#binding wire fix

[srjsteel]

Common Mistakes in Bar Dowel Placement and How to Avoid Them

Bar dowel placement stays one of the most critical but often mishandled aspects of structural concrete paintings. These vital additives transfer load between adjoining concrete sections, ensuring structural integrity throughout construction joints. When improperly hooked up, even the best fine dowel bars can fail to perform their supposed feature, leading to untimely structural problems that compromise protection and sturdiness.

Understanding the Fundamentals

Proper alignment of dowel bars creates an easy load switch mechanism that allows for managed motion while maintaining structural continuity. This apparently simple idea will become complicated during real-world international implementation, wherein space constraints, speeding contractors, and inadequate supervision lead to expensive mistakes.

The steady fastening of these elements often relies upon excellent binding wire, which holds reinforcement in position throughout concrete pouring. Unfortunately, many contractors underestimate the importance of this modest thing, leading to transferring dowel bars at some point of concrete placement.

Most Common Placement Errors

Improper Spacing and Alignment

Dowel bars have to be located parallel to the direction of site visitors or predicted motion. A deviation of even a few ranges can dramatically reduce load transfer performance and create pressure concentration factors. Proper spacing ensures load distribution throughout a couple of dowel bars rather than overloading character factors.

When binding cord is badly secured or of insufficient high quality, dowel bars can shift at some point of concrete placement. This motion compromises the meant load transfer capability and creates vulnerable points within the structure.

Incorrect Embedment Depth

Embedding dowel bars too deeply or too shallowly substantially affects their overall performance. The perfect placement allows half the bar length to increase into each concrete segment, developing a balanced load switch. When employees rush or measurements are imprecise, flawed embedment occurs regardless of having first-rate substances accessible.

Binding cord ought to stabilize dowel bars at measured intervals without allowing vertical or horizontal motion. Loose binding cord installation results in misalignment all through the pouring technique, while wet concrete exerts enormous force on the reinforcement meeting.

Inadequate Corrosion Protection

Many contractors fail to well coat or protect dowel bars in competitive environments. Corrosion-resistant coatings or stainless steel alternatives exist, especially for harsh situations, yet general dowel bars are regularly incorrectly designated, leading to untimely deterioration.

Prevention Strategies

Template Usage

Specialized dowel bar templates make certain particular spacing and alignment during setup. These jigs maintain multiple dowel bars in function while workers stabilize them with binding wire, preventing the commonplace "eyeball estimation" that results in misalignment.

Quality Materials Selection

High-strength binding cord resists corrosion and continues tension all through the concrete curing process. Substandard binding cord may additionally appear to hold dowel bars to begin with but can loosen during vibration and placement, allowing critical movement.

Similarly, certain dowel bars must match project necessities for diameter, duration, and coating based totally on anticipated masses and environmental situations. Using undersized dowel bars to lessen costs inevitably results in joint failure and steeply priced upkeep.

Inspection Protocols

Implementing thorough inspection before concrete placement verifies proper dowel bar positioning. This fine manipulation step catches errors at the same time as corrections stay simple and less expensive. Inspectors should test alignment, spacing, embedment depth, and binding cord protection at each joint.

Conclusion

Avoiding those common mistakes in bar dowel placement requires attention to detail and the right education. When contractors recognize the important correlation between binding twine security and dowel bar overall performance, they make higher installation selections. Proper placement of quality dowel bars secured with appropriate binding wire creates durable concrete systems that carry out as designed for his or her supposed lifespan. This interest in reputedly minor info in the long run determines whether a concrete shape will provide a long time of reliable carrier or require premature, high-priced upkeep.

[dukestags]

Scrap and Smoke

Karl Heisenberg x Male FTM Reader

You woke up on a cold slab of metal, the ache in your bones screaming louder than any alarm. The ceiling above you was stained with rust and pipe residue. The air stank of oil, iron, and heat.

You sat up slowly, biting back a groan. Every part of your body felt used—like you'd been tossed into a blender and barely crawled out. You touched your ribs: fractured, maybe. At least two were bruised. Dried blood clung to your binder under your shirt, stiff with old pain.

Something hissed.

You looked around, startled.

The room was dim, lit by red emergency lights and sparking wire. Machines lined the walls—some looked half-human, half-metal, twitching unnaturally even while dormant. And standing just out of reach, leaning against a steel pillar, was him.

Karl Heisenberg.

Trench coat like a cape of smoke. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, but not the way he studied you. A metal hammer rested against his shoulder like a war banner.

"You alive, or should I start carving your name on a scrap pile?"

Your voice rasped. "Funny. You're a comedian."

He laughed—short, rough, like gravel sliding through gears.

"Smart mouth. Didn't think you'd make it past the front gate. The Lycans almost turned you into mulch."

You forced yourself to stand. Your legs shook, but you held your ground. "I don’t know where I am. I didn’t come here on purpose."

Heisenberg tilted his head. "No shit. Nobody comes to this dump for the scenery. You're in the village—Miranda's little sandbox of horrors. And this—" he motioned grandly to the rust-covered machinery, the echoing scream of unseen engines— "is my kingdom."

Your brow furrowed. “You live in a goddamn factory?”

His grin widened. “Better than a swamp or a haunted dollhouse. You’ll meet the rest of the freak show if you survive long enough.”

You glanced down. Your clothes were torn. Blood had dried along your side. You reeked of smoke and steel and sweat. You didn’t remember how you got here—just snow, panic, running from something. And now... him.

“I’m not part of whatever shit Miranda��s doing,” you said quietly. “I’m just trying to survive.”

He stared at you for a long second. Then another.

“You got balls,” he said finally. “I’ll give you that. Most people piss themselves when they see my pets.”

You glanced warily at a twitching torso of bolts and sinew mounted to the wall. "I might still. Give me time."

That made him laugh, full-bodied and wild. You didn’t smile, but you didn’t flinch either. He noticed that.

“Alright, kid,” he said, voice dropping into something almost thoughtful. “You wanna survive? Then get your ass up. You’re in the factory now. That means you work or you rot.”

...

Your first few days were hell. Heisenberg didn’t treat you gently—he tossed you into the scrap rooms with nothing but gloves, a dented welding mask, and instructions barked through a speaker.

But you worked. You fixed broken drones. Rewired panels. Even salvaged old mechanical limbs from the pile. You weren’t a genius like him, but you could keep up.

And he noticed.

Sometimes, he’d lean over your shoulder, muttering snide commentary. Other times, he’d catch you wincing from your cracked ribs and sigh loudly before tossing a painkiller your way.

One night, you were soldering parts together, biting your lip as your binder dug painfully into your bruised ribs. You shifted too fast—pain shot through your side. You hissed and leaned back against the wall.

Heisenberg caught the sound.

"You binding under that?" he asked suddenly, voice unreadable.

You froze. "...Yeah."

He was quiet.

Then: "You wanna... take a break? I can weld for once and let your masochistic little ribs breathe."

You stared at him, unsure whether to trust the offer. Then: “You gonna make a joke about it?”

He shrugged. “No. I don’t give a damn what’s under your shirt, kid. You pull your weight, you’re good in my book. Just don’t pass out on my damn floor.”

Your throat tightened.

“…Thanks.”

He lit a cigarette, handed you one too. "Don’t get sappy on me. You’re still on shit duty tomorrow."

But his tone was softer. And his eyes lingered just a little longer than before.

The factory was asleep.

Well, as asleep as a place like this could get—pipes still hissed, valves groaned, and unseen machinery churned in the depths below. But the usual barking orders and clanging metal had quieted. Even the Lycans had retreated to the tunnels.

You sat in the corner of the upper catwalk, legs dangling over the edge, watching the fog of your breath swirl in the freezing air. Your ribs ached, even through the new shirt Heisenberg had begrudgingly thrown at you yesterday.

It was oversized. Smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke. Definitely his.

He didn’t say why he gave it to you. Just grunted, “Yours was useless. Try not to bleed on this one.”

You hadn’t taken it off since.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him—boots clunking along metal walkways, that familiar dragging hum of his hammer behind him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, coming up behind you.

You shook your head. “Didn’t even try.”

Karl didn’t say anything for a while. Just lowered himself beside you, the metal creaking under his weight. You handed him a cigarette from your pocket. He took it without a word and lit both.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing and the quiet flicker of flame.

Then he said, “You been here... what? Three weeks now?”

“Give or take.”

“Haven’t tried to run.”

“Wouldn’t get far,” you muttered. “Besides, I don’t have a death wish.”

He smirked around his cigarette. “Could’ve fooled me. You showed up half-dead. Took on a welding torch with cracked ribs. Sleepwalk into the lower mines with the Lycans once, remember that?”

You let out a dry chuckle. “Still better than where I came from.”

Karl turned to look at you. Really looked. He took off the sunglasses for once, resting them on the bridge of his coat. His eyes weren’t what you expected—sharper, yeah, but tired. Human.

“Where was that?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Place that never let me be myself. Made me fight for every inch of who I was. And when I didn’t fit their box, they tried to break me to fit it.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t pity you. Just nodded.

“Same,” he said eventually.

You glanced at him. “Miranda?”

Heisenberg’s jaw clenched. “She tore me apart. Rebuilt me into her freak puppet. Thought giving me powers would make me loyal. Thought she could twist me into her little monster.”

He looked down at his hand—metal shrapnel pulsing under the skin, glowing faintly. “But I’m not hers. Never was. I’m my own goddamn machine.”

You nodded slowly. “She did all this to you?”

“She tried to turn me into a weapon. Forgot I could turn myself into a bomb.”

Silence stretched between you again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence you only shared with someone who understood.

