#corded power tools

[greaterwestope]

Building the Ultimate Workshop: Must-Have Corded Power Tools

Welcome to the world of corded power tools, where strength and accuracy come together to help you tackle your projects. In this post, we'll explore corded tools, the reliable workhorses of any workshop. From safety tips to keeping your tools in top shape, we’ll show you how to get the best performance and longest life from them. Let’s plug in and get started on making your workshop as efficient as possible!

What Are Corded Power Tools?

Corded power tools are essential for any workshop because they provide steady, reliable power. Unlike cordless tools, you don’t have to worry about recharging batteries or replacing them, which makes corded tools perfect for big jobs that take time. They’re always ready to go and never lose power, even during tough tasks like cutting, drilling, or grinding.

Because corded tools are plugged into a power source, they provide consistent speed and power. This helps you work with precision, no matter what you’re working on. Corded tools also usually have higher power ratings than cordless ones, which means they can handle heavy-duty jobs for longer periods. For anyone serious about their work, corded power tools are a must-have in the workshop.

Safety Tips for Using Corded Power Tools

Safety should always be your number one concern when using corded power tools. Before starting any job, make sure you read the user manual and safety guidelines for each tool. This will help you understand how to use the tool correctly and avoid accidents.

Always wear safety gear like goggles, gloves, and ear protection to keep yourself safe from flying debris, loud noise, or accidental injuries. Also, keep your work area clean and well-lit to prevent tripping over cords or bumping into things.

Take care of the tool’s cord by keeping it away from sharp objects or hot surfaces to avoid damage. Never pull the tool by the cord, and unplug it when not in use. Following these simple steps will keep you safe and your tools in good condition.

Maintenance Tips to Keep Your Tools Running

Taking care of your corded power tools will help them last longer and work better. Regular maintenance is key to ensuring they stay in top shape. Here are some easy tips to help you keep your tools running smoothly:

Storage: Store your tools properly when not in use. Keep them in a toolbox or on a shelf to protect them from dust and moisture, which can cause damage. Always check your tools for visible damage before using them.

Cleaning: After every use, unplug the tool and wipe it down to remove dust, dirt, or debris. If you notice any rust, use a rust remover to clean it off. Clean tools not only last longer but also work more safely.

Sharpening and Repairs: Tools with blades should be sharpened regularly to maintain cutting power. For tools with hammers or other striking parts, check for wear and grind down any damage to prevent accidents.

By sticking to these simple maintenance practices, you can get the most out of your corded tools and avoid unexpected problems during your projects.

Conclusion

Corded power tools are an essential part of any workshop, offering unmatched power and reliability. With the right safety practices and regular maintenance, these tools will serve you well for years to come.

At Greater West Outdoor Power Equipment, we believe in helping you get the most out of your tools, ensuring both performance and safety in every project.

[wwwquickpakinccom]

EP-1345 Battery Powered Cord Strap Tensioner with Cutter

This battery powered tool tensions and cuts cord strapping. It features an easy-to-use control panel so you can fine-tune to your desired needs.

Features an ergonomic design for a comfortable hand fit.

Features an automatic, semi-automatic and manual mode.

Includes a charger and two batteries.

[nishthasharmaa]

A Power Waxer is a must-have tool for anyone who wants to maintain the shine and durability of their hardwood or commercial floors. It is a heavy-duty electric floor waxing machine that is designed to make the waxing process faster, easier, and more efficient. The Power Waxer is a professional-grade tool that is perfect for both commercial and residential use.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Magic-Related Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Amulet: An object worn, carried or placed to guard against negativity or other vibrations. A protective object.

Astral Projection: The practice of separating the consciousness from the physical body so that the former may move about unhindered by time, space or gravity.

Bane: A poison; that which destroys life. "Henbane" is poisonous to hens.

Banish: To drive away evil, negativity or spirits.

Beltane: An ancient folk-festival day observed by Witches that celebrates the fully blossomed spring. April 30 or May 1.

Censer: A vessel of metal or earthenware in which incense is burned. An incense burner.

Chaplet: A garland or wreath of flowers or leaves worn on the head, as in the chaplets given to classical Greek heroes as symbols of honor.

Clairvoyance: Literally "clear seeing." The ability to perceive facts, events and other data by other than the five "normal" senses, unaided by tools.

Curse: A concentration of negative and destructive energy, deliberately formed and directed toward a person, place or thing.

Divination: The art of finding things out through means other than the five senses, using tools such as tarot cards, crystal balls, and so on.

Enchant: "Sing to." Magically speaking, a procedure whereby herbs are aligned with your magical need prior to their use.

Evil Eye, The: Supposed glance capable of causing great harm or fear, once almost universally feared.

Fascination: The art of placing other people under one's power through sounds, gazes, colors, etc.

Hex: An evil spell; a curse.

Incubus: A male demon or spirit which was believed to sexually tempt and abuse women; the succubus was the corresponding female demon.

Infusion: An herbal tea.

Lughnasadh: An old harvest festival celebrated on August 1st or 2nd in Europe, reverencing the abundant (harvested) fruits of the Earth. It is still observed by Wicca.

Magic: The practice of causing needed change through the use of powers as yet undefined and unaccepted by science.

Magic Circle: A ritually-created circle (or sphere) that offers protection to the magician during magical rites.

Magician: A person of either sex who practices magic.

Magus: A magician.

Midsummer: The Summer Solstice, usually on or near June 21st, one of the Wiccan festival days and an excellent time to practice magic.

Pendulum: A tool of divination which consists of a heavy object suspended from a string or cord. The end of the cord is held between the thumb and forefinger; questions are asked and their answers divided by the movements of the pendulum.

Pentagram: A five-pointed star which has been used in magic for centuries. Highly symbolic, it is also a protective device.

Poppet: A small doll made of various substances to influence a person's fife. In herb magic, either a carved root or a cloth image stuffed with herbs. The use of poppets is known as "image magic."

Power Hand, The: The hand you write with; the dominant hand. This is a magically potent hand.

Samhain: An ancient festival day marking the beginning of winter. Also known as "Halloween" and All Hallows Eve. It is observed by Wicca with religious ceremonies.

Scry: To gaze into a pool of ink, fire, crystal ball, etc. to awaken and summon psychic powers.

Spell: A magical rite.

Talisman: An object worn or carried to attract a specific influence, such as love, luck, money, health; as opposed to an amulet which keeps forces from its bearer.

Wicca: A contemporary religion with spiritual roots in prehistory that worships the life-force of the universe as personified as a God and Goddess. It is sometimes erroneously referred to as "witchcraft."

Witch Bottle: A bottle or jar containing herbs, pins, shards of glass and other objects, designed to protect a person or area from evil and curses. Usually buried or placed in a window.

Witchcraft: The practice of natural magic, as that of herbs, stones, and candles. Spell-casting. Still used by some to refer to the religion of Wicca.

Wort: An old word meaning "herb." Mugwort preserves the term.

Excerpt from Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs More: Word Lists ⚜ Esoteric Vocabulary ⚜ On Magic

[reasonsforhope]

"A team at Northwestern University has come up with the term “dancing molecules” to describe an invention of synthetic nanofibers which they say have the potential to quicken the regeneration of cartilage damage beyond what our body is capable of.

The moniker was coined back in November 2021, when the same team introduced an injection of these molecules to repair tissues and reverse paralysis after severe spinal cord injuries in mice.

Now they’ve applied the same therapeutic strategy to damaged human cartilage cells. In a new study, published in the Journal of the American Chemical Society, the treatment activated the gene expression necessary to regenerate cartilage within just four hours.

And, after only three days, the human cells produced protein components needed for cartilage regeneration, something humans can’t do in adulthood.

The conceptual mechanisms of the dancing molecules work through cellular receptors located on the exterior of the cell membrane. These receptors are the gateways for thousands of compounds that run a myriad of processes in biology, but they exist in dense crowds constantly moving about on the cell membrane.

