#razor blade plug

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Sedated | Dave York x f!Reader

gif from @iamasaddie

summary: you and dave are no strangers to this business, to death. so there can be no harm in relying on each other in times of need.

pairing: dave york x f!contract killer!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. divorced!dave. knife play, breath play, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie. descriptions/mention of blood and injury. vibes are kinda weird idk

wc: 2.5k

an: this fic is a part of @wannab-urs hozier drabble challenge (although, alas, it is not a drabble). head to gin’s page for more!

Just a little rush, babe, to feel dizzy

To derail the mind of me

Just a little hush, babe, my veins are busy

But my heart's in atrophy

~ sedated, hozier

The only sounds in the bathroom are the dripping of the tap into the tepid water of the sink and the scrape of the razor across Dave’s stubble.

He sits, back straight, on the closed toilet - shirtless, in only his sweatpants, large hands hooked beneath your thighs as you straddle him, your body rocked back to find the perfect angle to shave him at.

He watches you with hooded eyes as you draw the razor over his skin, stretching it taught where you need to be careful, gliding it over the plain of his throat. He feels like he’s barely breathed the whole time, not a word being said between the two of you. But this is routine now. 

The quiet moments after a contract, nights where one follows the other, no matter where you had come from, no matter where you were staying. This half-tender care, so different from anything he’s experienced before - the bravado and camaraderie, or the mute mission of patching himself up, clotting his own wounds.

It must have been a serious kind of injury to draw you into each other, but when he tries to, Dave can’t remember. Something that needed to be patched up by someone else, too much blood making your own fingers slip, too deep for yourself to plug. Sometimes, it’s difficult to remember a time before you were here - before you found each other. The nebulous, shrouded years that seem to expand well beyond their perimeters. They should stop before reaching too far back into Carol and the girls, but they linger over even those happier times, back and back until it feels as though every year of his existence has been shrouded in darkness.

Those months after the divorce, after Mac, all spent feeling outside of his life until you had shown up, until you had proved a constant in the fucked up world he found himself in. And despite the nature of the person he has become now, there’s still a desperate, warm little part of him that wants you out - wants to drag you away from it. Wants you far away from this, from him, wants you unharmed and safe in the world that Carol and his daughters inhabit.

Wishful thinking - and it’s an awful thought to consider where being without you would leave him.

Lost, even more so than he already is. You do not make the darkness brighter, do not make it easier to see. But you hold your hand out to him, tell him in not as many words - I feel it, too.

This does not scare you the way it should.

He knows you now, in the way only someone like he can. Has seen what little fear you have. Has watched you push bullets through flesh, through brains, so the body matter spreads and splatters where it must. Has witnessed the plunge of a jagged blade into a stomach, watched you rip upwards, slash and maim with precision. It gives him a thrill, a dark satisfaction to witness a job so well done.

You continue your gliding movements, breathing steady, gaze focused, while Dave studies your face. The depth and glitter of your eyes in the half light, the crook and curve of your nose, the bow and twitch of your lips. You know he’s doing it; always do. You tilt his head with a palm on the side of his neck, using your other to hold the blade of his razor tight to the thrumming artery on the opposite side for a second too long. His dark eyes find yours, pouty lips posing an unvoiced question. You ask another.

‘Do you ever think about how easy it would be?’

Dave says nothing, unable to move his mouth as you use your thumb to press the razor into the soft underside of his jaw. You use enough pressure for his heart rate to spike before you scrape away the hairs there like you’re carving wood, cutting an apple. When the blade meets his chin, he speaks.

‘No.’ 

You meet his eyes briefly.

‘Don’t lie.’

You scrape away the remainder of his whiskers before twisting your body to wash the blade off in the sink. You keep it cuddled in you fist as you use two fingers to tip his chin into the light, gripping his jaw softly to turn his head this way and that, inspecting your work. He’s warm beneath you, firm and achingly hard. A pleased smile slicks across your lips, and keeping one hand cradled to his throat, you press the tip of the blade to his sternum and wait for any kind of reaction. Any twitch of a muscle, any change in the pace of his breathing, any flickering of his eyes. Instead, he keeps them trained on your mouth, heavy lidded, nostrils flaring, wanting.

He trusts you. And he knows you enjoy the power. Too much.

He can feel the heat, the wetness, leaking though your underwear already.

A soft growl slips from his throat as you trail the knife down, down. Down between his pecks, over the swell of his soft belly, through the hair that guides the way to his stiff cock. When you make it to the elastic of his waistband, you trace your initials against his soft skin - hard enough to leave red marks, but not so as to draw blood. When you lift your eyes, he is watching you; aching, panting. 

You bring the tip of the blade back up - circle his nipples, trace his clavicles, slide it along the base of his skull at the back of his neck. Killing him softly. When you press it to his temple, he knows the game is up. He knows you’re ready, the last lingering pulls of violence flaking from your hands as you lay the knife at the edge of the sink and wind your hands around his neck. You push your tits flush against him and press a dirty, open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Every one of his senses is attuned to every one of your movements, and he feels with keen urgency the movement of your tongue against his skin, the shapes you trace, your hot, damp breath, the minute scrape of your teeth -

You roll your hips, whining, soaked cunt dragging over the heft of his cock, and Dave grunts, standing so quickly that it makes you dizzy.

His palms are firm beneath your ass as he moves, taking leave of the bathroom to throw you down onto the deep mattress of the bed. The room is dark, the curtains not drawn - only a thin, orange light drains through the gauze covering the window, illuminating the curves and angles of your body.

Dave hauls himself over you, spreading your thighs, nipping any skin he can take between his teeth, your hands feverish over his bare shoulders, his back, his chest. He takes care to suck deep, hard marks into your neck, stripping you of your vest to bite into the soft swell of your breasts. You rock your hips against the thigh he's got nestled against your cunt, mewling softly, and the sound draws his lips to your mouth, licking in, molding, devouring. He presses a kiss to your jaw as he rolls his hips against you, and you moan, the noise throbbing through his body. With blindly moving fingers, he finds the bandage he had wrapped around your thigh tonight, the knife wound carved into you earlier in the evening by some son of a bitch he dispatched not seconds later.

Dave traces the shape of the bandages, the rough softness of the material, the bow he’d tied in mock of a garter. You were lucky he didn’t slice deeper - not that it seems to bother you now as Dave traces the indent of the cut, you nibbling his earlobe in response.

He presses his fingers deeper in to the wound only to feel you clench your thighs around him, numb to the pain, feeling only pleasure. He ruts into you once more before trailing back down your body, laving kisses wherever he can, only stopping to peel your underwear off, only pausing to cup your thighs and push them into your chest so he can spread you wide and take you apart with his mouth.

He eats you like he’s ravenous, like a man starved for days. His tongue is strong against you, working you easily, so easily you could be convinced he knows your body better than you do. He licks and bites, sucking bruises into the soft flesh of your thighs when you reel too close to the edge, and only when you beg, threaten, does he pull far enough away to spit down onto when you’re already dripping, spreading his saliva over your swollen pussy with his thick fingers. He reattaches his mouth to your clit, sucking and flicking, his slick fingers gliding inside you easily, pumping and curling until he can feel your walls begin to tighten and flutter. Your fists twist in his short hair and he moans lewdly against you, moving faster, harsher, wrenching something painful and hot inside you. You buck beneath him, back arching as he digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise to hold you still, gushing and clenching around his fingers. He loves watching you lose yourself like this, head thrown back in ecstasy, body glistening, twitching, sensitive. Loves watching the control slip from you, watching you slip into submission, give in. Give in to him.

He takes more, presses for more. He always does. His mouth continues to slurp greedily at your cunt as you sob, trying to push him away. But he’s immovable, insatiable, dragging a second orgasm from your body even as it continues to crash through the first. He wants to keep going until there is nothing left, until you are just as much a part of him as the need to harm and protect.

To love is to consume, to love is to destroy. Both are something you do, and do well - but the feeling itself is a dirty word in this dark hotel room. It is not a word he thinks of as he presses one last kiss to your sopping folds, not one that crosses his mind as he rids himself of his sweat pants, his cock hard as stone, slapping against his belly. He grips his base, dragging his fist over it once, twice, before he kneels between your slack legs. He leans forward to grip your chin as he notches himself at your entrance, pulling your face down so that you’re forced to watch him take you.

The first press into your cunt is always the tightest. Tight in anticipation, in need, and Dave is careful to let his mind fall blank so he doesn’t come too soon. You arch beneath him again, your hands reaching for his where they rest atop your thighs. He knows not to mistake it for something tender, but for the need to dispel your energy, your urges. The language is understood - when he rocks back, cock soaked with your arousal, and pushes in again, he follows the sound of your ragged gasp, leaning forward to take your mouth with his, biting your bottom lip, nipping at your shoulder. You take advantage of the position to sink your own teeth into his flesh, piercing and moaning. The sensation pushes him to pick up his force, his pace. 

Look at me. The only command he needs to give, the rest so ingrained now. When to come, when not to come, when and how to move. The only thing he ever needs to remind you of is where your eyes belong when he’s fucking into you like this, when it feels so good like this.

Tonight feels like more of a race than it usually does. You’re tightening dangerously around him, moaning, crying louder and louder as he drills into you, so warm, so wet, the noises your cunt is making so obscene that heat begins to coil threateningly at the base of his spine. He pierces you with his cock, tip knocking against your cervix with every thrust until tears gloss your eyes, your hands in a vice grip around the tops of his arms as you gasp out, unable to form a full word - oh, fu-, go-, Da-ave, ple-. He sneers down at you, a hand coming to cradle below your jaw again, throat held between his thumb and fingers, digits squeezing, constricting, restricting the bloodflow until your eyes are far away, blissed, body limp. Enough for a rush, enough for your mind to be derailed from its linear thinking - next kill, next kill, next kill. This is what you need, and he is proud that he can give it to you, gritting out a yeah, s’that good, little girl? Like that? before your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, your back bowed, your cunt spasming and gushing around him, your cry caught between your teeth as you try to roll away from him. He grips your wrists in one hand, bringing them high above your head as you twist and keen and throb, fat, hot tears streaming down your cheeks as he continues to fuck you, hard enough to make sure it bruises tomorrow. Your sobs come quieter as he moans into your neck, as he tells you how good you are, how tight you are, how you belong to him, how you’ll never get away, as he tells you to take it, take it, and you beg, plead with him - please, Dave, please - before he thrusts himself cruelly all the way inside you, gritting his teeth and growling as he comes, as you keen up at him. 

