#Drain Valve Tenders

[meownotgood]

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close. 

[anon-e-miss]

Hazing - 2

Prowl raised his servo, shielding his optics from the sun beams that broke through his window. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His hood bounced up and Prowl flushed with shock and anger. Though he pushed it down hard, the latches would not hold. As he held his hood down with one servo, Prowl ran the other down his belly as he reached for his groin. Like his hood, the latches of his girdle had popped, no doubt from the kilolitres of transfluids someone had flooded his gestational tank with. Despite his best efforts, Prowl could not latch his girdle, even though he pressed his bloated belly so hard half processed transfluids spurt from his valve and he collapsed with a groan. Who? Who had fragged him?

He remembered the team tying him up and shoving stylus’ into his aft port, valve and spike and Prowl remembered them pushing spike rings down his spike and latching a clamp to his node. They had snickered as they had forced his charge to rise without relief, that was the sound his helm had gone blank at. Sometime later, someone had come. Not only had they come into his office, they had come in him. His panel was still pulled back and Prowl gasped as he found his valve folds tender and gaping. Just from moving a little, he knew his afthole was in a similar state. How many mechanisms had fragged him while he was out? Who? The Spec Ops agents were not large mechs. Had they fisted him to leave him in this wrecked a state.

The stench of interface hung in Prowl’s office. It stank of stale transfluids. He pushed himself up and slid off his desk, hobbling as he tried to stand. Pools of transfluids were on his desk, more were on the floor. There was no way Prowl was going to summon a cleaning crew for this. His team knew what they had done but no one else needed to. Prowl could not afford to develop that sort of reputation. It would be a fight to regain his footing with the operatives. As Prowl looked at the stylus’ scattered all over the floor, he promised himself that he would put each and every one of them in their place, all Prowl had to do was sort out how. His processor fixed on this as he scrubbed his desk and then the floor. They might have outnumbered him but who was to say he had to take them at the same time?

“Ya got a lil stain there by yer keyboard,” Jazz noted as he sauntered into Prowl’s office. Startled, Prowl sat up straight and the tape holding his hood down gave and it popped back up, almost hitting him in the face.

“Ya almost wouldn’t know,” Jazz said, putting a cube of black energon down on the stained bit of desk. “After a few cycles o’ air filtration, ya won’t smell it quite the same. But y’re gonna look at that spot ya hit wit yer trash can ‘n that one on yer desk, ‘n yer gonna remember. When ya get up, y’ll leave a puddle in your chair.”

“You,” Prowl hissed. “You fragged me.”

“It was that or had ya o’er to Pharma to get yer charge drained off,” Jazz replied. “I didn’t think ya’d like havin’ that report on yer record.”

“No,” Prowl agreed.

“Look at ya wit yer armour taped,” Jazz teased him. “Ya look like a freshmech after a college party.”

“I blame you for this,” Prowl hissed.

“Yer hood popped all on its own, Prowler,” Jazz told him. “That’s what ya get wearing a chestplate two sizes too small.”

“It is not,” Prowl countered, blushing a deep red. Jazz laughed and he flicked Prowl’s hood and it bounced up into his face again. A moment later it was gone, not down but gone. Prowl covered the whole as his wells all but spilled out of it.

“Three sizes too small then,” Jazz replied. He brushed his digit over Prowl’s nozzle. “What’s this.”

“Ack!” Prowl gasped as Jazz flashed the drop of energon at him, and then licked it off all the while keeping optic contact. He flushed with humiliation.

“They keep ya ‘way from yer bitty all dark-cycle?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. “The progenitor has custody.”

“Poor Prowl,” Jazz said. Prowl was frozen as Jazz peeled his chassis off him and left his engorged wells to fall free. “Wit wells this full the bitty’s gotta be pretty fresh. Ya outta still be recoverin’ not workin’.”

“Sentinel gave his orders,” Prowl replied.

“How can he give a Copbot orders?” Jazz asked. Prowl blanched. “He let one o’ his freaks breed ya, Prowler? Then give the bitty to the freak?”

“What do you care?” Prowl asked.

“Call me old fashion but I think bitties are best left with their oris ‘less that ori’s a piece o’ scrap,” Jazz replied. He leaned across the desk. “Are ya a piece o’ scrap?”

“No,” Prowl replied.

“I have to agree,” Jazz said. “Ya did good work for me ‘n mine. Every spot ya tweak in that brief was on point.”

“I am pleased your recovery mission was a success,” Prowl replied.

“It’s cute that ya mean that,” Jazz declared. “Sincerity’s an odd thing ‘round here.”

“What do you want, Jazz?” Prowl asked.

“Since ya got me ‘n mine back safe, I figured I best check up on ya,” Jazz told him. “‘N since I helped ya pop yer latches, figured I’d best help get ya sorted too.”

“Oh,” Prowl said. “Stand up, Prowler,” Jazz said. “Take that girdle off so I can take yer measurements.”

Prowl did not have to obey but it seemed foolish to refuse the help. He had been struggle to think of a way to escape back to his own barracks with his armour in such disarray. Jazz was not servos off as he took measurements, not at all. The tactician was keenly aware that this mech had fragged him but he did not remember a moment of the act. He could not stand with his legs together due to the way Jazz had ravaged him. How did a mech a full helm shorter than Prowl possess a spike that could do that sort of damage? Jazz brushed his digits over Prowl’s belly, over the stretch marks that glared on his sentio-metallico. It was less loose now, because of the transfluids Jazz had filled him with but it was still soft.

“I couldn’t even tell ya’d just popped out a bitty,” Jazz told him. “Ya healed well from it.”

“I heal quickly,” Prowl replied.

“On the surface,” Jazz replied and Prowl’s optics narrowed. “Ya can’t play meek wit me, Prowler, I work wit ya. Ya put yerself under his thumb ‘cause ya know yer only chance to e’er see yer bitty is through ‘m. Yer spark sick.”

“My spark is none of your concern,” Prowl countered.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jazz said. “I like what yet processor can do. Don’t let it break on me.”

“No one and nothing can break me,” Prowl replied.

“Those afts out there are in for an education,” Jazz guessed.

“Stay out of my way,” Prowl insisted. “Or you’ll learn the same lesson alongside them.”

Jazz did not ask Prowl’s opinions for his armour. When he returned with it, well after the usual work joor was over, Prowl sighed at the sight of it. It was snugger to his frame than his old armour, though it was also properly fitted. Adjustable panels allowed for the armour to hug his belly now and still hug it when it had gone flat. His chestplate hugged his wells too, instead of compressing them. Jazz installed something in his subspace and a remote in Prowl’s arm. When Jazz flicked a switch, Domes covered Prowl’s wells, behind his hood, and started to pump. Energon flowered from his aching nozzles. Prowl’s cheekplates flushed.

“Ya don’t wanna let these dry up,” Jazz explained, lightly patting Prowl’s hood. “Yer gonna wanna fuel yer bitty when ya get yer chance wit’m.”

“I have no way to know that will ever happen,” Prowl said, feeling teary suddenly. “Tarantulas is his favourite madmech.”

“Sentinel goes through favourites like most mecha go through towels,” Jazz replied. “Y’ll get yer bitty. Now go home.”

“You do not want to take your due?” Prowl asked.

“Am I due ya, Prowler?” Jazz asked.

“Are you not?” Prowl countered.

“We’ll see,” Jazz replied. He patted Prowl’s back. “Go home.”

Taking a more winding route through the Primal palace, Prowl walked past the mess hall. At this joor, it should have been been empty but a dozen or more mech were milling about. Prowl peered in through the doorway as there was a... shift change between the crowd by the energon dispenser. From the puddle of transfluids and lubricants, Treadbolt had seen a great deal of action already. As he had spiked Prowl’s energon to make him more complascent, Prowl had spiked his. He had slapped on of Wheeljack’s failed ops weapons on the Seeker and then waited for his moment. When the Seeker had tumbled against the wall, Prowl had activated the weapon and Treadbolt had fallen through the wall but only part way, leaving his lower half in the mess.

How long he had been stuck there before someone had taken advantage, Prowl did not know. The Seeker had told Prowl to remember his place, beneath him, beneath all. He was only a Praxian after all. Prowl was curious as to his state and peered into the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Someone else had thought to look here and they were fragging Treadbolts face and recording the act as he ordered Treadbolt to swallow every drop and the Seeker did as he clung to the thigh plating of his abuser. Seekers considered themselves superior to grounders. All ground frametypes existed to serve and to please them. It must have galled Treadbolt to be stuck pleasing grounder spike. His cockpit had popped open, so full of grounder cum as he was. Prowl left his fate. The conductor of his humiliation had been handled, now the rest remained.

[noroinohanak0]

A quick and flavorful Chicken Tortilla Soup made effortlessly in the Instant Pot. Packed with tender chicken, beans, vegetables, and bold spices, topped with cheese, cilantro, and crispy tortilla strips.

Ingredients: 1 lb boneless, skinless chicken breasts, diced. 1 can 15 oz black beans, drained and rinsed. 1 can 15 oz diced tomatoes. 1 cup frozen corn kernels. 1 onion, chopped. 1 bell pepper, diced. 2 cloves garlic, minced. 1 teaspoon ground cumin. 1 teaspoon chili powder. 1/2 teaspoon paprika. 4 cups chicken broth. Salt and pepper to taste. 1 cup shredded cheese for garnish. 1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro for garnish. Tortilla strips or chips for garnish.

Instructions: Place diced chicken, black beans, diced tomatoes, corn, onion, bell pepper, and garlic in the Instant Pot. Add ground cumin, chili powder, paprika, salt, and pepper to the pot. Pour chicken broth over the ingredients in the Instant Pot. Close the Instant Pot lid and set the valve to sealing. Cook on high pressure for 10 minutes. Once done, do a quick release of pressure and open the Instant Pot. Stir the soup and adjust the seasoning if needed. Serve hot, garnished with shredded cheese, chopped cilantro, and tortilla strips or chips. Enjoy your delicious Instant Pot Chicken Tortilla Soup!

Prep Time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 10 minutes

Stella O

[musicinsurancecompany]

A Beginner's Guide to Brass Instrument Care and Maintenance

Have you gotten your hands on a brand-new brass instrument? It is amazing, right? Not only is it beautiful, but it is like a key that unlocks a world of musical fun and wisdom!

However, just like any special friend, it needs a little TLC - Tender Loving Care - and dedicated Brass Musical Insurance to keep it looking good, working perfectly, and sounding its best. This guide will show you how to care for your brass gear so you can enjoy playing it for years to come. Let's read on!

