#Drilling Starch

[captainchemfertchemicals]

Drilling Starch | PHPA Chemical Ahmedabad Gujarat India - Chem Fert Chemicals

Looking for Drilling Starch in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India? Chem Fert Chemicals is your one-stop shop for PHPA (Polyacrylamide) for various drilling applications. Our drilling starch products are formulated to enhance drilling efficiency and borehole stability. Contact us today for a quote!

Drilling Starch, Drilling Starch Ahmedabad Gujarat India, PHPA Chemical Ahmedabad Gujarat India, www.chemfertchemicals.com, Chem Fert Chemicals

[shotmrmiller]

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

[strugglingsapphic]

back on my country shit🤠

Chloe is a stable hand at her parents farm, Charming Acres. Chloe is old southern money.

She's as country as it comes. She has worn out boots, a million pairs of starched levi's jeans, her shirt is always covered in dirt, her hat is one of her fathers old ones but she takes great care of it, her belt buckle is the farms crest. She drives an old blue two door ford truck that is begging to be put out of commission. Chloe is a cowboy. Chloe is Red's favorite thing about the farm.

Red is a rich girl. Her mom is one of the biggest bakers in the south. Red does dressage, because the other equestrian sports aren't lady like enough. She's good at it, one of the best in the south. She knows her shit about her horse, despite what the ranch hands will say about "mommy's money." She spends any time she can away from her mom at the stables, which is where she meets a certain blue haired stable hand. Red is chloe's favorite part of work.

So they start up a friendship, seeing as Red and Chloe are the only ones that can take care of the red heads horse (he's very selective). They talk all day, Red watches her stable hand work in the corral. Chloe helps her with dressage drills. They stay out all night, riding through fields without saddles cause chloe swears that's how it should be. She gives red her flannel when the other girl gets cold, she doesn't get it back.

They have a summer romance, because they don't go to the same school, and red is scared of her mom. But when one day, chloe shows up in front of Red's private school, sweaty because the AC in the truck broke again. She's in her work clothes, hay sticking out of her hair.

Red kisses her senseless, in front of the entirety of her fucking school. Flips off the resounding hollers from her friends behind her. but she couldn't give a damn about her class, or her mom right now.

She's got a cowboy to kiss.

@uhhhh-em-draws-stuff , @chxrmingswxrd , @ineedtherapydesperately because you guys enable my y'allternative headcanon🫶💖🫶

[gutsby]

Mr. Dixon

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and ‘neighborliness.’

Warnings: NSFW. Dad's friend Daryl! Drastic age gap!! Daryl's a dirty old pervert in this one :-) Voyeurism. Masturbation. Descriptions of oral sex (m!receiving). Dirty talk. Degradation. Slight misogyny. Daryl may or may not masturbate out a window at some point.

You had an old pair of Daisy Dukes and a dream.

Faded, frayed, and two times too small for your frame, the shorts hiked an inch up your ass every step you took across the room. Made it damn near pointless bending over before the man in front of you—he could see every inch of your butt regardless—but you did it all the same.

This was Mr. Dixon, after all.

Cool blue orbs illumined by candlelight took the sight of you in and flitted away just as fast. His hands busied themselves with the gun he was taking apart, while you reached for the bullet that had just rolled onto the floor.

“Here you go, Mr. Dixon.”

Your voice had a charming lilt as you held the round out to him.

“Over there,” Daryl grumbled, jerking his head toward the end of the table, “An’ what’d I say ‘bout callin’ me tha’?”

“I feel weird calling daddy’s friends by their first names.”

You shrugged and chucked the tiny piece of lead into the pile of ammunition like Daryl had told you to. Then you sat down beside it, crossing your arms.

He could be so cruel sometimes. Just fooling with his pistol and barking orders like a drill sergeant. Never looking at you longer than a second, and if he did, just shooting you a glare or wounding you with a scowl.

He’d been the toughest nut to crack out of all your father’s friends. No matter how straight-laced and upstanding the men around Mr. Grimes had made themselves out to be, you’d always found the fault line—the weak spot that got you access to the filthiest parts of each one. You’d teased and you’d flirted, earned a couple groping touches and open-mouthed caresses from the likes of the late Mr. Walsh and many others. But never Mr. Dixon.

Even now, sitting across from him in your skimpy Wrangler cut offs, wedges, and a skintight, starch white tank top stretched so tight over your tits the fabric was practically see-through, it was like you were invisible to him. You kicked your feet out in front of you as they dangled from the table and actually felt yourself pout at the feeling of frustration bubbling in your chest.

“I wanna help.” Sounding pitiful.

“No use,” Daryl said as he studied the barrel of the gun with an inscrutable expression, “Already told yer dad, ain’ no use for little girls on the range.”

Your nostrils flared as you started back on your feet.

“I am plenty useful, Mr. Dixon. And I— I’m not the little girl you think I am,” you fired back, sounding more miserable and juvenile with every word you spoke.

At the last, Daryl looked you up and down. It was hardly more than a passing glance, but deliberate enough to be expressive. Emotive.

He looked repulsed by you.

And, rather than dignify you with a response, he simply discarded his firearm on the table and left the room. You trailed behind him into the kitchen and watched him swing the refrigerator door wide on its hinges. Blue eyes surveying the shelves for a can of PBR, most likely.

“I can do anything you need me to,” you rejoined in a huff, desperate to be heard, “I’m twice the shot my old man ever was at my age, I can track if I need to— hell, I’m always doin’ stuff, Mr. Dixon. Things.”

You weren’t sure what rattling off your talents to a man who clearly had no interest in hearing them would accomplish, but you tried it anyway. You sounded like your father. When both of Mr. Dixon’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise and he plopped down on a bar stool opposite you, you wanted to melt right into the floor.

“Doin’ stuff, huh? Thangs?” he mocked your twang.

You gripped the door frame so tight your knuckles turned white. Daryl took a couple swigs of beer and stared you down through every swallow. He brought the can back to the counter, near-empty now, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I got a couple thangs for ya ta do,” he started, grinning, “Why don’t ya put those pretty hands ta work, throw a little apron on, and just...bake me a fuckin’ cake?”

“Funny,” you spat. You felt a surge of bile rise in your throat at the sight of his smug expression.

“Wash my car?”

“Fuck you.”

Daryl’s amusement only grew as the forbidden F-bomb flew from your lips—a word he knew Rick would never tolerate if you’d been in his presence. Presently, his eyes raked over your slight, shaking form at the threshold of the room and figured himself pretty lucky to have provoked such a strong reaction from you. He polished off the last of his drink in a single gulp.

“No need ta get all foul-mouthed, Ms. Grimes, I only—”

“Fuck. You.” Your reply came slower and a touch more measured than he’d expected. Even punctuated with a hint of a smile, making sure to stretch that Southern drawl when you added, “Dar-yl.”

It was the first time you’d ever used his first name.

You weren’t sure you liked it.

Daryl, on the other hand, felt quite certain the sound of his name suited your mouth just fine. A subsequent stir in his jeans wiped the smirk clean off his face, and he began to shift in his seat.

Before he could speak, you were already turning on your heels to leave. Formalities escaped quicker than your anger, and your fingers seemed to move of their own accord to flip Daryl off over your shoulder as you strode out the door, far out of his sight.

Meanwhile, and much to his chagrin, Mr. Dixon was already growing ill with the sounds of your parting wishes bouncing loud off the walls of his skull. Before the front door had even closed, his fingers, too, seemed to move involuntarily and do a thing they probably shouldn’t have done: touch the mound in his jeans.

He rubbed his clothed erection and groaned.

You were such a fucking brat.

Daryl had always thought with a father as eagle-eyed and attentive as Rick, you’d never reach this level of naughty, haughty, and straight up cunt-like, but here you were. Doing Lori proud the way you’d gotten another one of Rick’s best friends wrapped around your little finger.

You were good like that, and still too dense to understand a fraction of the effect you had on him while you did it. The way you’d been looking at him earlier, Daryl was sure you’d convinced yourself he hated you.

If you could only see him now, spitting in one hand and unzipping his fly with the other, freeing his cock, and finally, finally getting his fingers wrapped fast around his shaft with the sole thought of you on his mind as he did. If you could watch him shudder, close his eyes, draw a deep, jagged breath through his nose to scour the air for the faintest trace of your scent lingering there—maybe you’d get it.

Daryl slid his hand down his cock and exhaled a shaky breath. You would simply never “get it,” because he’d already promised himself he wouldn’t let that happen.

As his thumb grazed the head of his red-hot, leaking cock and imagined it was your tongue doing all the work, he had to remind himself this was nothing but a fantasy for him. There was just no way in hell he’d sink to Shane’s level and actually lay his hands on you, no—he was better than that.

He was a man of principle, furiously jerking his cock in his kitchen with the thought of his best friend’s daughter on his mind. He just couldn’t touch you.

Damn if those tits didn’t sit nice under that top, no bra to hold ‘em in. And those shorts…

Daryl felt his head drop back as a wave of pleasure coursed up his spine. In his mind, you were sucking him now, hollowing those soft, sweet cheeks around his member and bobbing your head up and down, again and again, eyes never leaving his. Maybe you’d know to cup his balls, use your tongue to draw a couple lazy shapes down his cock. Any way you wanted it done was exactly how Mr. Dixon needed it, he’d decided.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and fucked his hand like a man half his age.