He wants to keep you full of him for as long as possible, all the time, but there are so many reasons why that’s not feasible. When he slips his softening cock from your pussy, you whimper at the loss. He ignores the sound and instead sits back to watch his cum leak from your used cunt, down to your asshole, before collecting it with his thumb and pushing it back in. He looks back up at you, eyes glazed, breath heavy, body sated, and finds a similar expression laid across your features. When he catches his breath, he stretches himself out beside you on the mattress, covering you both with the sheets. Both pairs of eyes trained to the ceiling, not thinking, not thinking, just feeling. 

But even in primal feeling, even when he snips at the gnaw in his chest, he craves it, needs it. Slave to your touch, your command, your control, your submission. It’s dangerous in a world like this, in a world like yours. 

When your chest settles into a regular rhythm, you curl yourself into him. Your body is warm and firm, still sweaty, your cunt still dripping as you hook a leg over his hip. You wrap around him like he is somebody you miss, somebody you wish to hold outside of this bedroom. Your breath crowds the side of his neck, and he closes his eyes to it, letting himself be swept away. Sedated by what your bodies provide, sleep laps like waves, submerges, drowns, and in the darkness Dave is not sure where he ends and you begin.

When he wakes, still hours from dawn, the bed is cold beside him.

further an: while sedated was obviously the main catalyst here, i'd also recommend listening to massive attack's come near me while/after reading. happy trails!

divider from @saradika-graphics

[l0vergirlwrites]

self care ; rick grimes

warnings: fluff, slight angst (if you squint), caringfem!reader & soft!rick 🫶🏽

the bathroom had grown to be foggy from the minutes of hot water falling onto rick’s dirty skin. the luxuries of soap, shampoo, conditioner—being freshly clean—was something rick was soaking all in. when he stepped out of the shower to wrap a towel around his waist, he could smell the lemony scent of body wash sticking to his dewy skin.

his palm on the mirror created an opening of where he could see himself & his outrageously outgrown beard. looking at his reflection made a shiver crawl up his spine—he couldn’t recognize himself.

before he got too deep into his thoughts, the soft sound of knocks on the door brought rick out of his trance.

“deanna gave me some shaving supplies if you want them” your voice called out on the other side.

“cmon in” he replied, eyes not tearing away from the mirror.

entering the bathroom, the warm fog hit you before rick’s figure. “want some help?” you asked only to see him nod in return.

with a quick shut of the door, you tapped rick’s bare shoulder. “lemme sit on the counter. it’ll be easier that way”

moving back to give you room, you got situated on the sleek marble counter & opened your legs just enough for rick to fit in between them. his hands held himself up by holding your jean covered knees as you noticed how clean he looked. “you smell like a spa” you commented with a smile while your fingers brushed through his beard hair with a tiny comb.

“could say the same about you too” he sighed, slightly wincing when you’d brush at a knot.

once the beard was brushed, you started clipping it with scissors so the hair wasn’t too long. you let the excess hair fall to the ground, mumbling “i’ll clean it up after, don’t worry”, which made rick hum in response.

rick considered your precision to be cute; the way you’d stick your tongue out slightly when cutting hair close to his mouth, your socked feet slightly hitting the counter cabinets when you’d kick them out of boredom—he thought you were being real sweet.

“half way there, grimes” you grinned at your work, dropping the scissors into the sink before plugging the razor into the outlet. “how short you want it?” you asked when looking at all the different clipper heads.

“just cut it all off” rick said, dismissing the clipper heads.

looking back at him to get his approval, you nodded your head & attached the blade to the clipper, positioning rick’s head to be tilted slightly backwards. “sounds good”

you then got to work, clipping the hair on his face slowly to get it shorter so it’d be less work on the razor head after. your free hand carefully held his cheek in place while his fingers rubbed back & forth on your knees.

“how’s everyone downstairs?” he asked to break the silence.

with a shrug of your shoulders, you put the clipper down & grabbed the razor. “meh. half are showering at the place next door, while the other half explores the place a bit. carl’s playing with judith in the living room” you said while lathering some shaving pomade on his skin.

nodding, rick peeped to see himself in the mirror & felt his eyes widen a bit at how he looked. “calm down cowboy. i’m not letting you look like santa claus for long. stay still, yeah?” you turned his face back to yours, ruffling his damp hair between your fingers.

he continued to let you do your work—precisely shaving each strand of beard hair from his face to make him smooth & soft. you even trimmed his side burns a little & gave his hair a quick trim for the sake of it.

“all done! i didn’t even nick you, so you should be thankful” rick let out a laugh at your words before turning to see himself in the mirror again, bringing a hand up to feel his face.

“god, i’m not sure i’ll get used to this”

“i think you look really handsome. very… prince charming, you know?”

glancing back at you, rick titled his head. “oh yeah?”

with a lazy smile on your lips, you nodded & brought your hands up to his cheeks, your thumb pads rubbing against the soft skin. “yes indeed”

silence overtook you both again as he looked to you with a hint of love in his eyes. you’re really good at taking care of him, plus, he hasn’t seen you this calm or clean ever. it was nice to see you without dirt or blood on your skin. rick was sure the feeling was mutual.

“thank you” he mumbled while leaning into your touch, his right hand holding your left wrist while turning his head, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“anytime” your heart fluttered at the view. he really did look great.

allowing rick to help you off the counter, you pulled him out of the bathroom & gave him some fresh clothes to change into, kissing his shoulder before leaving because you had to “grab the broom & clean up”.

as rick pulled the cotton white t-shirt over his head, along with the plain black jeans paired with his buckled belt, he sat on the bare mattress & waited for you to finish cleaning up after him, even though he offered multiple times.

“you gonna come downstairs to do the big reveal?” you asked once closing the bathroom door, walking over to rick’s figure on the bed.

pulling you closer, his hands tucked into the back pockets of your jeans while yours held his shoulders. “just wanna stay here for a moment. wanna take it all in” he rasped out, blue eyes twinkling up at you like you were something out of a movie.

“we’re gonna be okay” you told him for assurance purposes, partly because you knew what was swirling in that head of his.

alexandria was new, & it was giving the group mixed reactions. but you had to give it a try—if not for yourselves, then for judith & carl. the group understood that.

“i know” he hummed, taking one hand from your rear to pull your face closer to his for a sweet kiss; the kind where it was slow & comforting.

after pulling away, you pressed a kiss to his forehead before letting the silence consume you both again for a few extra minutes, frozen in time like a daydream.

[nardo-headcanons]

Writing Scientist Characters

this post is mainly an excuse to post a certain list of lab supplies I've made for a friend and infodump about lab work. but feel free to use this as a little resource when writing characters who are scientists and/or lab nerds. who knows, maybe it'll be of use.

General thoughts

Many people think it's a stereotype that scientist or nerd characters talk using complex technical jargon. While that is true to an extent, there actually is some kind of lab jargon. It varies across different labs and fields, but one thing they have in common is that it seeks to simplify, not the other way around.

gelelectrophoresis becomes elpho

microbiology becomes mibi

deioninized water becomes aqua dist

biochemistry becomes BC

sodium hydroxide becomes NaOH

They will probably not call a glass of water "silicon dioxide and h2o".

...and more. feel free to get creative. If you're writing in any other language than English, you can throw in one or two anglicisms as well. Also, most scientists will never gatekeep their work, and in an opposite fashion, will not shut up about it unless you make them. And no, most chemists do not know the entire periodic table by heart, only the most relevant elements. (main groups and a few commonly used metals of the subgroups) When it comes to characters doing the lab work, keep in mind that there are a lot more people involved than the scientist themself. Most scientists are more occupied with paperwork and data analysis, it is the laboratory technicians and assistants that do most of the practical work. They often have more lab experience than the scientists themselves.

Things you can have your lab nerd character do instead of making random chemicals explode

writing a lab report (and losing their mind over excel)

degreasing the glass bevel stoppers

removing the permanent marker from beakers (labeling is important)

complaining about the lack of funding of [their field] research

cleaning glassware

preparing specimen for examination

googling the most basic equations for their report

checking if the glassware and utensil collections are complete

steal single use plastic pipettes from their lab

pirating expensive textbooks

A list of laboratory supplies and utensils you can have them work with

Laboratory general (chem + bio)

Erlenmayer flasks, beakers, precision scales (3 digits), glass rods, metal spoons/spatulas, screw on glass flasks (autoclave compatible) test tubes, stopcock grease, dispensers with sanitizer and hand cream, gas burners, heating plates, eppendorf pipettes, pipette tips, Peleus pipetting aids, squirting bottles, liquid and powder funnels, incubator/drying chamber, round watch glasses, magnet stirring plates.

Microbiology Autoclave, petri dishes, agar plates, innoculation loops (reusable and metal), clean bench, microscope slides, microscope, drigalski-spatula, test tubes with clamping lids

Histology

Paraffin bath, water bath, scalpels, scissors, razor blades, microtomes (rotating microtome, slide microtome and freezing microtome), histocinette, tweezers (various kinds), ocular

Biochemistry

Sequencing robots, eppendorf tubes, gelelectrophoresis chambers, centrifuge

Analytical Chemistry

Photometer, kuvettes, burettes, mass spectro meters, UV bank (for chromatogrophies), pyknometers, melting point meter, porcelain mortars, pH paper, analytical scales (4 or more digits)

Prep Chemistry

Tripod/standing material, miniature lifting platforms, spiral condenser, colon condenser, round bottom flask (three necked and y- necked), filtration material, Separating funnel

Electrical engineering

Electric generators, Soldering iron, Clamp connectors, plugin connectors, ohm’s resistors, plug in lamps, condensers, transistors, PCBs, amperemeters, voltmeters, multimeters

Mechanics

Tripod/standing material, metal hooks, metal rods, mechanical stop watches, marbles, metal springs, Newton meters, laser motion detectors

Optics

Prisma (various kinds), various glass lenses (concave, convex, biconcave, biconvex), laser pointers, optical bench, mechanical iris diaphragm, looking glasses, monochrome lamps, lamp filters

Most used chemicals

Deionized water, ethanol, NaOH, HCl, H3PO4, NaCl (+ physiological NaCl solution 0.9)

Useful websites for writing science stuff

DNA sequence generator (simple): http://www.faculty.ucr.edu/~mmaduro/random.htm

DNA, RNA and protein sequence generator: https://molbiotools.com/randomsequencegenerator.php Annealing temperature calculator: https://tmcalculator.neb.com/#!/main

Medicine name generator: https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/medicine-names.php Anything chemistry related: https://www.wolframalpha.com/input?i=chemistry

Commonly used software:

MS Excel

Yenka

CASSY Lab

LabView

SpectraLab

LIMS

LaTex

Slack

Scientist friends, feel free to add onto this.

