#resin knife handle

[jacobphillips70]

In this blog, six gen forge shares the psychology of knife collection. We sell many knife handle wood blocks like unique Damascus steel knives, Resin knife handle blocks, stabilized natural wood handle scales, and steel fabrication knives. For more information about knife handle wood blocks contact us at sixgenforge@gmail.Com!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, grief & difficult conversations, discussions around canon-typical violence, smoking, angst, all hurt no comfort

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Four of Ink & Needle

Walsh leaves another note. Price might know your location. Simon prepares to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Three // Chapter Twenty-Five

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It rained that night.

Simon turns his gaze upward into stunning light.

There is no rain. No boom of thunder. No flash of lightning.

I burned like the seed.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle stand behind Simon in a half-moon, watching on like observers at a burial, but not part of the procession.

The sky watered my skin.

Simon takes a step forward. Underneath his boots is cracked concrete. From the fissures sprout green. Not weeds. No. Those don’t belong in a garden.

I germinated. I flowered. I grew.

This is grass. Fresh grass. And perfectly green.

Veins. Veins of grass. A network. A web. Stretching outward from a bountiful source.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Simon.”

Price’s voice is gruff. A warning. ‘Danger ahead’ is the tone.

But Simon is steadfast and uncaring of what happens to him. He takes another step, crushing blades of grass beneath his boots as he heads for the epicenter of it all.

This building is a shell. A construction site long abandoned and used as one of many covert warehouses under Walsh’s hat. This place burned. Melted.

Simon remembers how the smoke burned his lungs. How it was Price and Johnny that dragged him out even as the fire blazed around him. The ride in the helicopter is still blurry even after all these years.

Afterward, Price told him how it took several days for the fire to eventually burn itself out. Chemicals caused it, and dumping water on it did nothing. The blaze was contained. And then it was left to fade out.

It did.

Eventually.

By that point, Simon was in the hospital thinking he’d never walk again without a prosthetic.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

Simon comes to a stop just shy of the garden. Because that is what it is. A garden.

This is where they found Walsh’s body. Burnt to a crisp with Simon’s blade still lodged in the chest cavity. The handle partially melted.

Simon understands why Price is urging cautiousness.

It’s valid. Truly.

Regardless of the garden surrounding him, in the center of it all is a body.

Not your body. And not a stranger’s either.

It’s a charred corpse. The corpse of Kit Walsh that isn’t Kit Walsh at all. The one discovered after the fire burned out. The one taken back to a lab somewhere for examination before they ruled the wanker dead.

How it’s here, Simon doesn’t know. But it’s preserved well, as if everything only happened yesterday.

The knife is gone.

But in its place is a tree. Not a towering tree, but a young one. Still growing toward the light that shines down from above. The tree, and all the surrounding plants come from fire-activated seeds.

Seeds that are coated in thick resin. Seeds that need that resin burned away before they can germinate and grow.

Simon clearly remembers telling Walsh about it, back when Simon was undercover and Walsh considered Simon a friend and confidant.

The two of them walked the streets of Manchester, lingering in a part of the city that few like to visit and only if they have to. A group of young boys no older than fifteen were slinging it out in an alley.

“They only use their fists now,” Walsh had said. “Back then we used our teeth.”

“Those boys are just seeds coated in resin,” Simon had replied.

Walsh had given him the strangest look. “Fucking what?”

“Some seeds can’t germinate unless they’re burned first.” Simon had nodded toward the group of raging boys. “They are the resin-coated seeds. Their violence is the fire. It’ll melt away the resin. Crack the shell. They will grow. Become a garden.”

“A garden?” Walsh had laughed. “You’re fucking hilarious, mate. A fucking garden? Like my mum’s flower bed?”

“No,” Simon had replied, knowing his own story. Knowing how his father and his bite was the flame that melted Simon’s resin. He had cracked. Grew. But not into his father. Not into that monster.

He germinated and followed a different story.

“A path. They’ll choose a path.”

Price comes up beside Simon, pausing just shy of his shoulder.

“I thought she’d be here,” murmurs Simon, staring at the burnt body of fake-Walsh.

“She might still be alive, Simon.”

“It still has the toe tag.”

Price sighs. “It does.”

Johnny and Kyle appear in Simon’s peripheral. They hover for a moment before coming into view. They walk the perimeter on the opposite side, gazes locked on the garden as if they might find a clue.

Could be that there is, but Simon doesn’t see it.

You are not here.

The note appeared on his front door and Simon knew exactly where when the words flowed off the page to burrow into his skull.

It rained that night.

It did rain that night. It fell in sheets. Soaked right through Simon’s clothes before the fire dried it all away.

“We’ll find her, Simon,” says Price, squeezing Simon’s shoulder before taking a step to the right.

They all stare at the garden. They all look for clues.

Simon’s mind is a cobweb. Dusty. Full of so much and yet unable to recall anything of note. Walsh’s actions have suctioned Simon’s resolve right out of his body like embalming tubes, filling him with a dullness that won’t abate.

Maybe it’s because you’re gone, and half of his purpose is missing.

Simon moves, but it is aimless. He tramples the garden. Steps all over the blooming buds. Crushed. Damaged. That is all he knows to do.

His gaze scans the flora. Examines the body. Its neck is bent backward, mouth open as if seeking falling rain.

Simon moves toward it. Notices a flash of white.

As if yanked from a trance, Simon lunges, falling to his knees, not caring that his bad leg cries out angrily in protest.

“What is it?” asks Johnny, dropping down beside him.

Another note. Another fucking note.

White envelope. No postage. Simon’s full name handwritten on the front.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home. A twin from the one attached to his front door.

This time, his fingers shake as he opens it up.

The small piece of paper is thin. Wispy. Translucent like the paper you might find in a wrapped gift.

Simon stares down at the ink. It is solid and bold. Not smoke-kissed like the last one. Here, it bleeds. Nearly illegible.

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

“Simon?” comes Johnny’s voice, but it’s a distant thing.

Friend. Friend.

“I wasn’t your friend, Walsh,” whispers Simon.

“What is it, Simon?” It’s Johnny again, concern lacing his tone.

“I wasn’t your fucking friend!”

Johnny leans away from Simon as he staggers to his feet. Clutching the paper in his fist, raging anger blooms white hot in his chest.

Price approaches Simon, hands outstretched as if trying to calm an animal.

“Get the fuck away from me!” shouts Simon.

Johnny gets to his feet, moving backward. Kyle, Johnny, and Price all stare back at him. There is pity—so much of it. Simon hates it. He wants to rip it away. They look like they want to give Simon their condolences, as if you are already dead.

But there is no confirmation.

Walsh wouldn’t hold on to your corpse just to take the piss.

Would he?

Walsh stole the fake body. He held on to it. Grew a fucking tree in the chest cavity.

A tightness forms in Simon’s chest. It grows, and then he’s heaving, panic rising. He bends over, placing his hands on his knees as his body convulses, wanting air but not able to find it.

“Simon.”

It’s Price, but Simon turns away, stumbling forward. He moves out of the garden and then collapses to his knees. They strike grass-laced concrete.

No one comes near him. Not until it’s over and his breathing slows to something even and calm.

“We’re taking you home.”

“Captain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Simon.” Price puts all his authority in it, and Simon’s training rises to the surface, silencing him. “We’re taking you home. And I will handle this.”

Simon turns his head just enough to look at Price. “I want in.”

“I know.”

“I want in. I’m not asking.”

Price nods. “I know you’re not.”

The man sighs, glancing back at Johnny and Kyle. They linger near the edge of the garden, standing close but not touching. Gaz has removed his hat, holding it by the lip, speaking softly to Soap. Simon cannot hear their conversation.

Price returns his attention to Simon. “I want you to go home, and live as normally as you can. Let me take a look at our options. I will call. We’ll find her.”

Instead of walking away, Price presents his hand. “I’ll take it.”

Simon offers up the note without hesitation. Keeping it won’t do anything. It’ll only hurt more. It’ll only be a reminder.