Taking Care of Your Instrument: A Step-by-Step Guide

The key to keeping your instrument happy is consistent care. Here is a breakdown of what you can do daily, weekly, and monthly to keep it in tip-top shape:

Daily Doodad Cleaning: After you are done playing for the day, give your tool a quick wipe down with a soft polishing cloth. It will help you get rid of fingerprints, moisture, and dust that can build up and make it look tarnished. It is more like giving your tool a high five after a great practice session! Jokes apart! Do not forget to open any water keys and blow some air through the instrument to say goodbye to any moisture that might cause rust.

Weekly Mouthpiece Makeover: Give your mouthpiece a more thorough cleaning once a week. Use warm water, gentle dish soap, and a special mouthpiece brush designed for the shape of your gear's mouthpiece. Rinse the mouthpiece well and dry it completely with a clean cloth before putting it away. Just like you brush your teeth to keep them healthy, your mouthpiece needs some cleaning love too!

Monthly Bath Time: Once a month, it is time for a deeper clean. You will need to take apart your instrument according to the instructions (don't worry, it's not scary!). You can usually find the instructions in the manual that came with your gear. Or, maybe you can search online for your specific instrument. Once it is apart, use a cleaning snake that's been soaked in warm soapy water to clean the inside tubing. Some might need a special valve bath too (soaking the valves in a separate solution).

Oiling and Greasing: Keeping Things Smooth

Valve Oil: Put a tiny drop of valve oil on the top of each valve stem where it goes into the casing. Then, gently move the valve up and down a few times to spread the oil around. Wipe away any extra oil with a cloth.

Slide Grease: Apply a thin, even layer of slide grease to your tuning slides. You can use a grease saver tool or your finger to spread the grease evenly. Don't use too much grease, though. It can make the slides sticky and hard to move.

The Tools You'll Need to Keep Your Instrument Shiny

Just like a superhero needs cool gadgets, you will need a few things to keep your brass tool in top condition. Here's what you should get:

Polishing Cloth: A microfiber cloth is perfect for your daily wipe-downs.

Mouthpiece Brush: This will keep your mouthpiece sparkling clean, which is important for good hygiene and playing your best.

Cleaning Snake: This long, fuzzy friend will clean all the nooks and crannies inside your instrument.

Slide Grease: This special grease makes sure your tuning slides move smoothly.

Valve Oil: This oil keeps your valves moving freely and prevents them from wearing out.

Cleaning Solution: Double-check your gear manual or ask a professional for the right cleaning solution for your instrument. Some just need warm soapy water, while others need something special.

Comprehensive Insurance Coverage: A Brass Musical Insurance plan bought from a reliable insurance provider will ensure that your darling tool and hard-earned money are safe from unforeseen and financially draining situations.

Keeping the Music Flowing

These easy-to-follow routines will turn your shiny new instrument into a reliable friend on your musical path. Remember, taking care of your equipment isn't just about keeping it looking good and lasting longer. It also helps it sound its best! By following these tips and putting in a little effort, your brass instrument will keep shining and filling the air with beautiful music for years to come.

[reciperolodex]

Split Pea Soup with Ham by the Seasoned Mom 

Ingredients

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 onion, diced

3 carrots, peeled and diced

2 celery ribs, diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 ½ lbs. smoked ham hocks (or use 2 cups diced, smoked ham; 8 slices bacon, chopped; or a leftover ham bone)

1 (16 ounce) package dried green or yellow split peas, rinsed and drained

6 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth (use 7 cups for a thinner soup)

1 bay leaf

½ teaspoon dried thyme

¼ teaspoon dried oregano

¼ teaspoon dried basil

¼ teaspoon black pepper

Optional garnish: cooked, crumbled bacon; chopped fresh parsley; sour cream; croutons

Directions

STOVETOP METHOD:

In a large soup pot or Dutch oven, heat olive oil over medium-high heat. When the oil shimmers, add the onion, carrots, celery, garlic (and diced ham or bacon, if using). Cook, stirring occasionally, just until the onion is translucent, about 6-7 minutes.

Stir in ham hocks (or ham bone, if using), split peas, broth, bay leaf, thyme, oregano, basil and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer, covered, for about 1 hour (or until peas and vegetables are tender).

Remove the bay leaf (and ham bone or ham hocks, if using). Chop up the meat from the ham hocks or bone, return the meat to the pot, and discard the bones and fatty pieces. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

The soup will thicken as it cools, so thin with extra broth or water, if necessary.

INSTANT POT METHOD:

Turn on the “Sauté” function on the pressure cooker. Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in the pot, and when the oil shimmers add the onion, carrots, celery and garlic (as well as the diced ham or bacon, if using). Sauté just until the onion is translucent (about 6-7 minutes). Turn off the pot.

Add the ham hocks (or ham bone, if using), split peas, broth, bay leaf, thyme, oregano, basil and pepper.

Secure the lid on the pot. Close the pressure-release valve. Select “Manual” and set the pot at “High” pressure for 15 minutes. It may take the pot up to 15 minutes to come to pressure and start cooking.

At the end of the cooking time, allow the pot to sit undisturbed for 10 minutes, then release any remaining pressure.

Stir well to combine. Remove the bay leaf (and ham bone or ham hocks, if using). Chop up the meat from the ham hocks or bone, return the meat to the pot, and discard the bones and fatty pieces. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

The soup will thicken as it cools, so thin with extra broth or water, if necessary.

SLOW COOKER METHOD:

Place all ingredients in a slow cooker. Cover and cook on LOW for about 8 hours or on HIGH for about 4 hours (or until peas reach desired tenderness).

Remove the bay leaf (and ham bone or ham hocks, if using). Chop up the meat from the ham hocks or bone, return the meat to the pot, and discard the bones and fatty pieces. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

The soup will thicken as it cools, so thin with extra broth or water, if necessary.

[wolfwin-writes-sometimes]

The Night Shift

@flashfictionfridayofficial

So this is my first Flash Fiction Friday since opening my new writing sideblog. Fittingly this is my longest entry yet at a whopping 760 words, much longer than my usual offerings. This is also the first time I've written a story in my Mechamorph Extended Universe on tumblr (more information available in my pinned post) so hopefully the technical terms and machine talk aren't too overwhelming (can you tell trains are one of my special interests?).

Anyway, enough waffling. Here's my entry for FFF#118, found below the cut. All feedback and questions very welcome: Ask about my characters! Tell me about my bad grammar and huge sentences! etc.

Warnings: War mention, Bodily Harm/Injury, Burns

“Alright Madison we’re ahead of schedule, nice work. Let’s keep that steam pressure up.” From the footplate the thundering of Madison’s valve gear drowned out the sounds of the early night, mixed with the cacophony of other mechanical sounds that formed a familiar soundtrack. Hugo had one arm out of the driver’s window as dark grey smoke poured along the engine’s boiler and rushed past the cab. A mechanised stoker slowly turned over underneath the cab floor, the unseen screw forcing coal from the cab into Madison’s roaring fire. The radiant heat washed over Hugo’s legs, staving off the cold of the French evening. He was glad that he didn’t have to feed that enormous furnace that propelled them through the night, the few times the mechanical stoker had failed he hadn’t enjoyed the task and that hadn’t even been running at speed. She was a hungry girl; and judging by the sight-glass, a thirsty one too.

Madison ran fast and free. The P1 was one of only two examples to be built; an immensely powerful freight locomotive although she was starting to show her age. Running 100 wagon trains to and from the coalfields since 1926 had been strenuous work and her boiler ached. But this was war, and a single freight locomotive wasn’t worth the steel needed to repair them. What was worth something was the long line of trucks behind her loaded with munitions destined for the Maginot Line. With German forces creeping ever closer to the fortifications it was expected that a bitter and drawn-out defence was going to break out soon.

“You’re losing some pressure in the booster. Are your pipes alright?” Hugo gently tapped one of the many gauges in front of him that informed him how his mechanical partner was getting along.

“Does it matter what I say? Both of us know that the REC would rather throw me under the cutter’s torch than repair my leaky pipes. I’ve got plenty of steam in me so just let me run alright. Believe it or not I know how to do that.” A green light nestled within the cluster of steam gauges and controls lit up as a voice filled the cab, punctuated by an impetuous blast of steam from the cylinder drain cocks.

“No need to get defensive, I’m just doing my job as your engineer.” Hugo rolled his eyes at the snarky mechamorph. He knew she wasn’t too upset, just focused on the work at hand. He swung open the firebox doors to check on the fire’s condition but before he could take a good look a sharp crack rang out. A detonator? But the track was all clea-

Hugo’s train of thought was broken off by an explosion beneath Madison. Hot coals flew through the air as the cab was propelled upwards away from the rails, sounds of shearing metal filled the air as the steam pipes connecting Madison’s boiler to the booster engine underneath her tender fractured. Scalding steam was violently vented into the cab, catching Hugo square in the unprotected face and causing him to instantly recoil in pain. He quickly passed out, crumpling on the footplate red faced but not from embarrassment.

“Over yonder hills where foundry flames fly. Where coal fields lay under the red sky. That’s where a being of steel find rest. That’s the home we’ve come to know best. That’s what we always said at Doncaster.” Madison struggled down the line, her inside valve gear was ruined restricting her to two cylinders rather than three. Repeating the little ditty to nobody in particular, forcing herself to stay moving. Her booster engine had been obliterated by the explosion along with her trailing axle which painfully clattered along the sleepers. Her boiler had buckled upward, and all of her glass fittings were shattered, but thankfully she hadn’t exploded… yet. If she could just make it to the hills there was a station, they could call for help. She wished she could reconfigure and walk but if anything, it would just damage her more. She wished she could just stop in a siding and wait to be found the next day, but she couldn’t. For Hugo’s sake. For the sake of the 20-year-old conscript, he was just a child really. A kid playing with trains who had been forced to take his toys to war, he never even trained with a rifle. All he knew was keeping Madison clean and running, she owed it to him to keep him running too.

“C’mon Hugo we’re almost there, there’ll be help for you over yonder hills. Stay with me.”

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Are You Prepared For Rebreathers?

A rebreather failure could go unnoticed.  When open circuit regulators fail, it's immediately obvious.  Either you get no air whenever you suck on the mouthpiece or (much more likely) you obtain a lot of and also a surprising rush of bubbles on your face.

