#barber shears

[aichiscissors]

Welcome to No Shave November.

Here are Aichi Scissors to skip the No Shave resolution. Buy our quality scissors for your professional Haircut.

[etapereine]

[claudia1829things]

Ranking of "THE ALIENIST: ANGEL OF DARKNESS" Season Two (2020) Episodes

Below is my ranking of the Season One episodes of "THE ALIENIST: ANGEL OF DARKNESS", the 2020 adaptation of Caleb Carr's 1997 novel, “The Angel of Darkness”.  Created by Jakob Verbruggen and Cary Fukunaga, the television series starred Daniel Brühl, Luke Evans and Dakota Fanning:

1.  (2.05) "Belly of the Beast" - The team races to find the killer responsible for murdering an employee at the Lying-In Hospital.

2.  (2.04) “Gilded Cage” - The clock is ticking for the team to locate baby Ana Linares, the infant daughter of the Spanish consul-general. Meanwhile, Sara Howard, now a private detective, is worried about her young undercover detective Bitsy Sussman.  William Randolph Hearst hosts a lavish ball celebrating his goddaughter Violet's engagement to John Moore, New York Times illustrator.

3.  (2.07) “Last Exit to Brooklyn” - Sara, Moore and alienist Laszlo Kreizler travel to Brooklyn in search of clues hidden in the killer's dark past.

4.  (2.01) “Ex Ore Infantium” - One year after Season One, Sara seeks out Dr. Kreizler's help in finding the kidnapped baby Ana.  Dr. Kreizler reunites with Moore and the rest of the original team.  And their search for the missing child brings them into contact with a mysterious woman with a murderous past, who is connected to a notorious gang.

5.  (2.08) “Better Angels” - Sara, Moore, and Kreizler have their final confrontation with the killer/kidnapper, and struggle with decisions about their future paths.

6.  (2.02) “Something Wicked” - Sara uncovers a clue at the Siegel-Cooper department store.  Moore struggles to balance his personal and professional life, as he investigates a link to New York's criminal underworld. Kreizler suspects dark goings-on at the Lying-In Hospital, while former police chief Thomas Byrnes plots against their investigations.

7.  (2.06) “Memento Mori” - Sara and John continue to search for information about Libby Hatch, a nurse at the Lying-In Hospital.  Kreizler is nearly ruined by a tragic accident. Sara and the team have to work with Byrnes to find a new missing child from the Vanderbilt family.

8.  (2.03) “Labrynith” - Sara persuades a young nurse to disclose what happens behind closed doors at the Lying-In Hospital.  Meanwhile, Kreizler is convinced that hypnosis might unlock Señora Linares’ traumatic memories of her daughter’s kidnapping.  Moore introduces Sara to a well-connected friend to further the investigation.

[shearsophistication]

Roseline X100 Scissor – The Ultimate Cutting Experience with The Best Barber Shears

When it comes to precision and performance in barbering, only the best tools will do. The Roseline X100 Scissor stands out as one of the finest options for barbers who demand quality. Designed for both comfort and sharpness, these barber shears scissors are perfect for professionals looking to elevate their cutting experience.

Crafted from high-quality materials, the Roseline X100 Scissor offers the best barber shears on the market. The premium Japanese steel ensures razor-sharp blades that stay sharp for longer periods, allowing barbers to make precise cuts with ease. This makes the Roseline X100 an essential tool for any barber who values clean lines and smooth cuts.

These shears for barbers are designed to provide ultimate comfort during long sessions. The ergonomic handles reduce hand fatigue, making them ideal for barbers who spend hours behind the chair. The balance and lightweight construction allow for effortless control, ensuring that even intricate cuts are made with confidence.

For barbers who require versatility in their tools, the Roseline X100 delivers. Whether you're performing fade cuts, layering, or texturizing, these barber hair scissors ensure smooth results every time. The finely crafted edge allows for sharp and clean cuts, giving your clients the best haircut they’ve ever had.

If you're searching for the best barber shears that combine sharpness, comfort, and durability, the Roseline X100 Scissor is your ultimate choice. This best professional barber scissors will help you achieve perfect results, ensuring both you and your clients are always satisfied with your work. Upgrade to the best barber scissors and enjoy the difference today!