Someone like you.

Scarcely nineteen and so oversexed they might burst.

The difference was Daryl would explode any second now; he had only to hunch over, pump himself a few more times, and finally shoot his load, pretending it was spraying your insides and not the floor of his kitchen.

He’d intended to do just that, clenching his jaw at the filthiest thoughts of you yet, when suddenly, a sound shook the house.

Daryl dropped his cock and looked right out the window.

Down below, outside, you’d laid heavy on your car horn. Let the noise blare a couple seconds before Daryl came bounding over to the window.

When he did, the man thought his legs might buckle.

You were standing beside his truck in the driveway, sponge in hand, soaked head-to-toe in water and soap and smiling brighter than he’d ever seen you. The fabric above your tits was translucent now, clinging like a second skin and affording his lustful gaze every inch of your torso. Your free hand was waving up at him.

Daryl inched the window open with trembling hands.

“Mr. Dixon, this truck is filthy!” you shouted from down below.

Swallowing and blinking was all he knew how to do, it seemed. Finally, Daryl managed, deadpan:

“I know.”

You placed your hands on your hips and narrowed your eyes up at him.

“Have you always been such a dirty old man?”

Fuck. It was like you knew what he’d been doing, crouched over in the privacy of his home while he drooled and dreamed of fucking you stupid. He watched you cross the front of the car.

And lean down to start rubbing your sponge across the hood.

Daryl sincerely feared you might hear his loud groan the second it rose to his throat. He gritted his teeth, tried to fight the sound, but came up short with nothing to show for his efforts but a whimper slipping past his lips.

You started swirling your sponge in circles, tits shaking with every movement you made.

“Too bad little girls ain’t good for nothin’,” you sighed.

When you leaned flat across the metal surface below you, Daryl pictured himself standing behind you, taking his dick and shoving it deep between your folds. Stretching you out and making you scream into the space in front of you.

Slowly, discreetly, Daryl’s hand drifted back to his cock.

“Yeah. Too bad,” he mumbled as you bent over to soak your sponge once more. When you straightened up, you made sure to squeeze the thing over your chest so the water would douse your front. Daryl took the window frame in one hand and his cock in the other, leaning out just slightly to ask, “This the ‘stuff’ ye’s talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Thangs, really,” you answered dryly.

The two of you exchanged a brief smile, and Daryl’s hand started stroking his length.

Lucky for him, and unlucky for you, the size of the window wasn’t primed to make you privy to the sight of him pleasuring himself. At most, you saw a forearm moving gently back and forth. You bit your lower lip and kept your sponge moving in loops.

“Well these ‘thangs’ are gonna get ya in a whole heap of trouble with yer daddy if ya keep this up, girl,” Daryl warned, nodding toward your house with a wary look.

“It’s empty, Mr. Dixon. Whole place is mine for the weekend,” you replied with a sly intonation.

Finally, you stopped long enough to get a hand back down to your shorts. Facing Daryl still, you popped a button on your denim cut-offs and looked up at him with a glossy, innocent stare. You pretended to feel for something that wasn’t there, snagged the band of your light pink thong, and lifted it up to Daryl’s hungry gaze. You saw his bicep visibly strain as he jerked his cock even faster.

Back inside, Daryl was panting, groaning, reeling at the thought of you all alone in your house next door, splayed out across your bed in a baby pink panty set. He soaked in the sight of you and curled his toes into the floor as a new jolt of pleasure broke out through his body.

He was closer than he’d ever been. He rested his head against the window and watched you run your hands over your body, down your front, in your shorts. He imagined your fingers grazing your cunt and how wet you must’ve been then, imagining him right back and fucking him steady with your eyes.

For a moment, your eyelids fluttered, and a blissful look crossed your features. Daryl rutted his hips at the thought of you finding your clit in front of him—desperately wanting to be the source of that pleasure himself—and pumped himself even faster.

“Darlin’, I…I need ya. In such a bad fuckin’ way.” He couldn’t keep the tender term of endearment from dancing on his tongue. The sight of you alone had his brain on the fritz.

You slipped your hand out of your shorts and brought a couple honeyed fingertips to the edge of your lips.

“How bad, Mr. Dixon?” you asked, eyeing him intently.

Daryl whined and felt his insides churn with the threat of release. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“So— so bad. Need to fuck ya so bad.”

That satisfied your affirmation-hungry itch well enough. You pushed two digits between your lips and started to suck.

From that point on, you didn’t need to see him or hear him or be there waiting patiently on your knees to get a mouthful of his cum—you knew it was coming. Daryl’s face contorted with a blissful, fucked-out expression, and suddenly he was pumping that space below the window full of his load, likely spraying the whole damn thing on the wall.

You stood back and admired your work. Daryl had all but collapsed with both hands planted on the windowsill, wet, brown locks hanging low in his face as the aftershocks of his arousal washed over him.

He was panting and barely able to meet your gaze. You couldn’t quite read the expression.

At any rate, you knew your job here was done.

With a hand waving sweetly back up at him once more, you eyed the mess of a man—your father’s best friend—and started to reach for your bucket and sponge. You buttoned your shorts back up and took a step from his truck. When it seemed Daryl was just then starting to open his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and called out, cheerfully,

“See ya around, Mr. Dixon!”

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Reflection

Pairing: Ari Levinson x Reader

Kink Prompt: Reflection [Mirror Sex]

Word Count: 1982

Summary: You love everything about your new house—except for that creepy old mirror in the upstairs hallway.

Warnings: Horror, Haunting, Noncon/Dubcon, Light overstimulation, Mirror Sex, AU: Dark, Smut, MINORS DNI!

A/N: my first kinktober entry!! since all of my prompts were singular words, i just decided to go with the first kink that came to mind. 😈 i really hope you all enjoy this first installment! as always, mind the tags and warnings. enjoy!

 Though your nails are already chewed down to the quick, you can’t stop yourself from tearing into them again as the officers come out of the house, one after the other, a straight line of starched blue uniforms. The first one out approaches you at the front gate. You can tell by the irritated look on his face that he hasn’t found anything, that your second call this month is a nuisance, and not one he wants to continue putting up with. 

 “Nobody inside, I’m afraid,” he says, shrugging as he hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and heaves a heavy sigh. “I know you’re new in town. Wouldn’t be surprised if maybe you heard some things about the house, the way people talk—”

 “I heard someone.” You cut him off stiffly. “Walking around, right outside my bedroom door!” Your voice goes squeaky, your throat tight with remembered fear. “Gossip doesn’t make your floorboards creak.” 

 “Houses ‘round here are old.” His hackles are up now—you’re edging into telling him he isn’t doing his job, and he knows it. “They get real noisy in the winter.” The dismissal is clear in his voice and in his body language as he turns to wave the three other officers back to their squad cars. 

 “You could try putting up cameras,” he suggests over his shoulder. “But we swept both floors—and the basement—twice. There’s nobody here but you, ma’am.” He taps the brim of his hat. “Goodnight. Make sure you lock up, now.” 

 I know what I heard.

 Even with the all-clear given by the irritated police officers, you’re still loathe to go back inside. You stand there by the garden gate, staring nervously up at your own home. Footsteps—heavy, booted ones—pacing back and forth in front of your door, the shadow of a figure visible beneath the frame. 

 “I’m not crazy.” You say it softly aloud, clenching your fists at your sides. “I’m not crazy.” With your toes curled so as not to lose a slipper, you shuffle back inside. You’re on high alert as soon as you step inside, ears straining to hear every sound. It’s freezing in here. The drippy faucet in the kitchen had never bothered you before, but now it’s maddening. Every creak and groan of the house shifting and settling is now a footstep, a or a finger tapping against the window glass. The gusty autumn wind becomes the sigh of an unseen stranger in your ear. 

 You check every room, turning on each light as you go. The electric bill will be sky high next month, but you don’t care. At least if the lights are on, you’ll be able to see the intruder. You tell yourself that’s why you’re doing it, and not because having the lights on makes you feel less alone. 

 Ever since you signed your name on the deed, it seemed as though your quaint, beautiful house in a lovely suburb just south of the city, had been beset with problem after problem. Issues with the foundation, water, heating—and not least of all, the strangely ornate mirror in the upstairs hallway that you just couldn’t take down. You’re not the handiest person, but you know how to use a drill. Even so, the weird, metal clasps holding it to the positively ancient sheetrock won’t come loose, and you can’t remove it without taking half the wall with it. 

 A statement piece, the realtor had called it, but the mirror does nothing but give you the creeps. You don’t like looking in it—the colors of your clothing always seem washed out and faded in the hallway light. And for some reason—perhaps it’s positioning, or the way the light filters in from the window at the  end of the hall—but you always feel like something’s moving in the reflection, just out of the corner of your eye. 

 You complete your walk-through of the first floor, even poking your head down into the basement. Just long enough to look around and then tug firmly on the cord to illuminate the scant little concrete room before ducking back out, but still you’d checked. You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, swallowing thickly as you stare up at the darkened hallway. 

 It’s fine. The officers said it was fine.