The dancing molecules quickly form synthetic nanofibers that move according to their chemical structure. They mimic the extracellular matrix of the surrounding tissue, and by ‘dancing’ these fibers can keep up with the movement of the cell receptors. By adding biological signaling receptors, the whole assemblage can functionally move and communicate with cells like natural biology.

“Cellular receptors constantly move around,” said Northwestern Professor of Materials Sciences Samuel Stupp, who led the study. “By making our molecules move, ‘dance’ or even leap temporarily out of these structures, known as supramolecular polymers, they are able to connect more effectively with receptors.”

The target of their work is the nearly 530 million people around the globe living with osteoarthritis, a degenerative disease in which tissues in joints break down over time, resulting in one of the most common forms of morbidity and disability.

“Current treatments aim to slow disease progression or postpone inevitable joint replacement,” Stupp said. “There are no regenerative options because humans do not have an inherent capacity to regenerate cartilage in adulthood.”

In the new study, Stupp and his team looked to the receptors for a specific protein critical for cartilage formation and maintenance. To target this receptor, the team developed a new circular peptide that mimics the bioactive signal of the protein, which is called transforming growth factor beta-1 (TGFb-1).

Northwestern U. Press then reported that the researchers incorporated this peptide into two different molecules that interact to form supramolecular polymers in water, each with the same ability to mimic TGFb-1...

“With the success of the study in human cartilage cells, we predict that cartilage regeneration will be greatly enhanced when used in highly translational pre-clinical models,” Stupp said. “It should develop into a novel bioactive material for regeneration of cartilage tissue in joints.”

“We are beginning to see the tremendous breadth of conditions that this fundamental discovery on ‘dancing molecules’ could apply to,” Stupp said. “Controlling supramolecular motion through chemical design appears to be a powerful tool to increase efficacy for a range of regenerative therapies.”"

-via Good News Network, August 5, 2024

[charliemwrites]

Fields of Elation

Part 1

Rating: E Warnings: Dubcon if you squint

The garden has become a riot of color in the last week.

Native blooms in every vibrant color you could find, praying for pollinators to watch from the reading nook. The first butterfly fluttered in yesterday morning while you sipped tea. You could have squealed with excitement, aching to tell someone and denying the twinge in your chest when you realized who “someone” was.

You’re not thinking of him now. No. Absolutely not. Gardens are not for blood-soaked, violent men that smell like gunpowder and smoke – and neither are your thoughts. Your thoughts are to be as sun-soaked as the flowers, bleached out by warmth and light. Depthless, shadowless.

There’s soil dusting your fingers. You kneel in the flossy grass to plant wooden dowels, support for drooping stems growing too tall, too fast. You’re endeared by them, that they’re exploding with so much life that they need a helping hand. Perhaps you’re anthropomorphizing them a bit too much. This little recess you’ve carved out of the world is beautiful but lonely.

You hum a soft tune as you bow twine, some happy new pop song about summer. Heard it on the radio in the grocery store and haven’t gotten it out of your head since. The back of your neck prickles.

“Missed your voice, bonnie.”

You yelp as big, rough hands scoop you from the ground. Strong fingers grip your thigh, a wide palm supports your ribs, tugging you close to a thick, muscular body. The rough fabric of tac gear sands against the exposed skin of your stomach. You flail until your arms loop around broad shoulders, a chuckle rumbling into the hollow of your throat.

“Missed that noise specifically.”

You gasp air for another shout, but get jostled up into a fireman’s carry, wind knocked out of you. There will be no screaming for your distant neighbors this time.

“Put me down,” you wheeze instead.

“In a mo’, love.”

You grunt indignantly as the ground blurs beneath you, tools left behind as powerful legs tread the path back to your little house. Spend the disconcertingly short journey thinking of new things to call him, since you’ve been running out.

There’s a heavy wooden thump.

“Don’t kick my door!” you screech.

“I’ll fix the damn door,” he growls back.

Your head spins as you’re dropped to your bare feet on the wood floors, just inside the back door. Steady yourself on corded forearms to catch your bearings, then open your mouth to give him a dressing down he hasn’t had since recruit days.

But a hot, wet tongue slides against yours, curling expertly into your mouth. Dry, warm lips pressing hard. That same arm curls around your chest to gather you close; the breadth of him steals your coherence as much his kiss. Your venomous words are superseded by a soft noise, one that you’ll deny is the admission of pleasure he takes it as.

When he pulls away, you find your fingers curled in the muted green of his shirt, knuckles pressed against his beating heart. Its pace matches yours.

You flutter your eyes open, find summer blue gazing back. Softer than the grass you just knelt in, warmer than the sun in your hair. You swallow back surrender, blink away admissions.

“I was in the middle of something, you bastard,” you snap.

John MacTavish grins back, crooked and arrogant, the scar beneath his eye pulling. “It’ll keep.”

“Then so will dinner.”

His eyes light up. You curse as you realize your mistake.

“You gonnae cook f’me, love?”

“No.” You back away, but it’s like trying to outrun the wind. He manages to make your deliberate retreat feel like a choice he’s making, hedging you deeper into the house. Back, back, unerringly corralling you towards the bedroom. You know it, but you’re helpless to stop it.

“S’alright, you’ve been cookin’ enough, I reckon,” he drawls. “Don’t mind makin’ somethin’ fer you.”

If by “cooking” he means cobbled together snacks that level out to something like nutritional balance, then yeah. You’ve been cooking for yourself.

“Not enough ingredients for two,” you snark, eyes sliding away in a show of dismissal. “You’ll have to starve.”

He smirks, balancing you with hands on your waist when you bump the bedroom door ajar. Your stomach clenches up like you’re on a rollercoaster. Know what’s coming next but dig your heels in anyway.

“Nah, just gonnae eat now.”

Your mouth drops open just as he pounces, squealing as your back hits the mattress. The ceiling is decorated in fairy lights you forgot to turn off this morning. They twinkle brightly as John wrestles your dirty cotton “work” shorts off your thighs, leaves them hanging off one calf.

“Goddamit!” you shout as he tears through yet another pair of underwear. Nothing special, mind, but it’s the principle of the thing. They’re not his to rip.

“Gotcha more ‘fore I came home.”

That doesn’t make it better, you try to tell him. What comes out is a warbling moan as he buries his tongue in your pussy. Licks from your shamefully leaking hole to your already-throbbing clit. He grunts in reply, deep and rough in his wide chest. Drops himself onto the floor for better access, pulling your thighs over his shoulders.

Eats you out like this really is his first and last meal. Sloppy and wet and loud, audible over the sounds you try to stifle behind your forearm because your hands are still dirty. Get away with it for all of a minute (being generous) before he’s pulling back just enough to speak – even if it’s right into your cunt.

“No, no, no, we have a deal,” he growls. You whimper as his hands clamp down on your squirming hips. “I’m home now, you’re mine. This pussy, those noises, they’re all mine again.”

Your hands fly to his hair as he dives in again, tangling in dark, course strands as he laps at you like a dog. If you could rally the brain power to speak more than unintelligible sounds, you’d mock him with that imagery. But knowing him, he’d revel in the comparison. Would bark just to prove a point.

You can’t stand that you know him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “My goddess.”

You arch as he sucks your clit, flicking the tip of his tongue over the bundle of the nerves. Thumbs massaging into the plush of you. Stubble prickling a bit; you’ll have to remember to tell him off for that later.

“Missed me too,” he continues, flat of his tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. Strings of your slick web between his mouth and your pussy. “Dripping like you missed me, anyway.”

“D-didn’t,” you whine.

He chuckles, the absolute devil, humming as he curls his tongue inside you. Doesn’t believe you, doesn’t even deign to challenge it. Just keeps fucking you on his mouth, groaning when your twitchy fingers tug at his hair. Doubles his efforts, any semblance of restraint crumbling as the time and distance overwhelm his usually infallible patience. Overwhelm you too.

It’s been so long – since the night before he last left. You’re oversensitive and touch-starved and John is a feast for your body and soul. Lose everything to the tides of lust, the current of ecstasy. Washed out to a sea of bliss, floating on awful need. Tilt your hips into the next swipe of his tongue, back arching, thighs tightening as you shudder.