[lashear]

Japanese Barber Shears: Precision and Craftsmanship

Discover the art of precision with Japanese barber shears, crafted for exceptional performance and durability. Made with high-quality Japanese steel, these shears offer razor-sharp blades, ergonomic designs, and unparalleled control. Perfect for professionals seeking flawless cuts and long-lasting reliability in hairstyling.

[aichiscissors]

With its easy handling and smooth cutting experience, this is the perfect tool for cutting hair. A perfect haircut is made possible by the sharp, tightly fitted blades that provide a perfect fit for light, thin, and thick hair.

[etapereine]

[redtsundere-writes]

Price's beard is famous around base—a rugged, full, and commanding presence that spoke to both discipline and masculinity. That type of beard that's hard to grow and maintain. And there's his hair. An immaculately cut, effortlessly styled, and somehow looking even better every time he comes back for a mission. Soldiers always pester him to tell them who his barber is, but he always gatekeeps it. He never cracks. It's his best well-kept secret.

After months of deployment, his beard needed a refresh. He knocked on his neighbor's door, a cute hairstylist that does her family and friend's hair on her free time. You opened the door with a huge smile to see Price was back home safe and sound.

“The usual?” You asked, pulling a chair from the kitchen for him to sit in. It was part of the routine. A warm hug after months of not seeing each other, letting him in your house, offer him something to drink, and putting his favorite tunes on the speaker.

“You know it. Just work your magic.” Price trusted you completely, almost blindly. You had been his barber for years now. “How's the family?”

“Pretty good, captain. My lil sister is getting married next week. I'll be doing her hair, such a huge honor.” You placed the cape around his neck, breathing in his intoxicating scent with notes of amber and musk.

“That's wonderful news. You better send my congrats.”

“Will do, captain.”

You prepared your tools—your shears, straight blade, a new leather strap you bought recently. You really like when Price came by, it was the perfect opportunity to use your barber kit and practice with a handsome model. “The usual” was simple. Price was meticulous about his grooming, already keeping his hair in check with the products you’d recommended. It was just cutting the top of his hair, cleaning the edges of his beard and carve out sharp lines that framed that unmistakably strong jaw.

But it wasn’t just the cut that brought him back, he liked the nice chats and to admire how you worked. He loved the way you worked—slow, steady, deliberate. The way your tongue peeked out to focus on the details. The gentle press of your soft fingertips as you tilted his head. Unlike other barbers, you never asked any questions about his work, he didn't like to think about that on his free time. When he sat in your chair, the world outside didn’t exist. It was just the sound of the scissors, the warmth of your presence, and a fleeting sense of home.

“And this dickhead even has the nerve to ask: 'Are we fucking or are we splitting the check?' Like, what the hell?!” You were telling him how your last blind date ended as you cut the sides of his hair, making sure it didn't touch his ears because the tickles bothered him.

“What a fucking pillock!” Price gasped angry.

“That's what I said!” You huffed. “Who is raising these boys? I swear to god, my 8-year-old nephew is more a man than that bastard.”

“I always wondered why are you single, I think I have my answer now,” Price said.

“Look, I may be single, but I ain't desperate. I won't settle for anything less than a gentleman.” You scoffed as you finished the touch ups. “We are all done, handsome.”

You gave Price a mirror. He moved his head around to admire the details of your wonderful, usual, job. He felt like a new, clean man. You looked at him with a bright smile, satisfied with your job.

“I am telling ya, you were born for this,” Price said as you unbuttoned the cape.

“Aw, thanks, captain. You are always so sweet.” You blushed.

“How much do I owe you, luv?” Price pulled up his wallet.

“Oh, c'mon. You know it's always from the house.” You pushed the wallet from your sight, making him to put it back in his pocket.

“You can't be giving away your talent for free,” Price smiled. He liked the attention, but he didn't want to abuse of your kindness. “At least let me tip you.”

“Please, captain. I insist.” You looked at him straight to the eye. Your heart skipped a beat when he looked back at you with those dreamy eyes of him. He finally smiled in defeat.

“Fine, fine.” Price sighed, putting the wallet back in his pocket. “What about I take you out to dinner?”

“Captain, that's not necessary…” You chuckled.

“Not as payment,” Price interrupted you. “As a date. I can give you the real gentleman you want.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, catching you completely off guard. You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected him to be so direct, so effortlessly charming. Price took your hand and kissed your knuckles softly, his beard tickling your skin lightly.