Then softly, without looking at you, Karl said:

“You’re the first person I’ve let stay here this long. Everyone else I either scare off or tear apart.”

“…Why me?” you asked quietly.

His lips twitched, but not in a grin. “Because you don’t flinch when you look at me.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding like a faulty generator. “Maybe I should.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe. But you don’t.”

He stood up suddenly, flicking his cigarette over the edge. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

You followed him through twisting catwalks and sealed doors, deeper into the back end of the factory—where the metal walls turned to old stone, remnants of a forgotten castle.

He brought you to a hidden chamber. A place even the Lycans didn’t go.

Inside, lit by a single buzzing lightbulb, was a makeshift workbench—and dozens of hand-welded objects scattered on shelves. Small metal animals. A warped sculpture of a wolf with red glass eyes. A pocketwatch with no face.

“These are yours?” you asked.

He nodded. “Projects. Shit I make when I can’t sleep. When I need to feel like I’m still... me.”

You picked up one of the pieces—a lopsided little figure made of bolts and wire. Looked like a man. One arm outstretched.

Karl stared at it. “…That one’s new.”

“You make it recently?”

His voice was low. “Yeah. After you passed out last week. Thought you were dead.”

You held the figure gently. “You built me.”

He grunted. “Don’t make it weird.”

But you smiled. And he didn’t stop you.

Before you left the room, he touched your shoulder. His hand lingered. Warm. Strong.

“You ever need something,” he muttered, “even if it’s just to breathe... you come here. Got it?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. Got it.”

And for the first time since you arrived in this nightmare world, you felt something sharp and unfamiliar spark in your chest.

Hope.

[justice4gyeongsu]

━━━ 'CHAPTER TEN' [WHEN DAWN BREAKS]

SYNOPSIS ➢ a rooftops panoramic view should be a beautiful sight, key word, should.

PAIRING ➢ lee suhyeok x male!reader

AU ➢ enemies-to-lovers au!

CONTENT WARNING ➢ this chapter contains; flashbacks, near death experience, choking, violence, alot of angst, mentions of bullying, depression, some fluff, mentions of puking, reoccuring ptsd, exclusion, mentions of gore, blood, cannibalism [let me know if i missed any!]

NEXT | PREVIOUS

from his perch atop the air conditioner unit, joonyeong's voice rings out once more, "the 'o' is too narrow, y/n-ah!" his words hang in the air like a challenge, marking the 13th time he's sent you back to the drawing board to tweak the s.o.s sign. you bite back a sigh, your patience wearing thin. wujin, sensing your frustration, lets out a low chuckle. you shoot him a sidelong glance, shaking your head in exasperation. "if he tells me to fix this one more time," you whisper, a mischievous glint in your eye, "i'm stealing his glasses and hiding them." the comment sets wujin and daesu off into fits of laughter, their heads thrown back in amusement.

as the laughter dies down, the group refocuses on the task at hand, their movements a testament to their determination. you grab a rusty old pipe, hoping to use it as a makeshift straightedge, while wujin rummages through a nearby pile of discarded boxes, searching for something, anything, to use. daesu, meanwhile, is attempting to macgyver a makeshift paintbrush from a bundle of frayed wires and a mangled feather duster.

joonyeong, still perched atop the air conditioner, oversees the operation with a keen eye, offering words of encouragement and criticism in equal measure. "no, no, no! the ‘o’ needs to be more circular! and what's with the gap between the ‘s’s? we need to make it better!" as the group works, the rooftop around them begins to resemble a junkyard, with scraps of metal, broken appliances, and shattered glass scattered about. but amidst the chaos, a sense of camaraderie prevails, their shared goal of creating the perfect s.o.s sign binding them together in their quest for survival.

as you crouch beside a pile of rusty scraps, trying to fashion a makeshift stencil, a sudden discomfort strikes your lower abdomen. your bladder, long neglected, protests with a dull ache. you wince, realizing it's been over 24 hours since you last used the restroom. feeling a mix of embarrassment and urgency, you glance around at your companions, hoping to find a sympathetic ear.

you catch wujin's eye, trying to convey your distress without alerting joonyeong, who's still barking instructions from his perch. wujin raises an eyebrow, sensing something amiss, and you subtly nod past the rooftop door, hoping he'll take the hint. to your relief, he nods almost imperceptibly and mouths, "me too." daesu, oblivious to your predicament, continues to tinker with his makeshift paintbrush, but wujin excuses himself, saying, "hey, joonyeong, we need to... uh... scout for more materials. yeah, that's it." joonyeong barely acknowledges the comment, too engrossed in the s.o.s sign's imperfections.

with wujin leading the way, you make a discreet exit, trying to ignore the growing pressure in your bladder as you head towards the other side of the roof that a bunch of obstacles to cover you both, hoping to find a safe place or, at the very least, a secluded spot to relieve yourselves.

wujin, already in his chosen hiding spot, a narrow alleyway between two large ventilation units, calls out in a hushed tone, "hey, you okay over there? find a good spot?" his voice is muffled, but laced with amusement, clearly entertained by the absurdity of your situation. you grit your teeth, wrestling with the recalcitrant zipper, your hand trembling with urgency. "yeah, yeah, just... just give me a minute," you reply, trying to keep your voice down, but frustration seeping into your tone.

"fuck, please not now," you mutter under your breath, tugging at the zipper with increasing desperation. it's as if the universe has conspired against you, denying you even this small measure of relief. just as you're about to give up, the zipper finally yields, sliding down with a soft rasp.

as the warm stream finally begins to flow, you breathe a sigh of deep relief, feeling the tension melt away from your body. the sensation is almost euphoric, and you can't help but moan softly, the sound barely audible over the gentle patter of your urine hitting the rooftop. “fuck,” you whisper, closing your eyes, savoring the moment. the discomfort and urgency of the past hour seem to wash away, replaced by a sense of blissful release.

wujin's muffled laughter carries over from the other side of the ventilation unit, and you can't help but join in, a soft, relieved chuckle escaping your lips. "shut up," you warn, "you're enjoying this way too much." the sound of wujin's amusement continues, a gentle accompaniment to the symphony of sounds on the rooftop – the hum of the air conditioner, the distant rumble of the city, and the sweet, sweet sound of relief.

you hear the unmistakable sound of wujin's belt buckle clicking back into place, signaling he's finished and already moving on. you quicken your pace, hurrying to finish up and tuck yourself back into your pants. but, as fate would have it, your zipper decides to malfunction once again.

"you've gotta be joking" you whisper, frustration creeping into your voice as the zipper gets stuck, refusing to budge. you try to wiggle it, coax it, and even bribe it, but it remains stubbornly stuck. wujin's gaze meets yours, his expression softening slightly as he asks, "are you finished?" his tone is gentle, but you sense a hint of teasing still lurking beneath the surface.

you hesitate, unsure of how to respond. a part of you wants to ask for his help, to let him assist you in freeing yourself from the clutches of the stuck zipper. but another part, a part that remembers the pain of past betrayals, warns you to be cautious. memories long buried begin to resurface, like a floodgate opened in your mind. you recall the days when wujin and you were inseparable, sharing secrets and laughter, until the whispers started. people began to call you gay, and wujin, once your closest friend, started to distance himself. the pain of his rejection still lingers, a scar that never fully healed.

you look away, trying to shake off the memories, but they linger, casting a shadow over the present moment. "i... i think i've got it," you stammer, trying to sound convincing, but your voice betrays your uncertainty. wujin's expression changes, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing the sudden tension. "hey, what's wrong?" he asks, his tone softer now, but you're unsure if you're ready to confront the ghosts of your past. your mind races with panic as you imagine wujin thinking you're trying to make a move on him. the thought alone makes your heart sink, and you desperately want to reassure him that's not the case. but words fail you, and you remain silent, your face burning with anxiety.

with a surge of adrenaline, you try to force the zipper down, then up again, wincing as it digs into your skin. your injured hand throbs in protest, but you grit your teeth, determined to avoid any further awkwardness. "just... just give me a minute," you mutter, trying to sound calm, but your voice cracks under the strain.

wujin's expression turns concerned, but he doesn't move closer, seemingly unsure of how to react. "hey, do you need some help?" he asks again, his tone gentle, but you sense a hint of wariness. you shake your head vigorously, trying to convey that you're fine, even though you're far from it. the zipper creaks ominously, threatening to break at any moment, but you keep tugging, your hands shaking with frustration and fear. the silent plea echoes in your mind as you struggle with the zipper, your face burning with embarrassment.

wujin's eyes widen slightly as he takes in the sight of you struggling with the zipper, your face red with effort and embarrassment. for a moment, he looks away, his expression awkward, as if unsure of how to react. but then, his face sets in a determined expression, and he strides towards you with a confident air. "lemme do it, it'll be faster," he says, his voice firm, but with a hint of gentle coaxing.

you feel a surge of relief mixed with anxiety as he approaches, his hands reaching out to take control of the zipper. your mind races with thoughts of what this could mean, but you push them aside, focusing on the practicality of the situation. "th-thanks," you stutter, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice betrays your nervousness. wujin's fingers brush against yours as he takes hold of the zipper, sending a spark of anxiety through your body. you try to ignore it, telling yourself you dont want to send the wrong idea.

with a few quick, deft movements, wujin frees the zipper from its tangled prison, his hands moving with a precision that makes your heart skip a beat. "there," he says, stepping back, a hint of a smile on his face. "all fixed."