Why You May Want To Think Twice

Needless to say, that a rebreather doesn't make you immune to DCS and nitrogen narcosis. Those risks remain, though the more sophisticated closed-circuit rebreathers can adapt your gas combination to reduce the DCS hazard.  The advantage of this rebreather's long term for most folks is you can make a few pitches on a single load of scrubber and cylinders.

Silence. Rebreathers exhaust few or no bubbles. That you do not hear that roar of exhaust bubbles, and do fish.  That allows one to get closer to marine living, and this explains the reason why rebreathers are very popular with professional photographers and some research workers.  You may not be rendered invisible, however, you appear to be alarming to most fish.

Atleast that is my guess after spending a lot of monthly studying and diving rebreathers.  It ends up that they will have some very real, valuable advantages over open-circuit, tank-and-regulator methods.  However, they possess some evenly real and serious pitfalls too.  When you possess some odd requirements and would be happy to make some sacrifices of the time and money, a rebreather may be godsend. However, most divers, for most purposes, will remain to prefer open circuit scuba for a long time in the future.

 Coupled with a rebreather does not give you that cotton-mouth feeling and doesn't chill you as muchbetter.

If a rebreather fails, the signs, if any, are somewhat more subtle.  You are still able to catch your breath as before since you are only passing the identical gas back and forth between your lungs and the breathing loop.  Even the CO2 content in that gas might be rising and the O2 content might be falling, but this won't be instantly apparent without signs, monitors and alerts. Rebreather diving is similar to flying on instruments, not by the"seat of your trousers."

Their stealth and extended bottom times have made rebreathers popular with technical and military divers for all decades.  Recently, lower prices and"userfriendly" designs have made rebreathers more appealing to recreational sailors just like you and me personally.  Really, several models are aimed specifically at the recreational sector.

Long dip times. The most important advantage of a rebreather is petrol efficacy.  Just one fill of a little petrol cylinder or cylinders as well as CO2 scrubber can last for anywhere from one to half an hour, based which rebreather it's. Unlike open circuit scuba, your gas duration on the rebreather is nearly independent of thickness, and that means you might, theoretically, spend all that time at the ground.

On the other hand, should you watch your devices and detect the issue promptly, you'll probably have more hours and energy to deal with it to a rebreather than you would on open circuit.  

Optimum gas mix.   They can continue to keep your own PPO2 constant regardless of thickness or exertion, or alter it on the fly for needs like de compression.  The advantage can be less nitrogen uptake and faster off-gassing --Put simply, more bottom time with less DCS risk.  Rebreathers are not created equal, however, and the less-expensive designs don't need this ability.

Is the possibility of diving?  Are traditional open circuit rigs bound for that oblivion of duck fins and two-hose regulators?  Are you ready to get rebreather diving?  Are rebreathers ready for you?

Even a rebreather failure could be deadly.  A rebreather is constantly mixing the gas in the breathing loop, removing carbon dioxide and adding oxygen.  Either component within the wrong percentage is noxious.  Much of the plan effort and a lot of the complexity of rebreathers goes into making that mixing function as accurate and reliable as possible. Nevertheless, it's not likely to get to the certainty of available circuit, where everything you breathe is simply what went in to the cylinder.  An open-circuit"bailout" jar and regulator is a good idea when Functional Safety in Diving  using conventional gear, however it's crucial with a rebreather.

The Very Initial Measures

Cost, weight, majority, advantage, etc..  These minor facets all weigh contrary to rebreathers.  Though the expense to buy one is scarcely minor, you are frequently told you'll save yourself money on every dip as you never need to refill tanks too frequently.  However, you do need to purchase scrubber compounds, and maintenance may be more expensive.  And can this 60 two-tank dive ship offer you a rebate unless you need to make use of its tanks?  Not likely.

Rebreathers, for example, bail out bottle, are often thicker and lighter than one tank and ruler, plus so they don't really fit well in to the tank-rack-and-bungee-cord gear channel standard on dip boats.  Airline traveling with tanks may be struggle and matches for oxygen and maybe even nitrox could be more difficult to locate, particularly in distant places.

Since you'll need to be coached by an instructor certified within your specific make and version, you might need to go to a different town and stay there for five weeks or for your own training class.

Here is what to anticipate, bearing in mind that every rebreather differs and requires a unique procedure.

Various rebreathers use marginally different sorts of CO2 absorbent and differing granule sizes, however it all looks much like kitty litter.

You will pour the absorbent in to the canister, then tapping on the canister sporadically to be certain the absorbent dissipates and thoroughly meets the canister.   You then'll seal and close the canister along with the simmer bottle or skillet.  Many anglers do that endeavor in home until the dip visit to minimize the clutter.  

Every Day on The Water

First is decided which rebreather to get.  Rebreathers differ significantly in not just price but capacities, the excellent split being if or not they truly have been closed circuit or semiclosed-circuit InDesign.

Closed circuit rebreathers have the best gas ingestion, the ideal mix control and, broadly speaking, the maximum capability, however, tend to be somewhat more complicated and costly. Semiclosed-circuit rebreathers are easy, robust and more affordable, with gas ingestion rates somewhere within closed circuit rebreathers along with open circuit scuba.

You could also think of such matters as depth and time limits, copies to restrain apparatus along with fail safe mechanics, guarantees, and just how many components have been completely being used and for the length of time, and much more.

Meanwhileyou will begin to construct a distinctive tool and spare parts kit.  You are probably going to need one or even maybe more spare oxygen tracks and assorted solenoids and detectors to your more complicated units. Additionally gas analyzers along with flowrate evaluation apparatus, based upon the machine.  Enhance this mouthpiecesbatteries, orings, tie wraps, silicone grease, etc..

More than open circuit, a rebreather dip starts before you will get wet and finishes once you are tender. Pre-dive and postdive look after that rebreather are crucial each time and can not be skipped.  Expect to devote an additional halfhour on every end of this dip.

Fill canister (s). Many semiclosed-circuit rebreathers make work with of one cylinder of nitrox.  You are going to need to decide beforehand that nitrox mix you'll utilize therefore that the skip valve orifice might be paired to it.  Most closed circuit rebreathers utilize two tanks, of oxygen and also a diluent (usually atmosphere, though other pollutants maybe options). Either way, but particularly if working with nitrox, you must analyze the gas your self to produce sure what exactly is from the canister.  If your bail-out system employs another cylinder, then you can require to refill this too.

Afterward there is training.   After that, just about any rebreather manufacturer will ask that you simply just consider a rebreather training class lasting 4 or 5 days.  The expense of the will probably be extra, normally at $500. Section of this program covers in-water skills such as how to translate resumes and tracks and also just how to change to backup systems.  The following part is trained in gathering and disassembly, servicing and upkeep of one's specific unit.

Pre-dive

Let us say you've believed the advantages and disadvantages and decided that you intend to dive using a rebreather.  What is the drill?

Build the rebreather.   Do not expect you'll build your rebreather between your dip briefing and the"pool open!"  C all.

Since you descend, upping pressure can fall the counterlungs as it drops BCs and dry matches.  

In to the water. Waddling round the deck at a rebreather was justly compared to carrying dual tanks, but once you are at the water the majority of the trouble stops.  A couple of differences to open circuit diving will hit you though.

Postdive

You'll have to become stingy when inflating your BC or draining your mask as gas employed for gas lost from the significantly smaller full source.  To precisely exactly the exact very same reason, you want to see your indicators carefully and you and your friend have to be attentive for air escapes.

One is you can not simply shed the mouthpiece in to the sport, because water will fill out the breathing loop and also the scrubber canister.  There's a valve to the mouthpiece you need to consider to close until you go from your own mouth.

Here, semi-closed - and - closed circuit rebreathers fluctuate greatly.  Generally, however, you are going to join the counterlung (or lungs) into the absorbent canister and then put in them at the framework of the rebreather.  You'll test the one time valves at the ducts and then attach them into the counterlungs. You can set up the canister (s) and assess their valves.  This could demand twelve hose links.

Still another is you can not impact your buoyancy by inhaling or exhaling, as the exact identical quantity of air simply goes backwards and forwards between your own lungs and also the rebreather rather than affects volume or buoyancy.  If you should be utilized to exhaling to obtain below the surface, then that wont do the job.

If you're intending yet another dip that afternoon and also have enough petrol and scrubber time , whatever you have to do would be to turn the rebreather off throughout the surface interval.  It's really a fantastic strategy, though, to inspect the breathing loop to get water indoors.

Additionally, while you descend as well as the counterlungs enlarge, the rebreather will port gas. This really could be the only real time that the rebreather purposely disturbs a substantial quantity of gas, and also why"saw tooth" profiles are particularly ineffective. You may likely realize that the rebreather doesn't port gas fast and you also become buoyant, and that means you ought to manually ditch from the BC, your drysuit or by the rebreather.

Then you'll examine the full unit for air escapes and water flows.  Leaks are potentially severe.  You've little gas up to speed you can not afford to drop any.  If water flows cause the machine to flooding, it is going to end up exceptionally negative.  And water from the CO2 scrubber induces a reaction with an sterile referred to as a"caustic cocktail"--an awful mouthful that could burn your own lips, throat and mouth.

At the start of an ascent onto a semi-closed-circuit rebreather, then you also have to purge the loop to enhance your breathing mix.   Closed- circuit methods add oxygen .

For those who experience an oxygen track and other electronic equipment, you also are going to test them.  When you get a constant-flow semiclosed rebreather, then you'll want to inspect the leak rate of this orifice.

In case this can be the very final dip for a couple of days, you need to disassemble and wash out the rebreather thoroughly.  The hot, moist environment within the lymph is excellent for growing bacteria, therefore it has to be disinfected with all the remedy that the manufacturer urges, subsequently rinsed well and dried.  Drying the interior the breathing loop, even having its baffles and corrugated hoses, which can be exceedingly hard.

Should you work remarkably hard--when you've got to swim against a current, such as --your own body will simply just require oxygen from their breathing loop faster than usual. Closed circuit passive and systems semiclosed-circuit systems will feel that this and add extra oxygen.  Active semi-closed systems may not, nevertheless. If that's the instance you must be sure to"purge the breathing loop" by massaging this oxygen-poor gas throughout your nose therefore that the rebreather replaces it using wealthier gas.

The used CO2 absorbent must be dumped and the scrubber canister has to be thoroughly dried and cleaned.  Electronics and oxygen sensors have their particular care requirements.  Plan on spending one hour postdive maintenance in the beginning, though you're going to get faster without experience.