Have fun writing!

[thesupreme316]

I’ve been seeing a few pictures of HOOK with a slight beard and it got me thinking.

Kisses with him and feeling the slightest scratch of his ‘beard’. Plus I can never get enough of this man I need to see him with a beard now 🫠

Much love ❤️

OMG YESSSSS

Kissing with Hook (Hook x Fem!Reader):

disclaimer: pic is not mine and I got it from @stupidmarkzone (da plug)

Word Count: 600 (prolly my shortest post)

Supreme Speaks: imma be honest, I don't know how to write kisses....so my bad. but thank you to @hookerforhook for putting this in and sorry for being late as per usual. this is both a headcanon and scenario, kind of. my requests are always open. plz remember that you are loved and appreciated.

Warnings: mentions of razors (shaving razor), suggestive words at the end, not proofread because Grammarly decided to be an asshole this week

Taglist: @hookerforhook @hooks-martin @wwenhlimagines @triscillal @sheinthatfandom

THE STUBBLEEEEEE

I feel like he’s the type to shave weekly or like bi-weekly

He always had a baby face and you would never feel his beard coming in

I also wanna say he probably has a mini routine for shaving (nothing special but he does it in a particular way)

Tyler's face be smooth as a baby's bottom

However, during a long schedule, he didn’t have time to shave like usual

So when y’all would kiss, there will be a little stubble that brushes across your face

AND YOU LOVED IT

It wasn’t too much it was just enough

It added more texture (if you wanna say that)

Having the little hairs of his “beard” brush against your cheeks, chin, and lips made you feel special

It added on this home feeling to Tyler

Because no one else will get to feel that but you

You would just keep pulling him in to get more of that feeling

So imagine how you felt when you saw him trying to shave it off

For a quick second, it felt like he was betraying you

“Tyler!” You screeched, making him drop the shaving razor. He cursed as you rushed over to the bathroom, “What are you doing?” It took everything in you not fold at the scene in front of you; your man shirtless with his fluffy light brown hair all over the place.

“I was about to shave until you scream and ran in like a banshee.” Tyler said with shaving cream on part of his lower face. He picked up the razor before his beautiful brown eyes gazed at you through the mirror as you stood with your arms crossing your chest, “Why?”

“Why are you shaving?”

“To get a smooth face? Besides, this is the first time I can shave in weeks and I don’t wanna look rough for television.”

You put your arms down before wrapping them around Tyler’s waist, making you lean your head against his back. “I don’t think you look rough. I really like your stubble.”

His eyebrows slightly rose at your comment. “You do? I didn’t realize that.”

“I love the little scratches I feel when you kiss me. It feels nice.”

“I honestly thought it was too prickly.” Tyler said as he rubbed your hands.

“Nope.” You kissed his shoulder blade before continuing to talk. “Even if it was, I wouldn’t mind because it’s you. But if you want to, I’ll help you shave.” You felt him shake his head. Looking up you saw him take a washcloth and wipe his face, getting rid of the shaving cream around his mouth.

“Because you like it, I’ll keep the so-called beard for one more week. You can help me next week.”

Your eyes lit up. “Then face masks?”

Tyler chuckled before giving you a small peck on the lips. “Of course, anything for you.”

Grinning, you leaned up to give your loving and handsome boyfriend a kiss. As you felt the little hairs lightly scratch your face, you sighed in relief and content. Pulling away from Tyler, you left the bathroom before telling him, “Hurry up and get the that mess off your face so I can make one.” You winked as Tyler immediately rushed to get the rest off, quickly wiping his face continuously until there was no more shaving cream left.

He ran into the bedroom, picking you up and dropping you on the bed, making you giggle,

“Thank god cause I was getting hungry.”

[noosphe-re]

Umbrellas and automobiles are different. Not just because of size, function, and cost. But for a reason we seldom stop to consider. A person can use an umbrella without buying another product. An automobile, by contrast, is useless without fuel, oil, repair services, spare parts, not to mention streets and roads. The humble umbrella, therefore, is a rugged individual, so to speak, delivering value to its user irrespective of any other product. The mighty auto, by contrast, is a team player completely dependent on other products. So is a razor blade, a tape recorder, a refrigerator, and thousands of other products that work only when combined with others. The television set would stare blankly into the living room if someone somewhere were not transmitting images to it. Even the lowly closet hanger presupposes a rack or bar to hang it on. Each of these is part of a product system. It is precisely their systemic nature that is their main source of economic value. And just as "team players" must play by certain agreed-on rules, systemic products need standards to work. A three-pronged electrical plug doesn't help much if all the wall sockets have only two slots. This distinction between stand-alone and systemic products throws revealing light on an issue that is widening today's information wars all around the world. The French call it la guerre des normes—“the war over standards." Battles over standards are raging in industries as diverse as medical technology, industrial pressure vessels, and cameras.

Alvin Toffler, Powershift: Knowledge, Wealth, and Power at the Edge of the 21st Century

[rokishimizu4]

Orphan almost breaks a Bat rule

(I’m gonna focus more on my second blog when I’m done with Cass, Bruce, and Damian, because I’m in a TMNT faze and want to write some 12! Casey x Turtles) I do ship Cass and Steph and in my AU they act like they are married, but Steph treats the Wayne brothers like her brothers-in-law)Mostly because they are fucken cute together and honestly, Steph isn’t adopted by Bruce. (Cass is because her and Damian, Jason, Dick, and Tim are sister and brothers, don’t @ me)

It wasn’t uncommon for Cass to people watch and targets a certain person, either because the person in question was a BatFam villain, just a threat in general, or did something to her family.

But, the person in question checked none of the marks and she found it almost strange with how often she finds herself following the person in question when she is not on patrol, spending time with family, or on her dates with Steph.

Cue Cass silently following a woman that reminds her of a field of flowers and trees on a warm summer day, with bees and birds relaxing, just listening to the songs that the wind writes.

She keeps the target’s car in sight as she jumps from roof top to roof top, in her full Orphan outfit when she notices that something else was tracking the same car as her from across the street.

The other person seems to notice her, but focuses on the car and even jumping onto the moving, at full speed down the busy street, car without hesitation.

Cue Cass jumping onto the same car and hanging onto it along with the stranger, only to realize that the person is wearing a dark red/purple oni mask with glowing gold horns, and a screaming mouth full of white tiger-like teeth.

However, before she could figure out if the person is a human, demon, spirit, or something else, the car jerks to a full stop and threatens to buck the her and the other person off.

Four armed men pile out of the car and starts trying to shoot at her, in the middle of the still very busy street with a shit ton of innocents to protect.

“Get the kids and take off!!” One man screams at the people still in the armored car as the masked men surround the outside of the car with guns pointed at Orphan and the strange person.

Orphan quickly jumps off of the car and attacks the first man with a batarang and hitting another man’s gun out of his hands with a kick.

However, as she focuses on the men around her, the guns going off near her and the innocents around her, that she barely notices the car trying to speed away from the scene. At least until the car splits in half, horizontally.

The battle freezes for that moment as the strange person slowly pulls a razor sharp electric guitar out of the severed armored car, that was built like a smaller version of an armored bank truck, with ease.

The person then plays a few cords the electric guitar, which was not plugged in anything, and the front part of the car starts to crumble onto itself like a paper ball.

The men surrounding Orphan drop their guns and put their hands up, begging for the person to stop, to let the two men in the car go, that the two men were the only ones of the group to be forced into kidnapping the kids.

The men start to crumble under the invisible forces of the stranger’s playing as Orphan watches in shock and growing horror as the people around her start to crumble as well, grabbing at their ears and begging the person to stop.

But the stranger continues to play, playing note after heavy note until the bad men ears’ start to bleed from the sound.

Orphan slowly starts to hear the music from the stranger’s electric guitar, like first a soft whispering that continues to grow in volume and tone until it starts to sound like a banshee’s song on full blast.

Orphan silently screams in pain as she uses one hand to cover one of her ears, and uses the other to pull out her katana and rushes the stranger, unconsciously aiming for the middle of their throat.

However before her blade could make contact with the stranger’s neck, a black/purple goop rushes out of the severed back end of the car to quickly cover the two of them completely.

Next thing Orphan/Cass remembers, she wakes up on the roof of the Gotham City Police Department with Stephanie shaking her awake and crying her eyes out.

“Cass! Cass wake up!!!”

After returning home with Steph not leaving her side, she learns that the kidnappers and around 50 people were hospitalized for ruptured eardrums, and at least two of the six kidnappers suffered from broken legs as well as ruptured eardrums.

”Oni, Banshee song, ears hurt. No more electric guitars, please.”

[regretfullyrave]

Just very short Jessa writing practice, come feast :)

A Lesson in Anatomy:

Tessa gasps. She's breathing. Oh Lord, she is breathing. J's eyes drop to the human's chest painfully slow. It's... fear. Fear of losing the human’s features out of sight for even a second, like it takes a second and not a millisecond longer for them to wash away. It rises. Up and down. A light tremble, heaviness had settled, the motion is strained and her voice is stained. But Tessa never was a quitter and she won't quit now, she wouldn't. With every rise of her ribcage her chest eats away at the silver blade and every exhale spits a chunk back out, the insides leave a wet trail. 

J's optics snap to the petite face within a blink of an eye. The features so deliberately crafted, not even the tiniest of details on her face washed away, but paint had spilled and continues spilling. It reached her hair now, drank and absorbed by the darkest of locks, but that's not enough to keep the broken dam from spilling. Nothing will. It will drain. It's going to drain and it won't stop. It won't stop. It won't. Stop. "Don't move!" Tessa pleads hurriedly, before adding a much softer "please." She must have noticed the flash of panic on J's visor, her processing finally caught up to what's happened. 

Despite everything she obeys her 'Boss' to the letter. No emotion in her synthetic body stronger than the desperate order of her friend. But her fingers tremble, it's so light it's barely perceivable, but J wants to snap her own hand in half. It feels like a deliberate error during manufacture and she curses that fault in her design.

"J, you can'—t..." her voice strains suddenly, she chokes and can't breathe, but she fights to get the words out. "Can't pull out." She looks at the blade lodged into her chest cavity with a small smile. Morbidly she wonders wether it came out all the way on the other side. Out of her back, into the strawberry red carpet. Her parents would lose their shit had she let it rip the fabric. 

She cannot feel anything. 