just as you're about to express your gratitude, suhyeok's voice rings out, "yah, y/n-ah! where’d you..?" he turns the corner, his eyes suddenly scanning the scene before him. your heart sinks as suhyeok's gaze lingers on wujin's hands, still resting on your zipper, and your face, still flushed from the struggle. an irritated and hurt glint sparks in suhyeok's eye, and a mournful look spreads across his face. suhyeok's expression in alarm, his eyes darting between you and wujin as if trying to process what he's seeing. the air is thick with tension as he stands there, frozen. you clear your throat, trying to break the silence, and scratch the back of your head, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks. wujin, still trying to defend himself, takes a step back, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

"it's not... i mean... i wasn't..." wujin stammers, his eyes flicking between you and suhyeok before trailing off. he forces a laugh, awkward and unconvincing, and takes another step back, creating distance between you.

suhyeok's glare intensifies, his eyes narrowing at wujin as if daring him to continue. the silence stretches out, uncomfortable and heavy, before suhyeok speaks, "looks like i interrupted something," suhyeok says, his voice dripping with insecurity. finally turns and stalks off, leaving you and wujin alone once more. you look down, embarrassment burning your face, and mutter a quiet, "great." wujin's eyes meet yours, a mix of apology and discomfort in their depths, before he turns and follows suhyeok, leaving you to wonder what just happened.

you take a deep breath and focus on composing yourself. you smooth out your clothes, tucking in any wrinkles or creases, and run a hand through your hair to tidy it up. with a final check to make sure you look presentable, you set off at a jog to catch up to wujin and suhyeok.

as you run, you can't help but replay the awkward encounter in your head. you cringe at the memory of suhyeok's irritation and wujin's flustered reaction. but you push the thoughts aside and focus on catching up to your friends. suhyeok storms off, his annoyance high, while wujin hurries after him, trying to explain. "suhyeok, wait! it's not what you think! he just needed help with his zipper, that's all!" you watch them for a moment before stopping in your tracks. "yah!" you call out, your voice firm but calm. suhyeok freezes, his back still to you, while wujin turns around, knowing you're not addressing him.

you begin walking towards suhyeok, your eyes locked on his towering form. "don't let your imagination run wild before you have the facts," you say, your voice even and measured. as you pass by suhyeok, you turn to face him, still walking backwards. "sorry, wujin-ah. i only see you as a friend," you clarify, but not to him, your gaze flicking to suhyeok for a brief moment before returning to wujin. with that, you turn and continue walking away, leaving the two of them to process your words. suhyeok's anger seems to deflate, replaced by a mixture of confusion and curiosity. wujin looks relieved, but also a bit amusement. he gives a thumbs up with a panted, “thank god.”

you approach the group, realizing you only explained the situation to suhyeok because you didnt want him to think wujin was gay. last thing you needed was more rumors for someone, now giggling to yourself about the earlier misunderstanding. as you reach daesu and onjo, you notice they're in the middle of a heated discussion. "that makes no sense," daesu scoffs, leaning down to mess with the pieces of wood leftover from their earlier project. onjo pouts, her face scrunched up in a frown. "yah, if you wouldn't believe me, why did you even ask?" she shoots back, her voice rising. daesu's expression turns defensive, and he matches onjo's volume. "cause you don't know!" he insists, his words overlapping with hers.

you watch the exchange, amused by their dynamic. they remind you of siblings, always bickering and teasing each other. you can't help but smile at their familiarity. "what's going on?" you ask, inserting yourself into their conversation. daesu and onjo pause, turning to face you. they both look expectant, as if waiting for you to referee their argument.

"daesu doesn't think," onjo says, her tone still slightly petulant. "but she's not making any sense!" daesu protests, throwing up his hands. you chuckle, shaking your head. "what is it?" you ask, trying to mediate their disagreement. onjo begins saying she tried to explain to daesu that s.o.s means nothing but daesu refuses to believe her. even though he had asked for her opinion in the first place. you begin to think, scratching your head before speaking, “i thought it meant ‘save our souls’.” your words laced with confusion.

onjo's eyes widen in frustration. "no, no! that's not it at all! it's just a nonsense phrase, a myth. it doesn't mean anything!" daesu snorts. "you're just not smart enough to understand it, onjo."

onjo takes a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "i looked it up, okay? and it's just a myth. it doesn't have any real meaning." daesu scoffs. "you and your 'research'... i don't believe it." you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. cheongsan then enters the conversation, “shes 100% right. it doesn't mean anything, why don't you believe her?” he asks daesu. you raise your brows as cheongsan quickly stands up for her, to which onjo nods proudly.

daesu's gaze shifts between the two, his curiosity getting the better of him. he rises from his place and ambles over to namra, a hint of a smile on his face. "hey, prez," he says, seeking her expertise. onjo's eyes flash with annoyance as she springs to her feet. "that jerk," she mutters under her breath, her reaction so endearing that you can't help but smile. you've never noticed how much she embodies the role of a little sister, and it's almost charming.

you make your way over to jimin and hroryeong, who stand together, a united front. "you guys okay?" you ask softly, concern etched on your face. jimin looks up at you, a hint of exasperation in her eyes. "really?" she asks, her tone laced with annoyance, as she continues to soothe hroryeong. you hold up your uninjured hand in a calming gesture before turning to walk away, not wanting to spark any more unnecessary arguments. you'd rather not be the catalyst for further conflict.

as you suddenly watch, onjo's tiny frame darts out, her foot connecting with cheongsan's leg in a swift kick. he yelps in surprise, his momentum halted as he falls to the ground. the group gasps, shocked by her sudden move. onjo gestures to the others, her expression nonchalant. "come on, let's start a fire. it's gonna be dark soon." you stroll over to cheongsan, a grin still plastered on your face. he looks up at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "for a small girl, she's pretty strong, huh?" you chuckle.

cheongsan's hurt gaze lingers on your face, his expression puzzled. he's never seen you like this before - relaxed, carefree, and almost... happy. his memories of you are etched with a gloomy, solemn demeanor, a stark contrast to the person standing before him now. even in the face of adversity, you seem to have found a glimmer of joy.

"what?" cheongsan asks, confusion etched on his face as you continue to stare at the group with an enigmatic smile. "nothing, it's just funny," you reply, your eyes still fixed on the others as you giggle to yourself once more. cheongsan smirks, his expression laced with disbelief. "i think you're delirious," he teases, his laughter mingling with yours as you both walk away from the group. the absurdity of onjo's kick and the group's dynamics has somehow lifted the gloom, and for a moment, you're able to find humor in the midst of adversity.

the group toils away for nearly 20 minutes, gathering twigs, leaves, and other flammable materials, attempting to create a spark through sheer friction. just as frustration begins to set in, namra casually reaches into her pocket and produces a sleek lighter. "wait, you had that the whole time?" daesu asks, incredulous, as namra nonchalantly lights the fire. the group stares at her, a mix of surprise and amusement on their faces. onjo's eyes widen, "namra, you smoke?" namra shrugs, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, "occasionally." the group's perception of their perfect class president begins to shift. she's not as squeaky clean as they thought. a hint of rebellion lurks beneath her polished exterior. jimin raises an eyebrow, "i didn't know you were a smoker, namra.

namra's smile grows, "there's a lot you don't know about me, jimin." the fire crackles to life, casting a warm glow over the group as they settle in for the night.

the group sits in a circle around the fire, the warm flames casting a golden glow on their faces. you find yourself nestled between cheongsan and jimin, the three of you forming a cozy line. the silence is unique, punctuated only by the occasional gust of wind that rustles through the trees. the group's eyes gaze into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. as the sun dips below the horizon, the sky transforms into a kaleidoscope of pinks, oranges, and purples. the colors deepen, and the darkness gradually engulfs the group, like a soft blanket.

the fire crackles and spits, casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees. the group's faces are illuminated only by the warm glow of the flames, making them appear like silhouettes. cheongsan shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. jimin's eyes remain fixed on the fire, her expression contemplative. the quiet is comfortable, a sense of camaraderie settling over the group. they're united in their struggle, bound together by the shared experience of survival. as the darkness deepens, the stars begin to twinkle above, like diamonds scattered across the velvet expanse. the group's breathing slows, their eyes growing heavy, lulled by the warmth and comfort of the fire.

your eyelids grow heavier, the warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. the flickering flames seem to blur, and the quiet murmurs of the group fade into the background. you try to fight it, but your head nods forward, your chin dipping towards your chest. cheongsan's shoulder provides a comfortable resting place, and you lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body.

jimin's voice is a distant whisper, "he never really told us where he was, when he left the group. hes probably exhausted." your eyes droop further, the darkness closing in around you. the fire's warmth and the group's presence lull you into a sense of security, and you let yourself drift off, surrounded by the quiet companionship of your fellow survivors. as you succumb to sleep, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional crackle of the fire are the last things you hear, a soothing lullaby that carries you away into the darkness.

cheongsan's face contorts in a mixture of surprise and fluster as you lean into him, his eyes darting to onjo, who's watching the scene with amusement. onjo's giggles escape her lips, and she covers her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle her laughter. just as cheongsan's face is about to turn bright red, the sound of singing wafts through the air, captivating everyone's attention. daesu's melodious voice rises and falls in a hauntingly beautiful tune, his words indistinguishable but the emotion palpable.

your eyes flutter open, drawn to daesu's figure, silhouetted against the darkness. the fire's warm glow casts a golden light on his face, his eyes closed, lost in the music. the group's mesmerized, their faces tilted upwards, drinking in the beauty of daesu's voice. even onjo's giggles have ceased, replaced by a soft, wonder-filled expression. cheongsan's fluster forgotten, he too is entranced, his gaze fixed on daesu. you feel his shoulder relax beneath your head.