You met his gaze, your smile breaking through before you could even think to suppress it. How could you say no? The most handsome client to ever sit in your chair had just asked you out—and you accepted without hesitation.

Masterlist.

[lizardleech-bogmummy]

Tbh I'm overdue for making a turian lass but I need every character I make to be insane and I'm pouring all of my water that makes you crazy into my fantasy ttrpg NPCs rn

[vern-hairdressing-style-college]

Side Swept With Wavy Bangs Men Haircut Tutorial - Vern Hairstyles 91 Not only making you handsome but exquisitely handsome😍

Utilizing the hair strand texture to create more layers and three dimensional effects ����🏻 ̖́-

Softening of the hair ends and control of the volume are just right It's all about precision✨

✂️With Vern Intelligent Combined Scissors, you can achieve this with such ease, delicacy, finesse, and accuracy

Moreover, the hairstyle is non-deformable and easy-managable🌟

[fanaticsnail]

Hair Pulling: Benn Beckman

Birthday Party Masterlist

Word Count: 2,600+

Themes: Benn Beckman x gn!reader, mdni, smut, 18+, NSFW, kink, hair pulling, insertion sex, oral sex, Sub!Beckman x Dom!reader. First-Mate x Barber.

Notes: It is @jintaka-hane's birthday! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoy your beautiful day, and may Beckman getting his hair pulled spark some joy and illuminate your celebration. So much love for you 🖤

Sitting at your workstation, you began rolling and folding the fresh batch of towels you purchased from the town the Red-Force was currently docked at. The fluffy material felt so foreign in your hands after using your well-worn and crusted cloths for your crew for so long. You couldn’t wait to spoil your crewmates with the new fabric, truly relishing in your job when you were not called to arms in defense of your captain, Shanks.

As the crew barber, it was your job to ensure your crewmates kept themselves as neat and tidy as they desired to be. Whether it was maintaining a goatee, some shadowing on their cheeks, a suave manicured lip and chin, or a rugged scruffiness suited to their liking: you were to keep them in perfect order. Haircuts and styling was also in your repertoire, and you wore that title well.

There was only one member of your crew that had yet to seek out your services for himself. Keeping in the quiet, shearing his own cheeks in the morning, neck and chin littered with small nicks and cuts at after a morning scrub in the bathroom, was the broody first mate.

Hunched over the itinerary captain Shanks had curated for their departure, he leaned his hips on the railing with a scowl on his lips.

Placing down the last folded towel, you withdrew your straight razor and leather hanging strop from your satchel. Checking over your blade for any notches or cracks in need of honing, you blow gently on the silver side of the knife. Holding your blade steady, you gently glide the silver along the stretch, conforming to its curvature along the surface with little resistance.

Benn Beckman was a friend to you, truly enjoying your company in the still of the night when the crew slumbered. As first mate, it was his duty to keep his captain and crew safe. He was both the first and last line of defense for the redhead, and often had little time to dilly dally with his crew. In that quiet, you would often recall small moments traveling together on the seas. Your soft laughter marrying his whispered chuckles was music to the crew, putting them at ease while they slumbered.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you were not attracted to him. Sure, your Captain and the Doctor had their charm, but Benn Beckman: first mate and dutiful death dealer was where your eyes found their perch.

Being simply friends, you assumed he would have approached you by now to do your job on his features. Just a quick tidy of his jawline, trimming his graying locks, giving him a treatment for the sea-sprayed ends - but he never did. Not once. Not a single time.

Narrowing your eyes at him and pursing your lips, you examined his recklessness littering his cheeks with drying blood and crusted sores. Almost scowling at it, you were yet to notice the approach of your crewmate taking a seat in your chair.

“Hey Barber, got a spot for me in your station?” Yasopp queries with a smile in every word, “Can I have a quick tidy up?”

“Course you can, Sharpshooter,” you laugh with him, gently brushing off your chair and reaching for one of the freshly rolled towels. “It's what I'm here for. Just a shave, or rerolling your coils?”

“Just a shave for now. The dreads can wait,” he nodded his head and eagerly plonked himself down at your station. “I've never had a shave as near as yours before. Even when it grows back, it's more manageable.”