 The thought gives you no comfort, but you push yourself up the stairs anyway, flicking on the hallway light as soon as you get there. The hallway is empty, of course, and you shake your head at your own childish fears. 

 Silly. Jumping at shadows. 

 You head for the bedroom, trying to keep your eyes trained hard on the floor so as not to look at the mirror. Movement in the glass catches your attention, though, and you stop short. The window at the end of the hall is cracked, the cool breeze stirs the curtains. You’re not sure what compels you to keep staring, to squint into the dull mirror. I didn’t see anything. There’s nothing there. Nothing—

 A hand. 

 So faint it’s almost completely invisible, curled around the edge of the curtain. You’re frozen, your heart held so tightly in your throat that no sound escapes it other than the rattle of your own breath. Goosebumps break out over your flesh as you watch the fingers tense, the fabric bunching as slowly, the panel is drawn aside. An eye appears first, followed by half of a wide, toothy grin. 

 You scream. 

 The sound tears itself from your frozen throat without permission, unexplainable terror gnawing away the conscious thoughts until only primal instinct is left. 

 Run.

 You turn to flee, your body barely cooperating as fright stiffens your limbs. You only manage a few steps, though, before icy hands fist in your hair and clothing. You wail as you’re tugged backwards off your feet, your back pressed against the mirror. The glass is frigid, even through your clothes. The force of it knocks the wind out of you, breath wheezing through your teeth.

 “Don’t go.” A soft puff of air washes over your face, and you whimper. You can’t see anyone, can’t explain what’s happening. You struggle, grunting as you try to push away from the mirror, but it’s no use. Your feet dangle inches off of the floor, your arms pressed tightly to the wall behind you, as if held there by some impossible gravity. Cold fingers trace the curve of your cheek, and you flinch, whimpering. There’s a slight shimmer in the air, shifting and warping like the spots that dance across your vision when you stare too long at the sun. Only, these don’t move, don’t dissipate as you blink fearfully at them. 

 “P-Please, I—”

 “Don’t go.” The voice is stronger, angrier. Invisible fingers grip your chin, forcing it up. “You can’t.” Hot, terrified tears stream from the corners of your eyes. Unseen hands push at your tank top, tugging it up and over your head. Your nipples stiffen in the cool, open air, and you whine as your unseen captor continues his exploration of your prone form. A satisfied sigh fills your ears as those same icy, ghostly hands bunch in the terrycloth fabric of your sleep shorts, ripping them down your legs. Cool, calloused fingers spread your heated lips, flicking at your clit. 

 “I’ll make you stay,” the voice says, low and determined. Your legs, free of whatever invisible binding had held them, kick frantically at nothing. It’s like he’s there but he isn’t, as your feet connect with nothing but air. Your legs are draped over invisible shoulders, large hands clamping around your thighs to hold them in place. You writhe against the glass, struggling futilely. He laughs, his wintery breath puffing against your heated, moist core. 

 “You signed,” he says, and you cry out as his cool, wet tongue slides through your folds. “That means you belong to the house, now.” Cold electricity runs up your spine at both his words and his touch. He suckles your clit, pulling it between his lips and worrying it with his teeth. Your thighs tremble, pressing into his shoulders. 

 You still can’t see him, but you can see the indents his fingers make on your skin, feel the rasp of his beard against your inner thighs. His touch is ice, but the fire building in your belly at every pass of his tongue burns hotter and hotter. The man—the thing—between your thighs eats hungrily, sucking and nipping at your cunt like he’s starving. 

 Your hips undulate against his face, and you can feel him smiling into the sloppy mess of your cunt as you cum. You do it with a wail, your thighs tightening around the head you can’t see, his tongue buried in your pussy as your walls convulse around nothing. He hums into your soaked, trembling flesh, but doesn’t stop, his thick fingers playing at your entrance. 

 “N-No, nngh—” Your protests are muffled by your own moans, choking you. Eyes rolling, you pant helplessly at the shimmering shape of a man between your thighs, his fingers curling inside of you. You cum again with a pathetic sob and shuddering breaths, fingernails scraping against the glass. 

 You don’t know how long he keeps you there, pinned helplessly as he drags you from one unwilling orgasm to the next, until your limbs have all the strength of dry pasta, and you’re shuddering in his arms. When he lowers your trembling thighs, you slide to the floor in a puddle, your legs unwilling to hold you up. The chuckle that sounds in the air in front of you makes you whimper again, your swollen cunt still throbbing. 

 You feel his hands at your hips, lifting and turning you until you’re on your knees, your face pressed up against the glass. Your breath ghosts across it, fogging the surface. Hazily, you stare into the mirror, eyes widening as you take in the man behind you. You can see him now, reflected brightly—almost too brightly—in the polished glass. Sandy hair falling over his dark, hungry eyes. Naked but for the Star of David on a thin silver chain nestled in his thick chest hair. 

 “Belong to the house,” he mutters as he lines the head of his leaking cock up with your soaked, swollen cunt. You’re still present enough to whine and huff as the thick head of him begins to press inside. Even after his fingers his cock is still enough to stretch you, and you writhe at the sinfully delicious stretch and burn. 

 “Belong to me.” He thrusts forward hard, seating himself inside of you with a  growl. His fingers are tight on your hips as he leans down over you. “Look.” He grips your face roughly, turning your head and forcing you to face yourself in the mirror. Your glassy eyed, fucked out face stares back at you, pupils wide and dark. His fingers slip into your mouth, and you taste yourself on them. 

 He rocks into you steadily, his cock punching the air from your lungs and dragging oh-so-pleasurably against your walls until you cum, drooling and mumbling unintelligibly around his fingers, staring at your own face the whole time. The tight squeeze of your cunt makes him groan, hands tightening painfully on your hips as he fucks into you unsteadily. You’re barely aware of the hot breath on the back of your neck, his teeth scraping your skin as sickly warmth coats your swollen walls. 

 You sag against the mirror, your hot cheek pressed against the cool glass as Ari continues to mumble behind you. 

 How do I know his name?

 “See?” He asks, humming as he strokes your cheek. His cock is still hard inside you, and you don’t have the strength to struggle as he begins to thrust into you again. “You belong to the house.” 

 fin

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library​ for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

[trupowieszcz-moved]

i am bestowing a bangin tofu recipe upon you (easy)

disclaimer: i am polish and these ingredients are literally just what i had in the kitchen. so you can also add some fancy stuff that's common where you live but i don't have it. i don't know. i had sesame and forgot but you might want that too. this is easily modifiable so do whatever you want i'm not a cop. also the tofu in the photo came out Not Crunchy Enough because i added too little potato starch but yours should be Crispier. anyway. recipe under the cut

INGREDIENCE

tofu

potato starch

oil

soy sauce

garlic

ginger

honey/sugar

water

lemon juice

rice optional:

sprouts

chives

string bean

whatever vegetables you want that go with these flavors you can google stir fry recipes to check them out

WHAT TO DO

cut tofu into cubes, not too large, just bite-sized, whatever suits you best

put it into some tupperware box/pot with a lid/whatever and add potato starch (two-three tablespoons for a whole 200g cube of tofu) and shake for a while to make it coat evenly

heat the oil in a DEEP frying pan/wok, it can't be a pancake pan, pour enough oil that the tofu is at least five out of six sides inside the oil you know the drill we're deep frying this bitch

fry the tofu so that the coating turns golden, over medium or high heat (not on low heat or it will turn out soggy, but be careful not to accidentally burn it)

in the meantime cook your rice and prepare the sauce

for the sauce you have to get about two tablespoons of soy sauce, one tablespoon of water, one tablespoon of oil, one big clove of garlic (crushed or grated), about the same amount of ginger (grated too), one teaspoon (roughly) of lemon juice and half a teaspoon of honey/sugar and you just stir it all until it's mixed together

now attention Pour off the tofu into some sort of metal colander, but don't dump the pan into the sink yet, just put it back on the stove because it will still come in handy and you just want to get rid of the excess oil because you don't need that much anymore

now onto your pan (in which there is still obviously some oil so you don't need to add anything) you put your vegetables along with a teaspoon or two of the sauce and fry for a while stir-frying on a higher rather than lower heat, but not for long, just enough to sauté them slightly

turn down the heat a bit and put the tofu back in, but now pour the rest of the sauce over it and stir it until some of the water is cooked out and it's a bit more sticky.

you put it on the rice and you're DONE good job bon appetit etc :)👍

[doggiewoggiez]

Recently I've been getting into browsing r/PrisonHooch and seeing the awful brews people are coming up with. So I decided to make one of my own.

The Ranch Style Hooch

Recipe:

2 cans Ranch Style Beans (with Jalapeños!)

2 cups sugar

1 gallon spring water

0.25 tsp amylase enzyme

1 packet Lalvin EC-1118 yeast

Dumped the cans into a pot, filled them with water to get the residue, added to the pot. Then filled the cans again and dumped them down the sink (need to discard some water to make room for the beans), and dumped an additional 2 cups (for the sugar volume). Added most of remaining water to the pot, mixed in amylase enzyme and mashed the beans to get the enzyme nice and incorporated. This converts the starch to maltose (a sugar the yeast can use). Brought to a boil and added sugar, cooled in the fridge until it went under 100°F. Rehydrated a packet of yeast in the last remaining pure water, added the sugary bean soup, mixed well. Drilled a hole in the lid of the jug to add an airlock, so CO2 can escape and air can't get in. I tasted the beans before they went in and it tasted like a fancy bbq sauce... Shockingly good, malty taste.