Somewhat harder self-mixing semiclosed-circuit rebreathers add oxygen and a diluent separately through fixed orifices or (regarding this diluent) a demand valve.  They also may use less gas, but might be subject to larger variations in the air content of this gas mix.

Fully closed circuit rebreathers aim to control the oxygen content in your breathing gas.  They add only the gas you require, when you need it, and do not waste any.  Ergo, zero bubbles the majority of that time period and also a longer gas duration. This fine control of gas inclusion comes from a electronic wizardry.  Normally, detectors analyze the oxygen of the lymph and also in form a computer, that adds oxygen diluent as needed to keep a preselected"set point" to your oxygen partial pressure.  Redundancy (frequently three oxygen detectors and two computers) creates the wiring and plumbing diagrams confusing, but the idea is fairly easy.  

Semiclosed-circuit rebreathers have the simplest gas controller mechanism.  Fundamentally, it is simply a fixed orifice, an opening that enables a continuing flow rate into the respiratory tract.  Any excess above that which the system absorbs is vented to the water in a stream of small bubbles, and that's the reason why the device is called"semiclosed."

On both sides of the scrubber there is a counterlung, just a flexible bag that expands and contracts to adapt the exact on/off nature of your breathing.   The counterlung in the side has a input where more oxygen or nitrox is added.

Oxygen sensors have a life span and have to be replaced, usually every 12 to 24 months, based on just how far that they used.  (They deplete themselves in atmosphere about 50% as fast as when stirring.)  After diving, some divers remove them by the rebreather and seal them to extend their own life.

Exactly how many electrons have been injected in to the inhalation counterlung, and also the way the injection is controlled, determine whether it's semiclosed-circuit or closed-circuit.

Some manufacturers recommend that the entire unit is given a comprehensive review and overhaul every year.

Long Term Maintenance

Each canister has a first and another stage regulator that demands annual support.  These are typically just normal open-circuit regulators which can be serviced by the local dive shop.  Cylinders need to be hydro tested and visually inspected like some other person.

Each of of rebreathers are built around the principle of a one-way breathing loop.  One hose takes your exhaled breath to the CO2 scrubber, and the other brings back it (without the CO2) for a mouth.

"Passive" semiclosed-circuit rebreathers inject petrol just ondemand.  Numerous mechanisms to trigger the gas injection could be used, nevertheless they are mechanical.  By way of instance, a system of ratchets and levers measures how big a counterlung, when it gets below a specific size (because the body has removed that much oxygen out of the breathing loop), it activates a valve to inject further gas.  Passive systems use less gas than busy ones, however the actual material of the gas mixture from the breathing loop might be more variable.

The Drager Dolphin and Ray are popular instances.  They are called"mass flow" or even"active" semiclosed-circuit rebreathers--active as the unit is definitely injecting brand new gas.  The orifice, which controls the flow rate, needs to be selected before the dive to coordinate with the nitrox mixture chosen.  This type of rebreather is on or off: Whenever the air valve is fired up, gas flows in to the breathing loop at the rate determined by this orifice. Manual inclusion valves and also another plumbing might complicate the picture, but that's the nature.

Computer controls have batteries that have to be replaced periodically.

Insert a mouthpiece using a valve to reduce flood, a one time valve in each breathing hose therefore that your breath circulates the perfect way, and also several other equipment and you have a basic rebreather.

If you're diving tomorrow, however, you'll need only disinfect the mouthpiece and corrugated hoses.

Are You Really Ready To Get a Rebreather?

Are you currently self-disciplined?  Pre-dive, through the dip and postdive you must make up the brain to check out procedures and checklists exactly.  Filling the scrubber canister and building the breathing loop until the dip involve measures that have to be followed and evaluations which can not be skipped. Exactly the same care has to be obtained if cleaning and interrogate the rebreather after the dip.  And through the dip you've got to view gauges more tightly compared on circuit.  Are you really meticulous concerning maintenance of one's open circuit gear, as an instance, or would you"hose and proceed"?

Rebreathers promote what is called"mission creep" A number are effective at dives far beyond the practice of the majority of recreational sailors.  Components that could modify the gas mixture throughout the dip are specifically appropriate to decompression diving.   You are going to discover just how to work the system, however maybe perhaps not the particular areas of technology diving such as heavy diving and cave consciousness, such as.  "Mission creep" usually takes the seemingly benign type of adding additional non-technical but rough gear too so on.  Employing a intricate camera rig may divert you in tracking your rebreather attentively, such as.  

You'll want to appear not within the rebreather but on your own.  Some personality types are more satisfied than the others to the requirements of caring and using to get a rebreather.  And a few folks probably shouldn't consider it.

Can you accept liability for the own safety?  You've got to choose the attitude that the right performance of one's rebreather is dependent for you alone.  The thought that producer, the instructor or another person is responsible could be satisfying for your heirs but won't keep your own life in case of a collapse. Have you been familiar letting the ship team or a dive buddy put your open circuit gear for you personally, or can you insist upon doing this you?

Rebreathers are somewhat more technical than open circuit set ups, and you'll need to be self-explanatory for meeting cleaning, maintenance and plenty of the repair, as the odds of the community dive shop with an expert are slim. Even the easiest rebreather on average has each of the sections of one's open circuit installation, and far more. These parts, and also the relations between them (you will find 50 or even more o rings in a normal rebreather), will need to have routine care.

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Strengthening Massage

sexe fribourg Massage affects your body as a whole. For you to understand how therapeutic massage performs, some of the physical involving massage need for you to be briefly evaluated.

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Therapeutic massage is known to enhance the blood circulation and movement of lymph. The one on one mechanical a result of rhythmically employed manual force and activity used in therapeutic massage could dramatically increase the pace of blood flow. Additionally, the actual stimulation of sensation problems pain causes the body vessels (by reflex action) to dilate, which likewise facilitates the circulation of blood.

A milky white water called lymph carries impure substances and spend away from the particular damaged tissues and passes by way of gland-like structures spaced over the lymphatic system that become integrated valves. The lymph can not circulate as blood vessels does, so its mobility depends largely on typically the wringing effect of muscle mass contractions. Subsequently, inactive men and women fail to promote lymph flow. On the various other hand, often the stimulation brought on by vigorous action can certainly be outstripped by the actual enhanced waste produced by simply that exercise. Massage may dramatically help the motion of lymph in sometimes case.

For the total body to become healthy, the particular sum of its areas - the cells -- needs to be healthy. The person cells from the body tend to be dependent on a plentiful provide of blood and lymph because these fluids source nutrition and oxygen as well as hold away wastes and also poisons. So, it is actually easy to understand precisely why fine circulation is and so important for your entire human body, due to its impact on typically the circulation on your own.

Massage is usually known to help:

- Cause modifications in our bloodstream. The oxygen ability associated with the blood can raise 10-15% after massage

: Affect muscles throughout often the system. Massage can support loosen been infected with, shortened muscle tissue and can induce poor, flaccid muscles. This particular muscles "balancing" can help healthy posture and promote more effective movements. Massage does not really directly improve muscle durability, but it can easily pace recovery from low energy which occurs after exercise. By doing this, it can be feasible to do much more physical exercise and training, that within the long run beefs up muscles along with improves health. Massage in addition provides some sort of gentle stretching activity in order to both the muscles in addition to connective tissues that are around and support the muscle tissues and many more parts of the actual body, which helps preserve all these tissues elastic.

rapid Improve the body's secretions as well as excretions. There is a new proven increase in manufacturing gastric juices, saliva, and also urine after massage. Another highlight is increased excretion of nitrogen, inorganic phosphorous, and salt chloride (salt). This indicates that the metabolic rate (the using absorbed material by means of the bodies cells) improves.

- Impact the nervous technique. Massage balances the particular worried system by soothing or maybe stimulating it, depending upon which usually effect is essential by the personal with the time of massage therapy.

- Enrich skin issue. Massage directly boosts typically the function of the sweat (oil) and sweat n?ud which keep the skin area lubricated, clean and cooled off. Challenging, inflexible skin could become less demanding and a lot more supple.

- Influence inner organs. By indirectly stirring nerves that supply interior organs, arteries and of these kind of organs dilate and enable increased blood supply to these people.

Learning about the bodily effects of rub helps make it possible to much better understand the health positive aspects of massage. What develops under the massage practitioners hands possesses profound relevance for those enthusiastic about well being and fitness in adjusting upwards their bodies. Within every sport as well as application form of exercise, massage will help. By helping to lessen physical fatigue and support restoration from the exercise of training or participating in, massage helps better teaching, with much longer, more powerful workouts, thus assisting far better performance and preventing personal injury.

The people of early Med civilizations knew this kind of. Soon after bathing exercise, that they bundled a full entire body massage. The actual ancients realized that training involves equivalent development of mental performance along with body. The modern banal interest in physical exercise, holistic wellbeing, wellness in addition to human probable represents the bid to restore a time period honoured philosophy.

For many individuals leaving on a fitness system, usually the spirit is inclined though the flesh is certainly not. When frequent exercise is began almost every portion of the physique changes. Of interest to be able to massage therapists is often the way capillaries become far more intricate in order the actual meet the body's desire for considerably more oxygen, for you to supply more vitamins and minerals, to help permit more elimination. This specific takes time. While the particular muscles have become into appearance, they have difficulties acquiring enough oxygen as well as chemical and wastes contingency plan and also stagnate.

Unfortunately, a lot of workout programs regard discomfort while the inevitable price to get paid. This is merely not real. Massage can certainly be used as typically the Greeks and Romans utilized it instructions to boost endurance, control weakness along with feel better as aspect of a new consistent health plan.

Massage serves to disolve the built up by-products regarding muscle actions that inflame muscles in addition to nerve endings. Lactic as well as carbonic stomach acids build up inside muscle tissue tissue shortly after exercising will start. These acids are usually waste elements that contribute in order to the causation in the discomfort and occasional bumping that will exercisers, athletes, ballerinas, and many others. suffer during and soon after workouts or doing. All these acids are produced any time the glycogen stored throughout often the liver and muscle groups with burned to develop the energy consumed through exercise. The gastric acids have to eventually be reconverted to be able to glycogen and stashed yet again, or drained out and about by using the lymph and also circulatory systems. Pain along with exhaustion persist until this procedure involving reconverting or removing will be completed. Massage might help eradicate the irritation caused through these types of wastes, thus improving lean muscle recovery rates. Any time rub down has been taken for relax, an enhance from 20-75%, possibly completely muscle recovery has become noted. For example, this is usually why battres are rubbed rather than relaxed among rounds.