“Thank you, Yassop. Now just shut your eyes, lay back, and let me do what I need to do on you.”

“Aye, Barber.”

Watching from his position reclining against the wooden panels, Benn Beckman’s lips drew slack. The filter end of his cigarette lay glued to his lips while they parted in awe. Each glide of the blade over Yasopp’s skin coincided with a gentle tug or maneuver of his scalp to guide him to an appropriate repositioning.

“You're doing it again, Becks.”

Shanks plopped himself alongside the railing beside the first mate, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder in the process. Beckman let's put a soft grunt and continues glaring at the scene unfolding in front of him. You were halfway through the shave now, gently holding idle chatter between yourself and Yasopp while you tidy him up.

“I'm not doin’ nothin’, Cap,” Beckman grumbles, taking a hefty drag of his cigarette. Shanks chuckles, following his eyeline and darting his gaze between Yasopp and you together.

“Why don't you just go up and take a seat,” Shanks suggested as if it was the easiest course of action to take for the big guy, “You really messed up your general scruff. Looks like you angered a pather. Go on. After Yasopp, it's your turn.”

Beckman snaps his gaze over towards Shanks at the thought, blaring into him with his darkened eyes filled with rage.

“You know damn well how I feel about my hair gettin’ touched.” Beckman warned him, his voice hardened with a mixture of warning and confession laden within, “I don't want our barber to do it for me, because I know it'll change the way they see me. Don't wanna do it to them.”

“Just focus on something else, Becks.” Shanks offered in a tone of jesting, index and middle fingers on his right hand walking up his forearm, “You know? Not like you haven't thought of ‘em tugging your hair when you're alone in your quarters.”

Beckman sends Shanks a glare that he has only ever seen a handful of times, who in turn raises his hands defensively. With a small chuckle, Shanks backs away from the broody first mate with a playful smirk.

The gray-haired first mate continues to watch you as you finish your work on Yasopp, wiping off the sharpshooter’s face with a towel. Giving him a playful trace of your fingers along his jawline, you send him from your chair and begin to sanitize it for the next use.

Looking over from your point above the deck of the red force, you could've sworn you caught the first mate’s eyes as he gazed over from his recline against the rail. His thumb met the filter end of his cigarette and pressed it in a sizzle within his iron ashtray.

“Beckman?” you gather your courage to call over to him, finally refusing to let this little dance go on any longer, “Come and see me tomorrow, you hear? Need to fix up your razor, and I've got a balm for you to use tonight.”

Benn Beckman freezes in place, a static-like shudder frizzing from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. Without much force, he apprehensively sighs out a little, “Aye, that I will.”

Smiling to yourself, you prepare a cube of solid ointment in a tin for him, hoping the balm would aid in the healing for a closer shave, and to halt any scarring or pore blockages from occurring and getting itchy.

The following day, Benn Beckman found himself in your chair. A dark cape was casually draped around his neck, tucked in a towel and buttoned at his collar. The aroma of aftershaves and foaming cleansers lingered as you massaged his prickly scruff with your fingertips.

He could barely focus on your conversation. Whichever topic that graced past your lips was white noise to him. While he often found himself easily lost in conversation with you, he was now wholeheartedly focussed on one thing, and one thing only.

Trying not to cum.

Your hands so easily maneuver his head around, skilled fingers cleaning up his face and ridding him of his spindles protruding from his chin. In his head, it was an eternal argument as to whether he was to tell you how worked up he was, and how long he had been without coupling with a partner, or simply ignore how you made him feel while wholeheartedly enjoying the experience.

He had been to barbers before, and none of them made him feel this worked up over a simple pampering. Paired with the fact he adored you, and he was lost completely to the feeling of your fingers on his skin.

“You want a trim while I'm at it?” he hears you ask. He hadn't had the heart to decline, sparing both himself and you or his shameful joy at the touch. Instead, he closed his eyes and uttered a soft, “yes,” while his cock twitched against the crotch of his pants.

“You have such pretty hair, Becks,” you compliment him in earnest, reaching for the woven band holding his locks within, “If you don't mind me saying, of course.”

“N-Not at all,” he stuttered out, wincing as your hands dragged down the tight coil and freeing his strands from their confines. You take his small flinch as discomfort, but it could not be further from his experience.