you gently lift your head off cheongsan's shoulder, whispering a soft apology, "sorry about that.” cheongsan smiles, his eyes still closed, and whispers back, "it's okay, sleep if you need to." but sleep is the last thing on your mind as daesu's song weaves a spell around the group. somehow, without words, everyone knows the melody, and their voices begin to blend in harmony. onjo's sweet soprano soars above the others, while jimin's rich alto adds depth to the sound. namra's gentle hum provides a soothing background, and even cheongsan's rougher tone blends in perfectly. the music swells, a beautiful, wordless chant that fills the night air. daesu's voice rises above the others, guiding the melody, as the group's voices merge into a stunning harmony. you join in, your voice blending with the others, creating a magical sound that seems to lift your spirits and connect you all in a way that transcends words.

the music builds, a crescendo of hope and resilience, a testament to the power of unity and the human spirit. as the last notes fade away, the group falls silent, the only sound the gentle crackling of the fire.

the song's final notes linger in the air, leaving behind a comfortable silence. the group sits in stillness, basking in the warmth of the moment. then, hroryeong breaks the silence, her voice gentle, "that was such a nice song." daesu turns to her, a hint of mischief in his eyes, "didn't you say it sucked?" you stifle a laugh, anticipating hroryeong's response. hroryeong's face remains calm, a small smile playing on her lips, "well, now that i actually listened to it, i think it's kind of nice."

the group erupts into laughter, daesu's teasing grin met with hroryeong's playful shrug. the tension is broken, and the atmosphere remains light, filled with the warmth of friendship and shared moments. onjo chuckles, "hroryeong, you're such a critic." hroryeong's smile widens, "hey, someone's got to keep daesu's ego in check." daesu mock-offended, "my ego's just fine, thanks for asking." the banter continues, a gentle, easygoing exchange that fills the night with laughter and camaraderie.

you lean back, using your good arm to support yourself, and gaze up at the sky. the smoke from the fire wafts upwards, disappearing into the vast expanse of stars. the celestial canvas stretches above, a twinkling tapestry of light and shadow.

the beauty of the night sky hits you like a gentle breeze, soothing your soul. it's surreal to think that such tranquility can exist after the chaos and tragedy that unfolded just days prior. as you lie there, you realize that you've never taken the time to truly appreciate nature's splendor. life got in the way, and you were always too caught up in the hustle and bustle to stop and smell the roses. but now, in this moment, you make a silent promise to yourself to change that. you want to experience more of this beauty, to find solace in the simple things, and to never take the world's wonders for granted again. the stars seem to twinkle in agreement, their gentle sparkle a reminder of the magic that surrounds you. you feel a sense of peace settle over you, a sense of connection to something greater than yourself. as you gaze up at the stars, you know that this is just the beginning of a new chapter in your life – one where you'll cherish the beauty in the world and find joy in the everyday moments.

onjo's question hangs in the air, drawing everyone's attention to namra. "how long have you been smoking for?" she asks, curiosity etched on her face. the group's gaze shifts to namra, awaiting her response. for a moment, she just stares, her eyes fixed on some distant point. then, her voice barely above a whisper, she reveals, "since eighth grade." the group sits in silence, their faces filled with a mix of surprise and understanding. namra's eyes drop, her gaze falling to the ground.

"i had no friends and a lot of stress back then," she continues, her voice laced with vulnerability. "it was my way of coping, i guess." the group's expression softens, their faces filled with empathy. they see namra in a new light, beyond the perfect class president facade. they see a person who's struggled, who's found solace in a habit she can't shake.

onjo's question hangs in the air, piercing the silence. "did you ever need a friend, though?" namra's gaze drifts off, her eyes clouding over as she searches for an answer. the seconds tick by, and just when you think she won't respond, she whispers, "i'm not sure. i can't really tell."

her words strike a chord within you. you can't help but think back to those countless days when you and namra sat beside each other in class, both of you lost in your own worlds. you both needed a friend, yet never reached out to each other. the irony isn't lost on you. you were so close, yet so far apart. you wonder what would have happened if you had spoken up, if you had taken the first step towards friendship. the fire crackles, breaking the silence. namra's eyes refocus, her gaze meeting yours for a brief moment. you sense a flicker of understanding, a shared acknowledgment of what could have been.

the moment passes, but the memory lingers, a bittersweet reminder of the connections we miss, and the friendships we never forge. onjo's words cut through the silence, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and accusation. "you always put up a wall. you'd wear earphones all day and you never said anything." you feel a twinge of discomfort, your gaze drifting away from namra's intense stare. onjo's words strike a chord, and you can't help but think about your own behavior back then.

"wasn't it because you hated us?" onjo finishes, her question hanging in the air like a challenge. namra's expression remains enigmatic, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the fire. the silence stretches out, heavy with unspoken emotions. you can't help but wonder if namra will open up, if she'll reveal the truth behind her aloofness. the anticipation high, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for her response.

the fire crackles, the only sound in the tense silence. namra's gaze finally shifts, her eyes locking onto onjo's, and you sense a hint of vulnerability lurking beneath the surface.

onjo's straightforward question hangs in the air, and everyone's eyes avert the two girls, sensing the intensity of the moment. but namra doesn't waver, her gaze steady as she turns to face onjo. "i never hated you guys," she says, her voice clear and firm. "i just..." she pauses, her eyes drifting to yours, and you sense a flicker of vulnerability. you offer a small, reassuring smile, encouraging her to continue. "never had any friends," namra finishes, her voice barely above a whisper.

the group's collective gaze returns, their faces filled with a mix of surprise and understanding. the silence that follows is no longer tense, but rather, compassionate. you feel a sense of connection to namra, knowing that you both shared a similar experience. you realize that sometimes, people put up walls not because they hate others, but because they're afraid of being hurt or rejected. namra's gaze lingers on yours, and you sense a hint of gratitude, a silent thank you for understanding. the moment hangs in the air, a fragile bond forming between you and namra, one that could potentially blossom into something more.

hroryeong's words spill out, a mix of confession and vulnerability. "well, i never really liked you," she says, her eyes fixed on namra. "i thought you didn't talk to us because we were beneath you." namra's expression remains neutral, but her eyes betray a hint of hurt. she waits for hroryeong to continue, her silence inviting more truth.

joonyeong's sudden admission shocks the group, his words laced with a raw honesty. "i kind of hated you," he says, his gaze avoiding namra's. "there were times that i wished you would just disappear."

the group's attention snaps to joonyeong, surprise etched on their faces. you can't help but wonder why he would harbor such feelings towards namra, especially since they never spoke. ulterior motives surface as jimin asks, "aren't you close? you're the top two students?" her confusion is palpable. joonyeong's response is swift, his words laced with a hint of bitterness. "that's why i hated her. no matter how hard i worked, i was always second."

you can't help but feel a pang of regret. your grades were never something to brag about, and you wish you could say you worked hard but struggled. but the truth is, you didn't have the energy to try in school. it's a regret that still lingers. namra's expression remains calm, but her eyes flicker with a hint of understanding. she knows the weight of expectations, the pressure to perform. the group's silence is heavy with unspoken thoughts, their faces reflecting a mix of surprise and contemplation. the dynamics between joonyeong and namra have shifted, the air thick with a newfound understanding. onjo breaks the silence, her voice gentle. "i never knew, joonyeong. i'm sorry." joonyeong's gaze drops, his shoulders sagging slightly. "it's not your fault, onjo. it's just...namra was always the standard i couldn't reach."

joonyeong's words are laced with a newfound acceptance. "but it's okay now. i think i was able to come in second, because of namra." he nods confidently, a small smile on his face. you can't help but smile at his last thought, the tension in the group dissipating. daesu chimes in, his voice filled with a mock seriousness. "hey, seconds good too." everyone nods in agreement, a chorus of assent. daesu turns to suhyeok, his expression solemn. "i can't even be 20th, right?" suhyeok nods in solidarity, and they share a fist bump, their faces comically sad.

hroryeong tries to uplift joonyeong, but her words come out awkwardly, "hey, don't compare yourself to joonyeong." joonyeong's face falls, and he pouts, "what? i was just saying. why do you always get on my case whenever i say something?"

hroryeong rolls her eyes, exasperated, but daesu seizes the moment, a mischievous glint in his eye. "wait a second, do you like me?" he asks, his tone playful. hroryeong's response is immediate, a slap on daesu's arm. "shut up, you moron!" the group chuckles, amused by the exchange. undeterred, daesu continues, "i'm going to put it out there, so you don't get hurt. i like somebody else. so don't like me."

hroryeong punches his arm again, her face flushed. "i don't like you! i also have a crush, and it's not you!" the group's laughter grows louder, their eyes fixed on the banter between daesu and hroryeong. jimin's curiosity gets the better of her, "hm? you never told me you had a crush?" she asks hroryeong, her voice tinged with surprise. hroryeong's fingers fidget, her eyes cast downward before she sheepishly looks up, trying to meet yours. "it's newly developed," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

you realize, with a start, that you were the only one oblivious to hroryeong's crush, too busy adding wood to the fire to notice the subtle cues. suhyeok stifles a laugh, his eyes sparkling with amusement at the realization. joonyeong's curiosity is piqued, "yah, daesu, who do you like, then?" he asks, his voice filled with excitement. daesu's grin is mischievous, wujin suddenly spoke up, his voice laced with amusement. "he's crazy," he said, pointing to daesu. "he has a crush on my sister."

jimin's eyes widened in surprise. "hari-unnie from the archery team?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. daesu's face turned bright red as he confessed, "i get a little crazy when i'm in love. she's like my own personal cupid." you couldn't help but cringe at his words, but you quickly covered it up with a laugh. however, daesu caught the laugh and misinterpreted it. "hey, don't make fun of my love," he scolded, his tone playful but slightly defensive. you held up your hands in a calming gesture, still smiling. "love whoever you want, i don't care," you said, returning to feeding the fire.

daesu's eyes lock onto joonyeongs, a curious glint sparkling in their depths. he then looks towards wujin, who shakes his head in a silent plea to stop. but joonyeong, seemingly oblivious to the tension, nods his head encouragingly towards you. daesu's eyes dart back and forth, his gaze finally settling on you. he takes a deep breath before speaking in a robotic tone, "speaking of love... how's your love life, y/n?"

wujin lets out a sigh, his eyes rolling heavenward in exasperation. you, on the other hand, feel a nervous gulp rise up in your throat as everyone's attention focuses on you. the group's collective gaze is like a weight on your skin, making your heart race with anticipation. you can't help but wonder what daesu's motives are, and why he's suddenly so interested in your love life. the silence stretches out, heavy with expectation, as you struggle to form a response.