Joints are generally important to exercise since articulations are moved with the muscular tissues to produce movement. Most joints are complicated, and the parts have a method of eliminating and stiffening when not applied. Some sort of sluggish, numbed experiencing within the joints discourages training. A massage therapist counteracts this by using therapeutic massage cerebral vascular accidents and passive activity to push out a the muscle pressure in addition to free the conjoining cells found around the actual joints which could bind the particular joints.

Massage additionally products recovery from tender flesh injuries such as sprains and strains. This is definitely achievable because the expansion and maintenance of tissues are faster by successful circulation from the injured regions and correct stimulation connected with the healing cells. A lot of soft tissue incidents usually are not serious enough for you to have to have a visit to help the doctor or even medical, or are only given some first-aid, but nonetheless lead to some discomfort as well as incapacity. Massage therapy may often help velocity and also improve recovery and lessen distress from such injuries. Inside this way, massage will help brdge the gap in between neglecting the injury and major health care input.

Increased health recognition has increased nutrition attention. By far the most carefully planned diet program is actually partly wasted in the event that bloodstream are not designed an open to ensure nourishment can reach the pv cells. Massage therapy can aid internal diet rates by improving flow.

The relationship of tension along with illness is associated with interest in order to anyone preserving their wellness. We most have stress in your day-to-day lives relating to job, family, environment, society. Mind tensions, frustrations and low self-esteem are among the almost all damaging. Pressure causes typically the release of the in which create vasoconstriction - charter boat shrinking - and diminished circulation Affected by anxiety, the guts works harder, inhaling gets to be rapid and short, in addition to digestion slows. Close to every human body process will be degraded. Psychosomatic studies present how stress variables can easily cause migraines, hypertension, despression symptoms, some peptic ulcers, and so on Researchers have estimated this 80% of disease is usually stress-related. Soothing and soothing massage therapy can guide counteract troubled effects.

Rub has a precise emotional effect. Since massage therapy animates the tactile impression, often the body's primary sense, the idea brings people into the actual present and away via tension made by frequent preoccupation using problems. Furthermore, loosening regarding muscle stress or armouring - the particular physical version to exactly how we defend as well as secure ourselves from mental soreness - can lead to be able to emptying of repressed emotional baggage.

People of massage treatment as a therapeutic instrument quickly realise they own identified a form of drugless remedy. Headaches, insomnia, the disgestive system ailments including constipation and also spastic colon, arthritis, bronchial asthma, cts, sinusitis and slight pains and aches are some involving the problems that could reply to massage therapy. Rub down can have an outstanding result on nervous people who have have also been dependent in their pharmacy intended for relaxation and relaxation.

Basically, typically the foundation stone of often the beneficial effect of rub is what Hippocrates, the actual Father of Medicine along with a good advocate of rub down, looked as vis medicatrix naturae, or perhaps the body's natural recuperative power, the life power. Massage therapy primarily helps bring about health by enhancing the particular body's own processes. Could article has focused about just how massage can assist tune the entire body and with the concrete research results of massage, it need to also usually be mentioned that therapeutic massage is so visible as a treatment art or a science. The particular theories connected with therapeutic massage therapy are scientific inside persona, but the actual implementing these theories is a great art work, for it consists of the recovery sense, empathy of touching, insight in addition to intuition. It is just a unique approach of communicating with out phrases, sharing energy, experiencing satisfying relaxation, and suffering from calmness of mind. Massage is definitely often because of have ethereal spiritual outcomes akin for you to those of meditation.

[khionemoonrecipes]

Instant Pot Beans

Ingredients

1 pound dried beans

8 cups water

1 bay leaf optional

1 onion, sliced optional

2 teaspoons salt

1/2 teaspoon apple cider vinegar optional

Instructions

Place beans, water, and optional ingredients in the inner pot of a pressure cooker.

Place lid on Instant Pot and close valve to "seal."

Cook on High Pressure for Following Times:

Black Beans--30 Minutes on High Pressure

Chickpeas--40 Minutes on High Pressure

Kidney Beans--35 Minutes on High Pressure

Pinto Beans--25 Minutes on High Pressure

Navy Beans*--25 Minutes on High Pressure

Butter Beans--40 Minutes on High Pressure

Great Northern Beans-- on 35 Minutes High Pressure

4. Allow to naturally release until pressure subsides, or at least 20 minutes before doing a quick release.

5. Once beans have finished cooking, stir in salt and vinegar if using. Store cooked beans in a bit of the cooking liquid to keep them moist and tender while they sit in fridge, this is not necessary, but suggested.

Notes

*Navy beans can get mushy if not pre-soaked. So if preparing them for baked beans or something you want to hold its shape, it is best to soak them for 8-12 hours in cold water and then drain and cook for 15 minutes on high pressure with natural pressure release.

For incredibly soft beans without much structure left, add 10 minutes to cook time.

For pre-soaked beans, decrease cook time by 10 minutes and decrease the water to 5 cups.

[softvoicemonty]

Waste Deep Chapter 7: "Taco Tuesday"

Captain Posthumous Lier shut off the console embedded in his desk and rolled his chair backwards. Having just gotten off a call with the head of sewage management, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He wondered if he would get as far as memorizing the name of the man he'd just gotten off the phone with. The last one hadn't lasted three weeks before having some sort of nervous breakdown. With all this centipede business going on, Lier gave him about three more days.

'What was his name again? Gropple? Hopple? Something of that sort. Sounded even jumpier than the last one.' Lier thought, giving a forceful kick and spinning the chair around a couple of times.

He'd asked to meet with Gillis before the press could get to him. Lier had tried to dissuade him for the sake of sparing the mans feelings. Harvel wasn't the type to go along with institutionalized secrecy. Their best course of action would be to just keep their mouths shut.

If he knew Harvel, and he did, any mention that word getting out would be harmful to them could only result in disaster. If they kept quiet about it and swept it under the rug he'd most likely avoid talking to reporters like the plague. At this point Tunnel Times was the only publication even aware of it, and Lier needed to keep it that way.

The central offices had been pushing for more funding and a "restructuring" of the whole sewer management system. Of course, the women and men pushing for said policy changes had never set foot in the sewer. They'd barely ever seen the inside of a pump station. And they wanted to restructure his sewer. His goddamn sewer.

The sewer he'd fought and nearly died for. The sewer many others like him had, in fact, died for. The sewer he'd pulled from the brink of collapse nine-teen years ago after "Taco Tuesday".

Oh, he remembered "Taco Tuesday". An event that had not only called for reform in the food production process but that had killed seventy-three members of the waste-walkers. A massive collective case of food poisoning, originating from genetically modified bacteria, had caused an influx of waste material so massive it had nearly sent the city back to the dark ages.

Pipes exploding due to pressure build up. Fat-burgs, dislodged from their resting places, sent hurtling through the tunnels like massive, white, runaway freight trains powered by brown, green, and yellow nightmares. They'd lost six teams the first two hours, another nine in the ensuing week. There had only been eight-teen teams to begin with.

Within a week the entire chain of command had tendered their resignation. As he'd watched his captain clean out his desk and walk out of the door, he'd known something needed to change. The immediate power vacuum afterwards was just the thing he had needed.

In the nine years after he'd built the waste-walkers back up from the seventeen remaining members to nearly full strength. In another five he'd completely rebuilt every damaged pipe, valve, seal, and drain left in ruins by the incident. In another two he'd been demoted by corporate for insubordination to the point where he'd ended up here. Captain of pump station 6.

If he had to be honest, he was a bit glad. Being on the top of the shit pile had started to wear on him. It was all too rigid once you got involved with the Boris-Valkan government. You told them you needed eight pump seals, they said you would get six, and three would be broken. You said you needed five pens and they'd get you five thousand. It was all so stupid.

The station on the other hand was small, damp, and flexible. You said you needed a pen, they'd tell you to go buy one. You said you needed pump seals and they'd tell you to just take care of it. It was brilliant.

The ability to just do things without having to fill out six forms and send nine emails was astonishing. Leir hadn't felt so free and responsible in years. Yes, he'd been accountable for any negligence before, but accountability and responsibility were two very different things.

Responsible was something you decided to be. Accountable was what other people decided you were. Responsible wore boots, accountable wore dress shoes. Leir decidedly liked his boots.

The little green light on the corner of Liers desk pinged. Rolling up to the terminal he pulled up the notification. Scrolling through the message he recognized the name Lindon. He had an appointment for a meeting at seven. Knowing it was only five thirty Lier sat back and stared at the door.

He wasn't surprised when the knock at the door came at five thirty-two. Don always tried to be early to throw him off. He leaned down and pushed the button hidden below the corner of the desk.

Lindon sauntered in, tossing his coat onto a chair in the corner as he sat down in front of Lier. "Post-man." He said, giving Lier a nod.

"Donny. What's this all about?" Lier responded, returning the nod.

"What? Just like that? No, 'How you been?' or 'What's new with you?' eh?" Don asked, lighting up a bent cigarette. He blew the smoke from his first drag over the surface of Liers desk.

"Donny, I know how you've been. You've been the same way since you trained me." Lier answered, disrupting the rolling wave of smoke with his arm before it could reach his keyboard. Don knew he'd quit last year and was consistently trying to remind him how much he hated the smell.

A grin spread across Dons face, showing off the decades of cigarette and coffee stains on his teeth. "Well, this time is different. This time I have plenty that's "Up" with me Posty." He said, taking another swift drag off his cigarette.

Posthumous Lier leaned forward until he was but a foot away from Dons face. "What's up with you, Donny?" He asked, in a steady monotone.

"Well, since youasked! Do you remember that day, nineteen years ago? You remember that frightened kid I tackled into a crevice so he wouldn't end up a red smear on the steel, as a white whale hurtled our way. You remember what we saw afterwards?" Don asked, locking eyes with Lier as he pulled again on the quickly disappearing cigarette.

"I remember Donny. I remember the thing in the dark." Lier answered, standing up and walking over to the far wall. He passed his hand over a portion of the steel. "I remember all too well." He said, pushing two fingers into a nook near the bottom.

Dons eyes widened as Lier pulled away a section of the wall. To Liers slight disappointment he didn't seem all that surprised. "Too well indeed, eh kid?" Don said, sidling up next to him.

"You were expecting this?" Lier asked, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

"Well, I expected something. Maybe not this, but something. You always liked playing detective." Don replied, taking a final drag of his cigarette, the cherry beginning to burn into the filter.