Now to let this ferment for a few weeks. I'll post updates occasionally.

[generic-whumperz]

Intentions 

Summary: Approximately two weeks into his imprisonment in the basement, The Aid has a flashback of the day that changed his life forever. (Backstory. Milder chapter.)

General content warnings here, rest in tags

Masterlist | Backstory | A03

The only upside to being bone-exhausted from starvation and getting his ass ground into a pulp is that The Aid spends most of the time passed out. Better to not be burdened with the plight of conscious thought, he reasons.

Besides, nothing beats a depression nap. Given the circumstances, it’s decent sleep, or at least as decent as he could ever hope for. Just ignore the pounding migraine, partially severed ankle, grumbling belly, and broken body pulsing with compounding jolts of pain and disassociate—easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

When awake (a travesty), his brain feels like microwaved instant mashed potatoes. That’s the best comparison he’s thought of in this muddled state; he’s contemplated it for hours. All starch, no real substance. And what do you know, both pasty white and activated by water. 

He’s etched marks on the concrete basement wall above his head with a small chip of cement, faint, illegible lines he can’t see in the dark, to count the number of days he’s been down here. Fingers run the length of the make-shift day tracker. Whatever number it is, he knows it’s not accurate. He’s sure he lost a day or two from being strung up in some hellish stress position only the Devil himself would think of from the ceiling—or tied to the old wooden blood-stained chair that’s given him a dozen splinters—but at least it’s an estimate. 

He thinks he counts 15. Counts again. Comes up with 17. Again. 14. 

So this is what losing your mind feels like.

Mix-matched numbers are the least of his worries, but at least that’s tangible. Something he knows is actually there, a tether to the physical world.

The glowing white eyes spying on him in the dark are more frequent now. The creature he tells himself isn’t real lingers in the rings of pitch-black shadows. It waits. Feeds on him when he’s sleeping. That’s an opportune moment for both of them, the only time they equally enjoy. He wishes he was unconscious right now, but a rapid heart rate and feverish sweating make that impossible. 

His body reflexively stiffens against the throbbing pulse radiating from the near-perfect hole in his mid-thigh. Leg muscles convulse, unleashing a searing, hot wave of pain that spiders out from the gash like molten lava, bathing his entire leg in a fiery agony.

He groans, letting the tears fall freely. Teeth clamp shut. He rolls around on the rotten-smelling mattress stained in every shade of bodily fluid, trying to partially distract himself and partially take a walk-it-out-approach—move against the pain. 

That makes it worse. 

Hands clench into fists. 

He screams. 

Static. 

He imagines the floating particles as something wonderful, something childish and playful like magical fairy dust. His eyes follow the proverbial yellow brick road and roll over to the old wooden workbench, hoping to find the entrance to the Emerald City. A streak of soft sunlight from the single basement window illuminates part of the wood. Blinking, he tries to focus blurry vision from poor eyesight—eyes adjust as much as they can without his glasses Wyatt tells him was a privilege—not a right—to have. One he no longer deserves. 

Something shines against the direct light like a bright star on a calm, cloudless night. He misses the sky. The Sun. moon. Stars. 

Could it be—did he really make it? 

He squints. Focus. 

It’s the metal of the drill bit the sadistic man used on him yesterday, reflecting a sparkle of light—chunks of his leg still lodged in the threading.

He gasps and jerks away. Stares at the desolate wall—at nothing, because nothing is better than a bad-something. Chest heaving, he coughs like he’s going to vomit, but there’s nothing but bile that comes up. He erupts in a fit of wailing until he makes himself sick, and his eyelids swell shut.   

Drifting. Barely lucid. 

Regret creeps into the cracks of subconscious. 

Was it worth it? 

He’s thought long and hard about that, too. A meager week-and-a-half of “freedom” only to be snatched up by border patrol and hauled back to his torturer. 

No, not that—all of this. Selling himself, giving up what little was left of his human rights, getting hauled off to the other side of the country to live amongst wealthy slavers and transform into some fucking wind-up cymbal-banging monkey toy. 

At first, it was a resounding “yes” without a shadow of a doubt. 

Now? He’s not so sure. 

Long are the days of luxurious pool parties with tasty appetizers, fruity drinks, weekend coastal getaways, and living la vida loca while pretending that people aren’t dying in droves from starvation, war, and disease—out of sight, out of mind, right? 

He reminisces the time when his biggest adversary wasn’t a raging psychopath with a hard-on for blood, but were the sly, risqué glances and wondering manicured hands of his late Madame’s granddaughter he had playfully fended off under the distracted noses of every Sullivan family member who were none the wiser of their scandalous—albeit one-sided—encounters.

Should he have never gotten that one-way bus ticket that sealed his fate? Never disappeared late into the night while making peace with knowing he’d never see his surviving friends or family again? Turned away from those double-wide doors of the shiny all-glass Chattel Services Inc. building? Paid better notice to the old picket signs stuffed in the outside trash bins, bold letters warning that this was just corporate slavery hoarding much-needed resources from withering green zones? Masses succumbed to starvation as the government struggled to provide uncontaminated food and water. Yet, the slave trade persisted against all odds, unfazed by the global suffering. In the post-Nemaxys world, dying citizens held no value—but enslaved ones remained a lucrative commodity for the wealthy and powerful elite.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda—a damn awful game to play. 

But it's not like he’s doing anything else. 

****

The man behind the desk keeps smiling at him, which makes it incredibly difficult to fill out the 20-something-page intake form on the clipboard he’s holding. He knows the guy is trying to be friendly, make him feel at ease, and not think too hard about how he’s singing his life away to the highest bidder. 

As he writes, his other hand keeps picking at a hangnail that’s starting to bleed a little bit, but he’s so fucking on edge and caught up in making sure his handwriting is legible enough that he doesn’t notice the dabble of blood smeared across his nail bed.

“Here,” a voice says. He looks up at the blonde man, who doesn’t look much older than him, holding a tissue out for him to grab. 

The dumb expression on his face is evident enough for the man to clarify. “For your finger.” 

He looks down. Notices the small bubble of red peaking over the partially bloody thumb. 

He sounds surprised. “Oh, thanks.” 

He dabs away the blood. His stomach grumbles; he hasn’t eaten anything since dinner last night, which feels like a lifetime ago. Nerves flutter. Fingers pick away at the now crumbled tissue clenched in his hand. 

“We’ll get you some breakfast soon,” The man chirps. He looks up. The guy is still just watching him. Eyes dart around the page, he nibbles the inside of his lip.

“Low blood sugar, huh?”

“Um, I guess.” He doesn’t look up from the page, hoping he doesn’t appear rude. 

“You’re shaking.” The man says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and not as if there would be any other possible explanation. 

Fuck, is this how it’s going to be here? Every single move monitored and scrutinized? He doesn’t think he can do this. He gulps and sets the clipboard at the edge of the desk. He needs a moment. He can’t believe he’s doing this—really doing this. 

What the fuck is he doing? 

The little voice in his head is screaming at him to get up and run the fuck out of here. Go back home. You don’t have to do this. There’s another way. You’ll think of something. This is insanity. 

He grabs the small paper cup of water—the kind that’s too small even to be called a cup; disposable shot glass is more like it—and gulps the rest of it down. Meanwhile, the man studies him like a hawk. The guy’s eyes slide to the intake form. Before he registers what’s happening, the man grabs it and starts looking it over.

“I’m—I’m not done,” he stammers. God, he feels like an idiot. He hopes the man doesn’t ask him to clarify an indecipherable word from a shaky hand. Maybe he can blame it on the pen; it was one of those shitty off-brand Bic ballpoint pens you used to buy in packs at Dollar Tree.

The man’s eyes scan the lines of text when he stops and shoots him a grin. “This is great. You’re great. You’ll sell like a hot cake.”

The blood drains from his face, and his heart drops to his stomach, which feels like it just shriveled up in half a second and died inside him. It’s hard to come to terms with being sold—knowing that’s in his future, and apparently near future. Hypothetically, of course, he wants to be sold quickly, but hell, he’s only been here for not even 30 minutes and is still in denial of the last 12 hours that led him to this moment. 

“And happy birthday! We’ll have to celebrate and get you some cake,” The man exclaims with a bright smile.  

“Thanks,” he says quickly. 

He doesn’t feel like celebrating. He’s too damn guilty to pretend to act happy about the big 18–legal adulthood, AKA the day the plan he’s been concocting for the last year-and-a-half came to fruition. How he just left everyone behind and vanished the day after his birthday, leaving nothing in his tracks but a sappy letter for his mom. 

Has she read it yet? Is she and his little brother crying right now? Are they looking for him? Has she called his friends yet? 

“Sexual orientation?” the man asks, breaking his run-on train of thought. The man quirks an inquisitive brow and slightly tilts his head as he looks at him with ocean-blue eyes that somehow seem familiar despite them being little more than strangers. His mind swirls as it does when he receives a message, a premonition. He shuts it off.