"um.." you start, looking around the fire at the expectant faces. "i would say nonexistent." you try to add a small laugh to ease the blow, but it still creates an odd atmosphere. wujin curses under his breath at daesu for putting everyone in this situation. daesu, however, seems oblivious to the tension he's caused. just as it feels like the silence is going to stretch on forever, jimin breaks the tension. "y/n-ah.." she says, her voice soft and gentle. you turn towards her, and she looks at you with a curious expression, blinking for a second as if gathering her courage. you know what she wants to ask, so you wait for it calmly. "are you really... gay?" she whispers the word, afraid someone might hear.

the question hangs in the air, and you can feel the weight of everyone's attention on you. you take a deep breath, preparing to respond. wujin speaks up, his voice firm, "yah, that's none of our business-" but you cut him off, not wanting him to get worked up on your behalf. "it's okay, i got it," you say with a small smile, appreciative of wujin's defense. daesu, sensing wujin's tension, rubs his back in a calming gesture. you turn back to jimin, a sheepish nod accompanying your words, "i am."

jimin's response is simple, a soft "oh.." with a nod of her own. the lack of judgment or surprise in her voice puts you at ease. the group falls silent once more, but this time it's not awkward. it's as if they're all processing this new information, trying to understand. daesu breaks the silence, his voice gentle, "we're cool with it, y/n. you're still the same person." the others nod in agreement, their faces filled with acceptance and support. you feel a sense of relief wash over you, grateful for their understanding.

you return to feeding the fire, trying to focus on the crackling flames. jimin looks back at you, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. she wants to ask another question, one that everyone else seems eager to know the answer to. however, her gaze aligns with onjo, who subtly shakes her head, warning jimin not to ask. jimin hesitates, but her curiosity gets the better of her. "who was it?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

your head snaps towards her, "what?" you ask, trying to play dumb. jimin sighs, knowing she's pushing her luck. "who was the person you confessed to?" she asks slowly, her eyes locked onto yours. you look away, the fire that once warmed you now feels suffocating. the heat rises to your face as you grow quiet, unsure of how to respond. "i mean, you can tell us, y/n-ah," daesu says, trying to reassure you. "it's not like they can hear us."

daesu chuckles, attempting to lighten the mood. "yeah, we're okay that you're gay, so don't feel pressured," joonyeong adds, his voice gentle as he fixes his glasses. your gaze meets joonyeong's, and your heart skips a beat. his words touch a deep part of your soul, and you feel a lump form in your throat. you thank him with teary eyes, never having heard such acceptance before. you refuse to let your tears fall, but it's clear that joonyeong's words have struck a chord.

hroryeong's facepalms, finally realizing the implications of the conversation. daesu tries to comfort her, but his attention is quickly diverted as the group waits with bated breath for your answer. you hesitate, fumbling with your vest-sling before speaking. the silence is almost deafening, until three people speak at the same time.

"i-it was..." you start, but are cut off by onjo’s attempt to intervene, "guys maybe we should..." but the loudest voice is suhyeok's, "me." your eyes widen in shock, knowing who the voice belongs to but refusing to make eye contact. everyone turns towards suhyeok, who looks up with a mixture of shame and guilt. "what?" wujin asks in surprise, his voice echoing the group's confusion.

the atmosphere is electric, with all eyes on suhyeok. it's clear that he's the one you confessed to, and the group is struggling to process this new information. daesu's eyes dart between you and suhyeok, his expression a mix of shock and curiosity. hroryeong looks like she's been punched in the gut, her face pale. joonyeong's eyes are fixed on suhyeok, his expression unreadable. the silence stretches out, heavy with tension, as the group waits for someone to break the silence.

jimin's eyes widen in shock as she points between you and suhyeok, "you? you and you?" she asks, her voice trembling with disbelief. onjo looks like she's been punched in the gut, her eyes fixed on you with a mix of shock and confusion. she had no idea you had feelings for suhyeok, let alone be the one you confessed to. suhyeok nods, his eyes cast downward, "i... i was stupid back then." he mutters, excusing himself from the conversation.

joonyeong's hands are outstretched, as if ready to physically receive the answer, "why did you do it?" he asks, his voice laced with frustration. "what? do what?" suhyeok asks, confusion etched on his face.

jimin's voice rises, her tone threatening, "you know what he's asking you, why did you set him up?" cheongsan tries to intervene, telling her to calm down, but she ignores him. suhyeok's face reddens with anger, "i didn't set him up!" he shouts, his voice echoing through the forest. "they just showed up that day, i didn't know they found the note. i just wanted..." he trails off, his frustration noticeable. you try to intervene, your voice barely above a whisper, "i'd rather not talk about it anymore, guys..." but it's drowned out by the tension between suhyeok and jimin. the group's dynamics have shifted, alliances are being tested, and secrets are spilling out.

jimin's arms are crossed, her expression stern, "if i were y/n, i would never speak to you again." she says, offended on your behalf once more. suhyeok's eyes plead for your forgiveness, but you refuse to meet his gaze. "i tried to go see him," he says, his voice softer now. "but he would dodge me every chance he got. it was all a big misunderstanding. i've been trying to make it up to him these past few days-"

hroryeong cuts him off, her voice firm, "yah! we don't forgive you that easily!" she says, her arms crossed, mirroring jimin's stance. wujin and daesu exchange confused glances, "y/n isn't a girl..." wujin says, trying to correct hroryeong. hroryeong huffs, "yeah, but he likes... boys, so he probably thinks the same way. it's frustrating with you guys," she says, her expression exasperated. daesu and wujin look at each other, offended by hroryeong's assumption.

joonyeong's sudden apology catches you off guard, "i'm sorry for never speaking to you." he says, his eyes sincere. you shake your head, trying to brush it off, "it's in the past." but joonyeong insists, "no, i think... i think we all owe you an apology." he gestures to the group, and one by one, they offer their soft apologies. you nod awkwardly, unsure of how to respond, as you continue to feed the fire. wujin's apology is the most heartfelt, "i should be the most sorry." he says, as he plays with his shoelace. "i'm sorry, y/n-ah, i left you when you needed me the most." his voice cracks as he sniffles, trying to hold back his emotions.

"i didn't realize until now how much of a bad friend i was." he admits, his eyes red-rimmed. "but, i can promise you now i will forever be your good friend, if you'll have me." the sincerity in wujin's words makes your heart ache, and you look up to the sky, trying to hold back your tears. the weight of their apologies and the pain of the past few days is almost too much to bear.

why is it that today's words are cutting deeper than any other? you wonder, as you struggle to keep your emotions in check. you nod, a small smile on your face, "i forgive you." the three words are simple, yet they hold so much weight. wujin's face lights up with a warm smile, and he nods back, relief washing over him. but amidst this heartwarming moment, suhyeok's eyes gleam with a mix of emotions - regret, longing, and determination. he knows that he's been longing to hear those exact words, but you've given them to wujin, your childhood friend.

suhyeok's gaze falls, and he takes a deep breath, his jaw clenched. he knows now that he has to make up for what he did, to earn back your trust and forgiveness. the journey ahead won't be easy, but he's determined to try. the atmosphere around the campfire is filled with a sense of closure, new beginnings, and unspoken promises. the night air is filled with the crackling of the fire, and the weight of words left unspoken.

onjo gently intervenes, "how about someone else goes?" she suggests, expertly steering the conversation in a new direction. you're grateful for the change in subject. "i'll go," jimin says, her voice carrying through the night air. you turn to her, intrigued, as she begins to share her story. "my mom and dad prepped everything for my transfer. they said to just go to seoul." she explains, her voice laced with a mix of emotions.

"but i really didn't wanna go there. i wouldn't have any friends, and i was afraid of the seoul kids," she admits, her vulnerability palpable. you nod, actively listening, as she continues. "onjo gave me a great idea, to miss school for five days so the principal couldn't write me a recommendation letter. it's all thanks to onjo that i didn't transfer." she says, her eyes flicking to onjo, who smiles warmly.

"but... i should've just went to seoul," jimin adds, her voice tinged with regret. "then none of this would've happened." onjo's smile falters, and she looks down, her eyes welling up with tears. you speak up, trying to offer comfort, "you can't focus on the past, i think you were meant to be here, with us." jimin's eyes water at your words, and she slowly nods, looking away, trying to compose herself. the group falls silent, each lost in their own thoughts, as the night air is filled with the sound of crackling flames and the weight of shared secrets.

wujin's voice breaks the silence, "people have always said... my sister was an archery prodigy ever since she was little." a hint of sadness creeps into his tone. you look up, memories flooding your mind. you remember playing in wujin's room, his older sister watching over you both with a warm smile.