"This is everything so far. All the way down to level 4." Lier said, ever so slightly proud of himself.

"How many?" Don asked, trying to take it all in.

"Seven-teen in almost as many years. Got anything to add?" Lier said, holding out a red pen.

"Yeah." Don answered, pausing. "Right. Here." He finished, passing up the pen and putting out the remains of his cigarette near the bottom left corner.

Lier put the pen back in his pocket and stepped back looking at his expansive map of the Boris-Valkan sewer system. The black mark where Don had stuck the butt was about three inches away from the blue line transfer station. It was still smoldering as the filter dropped to the floor.

Lier sighed. "Figures..."

[anon-e-miss]

Omega Hips, 2

Prowl was perfection. Despite having an Alpha’s frame, he had managed to give emergence to a newling two frametypes larger than he was. Though his valve was not as elastic and his girdle not so wide, he had pushed Springer from his frame with only a little struggle. Watching Prowl strain as he had given emergence, his large but limp spike and reservoirs flopped against his swollen belly, had only made Jazz lust after him that much more. Six quartexes post emergence, Prowl had recovered well as Springer had grown sweet and round on his wells.

Jazz slipped up behind Prowl as he settled Springer down in the bassinet attached to their berth.  Prowl hummed as Jazz fondled his loose belly and mouth at his neck. There was no need for Jazz to remain anymore but they had become habituated, exactly what Jazz had wanted. Given Prowl had already been round with bitlet when Jazz had started contributing to his carrying, Jazz had not had the opportunity to make love to him face to face. He guided Prowl onto his back on the berth now and kissed him soundly. His servos were everywhere, caressing Prowl’s uniquely fertile, Alpha form.

He mouthed Prowl’s wells and tasted his energon. Springer had a hardy appetite. Of course, there were pumps to help increase a nursing mecha’s supply and to keep it stable but Jazz was a servos on sort. He sucked Prowl’s stiff nozzles as his servo slid down Prowl’s wrinkled belly and found his sweet, wet valve. Prowl moaned, growing wetter as Jazz drained the energon that remained in his wells and caressed his glowing node. Prowl’s lubricants soaked the blanket under him. After become accustom to interfacing every mega-cycle, throughout the mega-cycle, Prowl was clearly feeling bereft. He had begged for Jazz’s spike in his aft repeatedly since giving emergence and Jazz had been happy to abide, but this was different.

“Oooh,” Prowl sighed as Jazz sank his spike home in his hot and tender valve. Even after stretched so wide as to allow Springer to evacuate, Prowl’s lining still clung to Jazz.

“Miss this?” Jazz asked as he knelt over Prowl. For the first time there was a plug blocking Jazz’s way to Prowl’s tank but his spike, hard and demanding, wore the gel away until his spike lodge in the depths of Prowl’s belly.

“Ooh,” Prowl moaned. “Yes, yes.”

“Ya fit me like a glove,” Jazz crooned.  He leaned in and nuzzled Prowl’s neck as he rolled his hips, luxuriated in the Praxian Alpha’s snug heat for a time. “Y’re utter perfection.”

“Jazz,” Prowl sighed, blissfully, his cheekplates sweetly pink. He wrapped his arms around Jazz’s shoulders and tossed his helm.

“Gonna be just delicious wit my bitty in yer belly.”

Jazz kissed Prowl as pressed him flat as he drove his spike deep. Prowl’s leg’s kicked in the air as Jazz’s spike carved even a deeper path within him. Prowl clutched at the berth, clutched at his shoulders as Jazz buried his spike in the other Alpha’s empty gestational tank. He mated Prowl for a joor, knotting him as Jazz had him pressed into the berth. By the time Jazz pulled his softening spike from the snug embrace of Prowl’s deliciously gaped folds, Prowl’s optics were glazed over and a trail of drool fell from the corner of his mouth. Overloads had a way of wiping Prowl’s processor and sending his battle computer into standby mode. He had hardly crashed at all while Jazz had been taking care of him during Springer’s carrying; Jazz did not intend on that changing.

Over the course of a quartex, Jazz took Prowl in every position, on every surface imaginable. He whispered in Prowl’s audio how lovely he would be with Jazz seed baring fruit in his forge. Prowl flushed every time Jazz told him how he would breed him true. Jazz kept Prowl gestational tank full and his spark hot. Even now, as Prowl gave Springer his dark-cycle fueling, Jazz was spooned behind him, keeping him lodged on his knot. Though he was sure he had heard ignition an orn before, Jazz did not dare allow Prowl’s spark to cool. At orn’s end, he would take Prowl for a scan. Lovingly, Jazz stroked Springer’s helm as he lazily suckled on his originator’s nozzle.

“Y’er gonna be a beautiful sight wit this bitlet on yer well while mine round out yer belly,” Jazz crooned. Prowl sighed.

“You were serious about that?”

Jazz was smugly satisfied as he and Prowl left the medbay with Springer magnetized to his sweet ori’s chassis. Two newsparks had taken root in Prowl’s spark and his forge, not yet fully combacted after the previously carrying, was already expanding. Ratchet had declared Prowl healthy but warned of the risk of strain with the carryings so close together. Of course, the best way to reduce the risk was contributions and Jazz had no intention of shirking his duties there.

It became clear to everyone on base rather quickly that Prowl was carrying again. Though the bitlets were smaller than Springer, there were two of them and they filled Prowl’s forge beautifully. Jazz held Prowl’s hips as he stood behind his lover while he nursed Springer in as he spoke with Prime. He watched other Alphas stare in confusion and even horror, as they tended to. They looked at him with fear and Jazz scoffed. He had no interest in them, only Prowl.

[sunflowerssammy]

Day Four And now for something completely different!

I hope you don’t mind a little blood kink, anon!

“Have you ever donated blood?”

The words are calm, matter of fact, almost reflective. And so unexpectedly bizarre that it takes a few moments for Dean’s brain to process them.

While Dean is struggling to answer, no doubt gaping like a very attractive fish in the process, Sam continues.

“I used to do it in college,” he muses, and that word is like a splash of icy water, even after all these years.

“I think I’ve “donated” enough blood over the years, Sammy,” Dean says shortly. “No need to feed the vamps with needles, too.”

“I get that,” Sam says agreeably, and there’s something in his voice that catches Dean’s attention, something deeper–darker–than this non-sequitor would seem to warrant. “But it’s not so bad. I’m type O, so it really helps people.” Movement catches Dean’s eye, Sam’s fist tightening slightly as he turns his forearm into the proper position, veins popping, muscles flexing smoothly under his skin. Sam’s pulse has picked up a little and Dean swallows hard, heat flaring low in his belly as it finally <i>clicks</i>.

They don’t talk about it. As far as Dean is concerned, it’s not something he even really thinks about, too close to things that bubble just under the surface of his mind, his soul. It’s just something they–he, if he’s being honest–need, sometimes, after a hunt that goes wrong, bright red splashed across a cheek, an arm, a thigh. They’ve never taken it any farther–too much pain in their lives as it is.

But this. <i>This.</i>

Sam is already sprawled on the edge of sleep, satisfied and satiated. Dean looks at the thick veins in his forearms, thinks about the red rivers flowing just under the thin, delicate skin and licks his lips as his cock twitches.

Sam doesn’t bring it up again, but Dean’s still thinking about it a week later, staring across the Walmart parking lot at the long white RV with “Save A Life–Donate Blood Today!” emblazoned across the side. He nudges Sam, mouth dry.

“Hey. We should–” He nods at the trailer, watches from the corner of his eye as Sam takes a deep, shuddery breath.

“Yeah–okay. Yeah. We should,” Sam agrees. He opens the door, long legs already eating up the asphalt by the time Dean’s brain catches up.

Sam charms the nurses easily. Brothers, donating for the first time after their parents’ deaths, dimples and a shy smile from under his bangs and the nice lady never even notices that the t-shirt she’d given Sam as part of his thank you package never leaves his lap. They answer the questions, invasive and embarrassing, but Dean gets through it with his dignity mostly intact. It helps that he can hear Sam’s voice, deep and reassuring, even though he can’t make out what he’s saying.

Finally it’s done and they’re released into the main compartment of the trailer and guided to the couches where they’ll donate. Dean watches avidly as Sam casually shrugs out of his flannel, broad shoulders and pecs flexing in the illegally tight t-shirt he’d been hiding under his standard overshirt. The sleeves strain around his upper arms, and Dean’s head spins as all the blood in his body rushes to his dick. He quickly arranges himself on his own couch, draping his own overshirt and t-shirt over his lap, eyes never leaving Sam as the nurse snaps on a pair of latex gloves and slowly tightens the tourniquet around his upper arm.

“Now just hold this and squeeze,” the nurse says, a little breathlessly, and Dean watches as the muscles and veins in Sam’s arm swell, the veins rising into sharp relief. “You have such…nice veins…” the nurse says faintly, and Sam just smiles. He meets Dean’s eyes, expression going hot and dark before he smiles sweetly up at her. They chat quietly about nothing much, and then the nurse uncaps the needle and Dean can’t take his eyes off the silvery sliver about to slide into his brother’s body. It’s tiny compared to the knives and claws and <i>bullets</i> that have pierced Sam’s skin in the past, but Dean’s teeth are sunk into his lower lip, Sam’s eyes on him like a brand as the metal disappears smoothly into Sam’s arm.

“There we go,” the nurse says cheerfully, patting Sam’s arm. She fusses with the bag and opens the valve and suddenly the tube is filled with red, rich and warm from Sam’s body. Dean sucks in a ragged breath, aching underneath the shirt bunched in his lap. Sam squeezes the soft ball in his hand and Dean barely stifles the moan that wants to escape his throat, eyes fixed on the rapidly filling bag.

“Your turn!” The nurse turns to Dean and her eyes widen slightly. Dean tries to rearrange his features and pretend he’s not about to come in his pants, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed. “Your…your brother is doing great, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says reassuringly, patting his arm. Her hand lingers appreciatively on his bicep, and even though Sam would murder them both, Dean can’t help feeling a <i>little</i> pride. 

Sam watches as the nurse gives Dean the familiar instructions. “Hold this and squeeze,” she says, wrapping the tourniquet tight around his upper arm. “You two must spend a lot of time working out,” she says, blushing slightly. “I can hardly tie this off.”

“It’s a hobby,” Sam agrees. “Dean more than me.” The admiration in his voice warms Dean through and he preens just a little.