Beckman was trying not to picture how you would look straddling his face, guiding him by those skilled hands. Tugging and pulling harshly to have him pinpoint your bliss, having him consume your ecstasy with his vigorous and unrelenting mouth while you held onto his hair.

Carding your fingers through his salted and peppery strands, you found yourself cooing at the way each fistful felt in your hands. He was so pliant, listening to your wordless directions as you angled him to find an appropriate position. Scissors handled carefully to chop at the damaged ends, you continued humming out your praise at the first mate.

His pulse quickened and breath hitched at the way your words and actions truly moved him.

Where your lips curved out: “Your hair is so volumous, I can't get over how you manage to trap it in that band,” Beckman heard, “Your hair feels perfect in my hands, let me trap you in my lap and fuck you.”

Spilling out gentle praise and manageable instructions: “Move to the side, good job. Just like that, Becks,” Beckman’s mind morphed it into, “Fuck, you’re doing such a good job for me. Keep going, good boy.”

Each roll of his neck guided by a tug to his scalp, his eyes rolled back beneath fluttering lashes. His cock continued to twitch and move against his seams at every motion, everything occuring below the belt against his will. He hated himself for reacting like this, for hearing your voice guide him and move against his skull so easily.

At one more sensual tug, his voice entangled in his jugular and caused him to shudder his jaw. You halted your actions immediately, truly believing you had caused him discomfort.

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you, big guy?” Your concern was laden in your tone, only aiding in expanding his cock to a pulsating rod to pitch the tent in his pants.

“No, Darlin’, I'm alright,” he uttered with a breathy chuckle to follow, “Just not used to bein’ manhandled like this is all.”

“You're used to being in charge. I get it,” you chuckle down at him playfully, giving his hair a soft tug as you did with the others aboard your ship, “You're in my chair now, sweetheart. Gotta listen close to me, or I might accidentally pull on something I shouldn't.”

Both of you were surprised by the needy whine that fled from Beckman’s throat, your hands fleeing immediately from their grip on his hair and discarding your scissors in the tray beside you. You took a moment to steady yourself, your infatuation rising for him in your gut and swelling in need up to your throat. The way he moaned for you was pornographic, and your mind ran with that to a point where you personally had to halt your job to breathe through the feeling.

Beckman knows there's no disguising it now. He has a kink, and you had inadvertently made yourself subject to it by your actions. His mind was already attempting to accumulate an apology to you, thanking the stars that Shanks had conducted an away mission to enjoy a bar in town himself with the crew.

As you stepped towards him, he immediately drew his eyes to find your own. Expecting you to be peering into his soul, gaze filled with rage at the use of you pulling on his hair and fanning the flames of his lust, he saw your eyes immediately flung to his belt line.

Noticing your eyes draw down to his cock, shrouded by the dark covering laid on his lap, he was unsure as to where your mind found itself wandering.

“Benn Beckman,” you whispered softly, a softness rising in your tone. Reaching for the loose strand dangling over his eye, you tucked it behind your ear and purred at him, “You have a thing for hair-pulling, don't you?”

His apologies jumbled and merged into one large stuttery mess. His cheeks rose in hue and illuminance the longer he attempted to recover from your accusation. Each tumble and stutter he elected to present to you was met with a knowing and teasing look down your nose at him.

“Oh, Becks,” you cooed down at him, scrunching up your nose with a soft light in your eyes, “Is that why you haven't come to see me? Something as simple as a little tug on the ponytail gets you all hot and bothered?”

Beckman’s blush rose higher, his head practically seething with frustrated vapors. Just as he was about to open his mouth to growl at you for your comments, you hushed him with a few simple words.

“If you'd have told me about this earlier, we could've had some fun with it,” you shrugged, eyes immediately thereafter growing wide at your blazen disregard for indescression, “I-I mean, if you like me like that-... I mean… if you don't… I… I didn't-.”

“-Are you done with the cut?” Beckman immediately cut you off, his face no longer glaring with his uncertainty and fury.

“I… well, yes, sir,” you nodded, lips sucked into your mouth to stifle their quiver. Beckman reached up to the collar, tugging at the buttoned seam and releasing the cape from shrouding his broad body.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Just as simply as that conversation began, you found yourself with the broody first mate tangled in his sheets and crying out beneath him. Your legs were over his hips, your entrance stretched and molding to his shape the longer he split you open with his thick shaft. Slow and sultry drags of his cock within your body propelled you to a higher plane of bliss. He huffed and panted in the crease where your shoulder met your neck, whining out as you tugged on his freshly trimmed and manicured ponytail.