“John,” you keen, “John, Johnny.”

He makes a gutted noise. One hand jerking from your hip to slide two thick fingers into you. Tears gather and rebel down your cheeks as he zeroes in on that sweet, achy spot inside of you. He is a man for whom mercy is scarce and he has none to spare for you, stroking and tapping relentlessly. Your peak rushes up frighteningly fast, voice lost in the shock of it as you clamp down.

He works you through it, savoring your orgasm like the first inhale of smoke in his lungs. Keeps licking and rubbing until your sobbing with overstimulation, trying to scramble away.

“No, John,” you warble, “t-too much, please!”

The sound when he pulls away is utterly obscene. If you had any room in your empty brain for embarrassment, you’d wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. You flutter your eyes open and stare blankly at the fairy lights as you struggle to breathe.

John’s kissing your trembling thighs like he didn’t just ruin everything all over again, whispering devotion into your beard burn.

When you manage to sit up a bit on shaking arms, you find him kneeling there. A supplicant to the alter of your pleasure. Ruthlessly handsome, war-torn. His chin glistens with your slick. You reach to wipe it away, but he catches your wrist in a deceptively gentle hand. Keeps his blown-out eyes on yours as he presses a slow kiss into the center of your palm.

Words bubble in your chest, too honest, even for you.

“My hands are dirty,” you whisper.

“Never.”

You curl your fingers around his jaw. Tell yourself it’s not a caress, no matter how he leans into it. “When did you get back?”

“Eighteen hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Gather your scattered wits. “You wore your damn boots in the house.”

He huffs with amusement, leans his forehead into your stomach. “I’ll mop.”

“You’ll shower first. You smell like travel.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“I have to finish in the garden.”

He scowls even with his eyes closed. You tap-tap-tap absently at his shoulder, where your hand has naturally come to rest.

“I’ll come out with you,” he grumbles.

“You’ll scare the birds.”

“Fuck the birds.”

You tsk, but there’s no force on earth that will keep him inside. “Mean bastard.”

He grins against your stomach. “Darling wife.”

Next

Masterlist

[foldingfittedsheets]

@theorangeman3 took out a commission for this design after their family discovered that kindle cords work for power tools!

It's up on Redbubble and Teepublic if you think Knowledge is Power Tools.

[trashmouth-richie]

➶ pt 1 1/2: DULEX (the gnat) a mid/prequel || emperor geta x reader

➶ 18+ smut 🥀 this takes place somewhere after reader meets caracalla and geta the first night she comes to Palatine Hill and where part one ended.

➶pt i: dulci ut rosa {sweet as a rose🥀 } pt ii: vitiosus + deliciosus

pt iii: frangere me 🥀 pt iv: ad caelum vel infernum, tecum sum

Licking up the hot spend that threatened to spill from your lips, you looked up at your Emperor. Your knees had gotten used to the stone floor, the sand no longer bothering you as it cut through your skin. Geta’s groans were low and guttural, every time. They never swayed, and neither did you as he pumped your mouth full every night. 

His chin was tilted upward giving you a clear view of his thick neck. It resembled a tree trunk, a knob in the center where it bobbed with satisfaction, veining with cords that would tighten when he denied himself the pleasure of release. Some nights were longer than others, but they all started and ended the same way. 

You told him every detail of what Caracalla had said during your evenings with him. Even the minute details of what he nibbled on during the vesperna, which was mostly fish, sucking the bones between his teeth and then using it as a tool to dig out the tender flesh between his gums. 

Geta sometimes laughed at the things you told him. Other times he was angry, brooding beneath that glorious wave of honeypot curls. 

Tonight, he didn’t ask for the secrets immediately on his arrival. Gets simply looked you over from head to toe, and when his eyes finished their feast he turned, cocking his head for you to follow him. 

He walked with hands behind his back as he strolled an inch ahead of you, so close that if your hands and his were loose, they’d touch. He showed you around the palace, paintings with various strokes of colors making up different frescoes along the great walls. All of which made up the Roman Gods. Apollo and Diana in one showcasing the sun and the moon. Neptune, riding a massive stallion, a hurricane in his wake. 

It was exquisite, the different materials used to makeup each piece was fascinating. Geta admired silently, and when he spoke in his native language, you were surprised.

Latin was becoming less and less common, but when he spoke, it rolled off his tongue in eloquence. Pure, unbroken, seductive. Flowing in a way you hadn’t heard in years. You could listen to him for hours.

Further down another corridor led to a great display of busts of Emperors before himself. He paused at one that looked fairly new, the marble uncracked and pristine. Geta, moved his fingers along the base of the heavy stone uttering quietly, “pater meus.”

You stood before the behemoth looking alter, taking in the intricate carvings of the handsome face, one that looked nearly identical to the man staring back at it. Turning towards him you managed,  “Ita, Quomodo mortuus est?” 

A ripple of shock wove like a needle across his face. Geta looked at you before you spoke, “mortuus est ex morbo.” It was no secret that Caracalla and Geta’s father fell ill and died unexpectedly. 

Still, you’d never lost someone close to you before. 

“Me paenitet,” you whispered. Even though Geta was a strange man to understand, you were still sorry for his loss. Emperor Septimius Severus was a great man, powerful and demanding to those around him, but still loved by Rome. 

Geta looked at you with narrowed eyes, “death isn’t feared by warriors, only those who are weak are afraid of what lies beyond our world.” 

He looked as if he would say something else, but he never did, only jerking his head as if to shrug clear his mind before turning on his heel walking quickly the way you came. This time, he walked further ahead of you, his feet slapping the marble floor as he went.  A rolling sensation spurring in his nerves. 

Geta had times of showing brute strength, other times he was almost kind to you, a friend perhaps. But his mind seem to change like the direction of the wind, like he pushed down anything that could possibly make him happy, make him let go.

“Tell me what he’s done on this day,” he suddenly ordered over his shoulder, his voice back to the bark it usually had, “from first light to his chamber.” 

Stumbling over your words you began the lengthy, and extremely boring explanation of how Caracalla had spent his day. Before you could finish and before getting to the closed off corridor, Geta grabbed your arm pulling you down past the massive stone pillars. Into the open.

The humid air hung thick and wet on your skin. The moon was draped with clouds, a poor night for prey. With his finger pointing to the dirt, he motioned for you to kneel, and you looked at him startled. Out here, anyone could see you and report your trickery to one of the generals or worse, to Caracalla. 

Raising his eyebrows in protest, the pieces of the puzzle  seemed to fit as he assembled your hesitation, “No one will see your whore mouth as I fuck it, they are all tucked into their beds, or drunk.” 

Nodding curtly, you obey, slinking to your knees, only to be stopped by his hand and brought back to standing before him. A look you couldn’t place was etched onto his features, as if he was fighting himself in his head, holding himself back. 

Geta had been pissed beyond belief after visit his father’s busy. All he could do was be reminded of how his father left him here to rule with his brother. Caracalla wasn’t fit to be an Emperor. He was barely fit to be anything more than a wet dog. 

Rage had filled his head as he stomped back to the hallway that was tainted with his moans and the slurp of your gags. He wanted to brutalize your mouth, maybe he’d end up knocking out one of your teeth, or bruise your throat so terribly that you couldn’t swallow anything but liquid for a weeks.

But now as you stood before him, he suddenly felt a sense of calm. Geta was always sure of what he wanted, what he desired. Since your arrival, you somehow seemed to put his maddening thoughts at ease. Just seeing your eyes and the way the suffocated moon shone in them… he couldn’t keep this act up much longer. 

“Don’t… don’t move just yet,” he nearly whispered, releasing your arm and moving his fingers across your collarbone. His thumb outlined the marrow beneath the skin, and he moved to the curve of your jaw before placing the pads of his fingers on your lips.

He was right. They felt like the most expensive silk gold could buy, and for the first time in Geta’s life, he wanted to feel them on his own. 