She watches J's optics shift, no one clear emotion behind them but a plethora of fear, panic, confusion.... All right, a lesson in organic life she supposes. The anatomy and phylogenetics of the cardiovascular system, chapter 22, pages 245 to 280, give or take, she isn't entirely sure, she hadn't finished the chapter yet.

"Arteries, veins, little blood tubes... mine 'r bloody mess. Blade plugged through and tissue closed on it, it's keeping the blood in place," Tessa explains, she tries to shine light on the concept in as few words as she possibly can, each syllable further hindering her ability to breathe. 

Then she hums an amused laugh. "Like a cork on mother's bottle of Chardonnay, ey?" Her eyes trail up at J, like she just said a relatable joke and is waiting for the drone to join a playful back and forth. 

But J is too shaken up to even make a noise. 

Tessa smiles the warmest smile the world had ever seen. "S'alright, J," her hand finds the razor edge and rests there, she wants to trace her hand higher, but the climb is too much for her tired self to make. The distance separating the two will have to do. "It's not your fault." 

[lemonsprite]

Hiii :))

I don’t know if your request are open but I’d like to ask for an Indiana jones x male reader, angst then fluff with some kissing at the end.

Totally okay if you don’t, don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ

Have a good day/night ^_−☆

𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 || 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐌!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Summary: he can’t seem to say “I love you.” :[

Word count: 1.7K

A/N: OMG YES PLEASE!!!! This fic is just my Cup of tea!! And thank you for requesting! ><

Warnings: internalized homophobia (common for the time)

Indiana stared at his reflection in the mirror, his single blade razor gliding across his jaw, cutting at his stubble that’d be steadily growing over the past month. He angled his face from left to right, inspecting his shave job as his hand ran across his chin, feeling for any stray hairs.

“Indy.” You called from the bath tub, the water splashing slightly as you laid your head on the cold marble, looking up at him. “Join me in the bath will you? The waters nice and warm.”

The man in front of you swallowed thickly, cleaning his razor with a spare rag as he stared at you from the reflection in the mirror.

“I have to go to class.” He muttered, putting his shaving kit away.

“It’s 6 am…” you said aloud, staring at him concernedly, knowing where this conversation would probably go.

“You know… early bird lectures… and all that…” he excused, buttoning his shirt back up and checking his hair before turning for the door.

“You know what to do.” He said sharply before leaving the bathroom, the wooden door clicking shut signaling his departure. Leaving you alone in Indiana's bathroom.

You sighed, it’s not like this was the first time this’d happened. Looking at your knees poking out of the soapy water before laying your head on them, running your hands through the sudsy mixture forlornly.

Indiana had been like this for awhile and no one could blame him, he was a well known member of society, strong, smart, and with infinite connections in the world of archeology. If anyone were to find out he was dating you, a boy- he’d be ruined.

That knowledge still didn’t comfort the ache in your heart however in fact it only really made it worse.

You glanced at the edge of the tub, looking over Indiana's body wash, shampoo, and conditioner before grabbing the tubs plug and pulling, watching the water drain.

Slowly you rose, grabbing a near by towel and drying off your skin pruny from all the water.

The towel smelled like Indiana, a deep musky sent like the cologne he wears everyday and the old books he surrounds himself in.

Burying your face into it you sigh sadly once more. It hurt… a lot.

Just the other day you had cooked Indiana an elaborate home meal, you’d slaved in the kitchen for hours and when Indy had finally gotten back from work and sat down at the table he didn’t say a word.

A pit had formed in your stomach, getting the sense that he felt ashamed to be your lover.

That night you’d told him you loved him yet got nothing in return. Indiana had nodded curtly, stood back up, pecked you on the cheek and took the paper to go read in his bedroom.

You’d felt your heart shatter and at this point you don’t know why you still keep coming back to him. He’d broken your heart time and time again yet whenever he called you late at night you couldn’t help but knock once more on his door.

You looked yourself up and down in the bathroom mirror, shaking slightly from the cold. Your towel wrapped loosely around your waist.

Why do you keep doing this to yourself?

You couldn’t give yourself a proper answer, instead you walked out of Indiana's master bathroom and into his bedroom, noticing he had washed, folded, and ironed your clothes, leaving them in a neat pile on the edge of his mattress.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you grabbed your garments and began to dress, taking your time as you watched the sun slowly rise through the blinds in the house's windows.

“What’s going on with you Dr. Jones?” Asked Indiana's colleague and friend Marcus Brody, nonchalantly flipping to the next page in the morning paper. “You’ve seemed more and more antsy these past few days.”

Indy sighed, taking off his glasses and wipping them with the hemline of his shirt. “Can’t talk about it.”

“Oh ho.” Smiled the man, not even looking up from his paper as he continued. “I know that look with you Indiana. Trouble with love?”

Indiana grunted in annoyance, fixing his glasses once more on his nose bridge.

“Have you tried talking to her? Women pride themselves on their communication you know.”

Indiana was silent, looking out the window of his classroom as he drummed his fingers against the table anxiously.

It was uncommon for Indiana to act like this, you always somehow managed to ruffle his feathers, making him act in ways he didn’t know were possible. Just thinking about it caused his face to go red from embarrassment.

The last few weeks for Indiana had been nothing but trouble. Every time he vows to quite you he can’t stop his hand from instinctively grabbing the phone and dialing your house number. It was bad- and Indy knew it.

People these days didn’t react to kindly to two men in love. That is if you can call it love. Indiana would do anything to wake up every morning to your face sleeping peacefully next to his, to have your bare chest pressed against his, the thumping of your heart beneath your skin reminding him that you are alive.

He knew realistically that it was a pipe dream, that a happily ever after with you both was impossible but he’d take what he could get and if that ment sneaking you through his window late at night like school kids then that’s what he’d do.

Indiana felt selfish for treating you in such a way. He knew it hurt you for him to act so distant instead of loving but he couldn’t give you up and he wouldn’t- he liked you to damn much, you made his heart flutter in a way Marion never did.

The other day when you’d told him you loved him it took everything within Indiana to swallow his bite of food and walk away, knowing that it would do more damage than good for the both of you if he were to respond.

Marcus hummed thoughtfully as he crossed his ankles, leaning back in one of Indiana's office chairs. “On the other hand if it’s that one boy your having troubles with you could always tell him how you truly feel.”

Indiana choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide in shock as he stared at Marcus coughing from the hot drink that’d gone down the wrong way.

“W-what?” He coughed.

“(Y/n) that one boy you are ever so keen about.” Marcus replied dismissively, waving a hand in the air. “I saw how you both looked at each other at the office Christmas party. He was your plus one if I remember correctly.”

Indiana stared at him in disbelieving silence, the coffee spill from earlier staining his white button up.

“Relax Dr. Jones.” Marcus said with a smile, finally glancing up from his paper. “It’s a progressive time, I’m happy for you both though I did not realize you swung that way.”

Indiana sputtered, lifting up a hand to protest but nothing came out of his open mouth, his brain short circuiting.

“I-“ he started, forcing his mouth to say anything. “I don’t know what to do…” he finally admitted, hanging his head in defeat.”

“In my professional opinion Dr. Jones.” Lectured Marcus, kicking his feet up on Indiana's office desk. “Tell him how you feel- poor blokes been through enough of this ‘will they, won’t they,’ nonsense.”

Indiana didn’t reply, instead he took another shaky sip of his coffee, and stared at the window, whacking Marcus’s legs with a rolled up newspaper to get them off his desk.

It was raining. Hard. Water pelted at the windows of your house and according to the radio it was supposed to start hailing ice the size of apples. You swallowed in discomfort, taking another sip of your tea as you watched out the window.

There was a knock at the door and you got up from your seat, placing the mug in your hands on a nearby coaster and straightening your tie as you made your way to the door.

‘Who in their right mind would be knocking at your door in weather like this?’

You threw the door open to reveal a very wet and very sad looking Indiana Jones, his hand raised in the middle of knocking once more. That would explain it.

“Indy?” You asked concernedly, almost as if you couldn’t believe he was standing in front of you. “What are you doing in the rain, why didn’t you drive?”

Before you could ask anymore questions, Indiana pulled his hat from his head and clutched it to his chest, looking you deep in the eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, his hair sticking to his forehead and his white button up clinging to his chest from the rain. “I love you, I really should’ve said it sooner.” And before you could utter a response back to him, Indy had scooped you into his arms, smashing his face against yours in a not so gentle kiss, his hand still clutching his hat cradled your neck while his other kept a sturdy grip on your waist making sure you wouldn’t fall from your knees going week.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized once more, the whisper of his words getting lost in your kiss and tickling your lips.

“I love you.” He admitted again, gently leaning forward to place a kiss on the corner of your lips.

“I love you.” He chanted over and over, covering you face in kisses, the stubble he’d so painstaking gotten rid of this morning returning to tickle your skin.

“You stared at him wide eyed, the rain starting to soak your clothes as your face went pink.

“C-come in why don’t you?” You asked, moving out of the way for Indiana to enter your small apartment.

“Please (y/n).” Indiana begged, grabbing your hands once he was standing on your welcome mat, his soaking wet clothes dirtying the floor around him. “I’m so so sorry.”

“Indiana.” You sighed, your eyes going soft as you pushed his wet bangs from his forehead. “It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t.” Indiana responded quickly, bringing your knuckles to his lips to press a kiss against the skin. “I shouldn’t have been so cold I- I was an idiot.”

You shook your head with a sad smile, looking at him in this state made your heart thump painfully against your rib cage.

“I’ll let you make it up for me tonight.” You smiled teasingly, grabbing Indiana by the hands. “First let’s warm you up, I’ll draw you a bath.”

Indiana smiled and squeezed your hand in reassurance, his thumb running lovingly over your knuckles.

Would you believe me if I said I rushed another fics ending TT.

Sorry if I haven’t finished many requests yet! My computers been glitching and I’m trying to recover my old writings (drafts of reqs) but it’s been so so hard :/

anyways I’m in France rn and on a horribly long bus ride so I decided to crank this one out on my phone! Sorry for any spelling mistakes!

[victoria-ward420]

**Cyberpunk 2077: The love story of the deadliest mercenary in night city. *Disclaimer this story is nsfw and does not follow the original plot of cyberpunk 2077 so sit back relax and let’s dive into the life of v…. Also there is Sa and self Harm drinking smoking weed and other bad things that are not pg13.