Price nods and folds it up, placing it in his jacket pocket. Pushing up to standing, Price addresses Johnny. “I want this place picked apart. Call in who you can. And get me Laswell. I want Walsh fucking found.”

Distantly, Simon hears Johnny talking into a phone. Price talks too but it’s not to Simon. They are already making plans. Already moving toward the goal.

He is staring ahead. Hardly blinking. All the energy has been sucked from him.

It not Price or Soap, but Gaz that steps into Simon’s line of sight. He bends at the knee. Gets to Simon’s level.

“Let’s go, mate.”

Kyle offers his hand. Simon takes it.

The walk to the car is slow. Foggy. Like the trip to the hospital on the helicopter, this too is completely blurry. He doesn’t remember the drive out of Manchester and back to London. He doesn’t recall arriving outside his flat or the walk up the stairs.

There is nothing.

Only blankness.

Until Simon wakes—and realizes that the exhaustion finally overtook him, plunging him down into a black sleep that took all thought and dream and memory.

Routine keeps him together. It is the only comfort. Simon sinks into it. A distraction from everything. And between it all, Simon fills it with cigarettes and his favorite bourbon. If he didn’t love you, he’d likely be scrolling through his contacts thinking about how he can get his dick wet.

That’s what he used to do after you ran from him at Riot Room. He’d think of you and remember how you were forever out of reach. He’d wank one out to that shredded piece of thong in his drawer and be completely unsatisfied after.

From there, he’d find someone willing and warm. And that simmered the need. At least for a bit.

But he has you now. He loves you. Wants no one else.

The bourbon will do.

But it is a bloody shite substitute.

A day passes.

Then two. Then three.

After a week of radio silence, Simon feels the edges of madness closing in.

Evie calls, but Simon ignores her. She comes to the shop, and with hardened shame, Simon turns her away. It’s cruel. Completely fucking cruel.

But Simon cannot face her or anyone else. Not until he has an answer.

Whether you’re alive or dead, Simon will bring you home.

Amelia even comes—trying to talk sense. And yet Simon hardly cares. He stares blankly like he’s observing a wall. He says nothing. Doesn’t react.

Amelia eventually leaves. Clearly defeated.

A second week passes.

A third.

Simon is a zombie. He is decaying.

Lighting a cigarette, Simon takes up post on his balcony. It’s fucking cold. Winter is in full swing. Christmas has already come and gone. Simon didn’t go to Johnny’s family farm. Soap’s mum rang him just to check in. Apparently, Johnny was there. So was, Gaz.

Simon should have been there. You should have been there. He was so excited to bring you along, to introduce you to the two people in his life he can call parental figures.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. Simon’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Though time has passed, Simon is still eager with each vibration of his phone. Every time it goes off, Simon reaches for it—lunges.

He does it now, expecting something yet knowing that it’s unlikely.

Think we found her.

Simon’s heart stops. Drops into his stomach before returning to his chest to thud loudly until it’s all he can hear.

Before Simon types out a response, Johnny sends coordinates.

Meet us here. Three days.

Three days. In three fucking days he’ll be closer to finding you.

Urgency tells Simon to just go—to just fucking leave.

Three days.

Three. Days.

Simon puts out the cigarette and heads inside. Clearing the kitchen table of takeout boxes and empty bourbon bottles, Simon opens up the scheduling planner with all his upcoming appointments. He sets to work, making calls, rearranging fucking everything.

He rebooks until his schedule is clear for two months out. Finding and returning home with you is not nearly enough. Simon has no idea what state you’ll be in when he finds you. If you are alive, you might not be whole, and Simon doesn’t want to dive into work again. You will need all his love and attention.

You deserve it. And he wants to give all that he has.

From there, Simon packs a duffle. Bravo watches on, padding nervously around the bedroom as Simon shoves things inside the bag.

“We’re going on a walk, Bravo,” says Simon, snagging the German Shepard’s leash from off its hook by the front door.

Stopping at Dancing Faun, Simon drops off an extra set of keys to 141 Ink for Ben. After, Simon walks Bravo to the one place he’s been avoiding for weeks.

He hesitates before knocking.

“Finally ready to talk?” asks Amelia, her arms crossed over her chest after she answers the door.

She might be short but her energy isn’t.

“I’m leaving for a bit,” replies Simon.

Amelia shrugs. “And?”

She’s irritated, but that’s understandable. Simon hasn’t exactly been polite to her.

“I’m leaving to bring her home.”

Amelia’s visible irritation melts away. Her arms slowly uncross, dropping to her sides. Eyes widening, she opens her mouth to speak, hesitating at the last second.

“Can you take care of Bravo?” asks Simon before Amelia has a chance to say anything.

She nods quickly, taking the offered leash, holding it against her chest as if she cradles something precious.

“You sure?” she asks, voice shaking slightly. “Are you absolutely sure, Simon?”

There are no details. Nothing to guide him. It is a blank canvas. A deep gash in his understanding. Too many variables bounce around, and Simon cannot seem to grab one out of the air. They slip through his fingers.

Too much uncertainty dwells within him.

“I’m sure,” he lies.

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[dilfl0v3rss]

mini me

summary: dad!ony and his mini me

cw: suggestive towards the end

word count: 1.1k

part 2

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

your son was only eight years old, but because of his father he acted way older. whether it be how he talked or how he would handle different situations it was easy to tell that he was “ony’s kid”.

it was a satuday morning. you had just finished up breakfast, making finishing touches on your son omari’s plate before you saw him and his father walk in. you had to cover your mouth to contain your laughter when you got a look at what they were wearing. ony had on his dark grey durag, black tank top fitting snug on his broad chest with his black and white plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips. white dry fit socks covering his feet in his resin yeezy slides. over the years he’s bulked up, converting most of the weight he’s gained from your cooking into muscle.

omari had on the same exact thing, but since he was so small everything looked so baggy. his tank top fit loosely on his little chest while you can tell he rolled his pajama pants at least twice for them to fit his small waist. the only things that fit right were his socks and slides since they were both things that you gifted him. the cutest thing was their durags though. the suede fabric looked nice on their heads with a small “o” on the strings so when they tie them up it can show. “g’morning beautiful” ony said as he sat down in front of his plate.

his morning voice always sounded so good. of course your son mirrored his actions, sitting down in front of his plate as well before greeting you. “g’morning momma. you look pretty” you can tell he was lowering his voice, puberty not yet hitting him to give him the same gravely tone as his father. you chuckled, walking over to them to fill their cups with orange juice. “good morning boys. what y’all getting into today.” ony began cutting into his french toasts, pouring syrup on them before moving his knife to cut omari’s up as well. “finna take man man to the park to shoot some hoops wit me.” omari nodded in agreement. “finna show all the girls my skills and they gon be chasing after me. right dad?” ony nearly choked on his spit, grabbing his cup to sip on his orange juice to wash it down.

you didn’t miss his arm nudging your son’s, signaling him to keep quiet. “excuse me? what girls?” omari opened his mouth to speak but was quickly cut off by his father. “it’s nun mama he just talking. right peanut?” ony and omari looked at each other, silently communicating about what to say next. “uhh y-yea. m’just talking momma.” you rolled your eyes at this. they were basically the same person in two different bodies. “whatever boy just stay outta trouble.” you said, pointing your finger at them before walking off into your room. you took your silk robe off before slipping into bed, matching silk nightgown fitting nicely on your body as you scrolled through different shopping sites for some new clothes.

it wasn’t even twenty minutes later when you seen the two troublemakers back in your line of vision, just itching to bother you. you looked up at them from your phone. “what y’all want now?” the both of them instantly putting their hands up in defense. “what i dooo?” they say in unison. you sighed as you gave them a bored expression. they drop their hands and walked closer to you, standing at the side of your bed. “we want you t’come to the park wit us. right little man?” ony looked down at his twin, nodding towards you for him to add on. “mhmm. dad likes- uh i mean i love when you come to the park with us.” you smirk up at your husband. he had his eyes on the ceiling as he tapped his foot on the ground, waiting for you to reply.