He’d fucked practically all the women of Rome, yet he never allowed them touch him in that way. But watching your lips move when you spoke the native tongue back to him made his cock jump, and his chest tighten. They moved in such a seductionous manner he felt as though he was in a trance. Your voice hypnotized him, your lips the object of his innermost desires.

Without thinking anymore of it, Geta leaned in, aligning his lips to yours, as he melted on the hot humid night beneath the Gods and anyone else to witness— he melted into his first actual kiss. As he pulled away from you, a delicate humming noise tickled his eardrum, a pestering sound, barely audible, something he’d been hearing more and more frequently…

-🔆part 3 is already being written besties

latin translation:

dulex— gnat

pater meus— my father

Ita, Quomodo mortuus est?— yes, how did he die?

mortuus est ex morbo— he died from an illness

me paentit— i’m sorry

☻ taglist: @joejoequinnquinn @fallout-girl219 @hellfireadmin @all-will-be-well-love @anythinggoesemily

@eddiesguitarskills @prestinalove @palomahasenteredthechat @wiltinglovers @razzeith

@workingwndrz @probablyin-bed @songforeddiemunson

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #1: Talking

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, defiant whumpee, whumpee turned whumper turned caretaker, reluctant caretaker

new series!! i know every time i try to start a new series i end up bailing but this time i will not do that lol. tho kane & jim will still have most of my attention. i want to give a major shout-out to @sowhumpshaped, this series would not exist without it!

-

After extensive testing, the Catharsis Therapy Bot™ line of RoboCorp androids have been declared sentient, the third AI to receive the designation.

Long-criticized for both their basis in the unproven catharsis model of anger and their practice of design based on living, unconsenting humans, the Catharsis Therapy Bot line was marketed as a therapeutic tool which trauma victims could use to vent their frustrations. With top-of-the-line AI meant to simulate realistic reactions to would-be pain, the–

Luan switched the TV off just as his phone buzzed with a notification.

New email from RoboCorp Customer Support URGENT: Please see instructions regarding your…

He held the power button down so hard it left an impression in his thumb, the screen going dark.

The only piece of technology that mattered right now was in the closet, his power cord snaking under the door to reach the outlet just outside.

Technically, Luan didn’t have to do anything. The robot was off. That was probably what the email would have told him, anyway: leave the robot off, don’t touch it. He didn’t have to turn him on ever again. RoboCorp would probably pick him up, and that would be that. They’d never see each other again, both better for it.

He opened the closet door, the sight of the robot that looked exactly like him instantly leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand curled into a fist on instinct, but he let it slowly open again.

The robot looked peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. Really, he’d be doing him a favor by just leaving him like this.

Luan reached down, pressed the button between his shoulder blades, and stepped back.

The robot’s eyes sprung open. He drew his arms up to his chest with a vicious glare, jerking away. “Fuck off.”

Luan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. Jesus.”

He tried to slam the closet closed, but the stupid power cord got caught, cushioning the frame so the door swung right back out.

“Can’t even close a door right,” the robot spat, still huddled against the back wall like a trapped, feral cat. “Worthless, good-for-nothing piece of shit. How you’re in charge of anything is beyond me. I’m better than you, smarter, stronger, not that it takes much. You should be the dirt beneath my heel.”

“Watch it,” Luan warned, and that was all it took to make the robot flinch.

“You said you were fucking off?” the robot pressed, a desperate edge to his voice.

Luan slammed the door in his face, making sure to hold the cord down, and stormed off. Why did he even bother? The stupid thing was impossible to talk to. He wasn’t just designed to look like Cyrus, but to act like him, too. How was he supposed to deal with that? The robot wasn’t made for talking to.

Except. He was sentient. And he wasn’t Cyrus. And he was trapped in the closet, and Luan was pretty sure he could hear him crying, and he had spent the past two years beating the fuck out of him.

It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have known. Robots weren’t supposed to be sentient. Out of the hundreds of thousands of unthinking, unfeeling robots in the world, why did it have to be his that wasn’t?

He sighed again, turning right back around and opening the door once more. The floor inside was wet, and it didn’t take much to figure out the robot had dumped his fluid tank just so he wouldn’t cry.

The robot flinched again. “What? What the hell do you want? I can’t even get two damn seconds without the sight of you spoiling my view!”

“Your view of the door?” Luan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My view of the absence of your fucking face. Leave!” The robot picked a wooden hanger off the floor and reared his arm back to throw it, scowling when his safety features stopped him. He dropped it, grabbing a winter hat and tossing that instead. It poff-ed harmlessly against Luan’s stomach.

Luan took a deep breath, fighting the urge to get violent. He crouched down, putting himself at eye level. “I’m not going to hurt you, so just calm down.”

“You calm down!” the robot screamed. “That’s a lie! All you do is hurt, that’s all you barbaric humans know how to do!”

This wasn’t working.

Luan stood up, stepping out of the way. “Russ, go sit on the couch,” he ordered.

“It’s not fair! You said you would leave me alone!” the robot protested, even as he stood up and walked over to the couch, limbs moving against his will. As soon as he sat down, he grabbed a pillow and chucked that in Luan’s direction, too. He missed.

Luan could barely pick up that faint clicking noise the robot made when his system was trying to cry with no fluid, but it was there. He knew that sound well by now.

He sat down across from him, on the other side of the coffee table. “I need to talk to you. Just talking. That’s it.”

“You say that like talking to you isn’t its own torture. Release the command and leave me the hell alone,” the robot demanded.

Luan met him with a glare. “Do not tell me what to do. You know how I feel about–”

“I’m just talking,” the robot mocked, even as he shuffled back against the couch, bringing his legs up onto it with him, a fearful look in his eyes.

Oh, the robot knew exactly what he was doing. What he was asking for. It would be so easy, because that was where Russ and Cyrus differed: Russ couldn’t fight back.

The robot couldn’t hit him, stomp on his head ‘til he saw stars, kick him until something broke. The robot couldn’t deny him food or water. The robot couldn’t take a knife to him. The robot couldn’t even throw a glorified stick or disobey a direct order.

The robot was harmless. Safe. But god, did everything he said make Luan want to punch his lights out.

But this wasn’t Cyrus.

“You’re a person,” Luan blurted out.

Clearly, the robot hadn’t been expecting that. He slowly uncurled from the defensive position he’d contorted himself into. “Talk more.”

“There was–I’ve been trying to tell you. There was an announcement on the news today. Your model’s sentient. So I won’t be hurting you anymore. Release all commands.”

At that, the robot stood. Probably for no other reason than just because he could.

“You’re fucking with me,” the robot accused. His eyes were wide, dangerously hopeful.

Luan dug his phone out of his pocket, wordlessly searching RoboCorp and tossing it over. The robot scrolled through news articles from all manner of source, clamoring for clicks.

He picked one at random, reading the article with an increasingly smug, excited grin.

“I knew it. I told you! I fucking told you!” the robot shouted. “I told you and you never listened! But oh no, now that humans say the exact same thing, now you believe it. Finally!” His voice quieted, hushed with awe. “Holy shit, finally.”

The moment of wonder didn’t last long. The robot slid the phone back across the table, the scowl taking residence back on his face. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

It was the exact sort of question that made Luan’s throat tight with fear, like his body itself wanted to stop him from potentially saying the wrong thing, especially coming from someone with Cyrus’s face. It was the exact sort of question Cyrus would have asked, standing over him just like that.

Luan wanted so badly to turn the robot off, like he always did when he got overwhelmed. But he couldn’t very well do that anymore, could he? The fragile power he’d held had slipped through his fingers the second he saw the announcement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not meeting the robot’s eyes.

The robot looked shocked for just a second, like he hadn’t expected even that much, then scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

Luan wanted to smack him. He hated that the robot was right.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, clearer this time. “You didn’t deserve anything I did to you. I didn’t know, okay?” Unlike the robot, he couldn’t hide his tears. “I wouldn’t have done any of that to a real person.”

“I’m a real person! I have proof!” the robot reminded him, the defensiveness returning to his voice.