His hips grew staggered in their languid thrusts, feeling his enevitable release finally stampeding towards the finish line. Your own need was pooling in the pit of your stomach, swelling up and beginning to bloom in your chest. Your breaths came out in heady pants, and you reigned him towards his unravelment by pulling hard on the back of his hair.

“Cum for me, big boy,” you whisper needily, Beckman’s resolve shattering as he unleashed his pearlescent ropes of thick cum deep within you. Calls of your name on his tongue spur you into your own ecstasy, riding through the coursing waves as he buried himself down to the hilt within you.

Both you and Beckman were once again thankful that Shanks and the remainder of the Red Force crew had left you both in isolation to enjoy exploring Beckman's preference for having his hair pulled.

From then on, he was adamant on having only you shave his cheeks and trim his hair to keep him pretty. Even better were the times you did it naked, his cock nestled deep within you and being told to keep still so you don't make a mess of his handsome features with a straight razor and your scissors.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

🎶Happy birthday to me🎶.

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[shearsophistication]

Dovo Left-Handed Thinner – Effortless Precision for Left-Handed Stylists

The Dovo Left-Handed Thinner is an essential tool for professional hairstylists who require precision, balance, and comfort in their craft. Designed in Solingen, Germany, this 5.5-inch thinner features 40 teeth to create flawless blending and soft texturizing with every cut. The bevel edge blades ensure a smooth, controlled thinning experience, perfect for achieving natural movement and seamless layers. Upgrade your craft with premium barber shears scissors for ultimate precision and comfort. Shop Shear Sophistication for top-quality tools that deliver perfection

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Steadfast 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, obsession, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: King!Bucky Barnes (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you serve Duke Rogers, but when his friend, the king, takes an interest, you find your work in turmoil.

Note: I've wanted to do medieval drabbles for years. I bit the bullet and now we're all doomed. I was torn on whether to make this one Stucky however... I think Steve deserves a wifey in his own installment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The shanks of brown hair rests between your fingers as you angle the shears. The snips is precise and careful. You work diligently, wordlessly, as the duke stares at his reflection. He’s lost in thought as you are cautious of his mindless tilts and tweaks. 

“It is looking rather better since Kennick’s butchering,” he muses. “I feared I might sport a monk’s pate anon.” 

“Your grace,” your keep your focus set, not looking up as you snip away another length of hair. 

“Not much shorter than that. Winter will be here soon enough,” Lord Rogers girds. “What of the beard? Shall I keep it for warmth as well?” 

“Your grace,” the reply rises again, a different lilt to it which says, it is upon your prerogative. 

“Hm, many other lords I’ve seen as late sport the like. As our king does,” he continues on. “Is it very common of me to do the same?” 

You draw a lock away from his face and stretch it above his forehead. Your voice does not rise as you bite the tip of your tongue with great concentration. You think of Kennick and the lashes on his palms. He is only a young boy; how could he be asked to do such a delicate task? 

A knock rattles the door. The lord’s eyes flash in his reflection as you peek at the mirror. There isn’t alarm, only attention. He flicks his fingers. 

“Please, pip, see to it,” he commands. 

You lay down the shears and leave him. You go to the door and draw it open. It pushes from the other side and you stumble back behind it. You nearly fold completely as you recognise the bearing of the broad shoulders. It is hardly a surprise for the king to appear, only that you forgot yourself in the calm of the previous moment. 

You keep your knees bent and head down as King Bucky strides towards the duke at his looking glass. You gently close the door as the liege receives barely a glance from the man at ease on his cushioned chair. He huffs and tugs his ear. 

“Is that how you receive your king?” King Bucky taunts as Rogers swats away his hand. 

“I wouldn’t want to make a mess,” the duke retorts and gestures again, “pip, it is still uneven.” 

You set your chin and return to the vanity table. You pick up the shears and nod your head, “your highness.” 

The king does not answer and he leans on the other corner of the table. He crosses his arms, the deep blue leather of his jacket straining. The duke tufts his chin again, paying heed to the patch of silver there. 