“is this something you want or is this something your dad wants?” you knew what ony was trying to do. you absolutely hated going to the park. the gnats and the blazing sun always seeming to bother you when you were trying to relax, but you also couldn’t say no to your baby. he was always so polite and he never asked for much. your husband used that to his advantage, which you highly disliked. you had a plan though. everything comes with a price with you. “because if this is something daddy wants i need him to ask me himself. or else i can’t go because i’d hate to be a burden to one of you.” now omari was also looking up at ony, waiting for him to reply to you. “gon head and get dressed peanut. me and mommy gotta talk.” he said, shifting his eyes from the white ceiling to your brown ones.

“make sure you say ‘please’ dad. be polite.” omari whispered before doing what he was told and going to his room to get ready. after you heard your door close, you watch as ony began to lean down towards you, one arm grabbing on to the headboard while his other one rested on your pillow, right by your head. “what i gotta do for you t’say ‘yes’ mama.” he said, deep voice rumbling in his chest. you pulled out your phone, unlocking it before showing him the screen. it was a purple lingerie set in your cart with a bunch of other different things as well, ranging from toys and handcuffs to different pieces of clothing. “i want you the clear my cart today. since mari’s going to his grandparents next saturday.”

the corner of ony’s mouth raised as he scrolled through your cart, stopping at the pair of black fuzzy handcuffs. you peeked over your screen to see what he was looking at before explaining the use of the item. “you broke the last pair.” your husband nodded his head in realization before standing upright. “tryna give me another kid, huh mama?” you shrugged your shoulders. “hmm maybe.” ony made his way to his nightstand, pulling out his card before tossing it to you on the bed. “gon head and get whatever you want. sexy ass.” he mumbled before walking towards your shared closet to pull out his sneakers. as he looked through the closet you heard three knocks on your door, letting you know your son has arrived from his room.

“come innn” you sing before he made his way in, instantly walking up to his father. he had on his little black tech suit with his slides on his feet and his basketball sneakers in his hand. “what’d she say? did you say please?” he whispered. ony looked at you, smirking as he began to think about the fun the two of you will be having next weekend. “yea little man…she said yea.”

[suguwu]

RECKONING

In the morning light, things are painfully clear.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

a sequel to aftermath.

pairing: getou suguru x gn!reader

notes: was i ever expecting to finish this sequel? not really. did it possess me this afternoon? yes. so here we are. unbeta'd.

wc: 1.2k

cw: mentions/implications of child abuse.

You make mackerel for breakfast.

It crackles as you lay it in the pan. You watch as the skin starts to sear, and you think of the scorch marks a lightning strike leaves behind.

Suguru is warm next to you, deftly cutting a cucumber into perfect little medallions. The quiet, hollow thud of your sharpest chef’s knife rings in your ears.

(He took it from you with gentle, firm fingers, his big hand wrapping around yours on the handle. The blade flashed in the watery morning light, a quicksilver gleam. 

You could feel his dark eyes on you. Idly, you wondered where he was slotting you in his ever-shifting equation.

He swept his thumb over your skin. The touch was soft. Familiar.

You let go of the knife.)

Suguru pauses mid-cut.

“The girls are awake,” he says, just as you feel his curse—swirling slowly around your guest room, a lazy seaweed drift—stutter to a halt.

“Go,” you say. “I'll finish up here.”

He’s broad against your back as he slips by, and you know that if you turned around, he’d curve around you like the sky, vast and unending. His fingertips ghost over the small of your back, leaving little imprints against your skin, even through your shirt. Then the heat of him is gone; you hear him pad down the hallway.

He leaves the knife. 

For a moment, you stare at it. It's glinting on the cutting board, wet with cucumber seeds. Your fingers twitch.

You flip the mackerel over.

You’re watching the edges blacken when Suguru reaches past you and turns off the burner. He moves the pan to the side. When he pulls back, he catches your chin in one big hand and makes you face him. 

His eyes—night-sky dark and gleaming like starshine—trace over you. He has Nanako balanced on his hip; Mimiko is holding on to his pant leg, her knuckles white. She stares up at you with big eyes. There are bruises scattered over her face like storm clouds, deep and dark. 

Your chest hurts, a bone-deep ache, like your ribs are collapsing in on themselves, an eggshell cage. 

Suguru’s grip tightens on your chin. He looks you over, his gaze flaying, stripping you down to your marrow, an autopsy cut. You don’t know what he sees in your face, but he sweeps his thumb over your bottom lip, slow and heavy. 

When he lets go of you, the breath you were holding spills out of you. You watch silently as he puts Nanako down. He kneels in front of both girls to speak to them, but you don’t hear him, not really. The words are beyond your grasp; there’s only the sound of Suguru’s voice, warm and rich, dripping over you like resin. You think of insects caught in sunlit amber, how perfectly they’re preserved in their final moments. 

The girls disappear into the dining area, accompanied by one of Suguru’s more playful curses. It darts around them, hovering nearby and nudging at them when they turn to look back at him. 

There’s something in Suguru’s face each time they turn around; a terrible, tender twist of his lips. 

You turn back to the stove.

Suguru settles at your side. “I think it’s beyond saving,” he says, watching you poke at the mackerel with a chopstick. 

“It’s not.” 

The skin crunches, a few bits of char flaking away. 

He wraps a hand around your wrist. When you glance at him, his dark eyes pierce through you. “Yes,” he says. “It is.”

He watches you. You bite your lip and nod.

The sound of him emptying the pan into the trash makes you wince. Each scrape of the knife echoes, a whining animal noise that makes your bones ache. 

Suguru sets the pan into the sink with a hollow thud.

“I have eggs,” you offer. 

“Tamagoyaki?”

“Yeah.” 

“Sounds good.”

You gather everything you need; Suguru goes back to the cucumbers, the knife singing as it slices through them, its blade slick. You try not to watch, instead staring down into the frothy swirl of eggs.

It’s quiet. 

In the distance, you can hear the girls talking to each other softly, their voices barely over a whisper, all shivering leaves. It makes something in your chest go tight, how quiet they are. 

“You would have taken them too.”

You go still. You don’t look at Suguru.

“Yes,” you say. “I would have.”

He hums; it sounds pleased. You swallow down the bile. 

The two of you don’t speak again.

—

Breakfast is a quiet affair. The girls stare at you from across the kotatsu, where they’re pressed in against Suguru’s sides like little limpets. They flinch when you move, their honey-brown eyes widening. It makes your stomach roil, a storm-struck sea. 

Suguru talks, but you barely hear him. When you have to ask him to repeat himself for the fourth time, he pauses, his dark eyes flickering over you. 

He shoos the girls into your living room, sending yet another curse flitting after them, a little darting fish with too many eyes. 

“Come here,” he says, and you do. 

When you settle next to him, he raises a hand and cups your cheek. You turn into his touch without thinking, your lips pressing against the leylines of his palm. You wonder if his future is written there. 

(You think yours might be.)

He examines you for a moment. Suguru has always been able to flay you down to your marrow, but this time, it feels sharper, a slit into the very heart of you. 

He strokes a thumb over the apple of your cheek, shifting so that he cradles your jaw. Your lips part; you unfurl for him, petal-bodied. He leans in. 

“Don’t,” you murmur.

He pauses.

For a moment, he lingers, his lips almost brushing yours. His breath ghosts hot across your lips; when he breathes in, he takes your air, makes it his own. 

“You’re not coming.”

“No,” you whisper. “I’m not.” 

His fingers tighten on your jaw. You take in a sharp breath and they loosen again, before his hand falls away entirely. 

When you look at him, his face is perfectly blank, a rising new moon fading into the sky. There’s something secret tucked up into the corner of his lips, too faint for you to decipher. 

“Suguru—”

He pushes to his feet gracefully. He gazes down at you, still on your knees before him. Like this, he takes up your entire world, his broad form the earth and the sky alike. He gazes down at you, and for a moment, you don’t know him at all.

He steps around you, heading towards the living room.

Something in you cracks open, a wound of your own making. You swallow down the sob. 

“I’m sorry,” you say to the empty room.

Only silence answers you.

—

Suguru leaves.