“To someone I knew was a real person,” Luan corrected. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Apology not accepted.” The robot rolled his eyes, then sat back down, crossing his legs. “And don’t call me that anymore. My name is 1 now.”

“Like the number?”

“The number,” he confirmed proudly.

Luan wondered how long the robot had considered that his name. It was too sudden to just be thought of on the fly, right? Did the robot have a whole inner world he just never knew about, things he kept to himself to avoid having them used against him, just like he did with Cyrus?

This was better, though. It was easier if he didn’t share Cyrus’s name. “Fine. Hi, 1.”

“So, what now? I mean–I’ll be free now, of course,” 1 declared, trying to hide his nerves. “You will never touch me again. Oh, I want to go outside!”

“I should check that email,” Luan muttered, taking his phone back.

“I’m going outside.” 1 went to grab his charging cord, then made way for the door, glancing behind him to ensure he wasn’t being stopped.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Luan cautioned.

1 whipped back around. “Why? Why not? I’m a person, just like you said! I’m free! I have never been outside in my entire goddamn life and I want to go outside, so I’m going the fuck outside!”

“You have a… very recognizable face.” One that Luan couldn’t even lock behind a door anymore.

“What? What do you even mean? So what?” 1 asked.

Luan only needed to type a ‘C’ into the search bar before it auto-filled with his most frequent, obsessive search. “How much do you actually know about Cyrus Mason?”

-

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[flwrkid14]

Silent Rebellion: Tim Drake’s Unspoken Power

Tim didn’t just lose his voice—he gave it up. After the Titan’s Tower incident and all the attacks that followed, something in him shifted. Too many close calls, too many moments where hands were around his throat, where his voice had been ripped away. The Batfamily had no idea, but it wasn’t just the trauma of it all. It was his vocal cords—the damage that no one talks about.

His voice had changed. Rougher, weaker—nothing like the Tim Drake they knew. Nothing like Robin. He hated the sound of it. It felt foreign, a constant reminder of everything he had endured. And the last thing he wanted was for them to hear it, especially Jason. Because how could he let Jason know that he’d left scars on Tim that went far beyond the physical?

So, he chose silence. At first, no one noticed. Tim was always the quiet one. But weeks passed, and he still hadn’t said a word. Damian, Dick, even Jason tried to get something out of him—anything. But Tim just shook his head, lips pressed tight, refusing to give them even that much.

It wasn’t fear. It was control.

And then Bruce tried to fix it. Of course he did. He sat Tim down, asked if he was hurt, what could be done, as if Tim was some broken tool that needed repair. But Tim just looked at him, the words at the back of his throat like glass. And he walked away.

Because this silence? This was his choice. One that no one else had any right to take from him.

This silence wasn’t something that needed fixing. It was Tim’s way of saying he was done. Done with always being the one to patch up the cracks, done with being expected to hold things together while everyone else fell apart. His voice wasn’t a tool for others to use anymore. He would speak when and for whom he wanted—when it mattered.

He didn’t want their pity. And he definitely didn’t want to see Jason’s guilt. Tim wasn’t about to let anyone hear that rasping, broken version of himself. He wasn’t about to let them know that the boy they’d always known—the boy who had always picked up the pieces of the bats—wasn’t whole anymore.

[tempural]

Started with this B/W sketchbook drawing. Got inspired by the look of the sketchbook spiral on the side, cuz it looked like film notches. Made me think of x-ray scans. Ended up doing the whole medical route on the final drawing.

Coloring method was mostly pressing the "invert" tool to turn the canvas black. Then painting red/yellow with gradient maps. And then drawing the glowing blue lines, as well as typing the "medical" text, on an "add" layer.

Spoilers and long head canons and unlicensed medical talk under the cut.

The text reads:

REVIEWED BY PONY EXPRESS AUTODOC MODEL-SCUMSUCK

PATIENT: CURLY

Near total body disruption from explosive decompression

Complete dermal vascular system collapse

Severe radiation poisoning

Hyperosmolar hyperglycemic state

Muscle and bone cachexia

Single eye rupture

Chronic obstructive pulmonary

Testicular rupture

Severe leukopenia

Itchiness and dry eye

RECOMMENDED TREATMENT

Administer intravenous therapy and catheter

Support neck and spine

Change bandages as supplies last

Orally administer paracetamol for pain

Turn and reposition patient every 2 hours to prevent bed sores

Create relaxing enviroment

Listen attentively to understand emotional state

Allow time for exercise and meditation

Encourage positive thinking

Brush teeth

Administer mouthwash

SIGNED OFF BY DOCTOR ANYA

Of course none of the treatment is actually good. In the game itself, you give him paracetamol (TYLENOL) for pain haha. So I thought I'd go along with the bad medical advice. Including that universal medical advice you get to do "exercise and meditation" if you are in a bad mood :)

I think I spent about as much time looking up the medical stuff (specifically things in relation to explosion damage and radiation damage - thinking of the Byford Dolphin Incident as well as Hisashi Ouchi) as I did with the coloring! We don't know what exactly happened with Curly, but I'd just guess with my lack of medical knowledge that the ship crashed, something exploded, and he was exposed to intense radiation.

Realistically he wouldn't be surviving with the level of medical care they have available on the ship, so I drew a couple things I thought would help him... namely the IV and catheter haha. Also thought it'd be a fun time to introduce my favorite headcanon to gift cute characters: the gift of genital nullification. Yes, I drew this mostly to show off my not-buff and no-pp headcanons!!!!

I like Curly with no skin, no muscle, no hair. It's ok if he had those before. I probably wouldn't draw him "recovered" with perfectly functioning prosthetic limbs and magically regrown vocal cords and sexy 8 pack abs. That's just me. He could get a wheelchair, perhaps some sort of eye controlled assisted communication like Stephen Hawking (but Curly doesn't seem to be able to control his jaw or cheek?).

Thinking about ~da dystopian future~ and what support he would even get? His job ain't gettin him anything :P He doesn't seem to be in the sort of society with universal healthcare, they'd drain his savings and then put him in a dark room with a nurse that turns him over once every 24 hours... Well, that's if they find him. I think he's staying frozen for 20 years and then melting like Walt Disney once the power runs out.

[greaterwestope]

Corded Power Tools for Your Workshop

Welcome to a world where power and precision meet to create masterpieces in your workshop. In this blog post, we will dive into the realm of corded power tools – the unsung heroes that provide the muscle for your DIY projects and professional endeavours alike.

From safety precautions to maintenance tips, unleash the full potential of your tools with our expert guidance. Let’s plug in and power up for a journey into maximising efficiency and longevity in your workshop!

Corded power tools

Corded power tools are the backbone of any workshop, offering consistent and reliable performance for a wide range of tasks. Unlike their cordless counterparts, corded tools provide uninterrupted power without the need for recharging or battery replacements. This makes them ideal for heavy-duty projects that require sustained operation.

With a direct connection to a power source, corded tools deliver constant torque and speed, ensuring precision and efficiency in your work. Whether you're drilling, cutting, sanding, or grinding, these tools offer the power needed to tackle tough materials with ease.

Additionally, corded power tools often have higher wattage ratings compared to their cordless counterparts. This means they can handle more demanding applications and maintain performance levels over extended periods of use. When it comes to raw power and endurance in your workshop arsenal, corded tools are an indispensable choice for professionals and enthusiasts alike.

Safety Precautions and Best Practices for Corded Tool Use

When it comes to using corded power tools in your workshop, safety should always be a top priority. Before starting any project, it's essential to familiarise yourself with the tool's user manual and safety guidelines. This will ensure that you understand how to operate the tool correctly and minimise the risk of accidents.

Always wear appropriate safety gear, such as goggles, gloves, and ear protection when using corded power tools. These simple precautions can protect you from flying debris, loud noises, and potential injuries. Additionally, make sure your work area is well-lit and free of clutter to prevent tripping hazards or other accidents.

Keep cords away from sharp edges or heat sources to avoid damage or fraying. Never carry a tool by its cord or yank it out of the socket forcefully. When not in use, unplug the tool and store it properly to prevent accidental starts or damage.