The neon lights of Night City glistened in the rain, casting a haunting glow over the dark, rain-soaked streets. Victoria "V" Black, a name whispered with equal parts fear and admiration, prowled the alleys of Heywood. Born amidst the concrete and steel of Little China, she had risen from a street kid to become one of the most lethal mercenaries the city had ever known.V's journey through the marines was marked by pain and betrayal. The darkness she had faced at the hands of her superiors had left scars, both physical and emotional, but had also forged a dangerous edge. Abandoned deep behind enemy lines, she had carved a path through her captors, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken bodies. Her psychotic break had turned her into something more than human—a predator who found ecstasy in pain and death.

Now, back in Night City, V was a force to be reckoned with. She roamed the streets, a deadly dance of Krav Maga, Kung Fu, Muay Thai, and MMA skills, with a razor-sharp katana as her preferred partner. Her apartment in Megabuilding 8 was a testament to her chaotic existence. Liquor bottles, discarded weapons, ammo, and trash littered the floor, reflecting the turmoil within.

Tonight, the city called once more. A mission awaited, promising danger and bloodshed. V relished the thrill, the rush of adrenaline and the sweet, agonizing pleasure that came with it. As she prepared, her thoughts drifted to her mother, Theresa Black—a woman lost in her own vices, a catalyst for V's descent into the abyss.The rain pattered against the window as V strapped on her gear, her katana gleaming under the dim light. She downed a shot of whiskey, the burn in her throat a familiar comfort, and stepped out into the night. The streets of Little China buzzed with life, but V moved with purpose, her presence a shadow that sent shivers down the spines of those who recognized her.She met with her fixer, an old contact from her marine days, who handed her the details of the mission. A high-profile target, well-guarded, deep in the heart of Corpo Plaza. The job was risky, but the payout was worth it. V's eyes gleamed with anticipation.As she made her way through the labyrinthine streets, she encountered a group of gang members blocking her path. They recognized her and sneered, thinking they had an advantage in numbers. V's smile was cold as she drew her katana, the blade singing through the air. V moved like a specter through the rain, her katana flashing with deadly precision. Before the gang members could even point their guns, she was upon them. Her movements were a blur, slicing through flesh and bone with surgical accuracy. Blood sprayed, mingling with the rain, as the gang members fell one by one, their faces frozen in shock. The last one standing barely had time to register what was happening before V’s blade found his throat. She stepped back, breathing heavily, her heart racing not just from the exertion but from the perverse pleasure she felt. She wiped the blood from her katana and sheathed it, her expression one of grim satisfaction. With the obstacle cleared, V continued on her path. She plugged in her earbuds and selected her favorite track, “Sucker for Pain.” The aggressive beats and haunting lyrics resonated with her own twisted psyche, fueling her as she navigated the neon-lit maze of Night City.The journey to Corpo Plaza was uneventful, the city’s usual chaos parting for her as if sensing the storm she carried within. She reached the sleek, imposing towers of the corporate district, the heart of power and corruption. The mission details replayed in her mind as she scoped out the heavily guarded entrance.Her target was a high-ranking executive, shielded by layers of security. V smirked, her adrenaline spiking at the thought of the challenge. She activated her cyber-enhancements, a faint hum signaling the activation of her cloaking device. Blending into the shadows, she slipped past the outer defenses, a ghost in the machine.The interior of the tower was a stark contrast to the chaos outside—pristine, cold, and calculated. V moved with lethal grace, taking down guards silently as she advanced. She reached the executive’s office, the door sliding open with a soft hiss. Inside, the target sat behind a massive desk, oblivious to the death approaching.V approached with deliberate steps, her katana drawn and ready. The executive looked up, eyes widening in recognition and fear.

“V…,” he stammered, but she gave him no time for pleas or explanations. In one swift motion, her blade found its mark, silencing him forever. As the body slumped to the floor, V felt a surge of dark satisfaction. She cleaned her blade and turned to leave, her mind already on the next task. The city outside still pulsed with life, oblivious to the small victory against the corrupt elite.

V licked the blood from her blade, savoring the metallic taste. The thrill of the kill sent shivers down her spine. As she was about to leave, the office door slid open again, revealing a guard who froze at the sight of his fallen superior. His eyes widened in horror, and his hand shot to his radio.

“We need backup in the executive suite! Now!” he shouted. V’s smile widened. More prey had entered the den.The guard drew his gun, but V was faster. She lunged forward, her katana a blur of silver. The guard barely managed to get off a shot, the bullet grazing her shoulder as her blade sliced through his torso. He crumpled to the ground, and V barely registered the pain, the rush of battle overriding everything else.Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway as more guards rushed to respond to the call for backup. V’s blood sang with anticipation. She darted to the door, using the fallen guard’s body as a temporary shield. Bullets peppered the walls and floor around her as the first wave of reinforcements arrived.

V threw the body aside and launched herself at the oncoming guards. She moved with predatory grace, her katana cutting through the air with deadly precision. The corridor became a whirlwind of violence, blood splattering the walls as she carved through her enemies. The guards fell in quick succession, their cries of pain mingling with the sound of gunfire and clashing steel. More guards poured in, but V showed no sign of slowing down. She reveled in the chaos, her movements a blur of lethal elegance. She disarmed one guard with a swift kick, then used his own weapon to shoot another. Her katana sang as it sliced through flesh and bone, the thrill of combat driving her to new heights. Finally, the corridor fell silent, the bodies of the guards littering the floor. V stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, her eyes alight with a feral gleam. Blood dripped from her blade, pooling around her feet. She wiped the sweat from her brow, feeling the familiar, twisted satisfaction coursing through her veins. The alarm system blared, alerting the entire building to the breach. V knew more would come, but she was ready. She had no intention of leaving until her mission was complete and every obstacle lay defeated. With her bloodlust sated for the moment, she retrieved the executive’s access card from his desk and made her way deeper into the building. The next target was a data terminal with valuable information that her client desired. As she approached the secure room, the sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears. More guards, heavily armed and armored, were closing in.

V stepped into the corridor, her senses sharp and her pulse racing from the aftermath of the battle. The moment she turned the corner, she felt the cold barrel of a gun press against her temple. She paused, her hands slowly rising in a show of surrender.

“Don’t move!” the guard barked, his voice trembling slightly.

A dark smile curved V’s lips as she turned to face him, her eyes alight with a twisted mix of arousal and amusement. “Shoot me,” she whispered, her voice husky and filled with anticipation. “Do it. I beg you.” The guard’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his face. He hesitated, his grip on the gun faltering. V stepped closer, her breath hot against his cheek, her voice a seductive purr. “You’re not going to shoot me,” she taunted, leaning in until her lips almost brushed his ear. “You don’t have the guts.” In a blur of motion, V’s hand snapped up and grabbed the gun, twisting it from his grasp with practiced ease. She turned the weapon on him, the barrel now pressed against his forehead. The guard’s eyes filled with terror as he stared into the abyss of her gaze.

“Well, I will,” she said, her smile widening into a feral grin. She pulled the trigger without hesitation. The guard’s head snapped back, a spurt of blood painting the wall behind him as he crumpled to the ground. V laughed, a dark, joyous sound that echoed through the corridor. She dropped the gun, the clatter loud in the sudden silence, and stepped over the body without a second glance. The thrill of the kill still thrummed through her veins as she made her way toward the exit. The building was still on high alert, but V moved with confidence, her movements fluid and unhurried. She relished the chaos she left in her wake, the bodies and blood a testament to her lethal prowess. She exited the building and disappeared into the neon-lit streets of Night City, the rain washing away the blood on her skin. Her mission was complete, and the rush of victory mingled with the dark satisfaction that filled her soul. As she walked away, the city buzzed with life, oblivious to the predator in their midst. V knew she would find another job, another dance with death that would sate her twisted desires, if only for a little while. She pulled out her iPod and changed the song, the heavy beats of “Mercury: Retrograde” still echoing in her mind. The night was young, and V had more blood to spill before it was over.

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 🎃💦 ∘₊✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟙𝟙 ✧₊∘

|| ︶꒦꒷𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥꒷꒦︶ | main masterlist ||

@absurdthirst's Kinktober 2023 Prompts

Day 11: Body Hair/Shaving, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, Teasing

𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧

| PAIRING(s): Ezra x fem!reader | RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 1.1k | CONTENT: established relationship, body hair kink, sweat kink (?), Ezra bein the nasty lil slut we all love | SYNOPSIS: Ezra mourns your decision to shave your private area even though it's just to feel more comfortable in the heat of the summer months.

You left the bathroom door ajar even though that almost guaranteed you’d see Ezra’s pouting face emerge and disappear in the hallway as he took obvious glances at your current task.

“May as well just come in here and see the carnage up close, Ezra,” you deadpan loud enough for him to hear around the corner.

A few soft footsteps later and the door creaks open. Ezra rests his forearm against the doorjamb and leans casually into it as he looks you up and down.

“Carnage is surely to be sired. Unbridled ruination of a perfectly unfallowed meadow,” he hums in disappointment.

“Ezra,” you snip, “I told you I don’t care in the winter, but when it’s hot out like this it gets so scratchy and itchy.”

You pull the plug on the bath and sit up straighter to reach the shaving cream and razor. “Give it a few months, and I’ll be back to my usual Highland Cattle self.”

“Must it be razored? Would a robust clipping not suffice?” he argues. He plops down onto the closed toilet lid and eyes you mournfully. 

“You’re being very dramatic about something that you wouldn’t even knew happened in the first place if you saw me a few weeks later. It’s hair, Ezra. It grows back.”

He snorts and huffs in disagreement but doesn’t say anything else. You roll your eyes and begin the task of shaving your private area. You’d long given up on aesthetics and appealing grooming habits, and, luckily for you, Ezra seemed to like you better the more hair you had. 

He’d lick at your coarse armpits, groaning with a primal urge if you were still sweaty from the day’s work. He’d press the wiry curls of your calves against his hips as he fucked into you. He’d run his fingertips over the hairs around your asshole, moaning as she shoved his tongue into you. He’d ramble endlessly about how you were never to rid yourself of any of it, that he wanted you raw and bristled and brushy.

His brow drops as he watches you now, lathering up the cream between your legs. He’d always been a free spirit – to put it lightly – who encouraged and at times demanded you follow your own individual call, whatever that might be. To watch him sulk as you groom yourself in contradiction to his personal likes was nothing short of comical.

“Last chance to look away,” you taunt.

His eyes narrow the tiniest bit before he juts his chin out for you to get on with it. You look down between your spread legs and pull one side of your labia taut. You press and guide the razor carefully around your curves until you finish the stripe. You flick the end of the razor towards the drain, clearing most of the residual cream and hair from the blades.

You start your second pass when you notice Ezra sit a little taller. You finish the second pass and clear out the blade again. It makes a soft splat against the fiberglass basin surround. You’re just about to start the third pass when Ezra clears his throat. You look up to find him donning an indiscernible expression.