Mimiko is cradled against his shoulder, her little body furled in tight against him. You think of early spring blooms, still delicate in the aftermath of winter’s harsh touch. Nanako is pressing close to his leg, her hand engulfed in his steady grip. He’s slowed his pace for her.

You watch them until they disappear. 

Suguru never looks back.

—

“Principal Yaga?” you say into the phone. “I need to make a report.”

[kissofthemis]

hii can you write boyfriend head canons of luke? specifically him being protective and being our golden retriever man (although if you want to be really technical he’s more german shepherd…) love your writing!!!

Thank you for your kind words, Anon! ;u; And yes, Luke is like a combination... A German Retriever? Golden Shepherd? 🤔

💛 Luke as Your Boyfriend 💛

Luke is easy-going when it comes to making plans. Whatever you want, he will happily oblige. Want to see a movie?Bowling? Aquarium? Whatever makes you happy!

Luke has mastered the death glare when someone looks at you the wrong way. He doesn't want to make a scene in public places, but if someone looks at you with a lascivious or scornful eye? His arm goes around your waist, he will pull you tight, he will gush over you and dote on you in a manner that seems very natural... but the glare he gives those scum? Icy enough to chill your bones, sharper than the cruelest knife.

He loves trying new things with you. He doesn't know how much time he has left, so he wants to give you every possible experience and memory that he can. (Plus he just loves challenging himself! Bring on the recipe! The resin crafts! The Renaissance fair!)

Luke simultaneously will chide you if you don't finish your meal and then devour your leftovers. Luke, do you want me to clean my plate or not??

Sometimes needs to be reined in. While in public he keeps a low profile, if you get catcalled on the street or in a more private place (e.g. parking lot, small store)? He has dislocated a few shoulders and caused his fair share of bruises and scrapes. A fired-up Luke will listen to you. But if he dips into Raven mode? Then you have to be proactive and physically stop him. Sometimes you have to grab and pull at his hand or arm, but sometimes a simple touch on the shoulder will do. He needs you to ground him.

Luke's love language is 100% acts of service. He's also big on physical touch (let's be real, our tough secret agent is so lonely & touch-starved), but when he can do something to make you smile? That's worth more than gold to him.

When he wakes up from nightmares, he seeks you out. He wants to feel safe and secure, and holding you (or if you're lucky, he'll let you be the big spoon) helps calm him down. He likes to hear your heartbeat when he's stressed out. (If you aren't living together yet, he will probably call you... or listen to a recording of your voice. You know he has several.)

Luke can be overbearing. It's a combination of alpha male complex (thanks, NSB) and worrying about anything happening to you. You sometimes have to stand your ground and set boundaries. "If I need help, I will ask. I promise I can handle taking a pan out of the oven, Luke!"

Luke may or may not have bitten a guy once. He doesn't want to talk about it.

[k0rnyk4yden]

recent hyper fixation(s)

antique anything, dolls, clothing, jewelry

victorian jewelry or something like that..

knifes with interesting handles (deer feet, animal jawbones, resin, anything also antique or weird?)

for some reason, also those little angel sculptures that someones grandmother would have sitting on a fireplace or on a shelf?

[mjsharpcraft]

Custom Handmade Damascus Steel Pocket Folding Knife With Leather Sheath And Resin Handle.

[naavispider]

The Quaritch making Spider cry is really good 😭😭😭.

What if Quaritch made Spider cry in a good way? You know like just by taking care of him with food or always giving him an extra blanket. Cause I think Spider would cry because he doesn’t know how to handle/barely receives basic kindness.

Spider cries: Vol. 2 (this is not fun btw 😡) (just joking)

"I got something for you here..." Quaritch mumbled distractedly, turning around to rummage in his pack.

Spider's face contorted into a frown, curiosity and vague suspicion owning his thoughts. After a moment, the recom turned back to Spider with something small and glistening half-hidden in his hand. Quaritch was watching Spider's face carefully for a reaction as he opened his hand and revealed the item.

Spider almost choked on the breath he pulled through the filters of his exopack.

Laying in the palm of Quaritch's blue hand was a small blade - Spider's heart lurched when he realised that it was carved by hand. The wooden handle was basic by Na'vi standards, but simple and effective. The blade Spider recognised as hardened plant resin - a common material used by the Omatikaya.

Questions bombarded his brain. He didn't know which one to ask first, so he looked uncertainly up at Quaritch.

Quaritch was still watching him, but his expression remained neutral.

"For me?" Spider just had to be sure.

Quaritch nodded once.

"Did you...?" he began, but found he couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud. Did you make this?

Quaritch nodded again, staring intently at Spider's reaction while giving nothing away himself. "I... No. Miles Quaritch made that for you, before he left for the battle. He whittled it down, but I carved the handle more native, the way you like it..." He stopped speaking, unsure what Spider would make of the fact that the knife had originally come from his father.

Shit, what was he thinking? He was Spider's father too.

Spider stared down at the knife, before slowly reaching for it and turning it over in his hand. It felt light and textured - comfortable. It was the perfect size for him to wield. Too many emotions flooded his brain all at once - only adding to his conflicted and confused state of mind.

His dad had made this? The real life, 100% biologically related to him, human man that he'd watched on so many holo-screens? It didn't seem possible, holding something that that demon had touched. Suddenly he felt so alive.

Spider suppressed the shiver that went down his spine as he looked up at the man in front of him. This was the Quaritch he knew. 10 feet tall and blue. Yellow eyes and a tail. Domineering, forceful... yet protective. Something in Spider wanted to lean closer. To feel the recom's touch - to reassure himself that this Quaritch was different, physically and mentally. This Quaritch seemed to care about him at some level.

I carved it more native, the way you like it.

This Quaritch knew him. This Quaritch saw him.

What could he possibly say in the face of such a gesture? He swallowed. Uh-oh. Swallowing was hard. "Thanks," it came out as a whisper.

"I also made a little belt holder for it, here..." Quaritch passed him the strap for the handle and Spider carefully attached it to his loincloth. , though he kept hold of the knife. Aside from anything, this was a sign of ultimate trust by the recom.

Spider wasn't sure that trust was entirely warranted. He didn't even know himself how he was going to react to things on a day-to-day basis. Taking a slash at the recom squad who'd abducted him seemed like a good idea half the time.

But Quaritch trusted him enough to give him this.

It bought a sob to the back of Spider's throat that he desperately fought to keep down. For fuck's sake, why could he never keep his damn emotions in check?

Quaritch said nothing. Perhaps he didn't know what to say to make the situation better. Instead, he placed a large hand on the back of Spider's shoulder, and offered a small smile. It wasn't often that Quaritch acted speechless in front of Spider, but this marked a turning point in their relationship. They could both feel it. A fork in the road.

Quaritch patted Spider's back awkwardly, before rising and leaving Spider to his gift.

x

[jacobphillips70]

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[saintsmith]

The descending lift was claustrophobic. The landsaint was becoming an under-landsaint with every jagged tug towards the bowels of the earth. She kept her breath steady and long so as not to panic. A Dromag attendant in the opposite corner of the lift had his arms crossed, and she could feel his hot breath, and smell its pungent spiciness.

The light approached from beneath, piece-by-piece with each pull of the chains. (The bigger cities had automatic lift mechanisms, but these were still hand-cranked.) The landsaint must have begun to hold her breath when the light first appeared, because it escaped in a single burst once they reached the lift’s landing below.

The attendant opened the brass-barred door, letting in more light from the landing. “This floor,” he mumbled, well-practiced but bored, “Market. Shrine.” He stood on his tiptoes to check the landsaint’s irises. “You know this. Blest day, saint.”

The landsaint stepped out of the lift, which immediately began to ascend to pick up more visitors to the city’s belly. 

She hated the air down here. Dry and stuffy. Even when the air was cool, it felt hot. She was going to finish her work here and return topside, as soon as possible.