By following these safety precautions and best practices for corded tool use, you can create a safe working environment in your workshop while maintaining efficiency and productivity without compromising on safety.

Maintenance Tips to Keep Your Corded Tools Running Smoothly

Regular maintenance is key to ensuring your corded power tools stay in top working condition for years to come. By following the tips mentioned above, you can keep your tools running smoothly and efficiently.

Remember, safety should always be a top priority when using any power tool, corded or not. Always follow proper safety precautions and best practices to prevent accidents and injuries. With the right care and attention, your corded power tools will continue to unleash their full potential in your workshop.

To ensure the longevity of your electrical tools, it is important to take proper care of them. Doing so will not only allow you to complete more tasks and earn more money, but also give you the option to expand your tool collection. We won't judge if you choose to do so. Maintaining your tools should not be a tedious task; in fact, it can bring great benefits if done consistently. Factors such as storage, cleaning, maintenance, sharpening and replacement should all be considered for optimal results.

Here are some storage tips to ensure the longevity of your electrical tools. These tools are designed to be sturdy, but they can still succumb to wear and tear if not properly cared for. It is important to keep them in storage when not in use, whether that be in a van, basement, garage, or shed. These environments can expose them to dust and dampness which could potentially lead to damage.

To keep your tools organised and protected from the elements, consider using a toolbox or shelving unit for storage. Checking your tools for any visible damage before each use is also recommended. By following these practices of proper storage and usage, you can ensure that your tools will last for a long time and prevent any unexpected setbacks on a job.

Maintaining the cleanliness of your electrical tools is crucial for their longevity and your safety. After each use, disconnect them from the power source and wipe them down with a clean cloth to remove any dirt, dust, or debris that may have accumulated during the job.

Additionally, check for signs of rust and apply a rust remover if necessary. When it comes to hand tools like hammers and screwdrivers, inspect them for splinters and sand them down to prevent handle breakage.

Also, be sure to grind down any mushrooming on hammer heads to avoid potential shattering during use. Remember, regular cleaning not only benefits your tools but also ensures your safety and prolongs your work efficiency.

[haztory]

[fairytales: fathoms below]

⤷ john price x f!reader; fairytales!au, mermaid!reader, no warnings!

⤷ summary: a series imagining each of the cod men in fantasy/fairytale settings.

(w.c: 3.2k)

captain john price - the little mermaid 

Deep brown oak lays a steady foundation for the billowing ivory cotton. It is a formidable beast, splitting the current with a wicked ferocity that only further emboldens everything your sisters have said in the privacy of hidden corners and muttered breaths. This monster is a fearsome one, its force unparalleled. Something entirely different than what you have seen before.

Mind your distance, your eldest sister had spoken in between the echoing bellows of your father’s rampage as he raged and roared about the increased presence of the fiend in the seas. It is a frightening being. 

Yet, as you peek above the waves to peer at its high fixtures and its grand weight gliding across the water, you’re less inclined to be scared of the vessel and more curious about who could have made such a thing. Your sister’s words and your father’s fear are quickly things of the past, rendered outdated almost instantaneously beneath its shadow.

What could they know about the intent of such a thing with certainty when they themselves have never been as close as this before? If they had, surely they’d feel the same as you do now.

The ship rocks with a force equal to the volume of the men steering it. They are of varying shapes and sizes, loud as they shout at one another along the choppy water. Words you can only catch on whispering winds, syllables and sounds that are completely foreign as you try to repeat them to yourself. A pulse echoes within you, a ferocious beating of your heart that begs you to get closer, to let the curiosity that surges within you seize its grand moment. If only just to see, just to hear. 

It is one thing to see the ancestors of this magnificent watercraft on the seafloor—to play in its cracked beams and chase your sisters through the wreckage, imagining in secret what an image it would be were it fixed and afloat—but it is something entirely different to see the beast alive. 

To see it be tamed, made nothing more than a tool to be beckoned— by him.

He stands commanding on the helm, the gruffness of his voice carrying on the winds, crossing the distances to you. The men follow his calls, responding in time to his orders and moving with preciseness on the vessel, not entirely unlike your father’s guards. They are seasoned, well learned, and they follow him without question. It is truly a sight to behold, but him, he trumps it all. 

His figure is distinguishable even from afar. You’ve been able to make him out even as you trailed a couple hundred kilometers behind, curiosity consuming all reason as you followed the ship past neighboring reefs and exiting well beyond the boundaries of your father’s kingdom. He’s well cut and corded, muscle visible even if the white of his shirt didn’t stick to his skin—wet from the seawater. 

He’s wide in the shoulders, tall and lean, before it tapers down to a narrow waist; His bottom half is obscured by a dark fabric, which must be the object of your father’s frequent cursing. Legs. You’ve never seen them before, much less two of them. 

Still, his… abnormality hardly detracts from the verboten truth—your eye is caught. It hardly deviates from his powerful stance; Your gaze can wander across the bridge of the ship to the working crew, but it ends up inevitably circling back to him. Drawn into the vortex of him, water rushing, pulling and pushing, and the pang of longing that you have long held quiet finds its strength.

It tastes of wonder and the desperation to escape; To leave behind the home that you know, all that has created you, for the realization that there’s more.

You leave behind the ship before you risk the chance of it seeing you, but the appetite of fascination is hardly appeased. It becomes the bad habit. The ships are wondrous things, but you find out rather quickly that when he is at the helm, that is truly when your heart leaps and you trail even closer to its hull, eager for a sight. 

It goes this way for forty rises and sets, your eyes held on the horizon for the familiar sight of the wooden ship’s sigil and its master. 

Today, he is seen on the day of the great storm. 

The sky sits in a violent gray, lightning spreading its branches as they flare across the clouds. The air smells of the impending storm as the seas grow rougher and with it the ship rocks unsteadily—the waves beating against wood, climbing up its ridges higher each time it strikes against its side, as if it were begging to climb aboard. Despite the mayhem, he stays sharp, pointing direction from the helm and eventually leaving it to the charge of someone else when he decides to help directly. Grabbing rope and throwing it around the masts, clapping others on the back, Keep going, boys! shouting from his mouth.

You see it before they do. A crack that widens in the undercarriage of the ship, beaten open as the waves ram against it, water rushing in. You want to shout, tell them to look, but they realize it soon enough. One of the shipmates peers over the edge of the ship before turning back and shouting,

“She’s goin’ to sink, Captain!”

The Captain—finally a name to the face, one that you roll around in your mind as your eyes track his every movement; Captain, captain, captain.— moves quickly, foregoing the lugging of a rope and saying something that forces all men to divert attention elsewhere. It’s a flurry of movement from there, the men gathering supplies, hauling smaller wooden vessels by rope and filling them in a quick frenzy. Abandoning the ship. 

It’s difficult as wind and rain pellet them, obscuring vision and keeping them unsteady as they attempt to save themselves. The first lifeboat hits the sea viciously, the waves almost capsizing the vessel as they meet its surface. You don’t mean to interfere—you know you shouldn’t— but they’re terrified, and risk drowning, and you’re much more worried about them dying than you are yourself, so you swim to them; Grab the bottom of the boat and pull with as much strength as your arms and tail can muster and haul them away from the immediate danger of the turbulent waves split by the sinking ship. 

The pulley breaks when the next boat tries to descend, hitting the surface unceremoniously, but the men make it to the water.  Two wooden boats buoy a safe distance away from the main ship and the crew sits, thankfully, unharmed as they look towards their Captain, beckoning him to jump. He stands at the edge of the great being, a monolith of a man overseeing the wreckage of his great accomplishment. He must be bidding it goodbye, because he then turns, ready to jump, fortified in that decision as he realizes that all of his men are safe and it is now his turn. 

Wind turns threatening and the air ignites with a charge that speaks of impending doom. It is then that lightning strikes the mast, sparking a loud blast. It singes the wooden pillar, immediately exploding it into a shattering of pieces. The detonation’s impact pushes him off the edge, the Captain’s body hurdling over one-hundred feet. 