Focus. Sell yourself. 

Where was he? Oh yeah—fuck, he left that part blank and told himself he’d come back to it once he thought of something to put. 

He freezes. Fear-pricked skin tightens around brittle bones. Low beats pulse behind his eyes. His face is hot, palms sweat. 

“Um. I-I…I don’t know?” His mouth feels dry. He’s suddenly so thirsty he’s sure he could drink a whole pool. 

“Any experience, then? Hand stuff even?” 

He thought he couldn’t be any more embarrassed, a grave miscalculation. Cheeks burning, his eyes dart to the file cabinet in the corner of the room with the dumb wish that he could telepathically absorb some of the cabinet’s gray to neutralize his rubescent skin tone. Maybe he could one day; he recently developed psychometry, bringing his ability total to four—a rare number to reach, even for a Mystic. What if he continued this roll and turned part chameleon in the face of danger, too? 

He tries to gulp down the dry, invisible mass in his throat that won’t go away. Coughs a little bit, adding to the blatant awkwardness of the situation. 

Smooth, always the charmer. 

He doesn’t need to tap into his senses to know for damn sure the guy expects a candid answer; the uncomfortable silence is enough of an indication of that. 

“No. Look, I’m not here for that type of posting,” he sheepishly admits, fearing the revelation will bring down his assessment price. 

“No shame. Just standard questions are all.” The man continues to smile without missing a beat—is this guy even real? It should put him at ease, but it does anything but. He knows through and through that the man has no malicious intentions, but that doesn’t detract from the icy fear that continues to sprawl his veins. 

The man’s still reading the form, so he shuffles over to the water cooler in the guy’s private office and starts chugging cup after cup of water, hoping the movement will bring a sliver of relief. Thank the universe that the water is chilled, and after five shot glass-sized “cups,” he thinks he may have brought his body temperature back down to a reasonable degree. 

The next question comes from nowhere. “Do you wear contacts?”

“Um, no. They make my eyes itchy,” he explains.

“Open to Lasik?” The man shoots back. 

Is having shitty eyesight and wearing glasses really a deal-breaker? 

“Um, I’ve never thought about it before? Maybe? I guess.”

The man nods subtly, blue eyes roaming up and down his body with intent and professional curiosity. The man’s face freezes in a distant, hard-to-place emotion—lost in the tail end of a half-considered afterthought, one too outlandish to share. He feels vulnerable, exposed—as if the man sees him on a molecular level. It's too close for comfort; he wonders if the man possesses X-ray vision, a piercing gaze like that is reserved for Mystics alone.

Maybe he does, perhaps he is—is he a Mystic, too? 

No, he could read this guy like a children’s picture book. Most other Mystics had the mental discipline to evade his mind-probing. 

The guy’s just doing his job, and low and behold, he’s not just a personality hire.

“You’re lucky you’re cute. You got that innocent boy next door look going on that clients love,” the man vaguely gestures to him, a cupped hand props up his chin as he assumes a thinker’s pose and drums against his cheek. 

He turns away to hide his cherry-hued blushing, which he’s sure the man is well aware of. He’s never been one to take a compliment well. And it's not like any guy wants to be called “cute and innocent.” There’s something secretly dirty about that image, like he’s a thing to be corrupted and turned to the dark side. A test. Something to break. Nor does he like the implication of the sentence, how it’s worded as if to say his perceived looks, taken at face value, outweigh what the man is about to say.

“Normally, people want a blank canvas, a clean slate, something they can mold into their own making. But you come with history, a distinct character. I can spin that. The right person will adore you.” The man’s speaking about him like he’s a fucking spec on an appliance.   

He knows what the man is referring to, even if he thinks himself too polite to say something directly about it out in the open. This round-about way feels worse, though, like it’s the only thing people see when they look at him. It took him his whole life to look past the scars on his face and learn to love his crooked smile. He’s never been torn apart like this, dissected piece by piece, and talked about in terms of marketability. He doesn’t like it—actually, he hates it, but if this is what it takes to get the big bucks, he’ll have to learn to deal. 

Keep your eye on the prize. It’s your job to save them. They need the money more than you need your pride. 

He sits back down and notices the plaque on the guy’s desk: Bryce Wright, Mystic Handler. Yeah, he looks like a Bryce. I bet he was the all-star it-boy quarterback with the matching blonde bombshell cheerleader girlfriend. 

He’s doing what he always does when he’s uncomfortable—nitpicking everything to death. It gives him some ounce of control he’s always desperately clawing at, even if it’s a figment of his imagination. An illusion of lost agency. It's a bad habit, a hard one to break. A mental loop. He stops, knowing that spiraling is the last thing he should do right now.   

He’s sure the receptionist told him the man’s name, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to let it soak into his brain then—he was too busy fighting off his umpteenth panic attack of the day. 

By the time the man, Bryce, called him in here, he focused every iota of attention on filling out the damn novel-length form to his detriment, clipping the corner of the door frame and then running into the chair on the way in here. After that embarrassment wore off and he finally mustered the courage for a glance, he was automatically distracted by Bryce’s persistent plastic smile.

Filling out the rest of the form took way longer than he thought it would. Medical history, diet, skill sets, education, accolades, exercise levels, hobbies, family members—the whole sha-bang. Even questions regarding his mother’s pregnancy with him, which he didn’t know the answers to. 

These people don’t play. This was some serious shit. He’s in deep. 

He slides the clipboard back to Bryce, who gives him a predictable cheesy grin and scans over the rest of the pages.

“We don’t get many like you coming through these doors; you’re a rare breed. Far from the typical one-trick pony claiming to see auras,” Bryce says quietly, eyes still scanning every filled-in answer. It sounded like an outside thought, but he could sense Bryce was covertly prodding for a reply, a subtle test to feel him out and see how well he could read a person. 

It appears that “telepathic empath” scribbled alongside the “Ability” line caught Bryce’s attention. Good.

“Thanks?”

Bryce shoots him a thoughtful smirk, something that’s supposed to read as reassuring. “Yeah, that’s a compliment. Not too good at receiving those, are you?”

“Guess not,” he chuckles, fiddling with his hands in his lap, feeling no better from the clarification.  

Bryce taps on the corner of his desk and surveys him like he still can't decide. Expression reads, what am I going to do with you? He can feel the man’s tangled thoughts, the confusion woven into them, how he’s at the center of it. If he weren’t preoccupied with swallowing the burn in his throat and resisting the urge to drum on the chair’s armrest anxiously, he’d be able to get a better read. 

His bottom lip gets sucked in between his teeth before he notices what he’s doing and forces his mouth to twist to the side in a look he hopes passes as a friendly—but shy—half-grin. Sell innocent boy next door.

“I know, I’m a bit of an enigma,” he jokes, finally meeting Bryce eye-to-eye. At that, Bryce smiles—genuinely this time. 

He’s slowly winning the guy over; he can feel it in the way only he can. 

“That you are my friend,” Bryce chuckles, retrieving two pens from the pen cup on his desk and holding each between a thumb and index finger. 

Bryce flashes him a toothy grin and angles his head, “High intuition, huh? Tell me which one is my favorite.”  

He holds the man’s stare, glances at the pens, then blows an all-knowing short breath through his nose. “Neither. The one on your desk is.” He tilts his head, nodding at the customized cherry wood fountain pen with Bryce’s name engraved on the broad side of the cap. 

“This is a Graduation present from dear old Grandpa Joel, who isn’t with us anymore. My condolences,” he confirms matter-of-factly without delay. He doesn’t know how quickly he picked up on this; object readings usually require more mental effort. 

Bryce and Grandpa Joel must’ve been really close; that pen has a lot of energy.

Bryce falters a minute, lets the pens drop, then roll off his desk. His blue eyes turn into saucers, his brows crease, and his face freezes in disbelief. 

After a few beats, Bryce’s wide-eyed look of shock morphs into a nervous chuckle. “Well, shit…shit!” Bryce shakes his head, eyes lighting up with hopeful promise as he blows his lips out as if to let off steam.

At least he’s easy to impress. 

“And are you firm with your preferred designation as a Domestic Aide?” Bryce asks, an edge of doubt weighing on his tone. 

“Yeah, I’m best at one-on-one stuff. Unless you think my talents would better serve elsewhere?” He offers, trying to be cooperative while also standing his ground. He’s read enough horror stories of Handlers talking incoming trainees into positions they didn’t want to know he had to be careful during the intake negotiation. He doesn’t think Bryce is the type to persuade him into doing something he doesn’t want, but one could never be too cautious with these things; this was his entire life on the line. The last thing he wants is to gamble his fate away to someone who wouldn’t appreciate his abilities and would force him to play a role as something he wasn’t.  

The man sighs, rubs his chin, and then perks up at the last second. “Forgive me for being rather forward about this, sensitive topic and all, but would you be willing to take a vow of celibacy? Some clients are looking for a, how should I say it…sexless help—someone non-threatening. Especially a male. Especially a Mystic. There’s a demand for them. You know, the type someone would trust their children and wives around and not have to worry about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you fit the bill perfectly—I mean, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want, but it may help seal the deal for some. An assurance of sorts. Just something to think about.” Bryce sucks his teeth as he repositions, now slouching in the big office chair and fiddling with his expensive-looking Grandpa Joel pen. It’s hard to tell who’s more nervous.  