Two half-halberd-wielding Greshtal guards let her through with a nod. The landsaint returned the gesture curtly. Beyond the guarded brass door was a deep-dug city of stone, four stories high, stone stairs winding up and down the sides of stone buildings to stone balconies giving landing for brass doors, wooden planks from surface trees filling in gaps and forming crossings where the stone streets were narrow. Blackflame lamps kept the streets and stairs lit, but the closer to the roof, the darker it became. Up there, tall shadows danced. Only Dromag were short enough for the low ceilings in these reaches, but children of all types daredeviled from ledge to ledge.

The lower two levels were purely commercial, various shops and stores and groceries and boutiques lining the streets and dazzling passersby with brightly painted signs and intricately-woven tapestries. The two levels above were for the homes of the merchants. But not all who did business in this district lived here. Many commuted with their stalls and carts from the lower residential levels via the bigger, industrial lift by the main gates of the surface town.

The landsaint scraped past pedestrians and took in some of the shops and stalls. She saw a smithy selling blades –

– but the smith couldn’t call them blades. It was illegal in this jurisdiction of Kolqust for most tenvo to carry weapons larger than a work-knife. But many smiths circumvented this restriction by selling sharp scraps of bronze that almost looked like blades, but by the precise wording of the law couldn’t be called weapons. All it took was some string, resin, and a suitable length of wood to manufacture a “self-defense implement” at home. The landsaints politely ignored these loopholes; it was their job to enforce laws, not argue them.

– a wooden sign, painted with the words “mostly-meat sausages” (in smaller script beneath: “accepting chit only”), indicated such meats were hawked at the rickety stall where it hung by a lanky Dromag –

– those words being all the butcher needed to claim to bypass a law regulating the use of mineral additives in such products. Dromag had sturdy teeth and hardy stomachs, and could handle a little clay or limestone in their mixed meats. (During ancient times of poverty, clay was a common food source for the Dromag, earning them the now rarely-used sobriquet “clay-eaters.”) Aajakiri and Greshtal, on the other hand, could not digest these things. But when the prices were this low, a chipped tooth or a little indigestion was worth it.

– in a dim corner, lit by an array of colored paper lanterns, sat the waterpipe lounge –

– where the only smoke of griidc could be found in these times, as individual possession and consumption of the narcotic by claypipe had been outlawed by the state about a decade ago, much to the dismay of the large smoking subculture of Kolqust. Begrudgingly, tenvo would pay to smoke in these lounges for an hour, taking up their hoses around the communal waterpipe and allowing the smokemaster to supply them with their fix.

– a beautifully engraved storefront advertised “Oshr’s Fine Jewelry.” Through the open arches of the facade were rows of glass-protected counters bearing precious jewels, rings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets, torques, tiaras, and more. In the back, at a counter operated by Oshr herself, a beautiful face-painted Aajakiri, were displayed the finely cut, delicately-faceted receptacle gems for spirits, future thoughtstones –

– illegal to fill without saint sanction, but not illegal to cut and sell beforehand. Only saints or temple priests are allowed to capture spirits or sell thoughtstones.

The landsaints brow-plates flexed as she listened vaguely in the direction of the jeweler’s shop. Something tickled her brow-plates, and she focused on it.

It spoke of mastery. It spoke of a job well done, a product complete. Satisfaction – of the mind and the chit-purse. A deal. A transaction. A bargain sworn.

The landsaint squinted at Oshr. Her neck gleamed with a brilliant ruby. Personal thoughtstone. Not for sale.

The landsaint’s brow-plates resumed a neutral position as she carried on down the street. Finally she reached her destination: the town shrine. Its set of concentric walls were beautifully engraved and brightly painted, the outer ring etched with the laws of the priests of Raam. The landsaint ascended the radial stairs, passing one circular gate as she did, leaving behind the first circle, representing Uodh, the Void. The next ring depicted the victories of local saints throughout history – this circle represented Uorh, the Word. She passed its gate, leaving her one more circle to pass – Eilh, the World – displaying the triumphs and tribulations of Raam before he ascended to bring the day. Its gate had a door, which she slowly pushed open to enter the outer sanctum, where only priests and saints could pass.

A fairly reverent tenvo, the landsaint closed the door tightly behind her. She had expected to be greeted by a priest as soon as she entered, but none appeared; all that welcomed her was the floral scent of welic incense smoke wafting from censers hanging from the high rafters. Taking a left, she walked the circular corridor, lined with shelves bearing sacred scrolls, tomes, and tablets, until she came back around to the Eilh gate. She doubled back, but stopped as she met the Raam gate, a tightly shut door to the inner sanctum, halfway down.

Her brow-plates widened, and she swallowed deep. The door of the Raam gate was of plain wood, ornamented only with a single sacred symbol etched in gold in the center. Hand shaking, she reached out for the handle…

The door burst open from the inside, and a priest rushed out. It was Jark, coadjutor of the shrine’s chief priest. The landsaint’s hands were safely behind her back, but she did catch a glimpse of the black velvet curtain behind Jark shifting – the last barrier between unsanctified eyes and divinity.

“Imreb!” snapped Jark as he nearly ran into her, clutching his chest with his large Dromag hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you, Holy,” Imreb replied.

“You’ve been waiting?” stormed Jark as he pushed Imreb from the Raam gate. “I got so tired of waiting for you that I went ahead and joined the other Holies for evening communion!” He made a show of straightening his beard. “Where have you been?”

“Capturing a fallen spirit topside,” Imreb explained in a rush, flustered. “For young Kheloz.” She patted the collection case on her belt.

“Ah, young Kheloz…” mused Jark, still stroking his beard. “I remember being as young and curious as him…”

Imreb wondered if Jark had, in a past life, been a miner, or logger, or wrestler; he had a sturdy physique, and was tall for a Dromag, coming halfway up Imreb’s chest. He was this shrine’s first Dromag priest – they usually selected for Aajakiri with keen brow-plates. But Jark had somehow formulated a roundabout mystical way of interpreting thoughtstones; his rate of success was high enough to be dependable.

“Nevermind that,” Jark said, taking a seat at a bench wedged between two shelves. “Have a seat, landsaint.”

Imreb obeyed, sitting next to Jark. “What troubles you, Holy?”

Jark reached into a pocket of his robes and retrieved a small sapphire thoughtstone. But Imreb didn’t need to attune her brow-plates to hear it speak.

It spoke of tears. It spoke of wailing, weeping. Wet eyes and running noses too pitiful to look at, but demanding attention regardless.

“It’s leaking,” said Imreb, having to fight back her own tears from sympathetic reaction.

“As I suspected,” Jark said with a nod. He extended a massive hand to show Imreb the stone. “See the facets, here? Asymmetrical. Imperfect cut.”

“Where did you get this?” Imreb asked, her brow-plates receding into their sockets, trying to distance themselves from the pained thoughtstone.

“One of your knights confiscated it from an Aajakiri thief. Not sure the original source.”

Imreb leaned forward. “Which knight?”

“Confidential, I’m afraid,” said Jark with an apologetic smile raising the corners of his whiskers. “But it’s not the only such thoughtstone I’ve been delivered. It’s a pattern, now.”

“‘Illicit manufacture and sale for profit of thoughtstones,’” quoted Imreb from the legal code. “Could likely append ‘improper treatment of a spirit’ due to the poor gem quality.”

“Precisely,” agreed Jark. “An investigation is in order. Too delicate for a knight. You’ll handle it personally.” He handed Imreb the thoughtstone, which she quickly pocketed to silence it. “Start with talking to Oshr, the jeweler.”

“You suspect her?”

“Raam, no. Her handiwork far surpasses this. Don’t even suggest that, she’ll just be offended. Be discreet with her. Don’t let on too much.”

“With all due respect, I know how to conduct an investigation, Holy.”

“Of course, Imreb, of course,” said Jark with a gracious nod. “Go. Do what you must.”

Imreb nodded and stood to leave the shrine. “Wait,” said Jark as she was halfway to the Eilh gate. 

Imreb turned back. “Yes, Holy?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…the knight who brought me that thoughtstone told me they suspected you. That’s why they brought it to me instead of you directly.”

Imreb’s eyes widened, her brow-plates spreading apart. “Holy, I-I…”

“Don’t worry,” said the Holy with a wave of his hand. “Mortals can be easily mistaken. Would I have discussed this with you if I believed you were the culprit?”