“Yes?”

“You may want to–ahem– part the bits of flesh that enshroud your divine womanhood,” he rasps. His tongue flits against his lips, darting here and there to patches of worried flesh. “So as to not rend yourself as you proceed inward.”

“I’m gonna do the inside of the lips after I do the outside, Ezra, but thanks for the helpful suggestion,” you quip.

You go to shave again, but Ezra jerks forward on the lid until his backside occupies the smallest edge necessary to remain seated. You pause and try to read his face. It’s something akin to desire and exhilaration, but you can’t imagine what in this current situation would elicit such a reaction.

“Indulge me,” he murmurs, low and heady.

You bulge your tongue into your cheek when you realize Ezra is turned on by something about you shaving yourself. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth and decide it could be fun to test your hypothesis. You slowly spread yourself with two fingers, opening yourself wider for his viewing. His eyes snap shut for a moment as he groans.

“You’re enjoying this,” you charge with a delighted giggle.

Ezra smirks to himself and nods before settling onto the floor in front of the tub. His hands reach in, and he presses his thumbs against the bottom of your lips to hold them open. He takes short, excited breaths as he eyes your half-shaven pussy.

“I will serve as anchor to your precious flesh while you continue,” he proposes.

You hold yourself from the top of your intended path and gently guide the razor against your scratchy, wiry hair. Ezra mindlessly rubs small circles with his thumbs, and it’s close enough to get you aroused but too far to be satisfying. Sensing your shift into where his mind currently sat, he grabs at the fat of your backside for more leverage.

“You just keep pruning that hispid little cunt,” he gently commands. “I will see to it that you have all you desire if you let me bear witness to this.”

You manage to shave yourself quickly and without any nicks. Ezra runs his fingers through the deflated foam and hair mixture near the drain for a moment with a groan before turning the faucet on and gathering enough water to douse your skin.

He ruts into the side of the tub as the water slowly clears all remaining shaving cream and hair. Ezra stands abruptly and fishes something out of the linen closet.

“Oil? What are—”

He snaps the cap open while his eyes are trained on your shaven pussy. He splashes several drizzles onto your skin before yanking his pants down and revealing his leaky, rigid length. He falls to his knees and squirts some of the oil onto his weighty cock. He strokes himself a few times as he spreads the oil against your skin. It glistens across your newly bare private area.

You moan as his fingers slip against your sensitive skin and clit.

“So exposed for me. The shameless parade of her entreating valley to me,” he murmurs. His eyes are locked onto your entrance where his fingers tease. “Perhaps an unencumbered view of me feeding my cock into her will countervail the loss of such springing growth.”

You try to adjust yourself so that he might have a more advantageous angle to test his supposition, but the round of the tub makes it difficult.

“Still, my Starshine. I will take you here and take you again in the bedroom.”

You lay back as much as you can just as Ezra begins pumping his fingers into you. He tugs himself in equal paces and mutters something about wildflowers sprouting in the meadow as his eyes burn into his work.

[doitforbangchan]

I'd Rather Overdose

Mingi x reader who is an addict

TW: Drug use, alcohol use, addiction, angst, cursing, not a happy ending.

This story jumps around time a lot, but I don't think its hard to follow.

Not proof read. We die like men

Listen along while reading for the full experience.

Can't let go I can't let you go I try but I always know  I wish you was holding me close  Can't be without you I'd rather overdose

Mingi watched you practically melt into your couch. He should have known better than to hope you'd be sober when he came over. There were multiple empty alcohol bottles on your coffee table in front of you. Sighing he made his way to your drooping form. “Come on Y/N. We gotta get you to bed.” 

You blearily looked up at him, noticing him for the first time, with a smile now gracing your face at the sight of your lover. “Min you made it.” You weakly held your arms up for him to grab you.

“Yeah Y/N” He scooped you up and felt you nuzzle into his chest. This is the you he can't live without, the sweet you. “I always make it to you.”

When your fucked up on them pills you can’t hear me cry Without them your sick and we both know why  Pint after pint till the well runs dry  If only you loved me like you love getting high 

You were shaking, your whole body alight with the motion as if you couldn’t control yourself. He knows you can't. 

“When is enough enough, Y/N?” He could see the withdrawals setting in hard. 

“I’m f-fine Mingi. I’m just a little sick. It’s just the flu.” 

Yeah. Just the flu. That's why there were scattered pill bottles littered around your apartment. Bottles with other peoples names on them. That's why your hand mirror was lying face up with a razor blade on it. Sure, it was just the flu. 

Suddenly grabbing your mouth, you ran towards your bathroom barely making it in time to let out the contents in your stomach. Not that there was much.  He stood in the doorway and witnessed your downfall onto the floor. Mingi couldn’t just let you suffer there alone so he pulled your hair out of your face and rubbed your back.

I know that you hate me and I hate me too I can't get over what I did to you  You tried to help me and it wasn't going through  I hope that you miss me cuz I miss you too 

Mingi couldn't take his eyes off you from across the club. He hadn’t known you were going to be here with your friends or he wouldn't have come out with his. Even in the dark club he could see how run down you looked. Worse than the last time he saw you, a few months earlier when you were throwing him out of your home. 

This time you looked like a shell of your former self. He watched you pound shot after shot as if it was water. He felt the guilt creep in as he watched. He couldn’t help but wonder if you getting this bad was his fault. Mingi only wanted to help you. He thought rehab was going to be the solution to your addiction. In hindsight maybe an ambush with your parents who you haven't seen or talked to in years wasn’t the answer but he only meant well. He didn’t know it would lead to you saying you hated him and you wanted him out. He could still feel your small fists colliding with his chest. 

Mingi saw your head turn in his direction. Your eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to focus when they landed on him. There was a saddened look in your eyes now that you’ve noticed him. Turning back to your equally as wasted friends you tipped another shot down your throat. Mingi hoped you missed him at that moment, like he missed you. 

Please don't walk away I'm too high please dont look me in my face  You lose faith with every pill I take  I can't be without you i'd rather die today

It didn't matter anymore. The pills going down his throat proved that. If this is what it took to keep you then he would do it. Being high with you was something he was used to anyways. It’s how you met, having the same plug. It was usually only him getting pot and the occasional party drug. Pills were new to him. 

He was getting too fucked up to notice the look on your face when he swallowed those pills. If he hadn’t already taken some an hour prior he wouldn't have missed the shame that crossed your eyes at his actions. Mingi was becoming like you, for you. 

You’re too blind to see you have a disease  Love pills and whiskey more than you love me  Pint after pint erasing our memories  If only you loved me like you love smoking weed 

Mingi had you in his lap now, the smoke you inhaled previously now being transferred into his mouth. Your kiss tastes earthy, dirty almost. There was a lingering of the whiskey you had consumed mere moments ago on your breath. 

This had become his new normal. Come over and get high with you. Downing bottles of booze until you both became numb. Beggars can't be choosers, though. 

“I love you Mingi.”You were slurring, could barely get the words out. You wrapped your arms around him, relaxing into his skin. “I love you so so much. Please don’t leave me.”

He was sure you did love him. Not as much as you loved getting high, but he would take what he could. 

I can't let you go I try but I always know  I wish you was holding me close  Can't be without you I'd rather overdose

If this was the life you were going to live then fuck it. Mingi will stand with you and love you the best he could. He couldn’t let you go again. In his arms is where you belong, fucked up or not. He would rather overdose than lose you. 

A/N; I have been thinking of making this for the last few days. I do not condone drug use! be safe out there y’all

[weekendviking]

Heh. Ok, Goldman Sachs, an entity best described as a corporate vampire hydra wrapped around the face of humanity, shoving it's razor bladed money siphon vigorously into any orifice that may contain extractable money, leverage, futures or any other imaginary financial instrument, has pulled the plug on AI:

Commentary by Ed Zitron here:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/pop-culture/

[littleslithewhump]

Day nine - chastity

By the time his captor finally pulls out the sound for good, V feels like a raw nerve. Bright and exposed and hurting. 

His captor doesn’t stop touching him. Groping his hips and waist and ribs, down his thighs. V feels too weak to do anything about it, even when his captor tugs on the cock ring that feels as though it’s squeezing the life out of him.

His consciousness swims, darkness encroaching his vision and swimming around him. He feels his captor undo one side of the spreader bar. He feels him straddle his waist and untie the rope from the leg of the bed, before pulling him up into a sitting position, an arm around his shoulders, a large hand encircling his bound wrists. 

V all but faints in his arms, lightheadedness and vertigo nearly making him black out completely. 

He feels his entire body is loose and malleable as clay. The rope dangling from his wrists is pulled behind his head, forcing his wrists between his shoulder blades–the end of the rope secured around his waist.

He’s spun and placed facedown on the bed, the pressure on his dick blinding, but not as blinding as the tail plug slowly being pulled out past the ring of his muscle, and allowed to fall back inside–and pulled out again, only to fall back in again–a few vicious cycles, grating on V’s entire being. 

When it is finally pulled out completely, he doesn’t feel relief–he just feels empty. He’s still worming his hips a bit, wanting to be left alone yet also be, finally, fucked unconscious. 

“Hush, pet.” 

He didn’t know he was making noise. 

He knows he’s definitely voicing something, though, when another toy is shoved in his ass–something that sits snugly against that sensitive spot inside, and curls around to nestle beneath his balls, touching the ring that, still, holds him tightly at his base. 

When his captor taps it, the feeling cuts through him like a razor. It makes his thighs quiver.

“Hold on. I’m getting your cage, and then we’ll take you downstairs again.” 

V feels a question at the word “cage” filter through his strained consciousness. Is he not restricted enough? Not capitulating, not submissive enough? 

But, when he’s flipped to his back, he sees the cage he’s talking about is smaller. Curved, solid metal rings, with a small locking mechanism at the top. V hasn’t seen one before, but realizes what it is when his captor feeds his achingly sensitive, hard cock into the thing. 

It pinches and forces his hardness to bend, curving it from a position of arousal to ostensible flaccidity. It takes painful minutes to force V into the shape of his captor’s choosing. The locking mechanism meets the cock ring, and his captor snaps it home, locking V’s penis down. 

It does nothing to prevent the sensitivity, the tightness and fullness. 

V feels crushed by tiredness, by a desperate longing to be out and done and free, to be home and safe. 

“You don’t get to come, pet. Not yet. You were so very bad.” 

V doesn’t really care about that, at this point. But his body’s white-hot muscle fibers still, despite his exhaustion, flinch and press against the cage, tense against the plug. 