"so our parents only cared about trying to get my sister onto the national team," wujin continues, his eyes drifting away, lost in thought. his voice is laced with a mix of sadness and longing. you sense a deep-seated pain in wujin's words, a feeling of being overlooked and underappreciated. his parents' focus on his sister's archery career seems to have come at the cost of his own emotional well-being. the group listens intently, offering silent support as wujin shares his story. the night air is filled with the weight of unspoken emotions, and the crackling of the fire seems to echo the turmoil in wujin's heart.

wujin shakes his head, a hint of bitterness in his voice, "they've never paid attention to me at all." he admits, his eyes cast downward. daesu, ever the charmer, tries to lighten the mood, placing a hand on wujin's back, "i'll give you all my attention, brother-in-law." his words are met with a chuckle from you. wujin playfully pushes daesu backwards, his smile returning, "don't be sad. you have me," daesu says, his words cut off by wujin's teasing.

wujin's laughter fills the air, "thank god i have daesu now," he says, his eyes shining with gratitude. "and thank god i had y/n then," he adds, his gaze meeting yours. you look up, a warm smile spreading across your face, feeling happy to have been a source of comfort and support for wujin in the past. the atmosphere around the campfire is filled with a sense of camaraderie and friendship, the earlier tensions forgotten in the face of shared laughter and stories.

cheongsan's voice is low and gentle, "me and... onjo..." he begins, his words trailing off as he collects his thoughts. you sit still, your gaze fixed forward, giving him your full attention. the others seem to sense the importance of this moment, and a hush falls over the group. cheongsan takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper, "we've been friends since we were kids... but i think i wanted more." he pauses, his eyes darting to onjo, who looks down, her face hidden behind her hair. the air is thick with anticipation, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for cheongsan to reveal more. you remain still, your heart pounding in your chest, as cheongsan's words hang in the balance.

onjo tries to brush it off with a laugh, "stop, guys, he's just joking." but her attempt at humor falls flat, as everyone's serious faces remain fixed on her. cheongsan's expression turns sincere, "i'm serious. i've always liked you, onjo-ah." he says, his voice filled with vulnerability. but onjo's reaction is not what he hoped for. she stares at him, her eyes wide with shock, before quickly standing up and walking away from the group.

the atmosphere is heavy with tension, and you can feel the pain in cheongsan's chest as he looks down at his lap, his eyes welling up with tears. you try to offer some comfort, whispering to him, "she just needs a second to process." but the words feel hollow, as the weight of cheongsan's confession hangs in the air. the group sits in silence, unsure of how to react, as onjo disappears into the darkness, leaving cheongsan's heart exposed and vulnerable.

cheongsan's gaze follows onjo's figure into the darkness, his eyes fixed on her as she walks away from the group. he looks out towards the city, his expression a mix of longing and uncertainty. suhyeok notices his gaze and gestures for him to go after her. cheongsan takes a deep breath, then looks over at you, "guess the seconds over." he says with a hint of sadness, before getting up and walking towards onjo. the rest of the group is left in an awkward silence, unsure of how to react. daesu breaks the silence, whispering to hroryeong, "i had no idea. did you know?" his comedic timing is impeccable, and you can't help but laugh to yourself.

hroryeong playfully scolds him, "you're the only one who didn't know." wujin chimes in, "i didn't either." his confession makes you giggle even harder, and you place your hand over your mouth to hold back a fit of laughter. the tension is momentarily lifted, and the group shares a moment of levity, but the weight of cheongsan's confession still lingers in the air.

joonyeong tries to lighten the mood, "hey, remember that time in school when the mascot brought out flowers for the boys on white day?" he chuckles, and the others start to chime in with their own memories. "oh man, i forgot about that!" wujin exclaims, laughing. "yeah, and the boys were so embarrassed!" hroryeong adds, giggling. but daesu shakes his head, "i don't remember that." hroryeong teases him, "of course you don't, you were probably too busy sleeping in class!"

daesu defends himself, "i was not! i just... uh... had a lot on my mind." the playful banter between daesu and hroryeong starts to escalate into a full-blown quarrel, but you tune it out, noticing something else. suhyeok gets up from his spot beside wujin and daesu, and walks over to take cheongsan's empty spot next to you. he sits down quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground, but you can sense his presence beside you. the group's laughter and chatter continue, but you feel a sense of awkwardness now, sitting next to suhyeok, who had just moments before been trying to make amends with you.

you try to focus on the conversation, but your awareness of suhyeok's presence beside you makes it difficult. you can't help but wonder why he moved to sit next to you, and what he's thinking. hroryeong and daesu's quarrel continues, with joonyeong and wujin trying to intervene. "hey, hey, let's not fight about this," joonyeong says, laughing. but daesu and hroryeong are too caught up in their argument to listen. "i'm telling you, i was not sleeping in class!" daesu insists.

suhyeok clears his throat, and you turn to look at him. he's watching the argument with a mixture of amusement and concern. "hey, let's just drop it, okay?" he suggests, his voice calm and soothing. the group slowly starts to settle down, with hroryeong and daesu still exchanging playful jabs. but the tension has dissipated, and the mood is once again light and playful. you turn back to suhyeok, and catch him looking at you. he quickly looks away, but you sense a hint of a smile on his face. you can't help but wonder what's going through his mind.

suhyeok's gaze drifts back to the ground, but you can sense a subtle shift in his demeanor. he seems more relaxed, more at ease, now that the argument has passed. the group's conversation flows easily, with laughter and jokes filling the air. you find yourself smiling, feeling a sense of belonging among these friends. as the night wears on, the fire crackles and spits, casting a warm glow over the group. suhyeok shifts slightly, his arm brushing against yours. it's a fleeting touch, but it sends a warm feeling through your gut.

cheongsan's sudden yell pierces the night air, "onjo!" he screams, his voice laced with panic. you all turn to see what's wrong, and your heart skips a beat as you take in the scene before you. gwinam, his face twisted into an evil grin, is holding onjo in a tight grip. his eyes seem to gleam with a hungry intensity, making your blood run cold.

you stand up, fear coursing through your veins like ice. gwinam's face flashes in your mind, alongside myungwhan's, and you're transported back to that dark, traumatic moment. their laughter echoes in your mind, their cruel words still etched in your memory: "you're worthless." your breath catches in your throat as you take a step forward, your eyes fixed on gwinam. cheongsan charges towards gwinam, but the latter is too strong. with a swift motion, gwinam grabs cheongsan and slams him to the ground, his back hitting the earth with a sickening thud.

"cheongsan!" suhyeok exclaims, his hand instinctively going to your waist as he prepares to rush past you. but before he can take a step, onjo darts forward, her small frame bravely intervening. she grabs gwinam's arm, trying to pull him off cheongsan. however, gwinam's power is too much for her. with a cruel elbow strike, he sends onjo flying backward. she crashes to the ground, her body crumpling from the impact. hroryeong and jimin rush to her side, helping her up. onjo's face is etched with pain, but she's determined to stand her ground.

suhyeok takes advantage of the distraction to sprint towards gwinam, his eyes blazing with anger. suhyeok's kick connects with gwinam's stomach, sending him flying off cheongsan. daesu and wujin rush to cheongsan's side, helping him up and checking for injuries. meanwhile, suhyeok faces off against gwinam, dodging and parrying his wild punches with ease. he looks like a total boss, his movements fluid and confident. you can't help but feel a surge of admiration for him, but gwinam refuses to back down. as suhyeok attempts to tackle him, gwinam stands firm, his fists clenched together. with a powerful slam, he sends suhyeok crashing to the ground, his back throbbing in pain. suhyeok struggles to get up, but gwinam is relentless. with a swift kick, he sends suhyeok flying into a stack of chairs, which crumble beneath him. suhyeok lies there, dazed and groaning in agony.

the group gasps in shock, horrified by gwinam's brutality. cheongsan takes a step forward, his eyes blazing with anger, but daesu and wujin hold him back. onjo, still shaken from her earlier fall, looks on with tears in her eyes. hroryeong and jimin try to comfort her, but their faces are etched with worry. gwinam stands tall, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes gleaming with a fierce intensity. he's unstoppable, and it's clear he won't hesitate to hurt anyone who gets in his way.

gwinam's sinister grin and chilling words send a shiver down your spine. you quickly scan the area, your eyes locking onto the hammer you had found earlier by the rooftop entrance. without hesitation, you sprint towards it and grab the hammer, its weight feeling reassuring in your hands. as you turn back to face gwinam, you see him laughing maniacally, his eyes glinting with a sadistic gleam. "everyone but cheongsan can go. unless you wanna die with him," he sneers, his voice dripping in pure evil.

you notice something odd - it looks like he's chewing on something, his jaw moving slightly as he speaks. it's a small, disturbing detail that only adds to the sense of unease. the group exchanges fearful glances, unsure of what to do next. suhyeok, still recovering from his injuries, looks like he's about to charge at gwinam again. cheongsan, however, stands tall, his eyes fixed defiantly on gwinam. onjo takes a step forward, her voice shaking but resolute. "we're not leaving cheongsan behind." hroryeong and jimin nod in agreement, standing shoulder to shoulder with onjo.

the situation is escalating, and it's clear that things are about to take a dark and dangerous turn. gwinam's face twists in rage as he spits out his words, "then you can all rot in hell with him."

[class1akids]

People are saying he's gonna die eventually, that the next chapter is gonna be the Todoroki family sending off Touya before pulling the plug… and I'm like WTF??? Do you think that's gonna happen??

I think people are jumping to conclusions. We literally have no idea what we are seeing:

It could be a tank or a room behind the glass. It could be for life support or for recovery. The wires could be keeping Touya alive or rebuilding his tissue. The bindings could be to restrain him or compression to help him heal, or both. The stuff around his head could again be restraint or a mask because they fixed his jaw.