“I suppose not, Holy.”

“Relax, and do your duty, saint.”

Imreb nodded and left the shrine.

- - - - -

Imreb knocked on the arch bordering Oshr’s shop as the jeweler nearly finished shuttering it. Oshr spun around, eyes and brow-plates wide, clutching her chest. She exhaled sharply when she saw Imreb. “Saint! A pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“Evening, Oshr,” smiled Imreb. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind…but first, why are you so startled? What troubles you?”

“Oh, nothing,” said the jeweler with a dismissive wave of her hand. But a flutter of her brow-plates indicated she was lying. Imreb copied the flutter to show she caught on. “Okay,” admitted Oshr. “You are my landsaint, after all…” Oshr looked around nervously before coming closer to Imreb and whispering, “Lately, I’ve noticed suspicious youths leering at my wares from a distance. I don’t see them now, but I’ve seen them the past few nights, around this time. I worry they’re planning something drastic.”

Imreb, a good, stoic landsaint, kept an even expression even at this alarming news. “Do you know these youths?”

“No, no…but…is there anything you can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Imreb sighed, “without any hard evidence. But I’ll assign one of my knights to keep watch down here at night. Would that make you feel safer?”

“That would be wonderful, landsaint,” said Oshr, smiling wide, her hands clapping together, and her brow-plates raising. “Now, sweet landsaint, what was it you needed?”

“Let’s speak on that inside,” said Imreb, gesturing through the gap still left in the storefront’s shutters.

Oshr nodded and led Imreb inside, closing the shutter behind them. Oshr stood behind the counter at the back as Imreb leaned against it from the other side.

“Allow me to begin by showing you something,” Imreb said. From her coat pocket she retrieved the leaking sapphire thoughtstone, her brow-plates clenched so as to ignore its speech.

Oshr reacted to the thoughtstone’s wailing immediately, her brow-plates seeming to nearly pull away from her face. “Raamfire,” she moaned, “what are you showing me, saint?”

“Confiscated faulty thoughtstone, as you may have guessed.” Imreb set the sapphire on the counter between them. “What can you tell me about its manufacture?”

Oshr futilely covered her brow-plates with one slender hand and delicately plucked the sapphire between thumb and forefinger. She rolled the cut stone between her fingers, eyes scanning the facets. “Yes,” she said, squinting, “there are some obvious flaws here. Rather glaring, honestly. What novice cut this?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” Imreb sighed. “Do you know any local…amateurs or enthusiasts?”

“Well…there’s of course the topside jeweler, Glaa’ib, but while insufficient to my skill –” she made a sour face “– he is not this bad…I believe he took on an apprentice lately, but I heard they had a falling out. Not sure what happened to him.”

“What was his name?” Imreb asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure…Something like ‘Druugam’ or ‘Mogram’ or…something. I’m sorry, saint, I only know through hearsay from customers.”

“Don’t worry, Oshr. You’ve been very helpful.” Imreb held out a hand to take back the thoughtstone. Oshr quickly thrust it forward, grateful to be rid of it. The landsaint put it back in her pocket, silencing it and pleasing the two Aajakiri’s brow-plates.

“Blest day,” concluded Imreb as she opened the shutters and passed through the gap.

“Blest day, saint,” responded Oshr, who resumed the process of closing up shop.

Outside, Imreb looked up at the shrine at the end of the street. A solemn group of the faithful gathered around the outer Uodh wall: some kneeling with small prayerbooks in hand, counting out repetitions on their rosary belts as they mumbled the words of ancient saints; some ran their fingers reverently over the gold-inscribed engraved laws of the wall’s surface; others partook in heated ritual debate over the dictates of the priests and Raam himself.

Imreb gazed down the rings of the gates and tried to imagine what lay beyond the last, the Raam gate, that she almost caught a glimpse of earlier. She offered a prayer to that vague image and made her way topside to return home for the night.

[thekubekat]

Since asks have been running dry I wanna do some hcs for Miché cus I love him!!!

(I need a reference for him actually)

Hes so lonely he has a single friend and its Samantha.

His rubix cube skills are off the charts wtaf he could go pro

Hes got a lot of sensory issues, mainly fabric and stuff

Miché is like those fictional goats in movies where they eat anything that will fit in their mouths. Dont test him he ate resin

His sleep schedule is nonexistent, he can rarely ever sleep and when he does constantly has nightmares (teehee)

Hes good at knife handling, he can juggle them, and throw them, and hes even good at catching them!

If you give him a gift hell keep it forever, hes so sentimental about anything hes given

Miché despises water, both a cat thing and a sensory thing

Hes.. hes been thru a lot gang please comfort him hes dying mentally

hes basically that one funny friend who has been to hell and can still make jokes about it

He, shockingly, is "friends" with Mach. Not exactly friends but they dont hate eachother

Pet names are his everything if you couldnt tell, everybody is "dear "darling" or some variation of those

If you really care he gives me mettaton ex vibes personally

He is the literal embodiment of theater kid

Hes jus like me fr hes got anxiety cus im projecting on him

Thats all for nowsers! (This is all ooc btw!)

[bobmerry]

B Merry Studio's Authentic Alaskan Ulu Knives Elevate Culinary Craftsmanship!

Choosing the Right Alaskan Ulu Knife: A Buyer's Guide by B Merry Studio

B Merry Studio proudly introduces its exquisite collection of Alaskan Ulu knives, inviting culinary enthusiasts and connoisseurs to embark on a journey of exceptional craftsmanship and tradition. In the heart of Alaska, where nature's beauty meets indigenous culture, these handcrafted knives are meticulously designed to elevate every culinary experience.

Unveiling the Uniqueness of Alaskan Ulu Knives

Alaskan Ulu knives, characterized by their distinctive curved shape, are far more than just kitchen utensils. They are timeless practicality and tradition symbols deeply rooted in Alaska's indigenous cultures. With their crescent-shaped blades and ergonomic handles, Alaskan Ulu knives excel at various culinary tasks, including skinning, chopping, cutting, and slicing. Their unique design allows for efficient rocking motions, making them indispensable tools for skilled chefs and home cooks.

B Merry Studio's Commitment to Craftsmanship

At B Merry Studio, craftsmanship is not just a skill; it's a legacy. They take immense pride in their commitment to crafting authentic Alaskan Ulu knives that epitomize Alaska's rich heritage and craftsmanship. The handles of their Ulu knives are painstakingly hand-carved from an array of natural materials sourced from the Alaskan wilderness. These materials include wood, Dymondwood (resin-impregnated Birch plywood), Moose antler, Caribou antler, Dall Sheep horn, Mammoth bone and ivory, Walrus oosik and jawbone, and Musk Ox bone. Each handle material carries a piece of Alaska's soul, connecting one to the region's pristine beauty.

Choosing the Perfect Alaskan Ulu Knife

Selecting the right Alaskan Ulu knife is a personalized journey, and B Merry Studio offers guidance on key factors to consider:

Size Matters: The size of a Ulu knife significantly impacts its usability for various tasks. Larger Ulu knives are ideal for tasks requiring substantial cutting power, while smaller ones excel at delicate slicing and intricate cutting.

Handle Materials: The handle material is crucial. For a comfortable grip, consider Moose antler handles, while Mammoth bone and Ivory handles offer elegance. Materials like Walrus Oosik and jawbone hold historical significance.

Handle Design: Handle design contributes to functionality, aesthetics, and ergonomics. Choose a design that complements the kitchen decor and feels comfortable during extended use.

Personalized Recommendations for Culinary Enthusiasts

B Merry Studio offers personalized recommendations tailored to individual needs and preferences:

Ulu Knife Sizes: A medium-sized Ulu knife (6 to 8 inches in diameter) is recommended for versatile all-purpose use. A smaller Ulu knife (4 to 6 inches) is ideal if precision is one's focus.

Handle Materials: The handles are made from moose antler for comfort, mammoth bone and ivory for elegance and historical significance, and walrus oosik and jawbone for their durability.