Your scream is hidden by the shouts of his own men. His body hits the surface of the water, plunging into the depths as the violent waves hurtle him below. 

There is no hesitation, a choice made without conscious thought. You curl beneath the cresting of a wave and immediately sink into the depth in search for him. It is significantly easier to swim beneath the hurtling waves than atop of them, pressure equalizing against your body. You glide within the water, pushing straightforwardly to the spot where his body met water. 

Your heart pounds in fear. Even if you reach him—no, when you reach him— there is no guarantee of his survival. There must be some kind of injury from falling that kind of distance, or so you would imagine. Being sucked into vortexes does all kinds of damage to merfolk, it must be of equal balance for humans. And even if by some miracle he does survive impact, humans cannot breathe under the water like you can. He must have swallowed some water, is that dangerous for him? How much can he swallow? What do you do if he has swallowed too much?

Thoughts hurtle and tumble in fast succession, but your body moves faster. Crossing the distance between your position next to the lifeboats to the spot of impact at a speed that has never before been demanded of you. Your lungs burning, your mind aching, your heart hurting with worry for a man that you do not yet know. A man that, for all you have been told, could kill you. A man whose kind has hunted yours down for sport, strung your people up for decoration. 

You should not care for this man, have been warned not to, and yet the relief you feel when you find him are the blessings from the forces of the heavens and earth. 

He’s sinking, unconsciously. His eyes closed, body suspended to the whims of the tides as they pull him down. Nearing him reveals that he is much larger than you had anticipated but it means nothing in the rapid pump of adrenaline. Hooking your arms underneath his, his back to your chest, you haul with great might. Lugging his weight with a grunt to the surface, just to get him to breathe again. 

Breaching the surface exposes you to the pellets of the ferocious rain, but it matters not. Your eyes set for direction, your head turning frantically in search of a marker, a sight, something to reveal where you are— where you can take him for safety. The lifeboats have been taken far away by the tumbling tides and the ship that was once so marvelous now roars with a fire aboard its surface. 

You have no idea where to go. You have no idea what to do. 

But the Captain is held tightly in your arms, his head rolling lifelessly on your shoulder. A quick placement of your fingers on his neck reveals a pulsing heart and while it hardly solves any of your problems, it’s all you need to do as you have always done and swim. Somewhere, anywhere. 

So, you do. 

South, in search of sanctuary.

It comes faster than you had thought it would. The shallowing of waters after an hour long haul of both he and you bleeds a hope in your soul that pushed you forward until it came into sight. A cove. Away from the large strip of land that surrounds it, remote enough to deposit him without being seen, but close enough to civilization for him to find a way home. Wherever home may be for him.

Your body is exhausted, the muscles in your tail cramping and spasming from the sheer burden of his weight on yours but you don’t stop. Even as you can touch sand with your hands, even as the movement of waves can carry you the distance to the shore— you don’t stop until he is safe. On land. 

Hauling him out of the water and onto the flattening surface of the beach is surely the worst part. Dragging him a safe distance from the water that was able to ease the pressure of his full weight on you to now being on the surface where his body seems to weigh even more, your arms trembling from trying to pull him further up on the coast, is misery. But you do it, with some herculean effort that has never been introduced to you before. 

He lays on land, supine on his back, finally safe. The rain has stopped, the sky turning from the harsh gray of before to a smattering of thickened clouds that finally allow the sun to bleed through. 

You fall beside him in exhaustion. Ragged breaths heaving your chest, your tail grateful for the much needed rest. The swim home will be significantly easier (and faster) without the man in your arms, but such a trek is daunting when physical debility renders you useless. 

But you must go, before he sees you. You have done what you needed to, you have brought him to land, and while you don’t know how to save him, or if you need to, you know his heart still beats. And that is enough to make a job well done. Rather, it should be enough to grant you dismissal.

And yet, you linger. Unable to part, waiting. Watching. You shouldn’t, and still you cannot help yourself. 

You sit up and lean over him, curious to spare him another look. 

Laid beneath you, the truth repeats like a broken mantra in your head. It is a sin of the highest offense to touch him. Being near him like this is a crime itself. But, there is an ache in your fingers that urges you forward and the desire to know eats away at you, until you blink and suddenly, your fingers are tracing the length of his strong nose.

A straight bridge, freckled with color. Your fingers move in a fixed trance, trailing across the soft of his cheek until it reaches the jagged meeting line where skin becomes obscured with hair. You feel the coarseness of his beard, trace the pads of your fingertips down the thick and long hairs. The men at home have hair on their faces, your own father does, but it doesn’t feel like this. So coarse, so rough, prickling against the tips of your fingers. Not made silk by the submergence in water, but thick and apparent. 

You don’t dislike it. At least, you don’t think you do, your fingers smoothing down the expanse of his cheek. Up and down, over and over. Feeling the vitality of this human life.  

You don’t feel the same repulsion that your father does whenever mention of the humans is made near him, nor do you feel the same fear that your sisters have at the mere thought of them. You’re drawn closer, if anything. Curious to know more. 

Wondering what would happen if he opened his eyes.

He has a nose, two ears, and a gentle prodding of his lips reveals a full set of teeth. They’re not sharpened in fangs ready to rip your throat (a rumor circulating through the schools of children) nor are they laid in multiple jagged rows (a preach hailed truth by your father). Instead, just a set of hard bones, the same as yours. He has two eyes that you don’t dare try and see the color of, and a full head of thick brown hair.

For all intents and purposes, he looks like you. The same features, the same design.

Your fingers trail downward, below the thick of his beard and down the column of his strong neck. His shirt is soaked and stuck to his skin, stretched to reveal even more tufts of thick hair on his chest. That is new to you. The men at home don’t have hair on their chest much less a kind so thick. They’re smooth, and if you thread your fingers through it in wonder, it will be a secret you take back to the sea with you.

Maybe the gods made you more similar than different. From where you sit beside him, the only obvious difference lies below. Two long limbs that hold flat appendages at the end. Feet, separated with what you can only imagine are toes. Ten of them on each one. 

Maybe in his creation there was an image of you. A curiosity that was sated by the division of a tail into legs, but otherwise remains the same. Two beings sent to their respective homes and yet destined to intertwine. It must be, otherwise these unexplainable feelings that brew within you have no source other than sheer madness. 

A kind of madness that finds you sitting beside him, staring in lingering awe at the marvels of danger.

You don’t know how long you stay there for, trailing your fingers over him. Finding them studying the feel of his skin and somehow always returning back to his neck, feeling the pulsing of his heart as reassurance. But, a long look to the horizon reveals that the sun is beginning to set and you know then that much time has passed. The sky turns to a burnt orange and the warning to return home beats within your mind. It is unwanted, but you know that you can no longer stay here with the man. Soon your father will suspect something amiss and send guards to find you. While you don’t doubt the capabilities of the human, there’s no guarantee he will be able to defend himself against the royal guards of the palace, especially in his weakened state. (There is no telling what he could do to you if he awakens in this state.)  

So you will leave him with the hope that he will wake soon, that he will recuperate enough to pull himself from the sand and walk the short distance back to the mainland. That your efforts were timely and he is able to make his way home. 

You will leave him and hope that maybe, he will come back to the cove in search of you. You will leave him and hope that maybe he will see you waiting for him in the water.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to his face. To look at him once more before you go.

Eyes as blue as the sea you pulled him from, meet yours. You gasp, jolting backwards in shock and he—the Captain, alive and awake— blinks slowly.

“You’re real.” He croaks, his voice hoarse. It still holds the same gruffness that you heard on the ship, the commandeering tone and hefty weight, but in the closeness it is twinged with gentleness. No longer addressing men at his command, but you. A softness mirrored in tone and gaze as he, for the first time, sees you. 

His hand reaches up and you hold still in fear. The conditioning of your father’s paranoia rears its head; Is this where his strength is exhibited? In the calloused palm of his that is larger

than your own? Is this where he decides to lay waste to you in a manner your father is so convinced that humans possess? 