“I see you’ve recovered from your recent bout of baldness,” the king mocks. “Your head is much too lumpy for it.” 

“Have you come only to jeer me?” Rogers asks dully. 

You measure another shank and trim carefully. Often, you’ve done similar for your fellow servants. Usually with duller blades or a razor to the scalp. The duke usually only requires a tray or a flagon of you. The request was unexpected but undeniable. 

“Forgive me for disturbing you and your barber. I’ve a fine man from Rivard who sees to my own. A gold coin would’ve brought him to your stead,” the king suggests. 

“A waste of good coin,” Rogers sniffs. “Looking at you, I’d never assume any barber saw to that nest.” 

The king takes affront and smooths his dark tresses, a subtle wave near the bottom of his strands as they frame his chin. “Eh, you speak treasonous words. To insult a king’s hair is next to blasphemy, duke.” 

“Shall I take the cattails in hand?” Rogers counters. 

King Bucky chortles, “if I didn’t fear you’d aim them at my hide, I’d agree to it.” 

You peek up at the noise of his laughter. You’ve not heard it often from the king, not that you are often in his presence. He seems of a bright disposition that day. Even so, you flinch as your eyes snag on his. You quickly put your mind to the shears.  

“Mm, and what has brought on your good mood?” 

“Why shouldn’t I be in fine spirits?” 

“I ask why you should,” Rogers, turns his head and you recoil. A dusting of hair falls from the towel around his shoulders. 

“I should ask why you seem rather the opposite,” the king mutters. 

“I am not... unhappy. Pensive,” Rogers admits. “You’ve heard from Stark.” 

“Aye, whoever doesn’t hear him when he opens his mouth?” 

“Hm, I would think a rasher response of you,” Rogers intones as he turns to the mirror again and you comb your fingers from his hairline to his crown to compare. The king shifts as you sense his observation of your reflection. 

“Isn’t it what he intends? What good is it to feed his pride? If he should like to put on this display, then he shall make himself a fool. I’ll be all the more pleased for it to be at my hand.” 

“You don’t think it is some ploy?” 

“Of course it is? A tournament of kings? For what purpose but to put to mind the matter of war? To suggest that should we not play nice, a horse and shield might be appropriate.” 

You shift around to the back of the duke’s head, the king leans in. His movement draws your gaze and you find him watching your hands. It makes them more prudent. 

“I would not speak it into this plain, but do you not worry for his machinations? At any tourney, there are those who might take a deathly blow, or slip beneath their steed’s hooves--” 

“When did you grow so cautious? I can lift a sword and sit a horse--” 

“Should either be sabotaged? Should your plate be poisoned at the feast--” 

“Is there something you are aware of that I should be?” The king challenges. 

“Only that he is his father’s heir, in many ways,” Rogers harrumphs. 

“You think I should fear a dagger up a sleeve when you’ve a servant with two so near your eye?” 

You pause and the duke tuts, “keep on, pip,” Rogers orders as he waves off the king’s devious suggestion. 

“Ah, gentle hands, I see, forgive the poor humour,” he unfolds his arms and grips the edge of the table as he leans. “Rogers, you will be close. Vigilant as ever.” 

The duke sighs, “the winter nears.” 

“Is that it? You never liked the cold, I should’ve guessed it.” 

“I can bear the cold, but travel would be arduous.” 

“You would wait for the spring?” 

“Perhaps,” the duke slides a ring to the tip of his finger and spins it. “And Thor? Has he sent his agreement to this Field of Silk?” 

“I was to ask you the same. I presumed with how you get on, he might prefer you as his messenger,” the king says. “Very well, I will think on your concern.” He clucks and stands, moving closer as he watches you with intent. “I am surprised, I thought you would be most eager for a tournament. You were the Knight of the Lilies for years anon.” 

“A time ago,” Rogers rebuffs. 

“And time is still left,” King Bucky reaches again to tweak his ear, “I know they are rather big, but try not to snip them off, eh?” He japes as Rogers tilts away from his touch with a growl. “I shall leave you to your grooming, though perhaps next time you should just call the stabler.”  

The king strides away as the duke pushes his ring to his knuckle. The shears continue to snip noisily in the silence. The door announces the king’s departure with a sonorous echo. 

“My luggage will need prepared,” Rogers resigns. 