Specific Alaskan Ulu Knives: Explore the "Birch Dymondwood Medium Ulu Knife" for versatility, the "Walrus Jawbone Ulu Knife" for historical charm, and the "Mammoth Ivory and Brass Ulu Knife" for exquisite aesthetics.

Elevate the Culinary Journey with B Merry Studio

B Merry Studio invites people to unlock culinary artistry with the perfect Alaskan Ulu knife. Key takeaways from this buyer's guide:

An Ulu knife is more than a kitchen tool; it reflects one's culinary passion and style.

B Merry Studio's commitment to authenticity and craftsmanship ensures that an Ulu knife preserves Alaska's rich heritage.

Explore their exquisite collection of Alaskan Ulu knives, where tradition meets innovation.

About B Merry Studio

B Merry Studio is an Alaskan-based artisanal studio dedicated to preserving the state's rich heritage and craftsmanship through its authentic Ulu knives made in Alaska. Each knife is a masterpiece of artistry and functionality, handcrafted with dedication and respect for nature. B Merry Studio invites people to explore its collection and embark on a culinary journey with Alaskan Ulu knives like never before. For more information about their products, visit their store and select something from their amazing collection of handmade Alaskan knives.

[kentmasterrr]

Selecting the Perfect Hunting Knife: A Comprehensive Guide

A hunting knife is an indispensable tool for outdoor enthusiasts and avid hunters. It serves various purposes, including field dressing game and handling campsite tasks. With a wide array of hunting knives available, choosing the right one can be overwhelming. This blog post provides an in-depth guide to help you make an informed decision by exploring the key factors to consider, such as blade types, handle materials, and other important features.

Blade Types: a. Drop Point: The drop point blade is versatile and suitable for general hunting tasks. It features a curved spine and a durable point, providing excellent control for skinning, slicing, and precise cuts. b. Gut Hook: Designed specifically for field dressing, the gut hook blade has a sharpened hook on the spine. It allows for safe and easy gutting without puncturing the intestines. c. Clip Point: Ideal for detailed tasks like caping, the clip point blade has a concave curve and a sharp point, enabling precise and delicate cuts. d. Skinning Blade: The skinning blade, with its sweeping, curved edge, facilitates efficient hide removal from game animals while minimizing the risk of meat punctures.

Blade Materials: a. Stainless Steel: Stainless steel blades are popular among hunters due to their rust and corrosion resistance, durability, and ease of maintenance. They retain sharpness well. b. High Carbon Steel: High carbon steel blades offer exceptional strength and edge retention, making them suitable for heavy-duty tasks. However, they require regular maintenance to prevent rust. c. Damascus Steel: Damascus steel blades feature beautiful patterns created by layering different steel alloys. They are visually stunning, durable, and sharp.

Handle Materials: a. Wood: Wooden handles provide a traditional and visually appealing look. They offer a comfortable grip but require periodic maintenance to prevent cracking or warping. b. Rubber: Rubber handles provide a secure, non-slip grip, even in wet conditions. They are easy to clean and offer excellent durability and shock absorption. c. G10: Constructed from fiberglass soaked in resin, G10 handles are lightweight, durable, and resistant to moisture and chemicals. They provide a reliable grip in various weather conditions. d. Micarta: Micarta handles are made from layers of resin-soaked linen or paper. They are highly durable, moisture-resistant, and offer a comfortable grip.

Tang Types: a. Full Tang: Full tang knives have blades that extend the entire length of the handle, providing superior strength and balance for heavy-duty tasks. b. Partial Tang: Also known as hidden tang, this design features a blade that does not extend the full length of the handle. Partial tang knives are lighter but may be less robust.

Additional Features: a. Blade Length: Choose a blade length based on your specific needs and preferences. Shorter blades offer maneuverability, while longer blades provide better cutting power. b. Sheath: A quality sheath is essential for safe storage and easy carrying of your hunting knife. Look for a durable, secure sheath that allows for convenient access. c. Blade Edge: Decide between a plain edge or a serrated edge based on your requirements. Plain edges offer precision and ease of sharpening, while serrated edges excel at cutting through tough materials.

Conclusion: Selecting the right hunting knife is crucial for a successful hunting experience. By considering factors such as blade type, materials, handle construction, tang type, and additional features, you can find a hunting knife that suits your needs. Remember to prioritize durability, functionality, and comfort to ensure a reliable tool that will serve you well in the great outdoors. Enjoy your hunting adventures!

[smugliar]

@walriding​ asked;;  “is this how you flirt with everyone?”

This place was empty without them, but over the course of time, he had become to dislike their company. Some part of him had become easy to set off. This twitchy snap at those who tried to take- no, steal -valuables that lay around his area. Right, this was all his now. Some misshapen collage of places, memories - it was unmistakable that they were his, the more he had time to take it all in.

The blade sinks into the fabric of Miles’s shirt and, with the company of shadowy hands littered about his person, have him held down to an abandoned pool table. The clattering of the pool cues has settled, along with the clinking of resin. Their roughing breathing is the only noise among the occasional sputter of ringing from a damaged slot machine somewhere far away in the vastness of the large, mazelike labyrinth of the casino floor.

“Maybe,” Ace hums, twisting the knife’s handle, mind becoming somehow clearer, he flashes somewhat of a crooked smirk. Yet that tense paranoia remains unchanged as the dragon protects his hoard of gold. The white, ghostly pupils of his never bring themselves to look away from Miles, continuing to loom over his restrained form. “Depends what brings you here, sabelotodo.” 

[boatmaintenanceservices]

How Do You Repair and Protect the Bottom of Your Boat?

The bottom of your boat is constantly exposed to harsh elements, from saltwater and marine life to debris and impacts. Over time, this exposure can cause wear and tear, leading to damage such as cracks, chips, and hull degradation. Repairing and protecting the bottom of your boat is essential not only for its longevity but also for its performance and safety on the water. Here’s a guide to help you understand how to repair and protect your boat’s hull to keep it in top condition.

1. Inspect the Hull Regularly

The first step in maintaining the bottom of your boat is regular inspection. A thorough check will help you catch small issues before they become major problems. Look for:

Scrapes, gouges, or deep scratches.

Cracks, especially around seams and joints.

Faded or peeling paint or gel coat.

Growth of marine life (barnacles, algae, etc.).

Any signs of corrosion (especially on metal parts like trim tabs or outdrives).

After inspecting, make a note of any areas that require attention and prioritize repairs based on severity.

2. Clean the Bottom of Your Boat

Before you can repair or protect the hull, it’s essential to clean it thoroughly. Regular cleaning will remove dirt, salt buildup, and marine growth that can damage the bottom over time. Use a marine-grade cleaner that is safe for your boat’s material (fiberglass, aluminum, or wood) to scrub the hull. If you notice barnacles or other hard growths, use a scraper to gently remove them. Be careful not to scratch or damage the surface.

For boats that are kept in saltwater, cleaning the hull after each outing will help prevent the buildup of corrosive salt deposits.

3. Repairing Damage to the Hull

If you find cracks, chips, or gouges in the hull, timely repair is crucial to prevent further damage. Here's how to handle common repairs:

Minor Scratches and Chips:

For small cosmetic damage, you can typically use a boat-specific gel coat repair kit. Clean the area first, then apply the gel coat according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Sand it smooth once it dries and buff it to restore the shine.

Cracks or Larger Gouges:

For deeper cracks or gouges that expose the fiberglass beneath the surface, you will need a more substantial repair. First, clean the damaged area and allow it to dry thoroughly. For fiberglass boats, mix a fiberglass resin and hardener, apply it to the crack or gouge, and then smooth it out with a putty knife. Once it has cured, sand the surface smooth and apply a layer of gel coat to match the surrounding hull. If you’re not familiar with fiberglass repair, it might be wise to hire a professional for larger damage.

Hull Leaks:

If the boat has developed a leak, it’s crucial to pinpoint its source and repair it immediately. Leaks in the bottom of the hull can be caused by damaged fiberglass, corroded seams, or failing seals. Small leaks can be patched with marine sealant or epoxy resin, but more severe damage may require professional repair or re-lamination.