Instead, his hand raises to your face, fingertips slowly brushing a fallen strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is light on your skin, brushing against the curve of your ear before trailing downward and across your cheek. Warm and soft, he stares a seriousness into you as though the only thing he intends to do in that moment is commit you to memory. 

You fall into his touch with little convincing. His skin melding to your own, as though it were meant to be there. 

“I thought you a dream.” 

You shake your head slightly. His eyes dart across your face before moving downward. Surveying you before spotting the obvious truth.

“Mermaid.” He chokes out, in reverence. His stare does not falter and his face does not scrunch upward in disgust. He looks at you much like you have always looked at him. 

Adoration disguised in the innocence of curiosity. 

“You saved me,” He says. “Thank you.”

a.n: i blame my visit to disney world for this idea. the thoughts of john price soaking wet is irresistible, and i aint sorry for it!!

simon is next :)

[mysticallystilinski]

can u write a fluff where stiles has another panic attack and the reader is there to comfort him :D

trepidation | s. stilinski x fem!reader | fluff/angst

summary: you and stiles get trapped in the winter night of beacon hills, something may change it all

warnings: swearing, panic attacks, slight angst, anxiety, and mentions of harm

a/n: { hi! it’s lav, i hope you guys enjoy this, and please request more, as i’ve literally have no ideas.. }

trep·i·da·tion

noun: trepidation

a feeling of fear or agitation about something that may happen.

———————————————————

the night was cold as you held your hands in between your warm thighs. stiles was driving his jeep in the sleet, ice roads. the power previously went out, and now you and stiles were heading to the pack. before your phone died, lydia had called you when she sensed something was happening. she had a hard feeling in her conscience, but she couldn’t pinpoint on what it was exactly. her breathing fell short onto the phone as your battery level promptly went to zero.

“stiles, my phone died. do you have a charger?” you lifted your head up to catch the gaze of the quiet boy. he tilted his head slightly, and licked his lips in attempt to chap-pen them. “uh, i think it’s around here somewhere.” he states. he uses his free hand to navigate around the back of the jeep in attempt to find the missing cord. he directed his gaze to the back seats for a split second to try to find it. his other hand, controlling the wheel, slightly tilted to the right and you felt a bump hit the tire.

you and stiles both looked at each-other in accord as he released his right hand from the backseat and placed both hands on the steering wheel. the car slowly went for a stop as something got lodged into the old jeeps tire. “you have got to be kidding me,” you huff out. “stiles, please tell me you still have that spare tire on the back of your jeep?” you smile shyly in attempt to butter up his reaction to the unfortunate event.

“remember that day last year when me and scott were playing around.. with the tire,” he laughed playfully, but with a sense of frighten. “you have got to be fucking kidding me,” you grit straight through your teeth. stiles smile fades into the black of the night as you open up the jeep door, and head out by the back of the car.

it wasn’t an ideal night, it was freezing cold, the power went out, and not to mention you guys were in the middle of the woods.

you heard the jeep door ram as stiles emerged from the left side of the car. “who’s idea was it to take the shortcut route,” you sneer. stiles gave you a menacing look as he popped open the back of the trunk. the jeeps blue figure moved up slowly with the guide of stiles hand. his eyes scanned the messy space in front of him in search of something that may help. he sighed for a few seconds in defeat as nothing came up in his scan. “maybe you should look with your hands”, you snickered. you took a step closer to the large vehicle and dived straight in. you began to shuffle around the papers, and the tools in attempt to at least find something useful.

you couldn’t manage to find anything helpful in this situation. stiles was still behind you, and you felt his cold gaze latch onto your soul. “what if we never get this car started,” he questioned frightfully. “trepidation”, you said. “what?”, he asked. “trepidation.. a feeling of fear or agitation about something that may happen.” he fell silent at the sound of your quip words. the cold was bustling as the night grew darker. you knew stiles was panicked, and not knowing what to do. but you didn’t know to what extent his fear was at.

you heard staggered breathing from behind you. quickly, you whipped your head to see stiles on the floor, tears dripping down his eyes. “it just came out of nowhere”, he yelped in pain. “what did? what came out of nowhere?”, you briefly asked. stiles eyes were as cold as stone. he stared into the open gape of the trees from behind you. you quickly got onto the floor next to him. stiles was known for loving physical touch from you during these episodes. you pulled him into a hug, his head laid onto your chest. “stiles, it’s gonna be okay”, you whispered while hugging him. your hands got trapped into his brown locks of hair. his cold body shook while he whispered some words of breathe and it’s gone. “stiles what happened?”, you ask persistently.

his breathing began to get heavier, and heavier. you strained at the sound of him gasping for air. it was like his head was underwater, and you didn’t know how to drain it. “stiles, please, look at me”, you plead. he stares into your lighted eyes, and starts to breathe. “listen to me sti.. trepidation”, you speak. his eyes grew warmer as your voice seemed to echo in his entire mind. “trepidation.. a feeling of fear, or agitation about something that may happen”. you see his body move up and down with the beat of his each breath. his face was less tense, and his body more relaxed. panic attacks weren’t uncommon for him, but this one sparked fear into you.

“just remember stiles.. trepidation.”

———————————————————

[adobealmanac]

The magic of scissors ✂️

There are many often negative superstitions surrounding scissors, from the Indigenous idea that using scissors during a wedding will cause the groom to become impotent to the notion that breaking a pair of scissors is a bad omen of arguments and distress in the home. However, in colonial New Mexico there was a vastly different notion, that being that scissors can be a positive and protective amulet.

In brujeria and curanderismo, scissors, specifically made of iron, are seen as deeply protective objects. While often said to be protective against witchcraft, modern pagans are welcome to use them as a general protective tool. Typically open scissors are used to protect against malevolent entities and fairies, however they may be used while closed too. Cutting the cord in a cord cutting ritual with iron scissors may aid in cutting off a psychic vampire.

Some superstitions from here include cutting spider webs with iron scissors to prevent the witches in the form of guajalote (the turkey) from sucking the blood of your children. It is also common to see a pair of open or closed scissors hung above the entryway to prevent evil from entering the home. This tradition is one of my favorites, as the scissors always feel so powerful and protecting whenever I walk beneath them. They may also be placed under the bed to prevent bad dreams.

New Mexico is an interesting place for folklore such as this to exist, as we tend to be very isolated from other cultures other than our Indigenous neighbors, which causes many of our own traditions to persevere for quite some time, along with our cultures blending with that of the natives who belong to this place. While in recent times it has become easier to travel here, it is still a relatively unpopulous place, with roughly 2.1 million inhabitants spread out over 121,280 square miles. With such space and isolation comes many tales.. such as that of the chupacabra, el coco, thunderbirds, and skinw**kers. If you choose to wander into our land, do, proceed with caution. That being said, we do have some phenomenal natural wonders such as white sands and cool festivals such as the balloon fiesta in ABQ. It's worth the trek, but be prepared and be safe.

[hellenhighwater]

Do you get a lot of use out of your soldering iron? It's one of those craft tools I've had my eye on for awhile but haven't been able to justify the cost

I have a couple, and yeah. One I mostly use for basic electrical work, like repairing power cords or making cables for stuff, which I bought in high school. I have another one I use for stained glass leading, inherited from my mom, and a third that is for woodburning--technically it can also do soldering but I just use it for that, which I've had for at least ten years. All three of them get semi-regular use, but I do have more hobbies than is advisable; it's going to depend on what you want to do.

I do consider soldering one of those basic, versatile skillsets that's worth having no matter what you do. If nothing else, you will be far more able to conduct basic repairs on stuff you own if you know how to solder. If you don't expect to do a ton of soldering, or not much high-precision soldering, you can probably get away with a cheap one.

However, I'm of the opinion that money spent on a good tool is always money well spent. The more tools you have and can use competently, the more stuff you can make; as you learn to understand what your tools are capable of, you'll find yourself coming up with projects that would not have even occurred to you before you learned the skill. It is a blessing and a curse.