He feels completely boneless as he’s picked up once again, and carried back to the stairs. The sight of the dark basement makes him want to cry, but he feels as though even that’s been wrung out of him too. 

V’s sat on the floor like a doll, watching with bloodshot eyes as his captor rolls out a futon on the cement floor. When V’s laid down on it, he doesn’t move as his captor pulls the spreader bar down to his ankles, affixing them to keep him spread. V hears the rattle of a chain, clipping around the spreader bar, and attaching to a hook in the floor. With his hands tied behind his head, he can twist a bit from side to side, but not much beyond that.

At least, he thinks, I'm lying down. 

His captor crouches beside him and runs a thumb along his cheek, arcing along the bone. The tenderness of the gesture makes V want to vomit, to bite him, to lean in, all at once. 

“I’ll be back in a couple days, pet.” 

V’s eyes widen. Days? 

His captor laughs. “Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t let you forget me.” He stands and pulls out his phone, fiddling with something before saying, “See?”

The plug–a vibrator, it turns out–begins to pulse. V all but screams–his cock, still bent and hard, throbs in the chastity cage. 

When the pulsing stops, V’s sweating and out of breath all over again.

“I’ll keep reminding you, pet. Every time you feel it, you’ll remember who owns you.” He places a foot on V's hip, making his body sway gently from side to side. "But you'll also know I'm coming back for you."

His captor leaves, not even bothering to leave the light on. 

When the plug vibrates to life, as it often does over the next few days, V’s cock throbs and aches, the pull at the cage’s base painful. The euphoria of arousal is stamped down, over and over again, until it shifts from evidence of V's body and nerves and feelings to, only, evidence of him.

[moxbryswhore]

The Smallest Man Who Ever lived

After her Summerslam match, and the betrayal, Rhea heads back to her car.

Were you sent by someone

Who wanted me dead?

Did you sleep with a gun,

Underneath our bed?

Were you writing a book

Were you a sleeper cell spy?

-

The event hadn’t even finished, she could hear the thunderous sound of the stadium as she walked towards her truck. But Rhea didn’t care, she didn’t care about Drew Mcintyre beating CM Punks ass, hell right now she didn’t even care much about Damian’s World Heavyweight Championship match. Win or lose, The Judgment Day would never be the same again. The kiss of death had seen to that. The godforsaken kiss that no matter how hard she tried, Rhea couldn’t stop seeing over and over again. She’d been so convinced, when that damned chair had hit the mat, that it was a mistake. That he’d been trying to help her, that it was just another case of Dominik fumbling from the sidelines, but trying his best. Then she’d seen the smirk on his face, watched him pick her up from the ground as he’d done her so many times, after a hard fought battle in the ring. Her blood had run ice cold.

When she’d returned from injury with her sights set on Liv Morgan, incensed that she had laid hands on what Rhea felt she had made very clear was hers, Dominik had spent hours convincing her that there was nothing to worry about, that the obsession was purely one sided. She’d stood beside him while he’d declared his hatred for her. She’d believed every publicly spoken word, every whispered promise late at night. Everything felt like it was going to be okay, she was back, Damian was champion, Finn and JD the tag champs. It was the strongest The Judgment Day had been in what felt like a long time. They were going into Summerslam on the same page. Dominik had been laying from a different rule book though, for a long time

How long had he lied to her? How long had the two of them planned this? Exactly long had he played the doting, adoring boyfriend while all along they planned her downfall? Since before the injury, had he planned that too? Was he secretly thrilled she’d gotten hurt? He’d waved her off the day she’d relinquished her championship, told her that he loved her as she left. Was any of it true? Rhea went back to every moment since then, every phone call, every facetime from the road. Tried to pinpoint the change, but damn.. He was a good liar. Did Rhea teach him to lie that well, imprint that evil streak in him? Had she set up her own downfall?

Rhea reached her truck and climbed into the drivers seat, throwing her luggage onto the seats behind without any care. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. Sure, she wasn’t sure she would have won her title, maybe Liv would have taken some cowardly way out to retain. It wouldn’t have mattered because Rhea would have gotten her hits, would have been satisfied that she’d taught the blonde a lesson once and for all. Her and Dom would’ve left together, hand in hand, would have picked up food to eat back at the hotel, arguing over who gets to play their music on the way. Now the seat beside hers was empty, absent of the sound of Dom’s teasing. His cup from earlier in the day was still sitting in the cup holder, the dregs of coffee long since gone cold. The charging cable still plugged into the dash. Little, insignificant pieces of him that she’d continue to find throughout her life, scattered around her home, like a thousand little razor blades cutting into her.

Why couldn’t he have just left her? A call from him while she was off the road rehabbing to make it easy, some crap excuse about time spent apart, even the truth about his feelings for Liv. Anything. Why this facade of love, why this public humiliation? Had he been miserable the whole time? Two years, planning how he’d take her down, finding the perfect companion in Liv to help him carry it out? This hadn’t just been about ending things, he’d wanted to break her. He’d taken pleasure in it, How could that be right? How could the same man who’d treated Rhea gently, lifted her up so high, treasured her like a prized possession, discard her in such a manner. It was like he was a stranger to her.

She gripped the steering wheel, fingers turning white from the pressure, the leather of the wheel squeaking against her rings. The sounds of the stadium were muffled inside the leather of her truck, but she could make the telltale music of Gunther, and Samantha’s voice declaring him the champion. Damian had lost his title, and Rhea wasn’t there, wouldn’t be in gorilla to greet him as he had so often done for her. She just couldn’t face it, the sideways glances from their coworkers, the whispered hushes of how she probably deserved this after everything she had done.

Maybe they were right, maybe this had been a long time coming? Maybe even before Liv had started playing him like her favourite game, Dom had always planned to one day hurt her the way she had hurt him. Because it was true, their relationship had begun with abuse, hurting him to try and get his attention like a playground shoving contest. Pushung him to the edge to try and unlock that potential that Rhea knew was hidden in there somewhere. She’d dragged him kicking and screaming from beneath the shadow of his legendary father. If he was the monster, she was the one who created him, and he’d turned and sunk his claws into her.

That’s what it felt like, claws dug deep into her skin, beneath her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, letting the tears roll down her cheeks and further displace the already smudged makeup. Dom had told before the match that she looked beautiful, kissed her sweetly on her perfectly painted lips, knowing on that entire walk to the gorilla position that he would be the cause of her ruined makeup. She briefly wondered if he was nervous, if he had any second thoughts, if he even for a second looked at her and thought he was making the wrong choice.

The phone Rhea had thrown into the passenger seat as she had climbed into the car lit up with a text notification, probably Priest, back in their clubhouse, wondering where the hell she had disappeared to. As much as she wanted to ignore him, to ignore everyone outside of this truck, she wasn’t going to do that to him, not when he too had lost something. Rhea sat herself up and took a deep breath, scrubbing her face of the tears and picking the phone up. She was right, it was a text from Priest, but it wasn’t a ‘where you at’ text, or not even a ‘don’t worry kiddo, we’ll get him.’ promise from her best friend. Eight simple words that knocked the last of her breath out of her, whilst also at the same time made the most sense of anything that had happened tonight.

‘balor screwed me. it’s just us two now.’

Finn had been jealous, he’d been desperate to be in charge for a long time now, to prove he wasn’t below Damian, it was obvious. She’d seen the look thrown Priests way whenever he'd turned his back on Finn. The sneers that he’d thought Rhea hadn’t seen. In the quiet moments between the two best friends, she had tried to warn Damian, but his response had always been the same. ‘He's family, I trust him. You gotta trust him too’. The same way Rhea had trusted Dominik, believed his desperate promises. Where had that trust gotten either of them? Both betrayed by the people they loved the most. A different kind of love between Damian and Finn, sure, more familial and less romantic, but a love nonetheless.

On Monday an angry Rhea would step out into the world with Damian. A bloodthirsty Rhea, ready to paint the walls red, to wreak havoc on the ones who betrayed them. The weakness she’d shown in the ring after the bell would be the last time she ever showed weakness in front of Dominik and Liv Morgan. Saturday night Rhea would cry herself to sleep in an empty bed, devoid of warmth, in a hotel room devoid of ridiculous cow print boots by the door and ridiculous moustache care products on the vanity. She would get her revenge, that was without a doubt, and once that was doled out, Rhea would move on. In time she’d forget the smell of his cologne, the way his fingers would trace the pattern of her tattoos in the morning, the smile on his face when she’d press a kiss to his cheek and leave a lipstick mark on his skin. They would become distant memories, just another era of her career. But she’d never forgive him, not in five years time when they’d have some ill fated reunion, not in twenty years time when maybe they’d find themselves in a hall of fame. She’d forget, but she would never forgive.

-

And in plain sight you hid,

but you are what you did.

And i’ll forget you,

but I’ll never forgive…

..The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived.

[starry-eyed-adam]

a great day to be alive

rating: pg-13 / words: 1896

featuring the incredible @littlemissartemisia’s Claire

content warning: this work contains mention of suicide/attempts, alcohol abuse, and dysphoria

————————————————————————

The splashing of the razor in the tiny bowl is one of the many sounds of the morning. The open window lets in the melody of the chickens’ muted bawks and birds’ songs that float above the dew-weighted air, and reveals that the sun’s reached just high enough above the mountains to spill into the bathroom, rendering the overhead light pretty much useless.

Leo swishes the tiny blades in the ceramic bowl, shaking off the caked-on shaving cream before he leans in towards the mirror again, tilting his head to scrape under his jawline. While his brothers have other indicators of facial hair (Don’s stripes, Raph’s short spikes), Leo doesn’t have any, period. But it makes him feel nice to shave anyway. Makes him feel well-groomed. More masculine, even. Once finished with the patch under his jaw, the slider turns his head. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s admiring himself, obviously. He’s put a lot of work into this pretty face.

Content with his work, Leo dips his hand into the plugged sink and splashes warm water on his clean face, washing away the rest of the cream. The towel beside the sink is tugged off of its metal ring as Leo pats himself dry. Taking another moment to look at his handsome self, Leo grins and whistles through his teeth. So this is what his honeybunny’s so happy to wake up to every morning. He gets it.

The steam from his shower’s still lingering in the room, so the running overhead fan might contribute to it, but Leo’s too busy applying aftershave—another thing he doesn’t need, but has enough money and too much self-respect to get—and humming to himself to hear the footsteps approach the open bathroom door. He’s not even aware she’s standing there until—

“Uncle Leo.”