Just because Hori likes to draw horror when it comes to Touya, I think the question of whether he survives solely depend on the fact if Horikoshi wants him to survive. Central Hospital has Ujiko's tech, so they can fix him if that's what the narrative wants.

So I think, it's more interesting to look at the different themes of the family and what kind of ending would make sense for them.

Shouto's is about "giving help that's not asked for" being applied to his family, as well as a deep belief that anyone has the capacity to change with the right push.

Touya's is about wanting a meaning for his existence, and wanting to see the family change.

Endeavor's is about how you can atone when the past never dies and how he can step up as a father after all this time:

Going through absolute hell and drag Touya back from the brink only to "pull the plug" as a mercy killing works for none of these arcs.

If Hori wanted it to be a classic shonen tragedy, he would have let Endeavor take Touya in a murder-suicide like no doubt many readers and in-verse the public would have liked it to happen. The abuser and the victim-turned-villain dying together in a last act of self-sacrifice, Enji dying with his "mistakes".

Horikoshi didn't want to write this ending though. Because this still makes it all about Endeavor - his rules, his sins, his reputation, his choices, his mistakes.

He decided to make the way the family changed matter more. This ending my work for Enji and Touya, but it sure as hell didn't work for Rei, Natsuo, Fuyumi or Shouto.

If Touya just dies here, getting pulled with a plug like old bathwater, because the family decides it's better - how is that a different from being left behind again?

Isn't it more meaningful if the family faces that "pure hell" Natsuo mentioned together?

And maybe find a solution together...

[starlightshadowsworld]

Bsd Fifteen

Anime:

Chuuya is sat on a chair in Mori’s office after being captured by the Port Mafia. His hands and feet are imprisoned in ability cubes. With said user standing behind him.

Light novel:

Chuuya was detained.

Both hands were handcuffed, both arms were tied up with leather restraints and both legs were covered with large chains made to tow ships.

Steel wires used for construction work were wrapped around his ankles and fixed to the metal fittings on the floor.

His fist was covered with a steel cage so that it could never be opened again. In addition countless red cubes appeared to surround him.

It was an ability: a subspace constraint to bind Chuuya.The ability’s power was to due to the gifted who stood next to Chuuya (who’s also standing in the middle of the office.)

Anime:

Mori explains why Chuuya helping the Port Mafia will benefit them both. “And if I refuse?” Asks Chuuya to which Mori plays a message from the Sheep saying they’re captured and need Chuuya’s help.

Light novel:

Mori explains why Chuuya helping the Port Mafia will benefit them both.

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll kill you” said Mori in a neutral tone. Like the moment when sugar is put into coffee. “Though it’s hard to kill you, even in the Mafia. So I’ll kill all your companions in the ‘Sheep.’ How about it?”

Chuuya’s restraints flew away. The metal restraints hit the walls and the ceiling due to the physical strength of Chuuya’s ability. “I’ll kill you!” Chuuya jumped. He closed the distance between Mori in an instant and raised his right fist.

Before his fist could collide-it stopped. In front of a smiling Mori, there was a black communications device that he had raised in advance.

And then Mori plays the message from the Sheep asking Chuuya for help.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hidden Treasure 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your quiet life is interrupted by a tempestuous man. (reader is Blair from Follow You Anywhere)

Characters: Thor

Note: I just did it, okay?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You lay out the hand-sewn coin purses along the left side of the table, completing the array of your hand-made and repurposed goods. It’s a good day to sell, sunny but not too hot, the early days of spring when people are eager to get out. At least it should be. Despite your selection, you’re not the most personable vendor along the square. 

The last detail is the hand-painted wood sign. You did it yourself; an antique frame you added a gold hue to and filled with a thin sheet of board. It isn’t much but it tells people what they’re looking at; handmade and renewed goods. 

You fold your hands and hover behind your table. You’re a one-person operation. It’s your own table, your own money, your own everything. It brings in enough for you to live. Just you and your cluttered apartment. 

The coin purses and the sleepers you sew by hand are the more popular sellers. Anything for children goes first, you notice. Everyone seems to be having them. The older crowd radiate towards the old candlesticks you polished to a shine or the glass-shaded lamps you tediously re-wired. Most try to haggle but your prices are fair enough. 

You peer around at the produce stands, the soap and candle makers, and the crocheted stuffies of your fellow sellers. You do a bit of window shopping but never follow through on your wandering eyes. You don’t need to waste the money on the pretty new things, you have lots of lovely old things. 

The traffic picks up and you busy yourself with the browsers. A woman with a stroller buys several of the infant dresses and headband, a group of older ladies peruse the aged hardcovers and pick out a few, while a couple comments on the brass-based lamp with the dangling chain. You do your best to smile through the transactions. 

The rises higher in the sky towards its apex. The steady flow keeps you busy, with some time in-between to work on fixing the binding of one of the old editions. You like to keep yourself distracted, thinking can be dangerous. With how much time you spend alone, it’s hard to avoid. 

As you lock up the cash box and tuck it back under the table, a shadow passes over, large than any other. For a moment, you think a cloud’s passing over the sun. You look up at the sky as a broad figure stands across from you.  

You don’t know how you didn’t see the man’s approach. He’s huge. Tall and wide. He doesn’t seem the type to be interested in your selection. Still, he leans in to eye the embroidered coin purses and gives a rumbling hum that sounds like distant thunder. 

He picks up one with primroses sewn into it. His thick thumb brushes the threaded design and his large hand makes the coin purse look even smaller. You tap your fingers on the table as his eyes flick up and meet yours. 

“Hi, uh, how can I help you?” You whittle out of your tight throat. It’s not often a lone man finds interest in your things. You cater to a more femme audience. 

“This is nice,” he remarks, “do you make these?” 

“Uh, yes, I do,” you give a tight-lipped smile, “I just embroider old used purses.” 

“Just? That’s splendid work,” he brings it closer to his face and looks down his nose at the little flowers and leaves, “my mother would love this... mother’s day is coming, eh?” 

“Oh, um, yes, I suppose,” you agree. “It’s five dollars. Cash only.” 

“Mm,” he traces his thumb over the metal clasp as he taps his back pocket with his other hand, “don’t think I’ve any on me. Could you hold this for me?” He offers the coin purse, “I’ll find the ATM.” 

“Sure, I could do that.” 

You take the coin purse, fingers brushing his rough skin, and you set it aside. 

“Thank you,” he smiles broadly, blue eyes twinkling as lines creases around them and across his forehead. 

He reluctantly trails away and you watch him go. His golden hair is longer than most, twisted into a low bun behind his hand as a few strands dangle freely around his face. He wears a denim jacket over dark red tee and grey jeans, along with a pair of scuffed brown boots. He stands out even in his casual attire. 

You shrug off the encounter and turn to your next customers. More baby clothes. The women chat about a baby show and you point them to the newborn sizes, telling them about the fabrics you use for each. They buy a few bibs along with the sleepers and diaper covers. 

You back up and sit in the folding chair, drinking deeply from your bottle of water. You don’t know if it’s the interactions or the sun making you dizzy. It’s close to noon. You always start to feel it around this time.  

The hours surrounded by strange faces and buzzing voices are clustering in your head and chest. Only a little longer; the market only runs until two. If the world didn’t require money to survive, you might never leave your apartment. Yet your table is the only means you have to keep walls around you. 

You sit a bit longer and get up again. You’re okay. You should’ve eaten before you left the apartment. How silly of you to forget the overnight oats you had put in the fridge just the night before. You do forget quite a few things. 

The market thrums with the late morning rush and you brace yourself for the final stretch. If you can clear off half the table, you might not have to come back next weekend. You’d be all too content to stay in your own little world, the one beyond is too loud and too bright. 

🕰️

You fold your table up and push the hook around the peg to keep it shut. You fold up the chair as well and lean both with your boxes. As the market clears out, you pull up your small two-door and load your wares into the back hatch. 

You peer over at the other vendors and their vans and trucks. Crews of half a dozen or more pack away goods and chatter just as loud as the previous crowds. It’s an isolating moment. You don’t mind going unnoticed but sometimes you feel so small. 

As you put a box in the back of the car, your keys slip off your finger. You bend and feel around the tire to retrieve them and sense a shadow above you. You clasp your hand around the keyring and stand-up suddenly, turning to face the figure behind you. There’s no one there. 

You peer around but find nothing out of the ordinary. You return to your task and pause. You don’t remember putting that box away yet... 

You shake your head. You’re just tired and forgetful. Your cardinal vices. Your mind wanders too much to rest, too much to keep order. 

You put the last box away and close the hatch. You get in the driver’s seat and turn the engine. It putters softly but it runs well enough. The old car has gotten you through the years just fine. There was a time that tiny thing was your home. 

You pull away down the lane parallel to the edge of the market square and pull out into traffic. You drive without seeing, led by habit as you stop at signs along the way, turning around corners mindlessly. You stop and wait to pull into your building’s lot and notice the large storm grey jeep behind you. It strikes you as peculiar; you enter from a back street to avoid the rush. 

You steer into the lot and the jeep continues down the street past the building. You forget it as quickly as it rolls beyond the faded brick. You find your spot, parking pass dangling from the mirror, and shut off the engine. You linger and take a breath. You're hungry and tired. 

You leave your things in the car and go upstairs. You slow as you pass your neighbour’s door. You saw her yesterday, she was in trouble about something. The police came as she hid from her boyfriend in your apartment. You didn’t even know she had one. You tried not to be nosy but she seemed real upset. 

Your cheeks tinge as you stare at the numbers on her door. She’s the only person who’s ever been inside your apartment. You don’t welcome people in, not into your home or your life. You hadn’t meant to let her in but you were so tired and confused, you couldn’t stop her. 