“This is going to pinch a little,” she says, holding up the needle, and Sam flushes just a little, the tips of his ears and nose turning pink. His hips shift under the bundle of cloth on his lap, lips parted on a silent gasp as the steel slips under Dean’s skin. Dean doesn’t even feel it, every ounce of his attention focused on <i>Sam</i>.

“Just squeeze now and then,” the nurse reminds him, voice a distant buzz. “And call if you need anything.”

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans when she’s hopefully out of earshot. “I just–”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Sam tears his eyes from the thin line of red slowly draining out of Dean, meets Dean’s eyes instead as he slides his hand under the shirt on his lap and presses up with a low moan. “Can’t wait to get my hands on you, Dean, God.”

“Sammy–”

“Almost done?” The nurse with the world’s worst timing shows up out of nowhere to check on Sam, prodding his bag and starting the process of detaching him from the line. She fills several smaller vials with blood, deep and rich, then she’s easing the needle out of Sam’s arm, wrapping the tiny hole she made with layers and layers of gauze and fuck Dean wants to get his mouth on that tiny wound, suck and lick away the taste of copper and iron while Sam writhes underneath him.

“And you’re done too, that’s perfect!” she says enthusiastically. Dean can feel Sam’s eyes hot and heavy like an actual caress as she fills Dean’s vials and then carefully pulls the needle from his arm. He feels the pinch this time, licking his lips involuntarily at the spot of blood that blooms behind the withdrawal. She wraps him up, pats his arm again then smiles, bright and genuine. “And thank you both for helping us save lives. You’re true heroes!”

“We couldn’t do it without you and others like you–Sandy.” Sam smiles warmly at the nurse, who flutters and stammers in return. Dean can sympathize, Sam has that effect on a lot of people. Sam stands up and staggers a bit, one hand catching the nurse–Sandy’s–shoulder. “I–ohh I don’t feel so good,” he groans, and Dean is right on board with the plan he can see forming behind Sam’s eyes.  

“Some people do feel a little lightheaded, especially their first time,” Sandy says, concerned. “It should pass pretty quickly. We have juice and cookies in the waiting area that you can enjoy while you’re getting back on your feet.”

“Sam?” Dean says, feigning concern. “You alright?” He turns to Sandy with his best little boy smile. “Sandy, is there any chance Sam and I could take a seat in one of your booths?”

“Well…”

“Just for a few minutes, until Sam is feeling better. He gets anxiety sometimes, it’s better if we’re someplace quiet. We’ll be out of your hair in no time, I promise. I just need a few minutes to take care of my little brother.”

Sandy melts at Dean’s show of concern, right on cue. “Alright, just a few minutes. I’ll knock if we need the booth, otherwise take as long as you need.” She’s so sweet that Dean almost feels bad about what he’s about to do to Sam in her booth. Almost.

Dean gets his arm around Sam’s waist, guides him the short distance to the booth. There’s no one else in the trailer, just the two of them and the two nurses, and Dean locks the door behind them before falling to his knees in front of Sam.

“Fuck, Sammy, <i>fuck</i>,” he groans, almost inaudible, mouthing hot and wet at the hard, obvious line of Sam’s dick in his jeans. He remembers–barely–that he was able to hear Sam’s voice when they were answering questions before and does his best to stay quiet.

Sam’s knees fold and he collapses into the tiny chair. “Dean–De–come on–”

“I got you, Sammy,” Dean whispers, already working Sam’s fly open, then stops when he sees Sam carefully unwinding the tape from his arm with shaking fingers.

“Jesus, Sam.” Dean pulls the final, stained layer of gauze away himself, grabbing Sam’s wrist and licking the tiny would nestled in the crook of Sam’s elbow. He makes a face at the sharp taste of disinfectant, but it disappears quickly when he fastens his mouth over the tender skin and <i>sucks</i>. Blood pools on his tongue instantly, bright copper and rust, essence of <i>Sam</i> filling his mouth. Sam moans, grabbing Dean’s other hand and lacing their fingers together around his cock, stroking in time to the pull Dean’s lips as he digs his tongue into the wound as best he can. Sam comes in moments, head thunking against the wall as his hips buck and he fights to stay as quiet as he can.

Dean lets go of Sam’s arm long enough to wrench open his own jeans, teeth and lips and tongue desperately seeking more of that perfect taste as he strips his cock frantically. He comes with Sam’s blood in his mouth, Sam’s voice in his ears, Sam’s hand in his hair, and he’s not sure which sensation pulls him over the edge, only knows that this is everything he’ll ever need.

They right themselves slowly, re-wrapping Sam’s arm as best they can and cleaning up with Sam’s new t-shirt. There’s a timid knock on the door as Dean’s tucking himself away, Sandy’s voice hesitant.

“Sam? Dean? Are you boys alright?”

Dean opens the door, eyes bright. He only just remembers not to smile, and steps back to let Sam do the talking.

“We’re great, Sandy,” Sam reassures her. “Thank you so much for giving us a few minutes, I feel amazing now. Never better.”

Sandy smiles, and Dean’s not sure but there might be a little bit of a twinkle in her eye. “I’m not surprised, Sam–giving others a hand always makes me feel better, too.” She stands aside so that they can leave the tiny room. “Feel free to come back any time, Sam. And bring your brother with you.”

Dean’s convinced his face is bright red, but Sam never even blinks. “I couldn’t do it without Dean,” he says, deadpan, and then they’re stumbling across the parking lot in a giddy haze. Sam shoves Dean against the side of the Impala when they get there, licking the taste of blood from his lips and his teeth until neither of them can taste anything but each other, until neither of them can breathe.

“I need you to fuck me as soon as possible,” Dean pants, leaning his forehead against Sam’s as they breathe each other’s air. “Motel?”

“God, yes,” Sam says fervently, and waves to Sandy as they speed out of the parking lot.

Hmm. I’m surprised at how much I loved this. Never thought about a blood kink in a way other than with things like knife play or something like that but the nursing student in me is totally down for this type of kinky crap that involves blood draws and that side of a blood kink. ;) (Unfortunately, Sam/Dean wouldn’t be able to donate blood if they were honest about having sex with a man in the last three months. (Used to be 12 and before that, a lifetime ban so even worse..) Though Sam and Dean aren’t honest about anything so.. 🌻

[bulkfuelsaustralia]

Tips on Just How to Winterize Your Motorbike

As wintertime closes in on us, you require to consider saving your bike for the winter months if you live in icy climates. Although there are only a few months of winter months, the main concern is to stay clear of any kind of corrosion while your bike remains in storage space. Then, once winter passes, you will have a bike that is ready to go.

The areas of the majority of problem versus rust are the shutoff seats, cylinder walls and also piston rings. Because dampness can locate access to your engine from lots of various places and cause severe damages, it is the opponent. Closing up all the locations moisture can go into the engine is not possible, so it is critical to focus on dampness proofing your bike rather.

Begin by warming up your engine. Any type of moisture that has actually built up will certainly be repelled, as well as this makes it straightforward to get a fair covering of oil in each of the cyndrical tubes. Next off, shut off your bike as well as eliminate your ignition system. Currently, utilizing your excellent old turkey baster, draw 25cc's of engine oil, and afterwards spray the oil into each of the plug openings. By hand, and also with the plugs still out, turn the engine over by placing the bike in leading equipment and also transforming the rear wheel. This will coat the valve seats, piston rings and also cyndrical tube wall surfaces. Follow up by changing the spark plugs, and also draining pipes the existing crankcase oil. Hereafter, fill the crankcase with fresh oil. It is recommended that you maintain the old filter and also intend on altering the oil in the spring. Nonetheless, if you like to make use of the existing oil after the thaw, you ought to alter the filter now. This ends the tough part of preparing your bike for winter season. You can rest assured in recognizing that moisture will certainly not rust out your engine parts.

To protect your motor use the best engine oil from trusted Shell lubricant distributors.

However, there is still more to think of. (If your bike is fuel infused, you can avoid this step.) The within your fuel container will also require protection from rusting. To do this, load your storage tank to the top making use of fuel that was treated with a gas stabilizer. Then, drain the float bowls. To do this, loosen the tiny screw discovered on the carbohydrate float bowl. When gas is left in the bowls for an unwanted of two months it comes to be jet-clogging sludge that calls for a carbohydrate overhaul to get rid of.

Because batteries self-discharge, you have to maintain the battery charged up when the bike is stored. The service to this is to hook your battery up to a Super Smart Battery Tender. The battery can be left in the bike while it is hooked up. Guarantee that your bike has sufficient coolant and also cover the bike with a motorbike cover. You are ready for winter months!

[dreamsinger-rose]

Smacksgiving Day

So I was thinking about the Trolls Holiday Special, and how random and weird some of the holidays were. Also, how some were so in-your-face that they seemed to be intentionally annoying - and then it hit me. What if the holidays served as a kind of social pressure valve?

All holidays are supposed to be to "release the pressure", as Branch sings in the final song, but since the trolls are supposed to live in a happy, non-violent society, what happens when they get on each other's nerves?

It occurred to me that some of these “holidays” would be a great way to work off your anger at someone. Glitter-palooza - throw glitter in someone's face! Shock-A-Friend Day? Bleepy Sound Day? And one that sounded especially out-of-character for trolls - Smacksgiving Day. A holiday where they're allowed to hit each other? And then (of course) hug afterward.

Smacksgiving Day

Poppy stood nearby, looking at the long line that had formed in front of the booth Branch had built as he stood in the open space between the two side counters, which were piled high with frosting-topped jelly-brownies. "You sure you want to do this, Branch?"

He nodded stoically, his dark purple hair catching the sunlight and turning a vivid amethyst. "I do, Poppy. I know I've hurt a lot of trolls, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make peace with everyone."

"Well, okay…" She clapped her hands. "You heard him, everyone. Get ready to slap Branch in the face to give him some peace!”

She caught him giving her a ‘that’s not what I meant,’ look, but she simply smiled enigmatically at him.

***

Earlier that day…

“Happy Smacksgiving Day, everyone!” Poppy grinned at the vividly-colored cheeks that turned in her direction. “Ooo, Cooper, both cheeks? Someone’s popular today.”

She felt the sharp slap of a hand on her face and turned to see powder-blue Chenille beaming at her while her pink twin sister Satin put her hands on her hips. “Chenille, we agreed that I could slap her first!”

Chenille gave Poppy a quick hug, then backed away and sneered at Satin. “Oh, slap me!”

“Well…if you insist,” Satin said slyly, and swung the loop of hair that connected them around Poppy.