The slider nearly drops the damn pump bottle he’s so startled. Setting the aftershave a little forcefully on the counter, mostly so he doesn’t allow himself the chance to drop it again, Leo takes a sharp breath as he looks over towards his brother’s eldest. “Hey, Claire. G’morning.”

The white-haired girl is… small, today. She’s sort of curling into herself, holding her arms and keeping her head low, barely even meeting his eyes. She’s leaning against the doorway, not really facing him until he shuts off the fan and turns to her. “Everythin’ okay?”

The teenager just kinda hums and shrugs, but Leo catches the corners of her eyes crinkling, and she sniffs. “Yeah, I mean… I just, uh.”

Her uncle stays where he is, patiently waiting.

Claire sniffs and rubs at her face before finally looking up, her expression taking Leo aback somewhat. Her eyes and nose are reddened with obvious tears, and something like hopelessness dulls her entire face. “When does it get easier?” she whispers, so faint that Leo isn’t sure he quite hears her at first.

“What? When does what get easier, kiddo?” he answers with a voice almost just as quiet, brow furrowed in worry. Claire glances down again—shit, he’s losing her—and shrugs once more, weaker this time.

“I dunno. All of it.” She sniffs. “Being trans, queer. Being hated. Being… alive.”

There’s a long silence between them, and Leo’s heart aches at every word. “…that’s a tough question, Claire.”

She recoils immediately. “I know. I’m sorry. It was dumb. I’ll leave you alo—“

Her uncle’s hand is suddenly firmly in hers, and Leo leans down to meet her eyes, fully sincere. “It ain’t dumb. I still have those questions myself. But, unlike you—“ his own eyes crinkle with a smile. “I have a couple more years experience doin’ all that.”

“I figured you were the person to go to.” Claire gives him a tight smile back. “I mean, we’ve got so much in common. We’re both trans and queer, super depressed, alcoholic—“

“‘Ey. Former alcoholic.” Leo lifts an eyebrow at her as he flashes his 90 day chip, making Claire laugh.

“Alright, former alcoholic. What else…?”

“Both had boyfriends that Donnie hated at first and probably still does a little an’ also tried to kill them?” Her uncle grins at Claire’s surprised expression. “I never did tell ya about Yuichi an’ Donnie’s fights.”

“Oh.” She glances down again, gaze lingering on his chest for a moment. “I was going to say something like we both tried to kill ourselves.”

The room goes quiet, and Leo’s breath stills. He swallows, and sighs. “Yeah. I s’pose we did. I gotta tell ya though, the amnesia does make that a lot easier to handle.” His eyes widen at the gears suddenly turning in her mind. “Quit tryin’ to figure out the easiest way to hit yourself on the head with a twenty-pound rock.”

After a moment, some of the darkness seems to lift from the girl’s expression and she even laughs, before she rubs her eyes and sighs deeply. Leo grins again and squeezes her hand. “Now, tell me who hates ya.”

This time, her laugh is without humor. “I do.” His niece’s eyes don’t meet his for a while, but she seems surprised to see the understanding reflecting in Leo’s gaze. Claire rubs her arm, sighing again. “There’s a few reasons, I’d rather not get into them… I just wanna know what to do about it, I don’t wanna hate myself. It… really sucks.”

Leo shakes his head with a sad smile. “That it does. Unfortunately, kiddo, I think it’s jus’ somethin’ that you grow out of. It ain’t gonna last forever, an’ you just gotta be strong through it. Be around your family, y’know, people that love ya. Remind yourself that you’re loved.” He sighs. “As for the trans thing… it’s… it ain’t easy findin’ people that support ya, truly an’ deeply. I know it’s 2051 an’ everyone’s openminded an’ shit, but that don’t mean it’s any easier internally.” Lightly, he taps his chest. “Havin’ some people around you, though. It does help. An’ you’ve always got your family. You’ll always have your parents, an’ your uncles, an’ all of your siblings an’ cousins. I hope that might count for somethin’.”

Slowly, she nods, though seems unsatisfied. Shifting where he stands, Leo’s voice drops in volume. “The self-hatred that comes from things outta your control… an’ the resultin’ urges, that… that’s different. It’s all self-loathing, but this kind burns so much deeper.” He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, eyes low. “It seems like the people around you can’t help. Even like you’re hurtin’ them. It���s so, so crushing, that guilt. It festers, an’ spreads to every corner of your mind. I get it, I…” Leo sighs deeply, eyes closed. “I do. But you gotta fight it, even when you feel like you can’t. Especially when you feel like you can’t. There’s always reasons to keep goin’, because you’re not a bad person for what you’ve done, an’ the pain won’t last forever.”

Claire keeps her head hung, and her arms tighten around herself. Nervously, Leo rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, kid. I know it’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for. I’m not an expert or—“

Leo’s stunned into silence by the pair of arms that wrap tightly around him. His niece buries her face in the crook of his neck and holds onto him. “I’m really glad you’re still here, Leo,” she whispers, voice choked with tears. “I know it was hard.”

Leo loves his family to death. He does. But oh, God, he realizes as he slowly hugs back, he doesn’t get told that nearly enough. Leo closes his eyes, gently rubbing her back as a stray tear escapes him. “I am too,” whispers the cowboy, faint. “I’m glad I lasted long enough to meet such an incredibly smart—“ he hugs her tighter, “strong—“ another squeeze, “absolutely beautiful an’ kind an’ loving girl like you. I want you to stick around as long as you possibly can, kiddo.” Firmly, Leo kisses the top of her head, sniffling himself. “I love you.”

She chokes on a laugh through her tears, and clings to him. “Thanks.”

After a long moment, they separate again, and Leo meets her eyes. “You tried talkin’ to your parents about this at all?”

Claire sniffs. “Dad… you know him, he’s not good with talking about this sort of stuff. He just gets upset and he doesn’t know what to say. Mom comforts me, but she doesn’t really get it. Neither of them do. So I don’t see the point in going to them. You’ve lived my life. Or, a lot of it. I’d rather talk to you about all of this.”

“Ah.” Sounds about right for his brother. Leo leans against the wall, exhaling slowly. “Donnie an’ Cat have four kids they gotta worry about, on top of a farm an’ ranch that’s suddenly expanded. Don’t blame ‘em for not bein’ all there right now.”

“I’m not,” Claire jumps in.

“They’re tryin’ really hard to be good parents to all of you. An’ I’m amazed with how well Don’s been doing so far. But he feels disconnected from ya.” Now, Leo never actually heard his brother say this. But he sees it, he can tell, when Scotty jumps into Leo’s arm to hug him when they get home and Donnie’s arms stay empty, or when Claire has an issue with someone at school and brings it up to her mom or to Mikey. The softshell’s need for validation, especially as a parent, is starting to choke him.

His niece is quiet. “He doesn’t understand like you do.”

“He’s your dad, kiddo,” says Leo, soft. “There’s a million things he ain’t gonna understand. But he wants to try. An’ I’d really, really like it if you’d give him that chance.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and that’s okay. Leo smiles a bit as he watches Claire consider them. “…okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll… try to talk to him more.”

“That’s the spirit.” With a grin, Leo nudges her. “An’ try to give him a hug every now an’ then, yeah? Even if he don’t want it. An’ you be kind to your mama, too. Both a’ them work really hard for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I got it.” Claire rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.” Leo hangs up the face towel again and shuts off the overhead light as they both head out of the room. “You have breakfast yet?”

She follows him out. “No.”

“Claire! It’s 8am! If you don’t eat now you ain’t gettin’ a chance until lunch!” Leo grins at her, nudges her again. Claire just hums, shrugs, and her uncle sighs, rifling through his pocket again for the little plastic disc.

“Hey.”

The girl glances up to see the ‘90 Days Sober’ chip hanging off its chain, dangling from Leo’s fist. She smirks at him. “You’re very proud of that thing.”

“Bump my mother-friggin’ fist, you socially inept teenager,” her uncle laughs. “Here’s to gettin’ better.”

Claire hesitates, then lightly taps her fist against Leo’s. “To getting better,” she repeats, faintly. As they head down the stairs, the sounds of clanking silverware and plates and faded conversation grows louder. Leo grins, swings his little chain around as he leads her down.

“Mhm. An’ gettin’ better starts with having a damn meal. C’mon, you like pancakes or waffles?”

[petermorwood]

This follows @dduane's comment on the tin- / can-opener thread here, but it's wandered off into corkscrew country so is better off alone.

Yes, we did once have a Mister Stabby tin opener. Why, I have no idea, because I can’t remember it ever being used.

That black-handled butterfly opener is the standard design which cuts out a disc inside the tin’s rim; I prefer the blue one, which takes the entire top off.

NB, it's supposed to leave (per Wikipedia) "a relatively safe, non-jagged edge". Non-jagged, yes; relatively safe, not so much; the action of cutting gives the tin a fairly acute bevel, which if not razor sharp is certainly capable of reminding you it's there.

As for the corkscrews...

That maroon thing at the top like a marker pen is a standard T-bar corkscrew in travel configuration; the screw part is inside the hollow handle which in use goes through a hole in that large section.

The five ‘Waiter’s Knives” are a multi-Euro-city visual record of DD’s comment, best summarised as “But I thought YOU packed it...”

The white thing is a crown-cap bottle opener which came home from The Mission Palms in Tempe AZ, USA, after either Coppercon or the first US Discworld con.

The black and clear ones are variants on the Screwpull design, where continuing to turn the handle winds the cork out, so much screwing but no actual pulling. (There's a comment about the effects of wine hanging about like a bluebottle, but I'll ignore it.)

The button on the black one is a foil-cutter; squeeze in while turning the bottle a couple of times, then extract the cork as usual and a neat cap of foil comes off with it.

The red one is a “Butler’s Friend” which works by wiggling two flat prongs down between cork and bottle then twisting the cork out; good for broken corks but not much used any more (but see below).

Edgar is Edgar.

Okay, Edgar (official name “Lazy Fish”, I have No Idea where “Edgar” came from) is a “zig-zag” cantilever corkscrew whose levers reduce the effort needed to draw a cork.

There’s one flaw, which you can see in the larger image: that screw isn’t a screw but a spiral blade, which can sometimes cut the cork so what comes out is just a plug from the middle, leaving the rest still in the bottle. This can be annoying, and is the only reason nowadays to dig out the Butler’s Friend.

Otherwise, Edgar Butler (character name, makes note...) stays in semi-retirement at the back of the drawer while the Screwpulls do what they're designed for - except of course for the increasing number of wine-bottles with screw caps, where Special Devices * are no longer required.

* Those Special Devices are collectible, and I have learned a thing today - a corkscrew collector is a Helixophile...