He never imagined having zero sex appeal would ever come in handy, let alone help snag a future posting. This tidbit wasn’t on any of the forums he spent the last year combing through. He supposes it’s an industry secret, and the PR team has been hard at work scrubbing the internet for anything deemed an insider trade secret.

“You mean like a nun?” He jokes.

Bryce snorts, relief softening his features. “Yeah, sure. What do you say? You up for playing Mother Teresa?” The man pauses, leans in as if disclosing a secret, and says in a hushed tone, “Doesn’t have to be forever.” 

That characteristic cheesy smile morphs into a sly smirk, eyebrows slightly hike up, a look that screams Machiavellian-level traitor. Weird, but well-meaning. Figures it’s part of some eldritch-esque man-to-man joke that didn’t land since his telepathic connectors are all screwy from the wake of anxiousness.

The last sentence rattles around in his head. There’s a brief pause where he weighs his options and pretends to consider saying no, like he ever imagined an alternative reality that didn’t end in him dying as a happily un-kissed virgin.  

His lips twist to the side in a half-smirk. “Put me in, coach.”

Bryce pumps a triumphant fist and lets out a loud “Woot woot!”—a battle cry he intuitively recognizes from Bryce's glory days on the football field. For a fleeting instant, he sees a flashback: a sweaty, younger Bryce basks in the crowd's adoration, teammates swarming around him in excitement. Through Bryce’s eyes, he sees the giant, illuminated scoreboard with a Viking mascot looming in the background.

He just won them the game. 

They’re going to the Championships. 

Only they didn’t; the next day the outbreak claimed the lives of half his teammates. 

He pulls away, and settles back in his body, Bryce none the wiser of the glimpse of his past he stole.   

“Alright, that’s what I like to hear!” The man stands up from behind the desk and stretches out, his back popping as he throws his upper body into warm-up twists. “Now, let’s get this notarized and get you your new ID number. We’re honored to have you with us, Mr. Rossmoore.”

Bryce sticks a hand out. Across the desk, he quickly pockets the deteriorating sweat-drenched tissue he had to pry from his palm and meets the man with a tight shake—that, right there. The moment over six years ago he wishes he could go back in time and prevent from ever happening. 

The moment that, despite it feeling so completely wrong—ringing every warning bell and staking every red flag—seemed like it was the only way to make things right. A moment that he laments and curses every day of his miserable existence. A moment that inevitably led him here—a regal investment worth an A-list actor’s net worth turned abused, chained-up slave thrown down in the dungeon of a multi-million dollar mansion owned by one of the most affluent families in Apocamerica. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

He was never intended to be a two-in-one punching bag fleshlight for a boozy, cracked-out asshole with a trust fund. 

But as the saying goes—the road to hell is paved with only the best intentions. 

***

A big thank you to 32 for beta-reading draft 1 of this months ago and giving me feedback! You the real MVP!

(Previous) Taglist (if you would like to be added or removed, please let me know!): @sacredwrath @pirefyrelight @little-rat-dragon @potterhead5ever @whumpyourdamnpears

@3-2-whump @whumped-by-glitter

[aziraphalalala]

Good Omentober #5 "Heaven"

It's time to stop giving Crowley a hard time, and check in with Aziraphale for a change.

^^^^^

The desk was too clean. There was too much space, and not enough… things to fill it with. Aziraphale felt exposed to the elements, even though this was Heaven and elements simply did not happen here. He had a long running list in his head about things that did not happen in Heaven. Books. Sushi. Good music. Cosy reading chairs. 

Crowley.

Aziraphale harrumphed to himself in irritation. Not the time. He could spend all his time ruminating, and to no avail. He straightened his bow tie - white, gold-flecked, tartan, not-quite-standard issue, thank you very much - and sat up straighter. 

There was work to be done.

If you were an angel and looked upon the Supreme Archangel at this moment, what you would see is this: a grey three-piece suit, immaculately starched to stiffness, so very pale that it seemed white. Blond, fluffy hair. A golden mark, like a shining eye, smack dab in the middle of his forehead. A pale tartan bow tie below sharp, seaglass hazel eyes. He was sitting at his desk, back ramrod straight, as a proper angel should.

You would also see him muttering to himself. This would not be cause for concern: the higher angels tend to bend to habits that are best described as, well, ineffable, and left well alone. Luckily, no one was around right now. The Supreme Archangel was free to see to his Heavenly Duties as he saw fit.

Aziraphale was not seeing to his Heavenly Duties. In fact, he was shirking them with the skill of someone who had already spent several thousand years shirking his duties with - a demon friend.

Well.

Aziraphale opened a file with a layout of Heaven. As he zoomed in and out of various buildings, streets and the occasional military drill site, he kept checking the pages of a notebook, covered from margin to margin with symbols most of us would consider gibberish.

He read every language that had ever been written, including gibberish.

“Ahhhh, excellent!” he muttered to himself, as a purple symbol lit up in one corner of the map. He took note of the location, and waved his hand with a flourish, vanishing the map, the notebook, and everything on his desk. He stood, and as he turned around, he smiled an awful, menacing smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Your time is up, old chap.”

---

Thanks for the prompt @disaster-dog!

My earlier Good Omentober posts:

#1 "Pre-fall"

#2 "Stars"

#3 "Fall"

[austin-in-taiwan]

June 23 - Tapei -> Yilan - Air raid drill, Clog museum, Boba, Hotel hot spring

Today was our last morning in Taipei. I woke up and wrote my independent excursion reflection at a nearby Starbucks. Afterward, I still had plenty of time, so I met up with some of the guys on the trip and got some scallion pancakes with egg and some pork buns from nearby restaurants, which were absolutely delicious. Then, there wasn’t much time till we departed from the hotel.

Once on the bus and onto the freeway, we soon received notifications about the air raid drill. The drill happens once a year, and unless you are on the highway (which we were), you are required by law to stop and follow police instructions (either stay in place or go to the nearby shelter). Unfortunately, we didn’t hear any sirens or see anything besides the notifications on our phones. Our tour guide, Peter, sent us this article if you want to read more about it: https://focustaiwan.tw/society/202407210012.

Once in Yilan, we stopped at a wooden clog museum. This museum was fun. First, we tried a massage clog, which was just a clog with large wooden grooves where your foot goes. It really wasn’t comfortable. Then we tried clogs inclined upwards so your toes point to the sky. These were for stretching your calves, so we put those on and followed a stretching routine by the guide. Finally, we designed our own leather clog keychain! I put a monkey on mine because that’s my Chinese zodiac and my initials (see picture below).

Next, we went to Kili Bay and made our own Pearl Milk Tea. First, we dipped the tea bag in hot water 80 times, mixed in the cream powder, shook it with ice, mixed in the syrup, and finally poured it over the boba tapioca bubbles. It was delicious, and we even got to keep the cool glass mugs. At the gift shop, I bought some Taiwanese milk tea packets and instant tapioca so my family can try them at home!

Finally, we went to the hotel and checked in. This hotel was a spa hotel, and they had hot springs in the back. There were cold springs (60 degrees Fahrenheit) that were like ice baths, some hot springs that went up to 110 degrees, and even a sauna. It was super relaxing and a great break.

Tomorrow, a typhoon will hit, and our activities have been canceled. We went to 711, grabbed a few instant ramen and water, and will be ready to eat during the typhoon!

Academic Reflection

As many people know, boba tea is one of the most famous products invented in and exported from Taiwan. Today, we made the milk tea and added it to the tapioca pearls, which was a fantastic experience. The readings, however, have made me appreciate that experience more. Boba tea isn’t as old as I thought, as it was first made four decades ago in one of two tea houses (Chun Shui Tang in the central city of Taichung or Hanlin Tea Room in southern Tainan). They both believe that they were the ones who invented it in 1986. Learning how it is made was exciting and made me appreciate it. The pearls are made from starches, brown sugar, and water. When rolled together and boiled, that’s what makes them gummy, chewy, and glossy. Overall, learning about the invention of the famous milk tea, how the tapioca is made, and experiencing the tea itself made me appreciate it much more.

One other super exciting thing I learned today wasn’t from any activities but from traveling from Taipei to Yilan. There were tons of tunnel systems through the mountains that we went through on our bus ride. During the travel, we were taught that building that tunnel freeway system took about 2.8 billion dollars. It was complicated to build with the amount of volcanic activity and water pockets. Apparently, a giant tunnel drill is still underwater in the mountain. Overall, the building of that system made a 2.5-hour drive around the mountains into a 45-minute drive from Taipei to Yilan. I find it interesting how critical highways are and how challenging and expensive building them can be.

[captainchemfertchemicals]

Drilling Starch Ahmedabad | PHPA Chemical Ahmedabad - Chem Fert Chemicals

Drilling starch exporter Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India - Searching for the PHPA chemical & PAC LV Importer and Traders? Chemfert Chemicals is leading Water Treatment chemicals Suppliers Ahmedabad, Gujarat, Polymer for pilling india, PHPA chemical exporter and Drilling Starch suppliers in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India. Organphilic clay Supplier, Construction Chemicals Supplier Ahmedabad, Gujarat, india, Cloud point glycol Supplier, Commodity Chemicals Supplier in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, Best water treatment chemicals suppliers near me in Ahmedabad.