[folkling]

Folkling Save File WIP - Newcrest

I couldn't help myself, I needed a main street somewhere. I found a mod called Shear Brilliance by ItsKatato (adopted my MizoreYukii ), so I'm going to use that to build a barber shop. Also, I found a mod for a functioning tattoo chair and a mod for a functioning tattoo parlor, so you guessed it, I'm building a tattoo parlor. Other businesses on main street will include the movie theatre (pictured), lounge (pictured), a bookstore, a converted fire station turned into apartments, and a bakery.

I'm excited.

[inkykeiji]

do you think dabi pre-touya reveal cut his own hair??? i feel like toga might offer to do it for him—his bangs are getting too long, tangling in his eyelashes with each blink, stare obstructed by strands of ink—but he’s so secretive and wary and distrustful that i can’t see him allowing her anywhere near his hair, lest she find some white strands and inevitably start pelting him with questions + clawing for answers,,, which of course runs the risk of raising the interest and intrigue of their fellow members, the league too curious for their own good about the elusive and enigmatic dabi,,,

i just love the idea of him standing in some dingy bathroom, the mirror grimy and cracked, with a pair of barber shears in his hand, just snipping away unevenly at his hair until he thinks it looks somewhat presentable. it’s jagged, but it works, the once soft and fluffy tufts gone brittle and hard from the constant cheap box dye, black still staining the lines of his fingernails and the grooves of his palms. that they don’t ask about, thankfully.

his father’s eyes stare back at him beneath the flickering lightbulb, raw and exposed above the sink. he’s still the prettiest todoroki, even with the scars and the stitches and the rigid spikes of hair.

he’s still the prettiest todoroki, but sometimes he can’t stand the sight of himself, too much todoroki in his face, his voice, his mind. it’s in the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he thinks, recollects, responds. it’s in the way his nose scrunches up and his lips tug down and his brows push together when he’s upset, when he’s offended, when he doesn’t get his way. it’s in the way his eyes observe, glare, absorb, sapphire glinting with judgement or accusation or terror beneath the dim, shivering light, his father’s disapproval, disappointment, staring back at him. it’s in the way he smiles—slightly crazed, never fully happy, never fully natural or real or right, too sharp and stark to be friendly or welcoming.

it’s in every part of him, and no amount of black dye and warped skin and gold metal will ever be able to conceal that.

or so he had thought.

but Daddy hasn’t recognized him—not on the news when he killed snatch, not in the street when he came to collect that godforsaken nomu. little baby shouto hasn’t realized, either, not even when he heard his voice or saw his smile or looked straight into his eyes; his eyes, half-shared. natsuo and fuyumi and mom, none of them have reached out, despite the fact that they’ve undoubtedly seen him, on the television and in the papers and on their social media feeds, scrolled past without a second glance.

there’s so much todoroki in him, but they still aren’t looking.

[yeyinde]

OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction

Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does. 

His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.

》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader 》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k

"Hold still."

"Holdin' as still as I can, love."

His words are thick—little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum. 

To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience. 

But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you. 

(Your irascible man.)

Still. 

Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan. 

His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin. 

"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."

"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back. 

He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."

You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out. 

The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work. 

You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince. 

"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."

He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:

"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head. 

Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.

He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm. 

(To grip tight and not let go.)

The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you. 

He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier. 

You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber. 

"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you." 

"Free labour?" 

"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"

"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."

"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—" 

Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl. 

"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"

"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this." 

With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers. 

"Trust me that much, hmm?" 

Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life." 

"Aren't you a charmer?" 

"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"

"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."

He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be. 

It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed. 

To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him. 

Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab. 

It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him. 

The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this. 

It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—

You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin. 

Affection blossoms in your chest. 

"Missed you." 

The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple. 

John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough. 

But still:

His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern. 

When you recognise it, you falter. 

It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool. 

"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"

Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin. 

You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours. 

You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.

"All done." 

John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart. 

"What's the verdict?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork. 

"Looks good."

You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"

He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest. 

His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."

"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks. 

At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin. 

"You like my beard, don't you?" 

Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"

"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."

"Is that all?"

"Soap said they're grabable."

"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"

"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"

"Like his mohawk?"

He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"

"And lose my handlebars? No way—"

His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?" 

"For you? Always." 

"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."

"You love it." 

"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"