4. Applying Bottom Paint for Protection

To protect the hull from future damage and deterioration, applying bottom paint is a key step. Bottom paint helps prevent the growth of marine organisms like algae and barnacles, which can damage the hull and reduce performance. It also creates a protective barrier against the harsh elements of the water.

Steps to Apply Bottom Paint:

Clean the hull thoroughly: Before applying bottom paint, ensure the hull is free of dirt, oil, or any old paint.

Sand the surface: Lightly sand the hull to create a rough surface for better paint adhesion.

Choose the right type of bottom paint: There are different types of bottom paint, including antifouling paints that prevent marine growth and hard paints for boats that are frequently in dry dock. Make sure to select the appropriate paint based on the type of boat, your location, and how often you use your boat.

Apply paint in layers: Use a roller or brush to apply the first coat of paint. Allow it to dry, and then apply a second coat. Follow the manufacturer’s instructions for drying times and the number of coats needed.

5. Protecting Against Corrosion

Corrosion, especially in metal components of the boat like the propeller, drive shaft, and trim tabs, is a common issue for boats in saltwater environments. Regularly inspect metal parts for signs of rust or corrosion and take steps to prevent it.

Use corrosion inhibitors: Apply marine corrosion inhibitors to metal parts, especially those below the waterline. These products help protect against saltwater exposure.

Consider sacrificial anodes: Install sacrificial anodes (zinc or aluminum) on the boat’s metal components. These anodes corrode instead of your boat’s more valuable metal parts, protecting them from rust and degradation.

Regular cleaning and maintenance: Rinse metal parts with fresh water after every use to remove salt deposits that can accelerate corrosion.

6. Maintain Your Boat’s Trailer and Lift

If you use a trailer or lift system to transport your boat, don’t forget to maintain the equipment that keeps your boat above water when it’s not in use. Check the trailer for any rust, wear on the rollers, or faulty brakes. Inspect the lift system for signs of wear or damage and make necessary repairs before putting the boat back in the water.

7. Consider Professional Help for Complex Issues

While many boat owners can handle basic cleaning, maintenance, and small repairs, some hull issues may require professional expertise. If you’re dealing with extensive damage, complex repairs, or if you simply want peace of mind, hiring a professional boat repair technician can ensure the job is done correctly.

Conclusion Proper care and maintenance of the bottom of your boat are essential to keeping it in good condition and maximizing its lifespan. Regular inspections, cleaning, and repairs will protect the hull from wear, marine growth, and environmental damage. By applying bottom paint, addressing minor repairs promptly, and taking steps to prevent corrosion, you can enjoy a safe and smooth ride for years to come. Whether you’re handling repairs yourself or enlisting the help of a professional, taking the time to care for your boat’s bottom is an investment in its long-term performance and durability.

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Damascus Knife Set: The Ultimate Guide to Choosing Quality Kitchen Knives

A Damascus knife set is more than just a culinary tool—it’s a piece of artistry that elevates the kitchen experience for both home cooks and professional chefs. Known for their stunning aesthetics and sharpness, these knives have a unique patterned blade created by folding layers of steel together, which enhances durability and precision. In this guide, we’ll explore why a Damascus knife set is a valuable investment, what to look for, and how to care for these exceptional knives.

To buy a Damascus knife set, check out the incredible collection at KBS Knives Store.

Why Choose a Damascus Knife Set?

Damascus knives are recognized for their unique wavy patterns on the blade, a result of layered steel crafting that provides both beauty and performance. Here’s why they’re worth considering:

Exceptional Sharpness and Edge Retention: Damascus knives maintain their sharpness longer than many standard kitchen knives due to the layered construction of high-carbon steel and stainless steel.

Durability: With a structure that resists chips and cracks, these knives stand up to intense use in the kitchen.

Aesthetic Appeal: The mesmerizing patterns make each Damascus knife unique, adding a touch of elegance to any kitchen.

Versatility: A quality Damascus knife set often includes essential blades for various kitchen tasks, making it a versatile choice for both beginner and expert chefs.

Whether you’re a professional chef or an enthusiastic home cook, a Handmade Damascus Kitchen Knife Set could transform your cooking experience.

Key Features to Look for in a Damascus Knife Set

Choosing the right Damascus knife set involves understanding the key elements that define quality and functionality. Here are the main factors to consider when selecting a Damascus knife set for your kitchen.

1. Blade Quality and Material

The beauty of a Damascus knife lies in the steel. Genuine Damascus knives are crafted by folding layers of high-carbon and stainless steel together, giving them that iconic wave pattern. This layered structure offers several advantages:

Enhanced Durability: The layering process results in a stronger, more resilient blade.

Superior Edge Retention: Damascus knives hold their edge longer, reducing the frequency of sharpening.

For a truly authentic experience, consider a Handmade Damascus Kitchen Knife Set that highlights this intricate craftsmanship.

2. Handle Design and Comfort

A knife’s handle affects how comfortable it feels in hand, which is crucial for prolonged use. Look for these qualities in a Damascus knife set handle:

Ergonomic Design: An ergonomic handle reduces strain on your hand and wrist during long prep sessions.

Grip Material: Quality Damascus knives often feature wood, resin, or micarta handles that provide a secure, comfortable grip.

Choosing a Custom Kitchen Knife Set with personalized handle materials can ensure your knives are as comfortable as they are functional.

3. Range of Knives in the Set

Damascus knife sets come in various configurations, with each blade serving a specific purpose. A well-rounded set might include:

Chef Knife: The versatile workhorse, ideal for chopping, dicing, and slicing.

Paring Knife: A smaller knife for precision tasks like peeling and trimming.

Santoku or Utility Knife: Great for slicing, dicing, and mincing smaller ingredients.

Bread Knife: Essential for slicing bread and other soft foods without crushing.

A Custom Damascus Chef Knife might be the highlight of your set, designed to your specifications for an unparalleled cooking experience.

4. Handmade Quality vs. Mass-Produced

One of the defining features of a top-notch Damascus knife set is whether it's handmade. A Handmade Chef Knife or set often boasts higher quality, attention to detail, and craftsmanship compared to mass-produced counterparts. Handmade Damascus knives are meticulously crafted, ensuring that each piece is unique and of exceptional quality.

How to Care for Your Damascus Knife Set

Proper care is essential to maintaining the beauty and functionality of a Damascus knife set. Here are a few tips to help keep your knives in pristine condition:

Hand Wash Only: Avoid putting Damascus knives in the dishwasher, as it can damage both the blade and handle. Instead, wash them gently by hand with mild soap and water.

Regular Sharpening: Damascus knives retain their edge well but still benefit from occasional honing or sharpening.

Dry Immediately: After washing, dry your knives promptly to prevent moisture from affecting the steel or causing rust spots.

Use a Cutting Board: To avoid dulling the blade, use a wooden or plastic cutting board rather than hard surfaces like glass or stone.

Store Safely: Store your knives in a knife block, on a magnetic strip, or in a protective sheath to prevent damage to the blades and to ensure safety.

Where to Buy a Quality Damascus Knife Set

Investing in a quality Damascus knife set is a decision you won’t regret, and finding the right store is essential. For those interested in exploring a curated collection, KBS Knives Store offers a range of high-quality Damascus knives that cater to every kitchen need. Whether you’re looking for a Custom Damascus Chef Knife or a complete Handmade Damascus Kitchen Knife Set, KBS Knives Store provides options with exceptional craftsmanship and beautiful designs.

Final Thoughts

A Damascus knife set not only enhances your kitchen's aesthetic but also brings unparalleled sharpness, durability, and versatility to your cooking experience. From the intricate patterns on the blade to the comfort of the handle, these knives are designed for those who appreciate quality and craftsmanship. By investing in a Damascus knife set, you’re choosing a tool that will serve you well for years to come.

For those ready to elevate their culinary toolkit, check out KBS Knives Store and explore their impressive collection of Damascus knives. Each piece is designed with care, ensuring you’ll find a set that meets both your culinary and aesthetic preferences.