Drilling Starch, PHPA chemical & PAC LV Importer and Trader india, Polymer for pilling Supplier, Organphilic clay Supplier, Construction Chemicals Supplier Ahmedabad, Gujarat, Cloud point glycol Supplier India, Commodity Chemicals Supplier, Water treatment chemicals Suppliers Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, www.chemfertchemicals.com, Chem Fert Chemicals

[iforimaginary]

Pleased to announce that I have started working on a small Whizzer/Marvin fic and have already completed and edited the first chapter—

Which in and of itself is a miracle considering it typically takes me 2 to 3 months to fully edit a one-shot… I digress, if you enjoy this trailer please consider reading the full chapter linked bellow!

Extract Title: Regrettable Game

Extract Type: Trailer

Extract Length: 499W

Extract Status: Chapter 1 / 5

Extract Warnings: N/A

He doesn’t have men over on weekends.

And he would be the first to admit that it’s a truly tremendous sacrifice. Whizzer no longer spends his Saturdays driving out ridiculously far to hunt for estate owners in upscale country clubs or loiters in lavish jazz bars on Sunday afternoons, bearing the tight collars of starched shirts. No longer allows himself even the effortless privilege of picking out low-hanging fruit amongst the loaded-looking clients of the stylist agency if it means their stay might spill over the very tender brim of Friday night.

He knows he’s being much too careful, stupidly so. He knows this will only happen twice a month if he’s lucky, knows Trina would always call in advance, mid week— with plenty of notice, hurriedly spouting information into the receiver as the clanking of the telephone cord wiping out mixing bowls and other scattered silverware echoes distantly in the background:

“Hey! Good evening…” her muffled voice would greet through the barrier of her shoulder tightly pressing the land-line against her cheek “I’ll drop him off at roughly 12 on Saturday after practice. He’ll be hungry . ” she would graciously inform before inevitably cursing the aforementioned cord for spilling a container of diced carrots “Call Mendel for pick up, he’ll be in the area. Buh-bye!” and before Whizzer would even be able to squeeze in a quick farewell, the line would cut to a high pitched drone and disconnect with a robotic beep.

He always found himself smiling fondly after these brief exchanges, in admiration if anything else. She truly was a heaven-sent woman. How Marvin ever wooed her, Whizzer’d never know.

So, yes. He doesn’t have men over on weekends.

Because he knows forgetfulness is regrettably a common side effect of keeping a family fed and afloat and prefers to be prepared in the unlikely situation that Mendel or Trina show up at his door with the kid, unannounced. Prefers to be prepared in situations much like today, when he hears the drill of his age-old door bell at what must be only eight in the morning judging by the fresh quality of the sunlight that was spilling through his window over onto the plush bedroom carpet.

Checking his wristwatch to affirm his belief, Whizzer groaned in mild annoyance and got up, wrapping his satin robe around himself for the sake of maintaining a modicum of modesty when facing the ex-wife of his ex-lover. Rubbing the mild wine-induced hangover from his eyes and briefly ruffling his hair in the corridor mirror in a weak attempt to make himself look at least half-awake, he reached for the handle of the front door a cheerful greeting in preparation for a quick polite exchange already forming on his lips.

But any quips about in-advance over the phone notices all but died there and then as he opened the door and was faced with an appallingly untamed head of painfully gorgeous curly hair and that same god-awful pair of tan khaki pants.

[world-in-progressish]

WiP has a high-oxygen atmosphere and as a result has massive plants, and massive insects that have evolved to fill those niches. Common along the coastal floodplains and into dry meadows are varieties of massive beetle-pollinated trees; their bulbous, buttressed roots can be 40 feet or more in diameter. Tough, smooth cambium can expand and contract as the root structures absorb and store water. They appear like smooth boulders scattered along the floodplains. Sprays of tall, narrow trunks dense with foliage shoot upwards from the bulbous root mass, keeping the foliage well above any potential flooding which might damage leaves and introduce predators.

A group of large, weevil-like beetles evolved into entirely terrestrial insects with only vestigial wings, incapable of flight. Instead they roam the fields and floodplains in herds, specialized to use their long snouts to drill through the massive trees’ tough outer root skin and eat their soft, sugar rich inner tissues where water and nutrients are stored. The female terrestrial weevils will lay eggs in these cored tunnels in the root masses, which hatch into grubs that eat the root innards as they grow. They’ll pupate in the hollow root, then emerge as a subadult phase with usable legs and join the herd. As they reach adulthood they’ll perform a second molt and reach adult size. Weevil predation drives the bulbous roots to grow larger and larger, with more root segments, and with thicker skin.

Humans and birdfolk have domesticated these weevils and raise them for food; the grubs are tender, defenseless and easy to harvest, and convert the roots’ sugar and starches into protein. Careful husbandry can also ensure the root-trees are maintained in a healthy state and not overburdened by grubs. The older weevil stages are more exoskeleton than innards so are no good for eating, but their shed and full-grown exoskeletons are harvested for various craft uses. Some species have been bred to have nearly transparent shells that are used as windows and lenses; these retain the shell’s original iridescence.

[squirrelwrangler]

The Sphinx’s Son

The sandstone lions that guarded the Great Temple had human faces that were carved to look stern and imposing, but Arus thought that the statues just looked sad. They had his mother’s face, though the masons who had carved the human-headed lions had lived more than two centuries ago. Coincidence or the timelessness of a standard of beauty, the boy could not say which. Arus traced the names of the master stonemasons where the signatures were tucked away on the back heel of the statues, hidden in their cool shadows. The ridge of stone of the carved tail made a perfect bench for him to sit.

The temple processions, carried out by fifty people of various ages, marched on in loops between the temple colonnades. Ganreh, the favorite student of the head priest, led today’s procession, sweat dripping down his shaved head and wilting the starched linen of his tabard. The clinking sistrum dictated the cadence of the march, and the pinched expression of intense concentration on Ganreh’s face to keep the metronomic chinking of rattled metal beads consistent made Arus choke back laughter. Ganreh was too kind for scolding, but Head Priestess We-se would box his ears for disrupting the ceremony. The chanting combined with the sistrum to make a pleasant if monotonous song. Arus wondered if the real purpose was to soothe the gods to sleep with such droning lullaby-like music. 

The attendant priestesses carrying the smoke-filled braziers noticed where Arus sat waiting for today’s procession to finish –the second of a six-day ceremony– but as Arus was silent and sitting clear of the path and not yet necessary for any of the rituals, their side-eyes were of measured approval instead of mistrustful scorn. Arus’s siblings were too young to sit quietly through any long religious ceremony and had been left in the care of palace nannies, but he was old enough to observe ceremonies. Not join them. Yet. Maybe. Arus had yet to show definitive proof that he had inherited his mother’s gift.

Sehmket walked between an entourage of priests and priestesses, their feathered staffs and leopard robes penning her in as she performed her role. Small statues of the deities were carried before and behind her, and a cloud of incense clouded her. Inside the temple the statues were milky stone, but when the procession exited into the afternoon sun of the courtyard, sharp light reflected off of the translucent quartz of the gods and the crushed mica of the priestly face paint. Each quartz statue of a god, goddess, or divine beast was carried on a bronze platter by an attendant priest or priestess, except for one. Two strong priests carried the litter bearing the largest of the holy statues, that of the winged warrior magician goddess O-sesmiat-et. Supposedly it was a replica of the main statue at the furthest altar of the temple, the one that only Ganreh and the Head Priest and Priestesses attended. The winged goddess with her tall crown had a carved face that mimicked the faces of the stone lions but whose expression remained fathomless. Arus wondered who carved the image of the goddess, the only statue chiseled from precious blue stone instead of semi-transparent quartz. Privately he thought that the craftsman was not as skilled as Abidus or Senos-se, the names carved on the heel of the guardian lion statues. A large fan of dropping white feathers angled to further shade the pair of litter bearers of O-sesmiat-et from the sun, but the fan bearer was a short apprentice that struggled to keep the correct angle. In the morning the apprentice had no difficulty with his task, but hours later the heat was affecting him. The two stout litter bearers seemed not to mind, but surely their shoulders ached by now.

In their own way the marching priests were as impressive as the soldiers drilling in the royal barracks. 

Arus waved at his mother each time that the ritual brought her to the outer temple courtyard with its stone lion guardians. A silent wave, for the boy was mindful not to interrupt the chanting prayers of the priests and priestesses. Each time a small smile graced his mother’s thin lips. She would not wave back, as that would be unbecoming of dignity and disrupt the careful folds of the heavy cloak around her body and the long train that dragged behind her, the many gemstones and painted feathers that decorated her singular regalia scooting along after each small gliding step that Sehmket took to preserve the illusion that she was gliding like a windborn barque across the giant sandstone paving stones, her feet hidden by reed-thin folds of a long linen shift. Dressing his mother in her ceremonial regalia and laundering the expensive garments required the skills of two priestesses that focused on nothing else but the special garments of the highest priesthood and Arus’s mother. That Sehmket was mindful of her duties was a great irony, for she had a pivotal role in the assassination of the previous high priest and the uncovering of the great conspiracy among the temples and the altering of religious teachings.

