading fast.

The once-crimson sky is now a murky violet, bruising against the barbed horizon as the last rays of sun slant the trees. You and Glen skid through the outer yard gate—heaving, filthy, blood-smudged and adrenaline-high.

But as you near the inner cellblock entrance, the noise cuts off like a dying engine.

It’s too quiet.

You exchange a glance with Glen. He swallows hard, and you both keep moving.

You burst through the doors, nearly tripping over a spare crate. Inside the entryway—what once served as a kind of neutral zone between the tombs and the cell block—you see them.

Everyone’s huddled in that narrow space like ghosts after a fire.

Carol is leaning against the wall, tear-streaked but upright.

Maggie sits on the floor with her knees to her chest, arms curled tightly around herself, forearms coated in blood.

Carl is standing alone by the railing, looking far too small, far too still, and Rick—Rick is nowhere to be seen.

You blink. “T-Dog?”

“We lost T-Dog” Hershel mutters, jaw clenched.

You don’t ask how.

But what draws your eyes—what roots your feet to the ground—is Daryl.

He’s sitting on the floor, back braced against the cinderblock wall. And in his arms is the tiniest bundle you’ve ever seen. Wrapped in a tattered, too-big blanket that must’ve been someone’s shirt.

There’s a streak of blood across his left cheek, and the sweat from earlier has long since crusted into salt around his temples. But his hands…

His hands are gentle.

Cradling a baby like she’s glass, one broad palm curled protectively around the fragile shape of her back.

His thumb brushes instinctively against her spine, a motion so tender it nearly makes you ache.

You hesitate in the doorway, your voice a whisper

“Is that…?”

He glances up—just a flick of his eyes—and meets yours.

There’s no smirk. No scowl. Just something raw, something shaken.

He gives a small awe struck nod.

You blink fast, heart pounding, throat tight. “where's Lori ?”

No one answers.

Carl’s shoulders jerk slightly. Glen steps forward, eyes wide, but Maggie grabs his sleeve and just shakes her head once.

You know. You know.

You step farther in, eyes never leaving the small bundle in Daryl’s arms.

Then—unexpectedly—he looks down at the baby and huffs the faintest exhale, more breath than laugh.

Then, unexpectedly, with the gentlest sarcasm you’ve ever heard.

“Lil’ ass kicker.”

The nickname lands like a balm and a wound at once.

You can’t help it—you smile. A small, aching thing. Not at the name itself, but at the way he says it.

He’s holding her almost as if she’s his.

You crouch down slowly beside him, knees creaking, careful not to startle either of them.

You glance toward Carl—your heart catching in your throat as the boy turns his back on the group, pretending not to listen.

There’s blood on his collar. Dried, rusty. Your eyes sting.

Daryl follows your gaze and murmurs under his breath.

“Kid had to put down his owm mom.”

You chest aches for Carl.