“Hey!” Poppy struggled to get her arms free as Satin used her as a pivot point, lifting and yanking and spinning the young queen dizzy as the twins squabbled, thoroughly engaged in what was apparently their favorite pastime aside from designing fashionable clothes.

Yodeling a mock battle cry, Guy Diamond made a wild leap for Smidge, who used her hair to zip up to the heights of a nearby giant mushroom. “Too slow, sucker!” her gravelly voice boomed.

Poppy used her magenta hair like a tripod to push her hair-wrapped body high into the air, attracting the attention of dozens of nearby trolls. “Guys, hold up a second! I have an important request to pass on!”

The watching trolls gave her mixed looks of curiosity and wariness. “For real, or is this just a trick to get us into slapping range?” Smidge asked, then shrugged. “Of course, if you need to resort to trickery, I shall have no mercy, but-”

“No, it’s a real request. It’s from Branch.” The twins loosened their hair and Poppy coiled her hair like a spring and bounced up to stand on the mushroom next to Smidge. “Can everyone come here for minute?” she called out to the brightly-colored crowd that had already begun to gather around their queen.

“Let me guess, he wants us to take it easy on him, since it’s his first Smacksgiving Day and all,” D.J. Suki suggested calmly. 

Many of the nearby trolls nodded their heads understandingly, smiling at the thought of the brave young troll who had given them all refuge in his well-stocked bunker and then left to help the princess on a rescue mission that ended up including the lives of every troll in the village.

“It figures,” Smidge began scornfully, but Poppy shook her head.

“No, just the opposite. He wants us to be hard on him.”

“What?” exclaimed a dozen trolls, with Guy Diamond’s oscillating tone rising above the general confusion. The crowd broke into a gabble of conversation, through which Poppy waited patiently while more and more trolls arrived.

When the majority of the village had gathered, she raised her hands and clapped then over her head. “Okay, listen up, everyone! Yesterday Branch asked me to let everyone know that he wants to make up for being such a buzzkill for most of his life. He’s offering to let anyone who wants to slap-hug him to go see him at the booth he’s setting up in the village square.”

“You mean he’s just going to stand there and let people slap him?” sentimental Satin asked her with wide eyes.

“Where’s the sport in that?” Smidge wrinkled her forehead.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. It sounds like…punishment,” Cooper said slowly. “The bad kind, not funishment.”

“Poppy,” Biggie said carefully, his face creasing as he tried to understand. “Do you want us to …punish… Branch?”

The crowd gasped and Mister Dinkles mewed. “Oh my gad,” Smidge said, her eyes so huge they threatened to take up half her face.

“Noooo way!” Guy Diamond trilled indignantly. “We don’t punish. That’s not the troooll way!”

“No, no, no!” Poppy rapidly waved her hands from side to side. “It’s not – Well, I think he – I think Branch feels really bad about how mean he’s been to people over the years.”

“Why doesn’t he just apologize? We’d forgive him, wouldn’t we?” D. J. turned to look at the crowd and many of them nodded or smiled or murmured assent.

Poppy carefully noted that not everyone seemed to agree. Some trolls had a harder time forgiving and forgetting than others, including one special troll in particular who sometimes made her heart ache with sadness for him. She’d spent years trying to get through to him, and now that he was finally opening up a little, she was getting a better sense of who he was and how his mind worked. And how to finally soothe his heart.

She spoke up. “But this is Branch we’re talking about. He doesn’t think like other trolls. He takes things too seriously, and he has a tendency to feel responsible for things that maybe aren’t really his fault.” She felt the corners of her mouth turn down as her voice went a little husky. “And then he punishes himself for them.”

By the looks on their faces she knew her friends understood that she was referring to how he’d refused to allow himself to sing after his innocent childhood song had attracted the attention of the bergen that had eaten his grandmother in place of little Branch. Grief and guilt together had kept him gray and guarded for twenty long years, until the love and forgiveness Poppy and her friends had given him after his heartbreaking confession had finally begun to heal his heart. He’d smiled at her, a real smile free of sarcasm or artifice, a smile she did everything she could to bring out so that he would never fall back into the grayness.

At the uncharacteristically somber look on their queen’s face, the crowd’s chatter died down. Poppy smiled reassuringly down at everyone, explaining, “So we wouldn’t really be punishing him, we’d be helping him feel less guilty.”

“Ohhh.” The ripple of understanding caused bright smiles to spread through the crowd.

Smidge shrugged. “Fine by me. Colors or no colors; he’s still such a weirdo, but if it makes him happy…”

“Be gentle, everyone,” Poppy cautioned, watching hair of every color of the rainbow sway as they all nodded.

“Well, of course we will,” Cooper said reassuringly. “He’s our buddy!”

“Princess Poppy, what if we can’t think of anything to be mad at him for?” one of the children asked.

“Oh, you don’t have to do this. Branch just wants to give people a chance to speak their minds. If you’re not mad, it’s all good,” the rosy queen said cheerfully.

***

Most of the trolls satisfied themselves with a gentle slap to his pale aqua cheeks - which quickly became deep lavender, although Poppy suspected it was mostly due to shame rather than blunt force trauma.

Each of the gathered trolls also aired their grievances. The troll queen wasn’t sure how many were genuine and how many had been dreamed up by those trolls who felt it their duty to help lighten the burden of the brave young troll who had literally brought back the light inside all of them, but a few were so obviously fake that she slapped her forehead and groaned. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

"You told me my singing was off-key!" "Electric blue and orange do SO go together!" "You ruined three of my parties with your bergen-warnings! Even though you turned out to be right in the end, you never apologized for those other times!" “I hate cupcakes!”

Poppy raised an eyebrow. How is that Branch’s fault?

"I'm so sorry," he said to each troll. “Please forgive me.”

How could you not forgive that sad little face? Poppy felt her heart flutter and brought her hands up to cover her chest, smiling with loving empathy at the former recluse with sincere sky-blue eyes who was so determinedly doing what he thought was right, even though his method for doing so made more than a few trolls scratch their heads.  

Branch had a soulful, troubled look that made many of them pause, mentally comparing the woebegone face of the handsome aquamarine troll with the sour, hostile gray face that was all most of them could remember. The face that all of them had witnessed gain its long-lost colors right in front of them. The face that had literally brought them all back from the awful gray pit of numb despair, touching them all with his gentle compassion, his tender hope, and his passionate devotion to their beloved princess.

No one doubted that Branch was deeply in love with her, and watching the two of them now, with Poppy standing so protectively near him made most of them feel any remaining animosity for the young troll drain away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling that was much preferred by the happiest creatures in the forest.

"Of course I forgive you," each troll replied. The hugs that followed were invariably warm and affectionate, and Branch was glad to receive every one.

“Would you like a jelly-brownie?” he offered. “They’re made from my grandma’s recipe.”

Poppy stood nearby with clasped hands, so proud of him she could hardly contain herself. When the last troll had gone, she looked at his puffy lavender cheeks and giggled. "Well, no one can say now that they're still mad at you after this. How long did that take, an hour?"

He shrugged, not wanting to say anything through sore lips. She gave him a sympathetic smile and took his hand in hers. "Come on, let's go put some cold compresses on your face."

He looked down at their clasped hands and fought to control the smile that wanted to torment his sore face. Instead he squeezed her hand, glad that she had not seemed to want to join the line, in spite of all the grief he'd given her over the years. Still, ever cautious, he decided to make sure. "Poppy?" he mumbled. As she turned to him, he shifted his grip to her wrist and held her hand up in front of his face.

"Oh." For a moment Poppy seemed to consider it. It was Smackgiving Day, after all. She twisted her hand out of his grasp and he closed his eyes, tilting his cheek up in silent offering.

Nothing happened for a long moment. He opened his eye a crack to see her giving him a loving smile, and then her hand loomed in front of his face and he reflexively closed his eye. Something made contact with his face, but rather than the sharp sting he had become accustomed to, her touch was gentle, soothing, a caress that slid down his sore face and under his chin, her fingers teasing his downy skin in a way that sent tingles right down to his toes. He pulled in a deep breath and his hands clenched as he held himself still, content to remain like that as long as she cared to touch him.

He remembered the look in her eyes, and smiled slightly despite his tender face, almost sure that the love he’d seen there was more than just friendship-love, but happy to see it there all the same. As long as she loved him there was a warmth inside him, a sense of connection, driving back the dark desolation that had once made him avoid all contact with others.

He dared not open his eyes, standing there in rapt pleasure until finally her hand moved away and he opened them to see her giving him a gentle, thoughtful look. "I guess I don't feel like it this year," she said in answer to the question he’d forgotten he’d asked. The pink queen smiled wryly. "In fact, this is probably the first year I haven't felt like slapping you for all the rude things you've said.” Her voice went husky, a sure sign that she was feeling emotional. “I’m so proud of you, Branch."

He felt a surge of warmth at her praise and his cheeks hurt as the smile he was trying to contain widened. Made bold by her touch, he held up his large hand and reached toward her, making contact even as she automatically winced in anticipation, scrunching her eyes shut. Then she seemed to realize that he was only cupping her cheek gently and giving her a soft look to make his message clear.

"You neither, huh?" She placed her warm hand over his, closing her eyes and pressing her face more firmly into his hand. She took a deep, slow breath, smiling dreamily, then opened her eyes and pulled his hand away to clasp it once more. "Come on, let's go before someone else spots you." She grinned as she led him away, and he was more than willing to follow.

***

Author’s Note:

Thanks to eva-93 for her timely comment that got me thinking of revising this fic to include a good reason for the other trolls to cooperate. When I first got the idea for this fic I had seen the Holiday special but not TTBGO, so I hadn’t yet seen the Creek Week episode about the trolls’ attitude toward forgiveness.

Speaking of trolls and forgiveness, we know Branch and even Poppy finds it hard to forgive. And while we know Poppy’s friends forgave Creek in TTBGO after a simple apology, we don’t know if all the other trolls did. The majority of the village trolls were only captured due to Creek’s betrayal. Poppy, Branch and the others were spared that experience, of looking up at Creek, sitting on Chef’s shoulder like an evil demon with the same serene smile they’d once admired. Considering how terrified the rest of the villagers all were of the bergens in the first episode of TTBGO, even though they’d danced the whole night with them during the movie, I think it’s reasonable to believe that not all trolls can forgive so easily.

Did you catch the Doctor Who reference? The fourth doctor offers people “jelly-babies”. I couldn’t resist, lol.