The long six-day ceremony was one of the results of the purging and purification of the faith, to restore old ceremonies and old rituals of performing them. How Sehmket was included in them was not an old process restored, though the chant was something transcribed off of a once-forgotten and half-buried tomb wall dating back two dynasties. The priesthood enthusiastically searched for the old methods to honor the gods, eager to reform the lies of their forebears and restore trust in the gods and their chosen representatives. Arus’s mother was the lynchpin to their efforts, however uneasy the truth of the alliance.

His mother was no prisoner, however much Arus sometimes felt that she might be, but he knew that the trust given to Sehmket was conditional. Revered asset instead of hounded traitor, but he was old enough to understand the looks that others bestowed upon his mother, from priest and noble down to the day-laborers of the city. Awe and fear, and the cautious pride that one gave to a tamed hunting cheetah. 

A woman that could transform herself into a divine sphinx would always inspire fear.

The first statue in the procession was the only one carved after Arus’s birth, the newest and the only without a holy name. It was of the sphinx, winged cat with the face and chest of a woman. The rosettes of the body had been carefully chiseled, and that was how Arus knew the statue represented his mother’s divine transformation, even though the statue’s nondescript face had closed eyes and full lips. And large breasts. The old artistic representations of sphinxes on the wall reliefs of the main palace, temples, and tombs had lion bodies - all but one painting in the palace complex that dated back to the first dynasty. Prince Hama discovered the painting of the spotted sphinx and had artisans reproduce it across the kingdom. The Master of Scribes bragged that the revived old sphinx design was the most popular tapestry sold throughout the eight cities. Mehbebli was more honest with Arus, explaining that the true sphinx was seen as the most fitting burial shroud for fallen soldiers, in honor of his mother’s divine strength and her efforts to safeguard their kingdom. O-Sehmket transformed had the dappled pelt of a leopard below her waist, of fur the palest gold and darkest bronze, and her wings were the bright green of papyrus sedge. The statue did not include the horns, each as green as fresh reeds: two that curved around her ears to rest against her cheekbones like those of a ram and the four that spiraled out like the addax to give the divine beast a crown. Horns were hinted at via a single wavy shape on that old painting. The toll of his mother’s magic weighed too heavily on her health to be used in frivolous displays, but only those new to the capital or as young as Arus’s second sister had never seen the divine sphinx form of O-Sehmket. Two years ago Sehmket had transformed at the great plaza, careful to lessen the divine storm that accompanied her accession, and hovered above the palace walls, all to prove to the ambassador from Kirop that the tales of the divinity that protected the Kingdom of the Glass Mountain was no mere exaggeration.

The old priesthood had branded his mother a monstrous mockery because of the discrepancies in known form. Head Priestess We-se called it yet more proof of how deeply the priesthood had strayed from the strictures established during the reign of the first dynasty. And their foolishness: O-Sehmket guarded the subjects of Prince Hama, frightening his enemies and strengthening his rule, and brought pilgrims to the temples. Only the army loved her more, for the destruction she could wrought and the peace that she brokered with the griffins.

Arus’s mother was no prisoner, for it would be nigh on impossible to imprison a woman that could transform into a giant chimeric beast of divine powers and flight. But their rulers could not afford to lose their leash on Sehmket, too dangerous an enemy and too vital to their safety. 

Magical chains were forged, invisible ones crafted by links more precious than metal: lodgings within the palace complex, amnesty for her murders, reforms among the priesthood and the ousting of corrupt ministers, new laws to protect the slaves and widows, the safe borders of the kingdom and the prosperity and happiness of the common subjects, and the preferential alliance with the griffins of the northern mountains. All to hold Sehmket here and summit to the parades around the temple colonnade and transform into the sphinx when demanded.

The strongest chain, Arus knew, was himself and his sisters.

[majorbaby]

and another tag from @marley-manson to post a WIP snippet from a fic. 

uhhh who writes fic @thebreakfastgenie @bipolarhawkeyepierce @bornforastorm @caddyxjellyby

i’m posting from the rule 63 trapper (girl!trapper) fic to try to encourage myself to keep working on it. here’s a piece of how the Margaret-Trapper interaction goes down in this version of Trapper’s ‘farewell’ party from the episode Check Up

“I said beat it Frank!” Margaret’s screech from a few seats over broke the moment between Trapper and Hawkeye.

Trapper turned her head just in time to catch Margaret actually smacking Frank’s hand - which had been going for her waist - away from her. Frank shrivelled up and slunk back dejectedly from the bar and into the crowd, crossing through the sea of dancing people, to take a place against the wall. From across the room he stared mournfully at the back of Margaret’s blonde head.

Under normal circumstances, Margaret was far too much of a drill sergeant for Trapper to want to offer her anything other than grief. But Margaret was more sympathetic without a sniveling Frank Burns at her side, and she looked terribly out of place moping alone at the bar as the party raged around her. 

“Save my seat.” Trapper whispered to Hawkeye, who watched her slide off her stool and go towards where Margaret was sitting. “What’sa matter Major?” she asked when she arrived. Trapper hadn’t been drinking on account of the hole in her stomach, but she faux-slurred the words, thinking it might help her appear non-threatening. 

“Nothing.” Margaret said bitterly into her drink. She must’ve been expecting Trapper to shrug and walk away, because she seemed surprised when she happened to look over and see Trapper still standing there. Margaret asked cautiously, “What’ll you have, McIntyre?”

“We’re off the clock, Major. You can call me by name.”

“I might. If I knew what it was.” She wrinkled her nose. “Trapper. When are you going to grow up? You and Pierce both.”

“I–”

“Guess I’ll never know.” 

Trapper hadn’t the faintest idea as to why Margaret sounded so sad as she said it, reflecting the feelings she’d expected from Hawkeye, who was at that moment staring into space with a dopey smile on his face across the bar, getting steadily more drunk. 

Her own tongue loosened with alcohol and melancholy, Margaret went on, “I can’t believe you’re getting out. You practically just got here.” 

She traced the rim of her glass with her long, buffed fingernails, which Trapper happened to know were technically a violation of the army dress code. Nails were to be trimmed short and hair pulled back. While Margaret was almost never without her starched uniform during the day with her shirt tucked stiffly into her trousers, she couldn’t seem to do without her hair, bleached religiously, and her long fingernails which were sometimes coated in a clear varnish. And there was always a glossy layer of peachy-pink colour on her lips, and a dusting of matching blush across her cheeks. She didn’t actually need the latter tonight, on account of the vodka currently bringing more than enough colour to her face. 

“You know, when you first got here, I thought maybe we could be friends.”

“Sure had a funny way of showing it, Margaret.”

Margaret looked at her sharply, and for a moment Trapper thought she might get a slap and the shove just like Frank had. “I was–”

“Yeah?”

“I was…” the anger seemed to fade from her voice. Her eyes softened. Pale and icy eyes, lighter and sharper than Hawkeye’s ocean blues. “I guess I was pretty upset. That first day, in the Colonel’s Office.”

“I got that.”

“It wasn’t you. It’s that… that… Blake. Always going over my head with my nurses. Even Frank does it sometimes.”

“You could stand to ease up on those nurses of yours.”

“They work for me!”

“They work with you.” Trapper repeated with a sigh, knowing it was useless to try to reason with her once a certain level of shrill entered her voice.  

Margaret downed the rest of her drink and then snapped her fingers at the bartender for another. The next glass of cheap vodka appeared in front of Margaret before Trapper could sigh again. 

“Do they ever talk about me?” The question surprised Trapper. Margaret had asked it in a quiet voice with her eyes fixed on her drink. 

Talk? No. The nurses never talked about Margaret. They complained about her. They vented. They raged. They griped. Eddie Ferguson wet Margie’s shoulder regularly during her weekly cry about the most recent dressing-down she’d received from Major Houlihan in front of the whole operating room. 

“Maybe,” Trapper lied. “You know, between my shifts and Hawkeye, I’m not really around for a lot of the chatter.”

“Right. You and Hawkeye… and now you’re leaving.” Margaret groaned, picking up her fresh drink. “And I’m stuck here. With needlenose.”

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

closer than we thought

by sundaze (LegaciesandMemories) “Richard and I encountered a previous League contact at the mall today.” Without looking, he can almost feel the bodies around the table tense. Damian wouldn’t look up, not until he had finally said it. Damian swallowed, wiping sweaty palms on the starched napkin spread across his lap. “The League contact in question is my twin brother, Danyal.” A choking noise. Damian pulled his head up to see Thomas pounding on Drake’s back. A pale peach trail of gelato trailed down the side of his mouth, but Drake didn’t notice, or care. His eyes were wide, drilling into Damian. “Twin brother?” he wheezed. “There’s two of you?” The Batfamily reacts to Danyal's existence. Damian develops a plan. Words: 5822, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 3 of winding our way through the seven hills Fandoms: Danny Phantom, Batman - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Alfred Pennyworth, Danny Fenton (Mentioned) Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Danny Fenton & Damian Wayne, Batfamily Members & Damian Wayne Additional Tags: Danny Fenton and Damian Wayne are Twins, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Brotherly Angst via https://ift.tt/23uEv6C