You cringe and continue down to your door with one last glance over your shoulder. You put the key in the slot and turn with a grind. You scurry inside and quickly lock the door, afraid she might once more emerge and follow you inside. Or that man, the big one with the beard. 

You twist the latch back into place and put your keys in the tray on the cramped shelf. The apartment is dark, the windows shrouded in black fabric, and you flip on the overhead light to guide you down the hallway. The walls are made tighter as their lined with endless shelves and tables, all filled with your collection of curiosities. 

You go to the fridge and take out the mason jar of steeped oats. You sit and eat the soft, pasty oats and the berries. You didn’t add enough cinnamon. It doesn’t matter, your stomach greedily mulches it. You put the kettle on and wait for it to steam. 

As you pace around, you hear a loud rumble. An engine. You don’t think much of it but you go to the window to peek out around the dark fabric. A woman walks a large dog past a grey jeep parked along the curb. Is it the same one you saw before? 

The question doesn’t pique your mind much. That’s the way of the world, you find. It’s a lot smaller than it seems, yet to you, it’s inexorably vast. It’s too fast, too unpredictable. You retreat as the kettle whistles. 

Your apartment is small and warm and safe. The world can’t follow you back here. Not if you don’t let it in and you won’t be doing that again. 

-🕰️

You decide, against your better instincts, to go to market. The weather is nice and it wouldn’t be so bad add a few extra bucks to your nest egg. You never know what might come up, or what you might find! Too many times you stumbled upon an antique you just couldn’t afford. 

You go through your usual ritual. You set up the table and the chair, and arrange your things in the same way around the wooden sign. As you put your boxes to the side, you hear a rattle at the bottom of one. You look into the crate and notice the silver ring. How’d that get in there? You didn’t bring any jewelry. 

You put down the box and reach inside. You take out the ring and turn it. You’ve never seen it before. There’s a strange stick symbol on the flat face. Maybe another language or a run of some type. You turn it in your hand and tuck it in your pocket. You’ll have to give a closer look at home. 

It’s early and a few stragglers trickle in, but they all walk by your table without pause. 

You sit and take out the jar of oats. You remembered today. You’d woken up with a hunger so deep, you almost ate before you left. You know better than to eat too early. Instead, you had your tea and got yourself moving. 

You stir the blueberries in and eat slowly, trying to measure your bites so you don’t feel sick after. You watch the other vendors, some still setting up, and lazily swallow down the thick oatmeal. It feels like it might rain after all, there’s a touch of damp in the air. 

You finish up and put the jar away. As you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, a woman’s voice trills and pricks your ears. Silver hair with a few wisps of gold peak out from her silk headscarf. The teal fabric matches the pattern of her blouse, tucking into a finely pressed skirt. She’s not alone, she has her arm hooked through another. 

Her companion is younger than her. His golden hair is pulled half up at the crown of his head as he towers over her lithe frame. You squint, they might be related. As they approach, you get a whiff of deja vu. 

“Yes, it was this one, mother,” the man’s voice is deep. 

“How lovely, look at all these treasures,” she slips her arm free as she approaches, “hello, dear, is this all yours?” 

“Mhmm, yes,” you stand up, “are you looking for something in particular?” 

“I think we’re just browsing,” she smiles brightly, her lips painted a gentle shade of rose. 

“A coin purse,” the man says, “with prim rose? Do you recall?” 

You look at him. Faces aren’t easy for you but his voice strikes something in your mind, and his size. You haven’t seen a lot of men that big, only the one in your neighbour’s apartment. You think you remember holding something but the customer never came back. 

“This one,” you point to the coin purse, set back in the row. 

“Yes, that was me,” he chimes, “mother,” he pulls the primrose purse to the top. She takes it and he looks back to you, “I apologise that I didn’t return, there was an emergency and I had to be off.” 

“It’s okay,” you shrug, folding your hands together. 

The woman is looking at you. There’s something in her gaze that makes you squirm. Her eyes linger just a bit longer before she aims them at the purse, admiring the embroidery as she feels it beneath her thumb. 

“Yes, I do like this one,” she says. 

“I brought cash this time,” the man booms and reaches into his pocket, “five, I believe you said.” 

“Yes,” you accept the bill from him, his skin rough as his fingertips touch yours, “thanks. Erm, did you need a bag?” 

“For this? No,” she wiggles the purse playfully and reaches for the man, her son, with other hand. She caresses his knuckles as she faces him, “you were right. Very beautiful.” 

He smiles broadly, proudly almost. It’s just a purse. You hide your discomfort as you grip your arm at your elbow. 

“Thank you,” the woman chirps back at you, sending another grin in your direction, “you might see us again.” 

She hooks her arm once more through her son’s and leads him to the next booth. You peer after them as her attention clings to the purse as she continues to feel it between her fingers. She leans into his arm as she speaks to him quietly. They seem close, it’s sweet. Your own mother had never been so affectionate. 

You look away before the scene can pluck in your chest. It doesn’t matter. You’re grown up now. That’s all behind you. 

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 37 - Ready

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Ch 35 & Ch 36

… *sneaks this one out and pretends it’s only been a couple of weeks*…

Herewith some soft bros working through stuff then Gordon takes charge.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

The sketchbook was heavier than the jacket.

Both were tucked under Scott’s right arm as he clung to Virgil’s hand with his left. His brother seemed to float along after him, unresisting, barely aware of his surroundings. That was… not ideal. The jacket just hung innocently from his forearm, as if it hadn’t been the cause of all this… but the book? The book and all it contained was conspiring with gravity and actively trying to escape him. He pressed it hard into his side with his elbow to prevent it slipping any further. The spiral binding wire dug into his hip.

The temperature in the villa was as perfectly climate-controlled, as ever. But Virgil was shivering despite the flannel and undershirt.

Time to get him up into the sunshine. He pulled a little more firmly and they passed into the kitchen.

Gordon, looking up from his plundering of the fridge, raised an eyebrow as they passed. Scott inclined his head - he had it in hand but had no objection to the squid covering his six. Gordon snapped his heels together and raised a half-eaten bratwurst to his forelock in a snappy, if objectively ridiculous, salute. Scott rolled his eyes before calling “Bear snacks would be good actually, Gords” over his shoulder.

Virgil didn’t acknowledge any of this at all, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. However as they stepped outside he closed his eyes and turned his face towards the late morning sun then murmured:

“It’s ok, I’m not, uh, seeing anything I shouldn’t be. I’m fine.”

Scott snorted. “Your definition of fine is worse than mine.”

Virgil sucked in a breath and huffed a small laugh “Pretty low bar that.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Steering him carefully across the deck and around the pool, he engineered his little brother into a lounger then pulled another alongside. Gradually the tension eased in Virgil’s shoulders and he melted into the chair with a sigh and a muttered “Sorry Scotty”.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Vee.”

A little wrinkle between the eyes betrayed some disagreement with that statement but Virgil didn’t appear to have the energy to argue.

The sun beat down on both of them.

Scott leaned back in the chair and pretended to relax too, while carefully assessing Virgil out of the corner of his eye. His breathing seemed to have evened out. That was a good sign. He closed his own eyes for a moment and tried to steady his own stampeding heart rate.

Watching his brother in the throes of the kind of panic attack he recognised so vividly but had always tried to kid himself into believing most of his precious family would never have to understand first hand… it felt like something was clawing at the inside of his rib cage. None of them should ever have had to have known it… Gordy sadly excepting, of course, but at least nobody, even Scott himself, could truly believe that what happened to his little fish has been his fault, whereas this… this was more complicated. At the moment he couldn’t work out if he was more sad or angry or… something else entirely.

It was taking everything Scott had in him not to suggest they abandon the whole scheme. And then to wrap his brother up in something fluffy and build a 12ft wall around him.

And fire the uniform into the sun.

He reached a hand over to take hold of his brother’s but found Virgil still had the pencil clutched in his fist.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.”

“It doesn’t have to be today.”

Virgil looked up, exhaustion painted all over his face. “If not now, when? I have to beat this, Scott.”

“Do you, though? I can just get rid of it. You never have to see it again?”

His little brother closed his eyes again and shook his head.

“It’s not… really about the clothes though is it? I have…” he gestured irritably at his own head “neural pathways to fix.” Another little frown “No, not fix. Retrain.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do. Look maybe I’ll never really be actually ready but I think I’m going to have to just do it anyway?”

“Ok, as long as you don’t hurt yourself in the process.”

Virgil grimaced. Then pushed himself upright and held his hand out to Scott. It was almost steady. Scott took it and squeezed but his brother didn’t open his eyes.

“Pass it to me.”

“Now?”

“Right now. Please.”

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

Virgil pulled the jacket across his lap and tentatively laid a hand on it. The adrenaline rushed back - he shivered again - then took a deep breath and lifted a sleeve a little to study the weave .

“Do you find the texture unpleasant? Is it like me and crunchy towels?”

He scratched at it gently and noted the whispery hiss of the robust fabric under his fingernail. “Hmm no, not really. It’s only that… it’s kind of unique isn’t it? Nothing else we wear is made of this and i guess it reminds me of when we left you the first time… I was hugging you and… and dad dragged me off because I was embarrassing you and I tried to grab your hand and missed and just caught the sleeve.”

“You weren’t embarrassing me. I nearly ran after you actually.”

Virgil smiled weakly. “But it makes no sense because it’s not as if you were wearing it the last time before… uh, before you didn’t come back. If anything it’s that white USAF hoodie I should have a problem with.”

“Just as well, I still wear one of those. Or at least I did… not seen it in a while actually.”

“Gordon.”

Scott rolled his eyes and groaned “Whyyyy?? My stuff doesn’t even fit him.”

“Bad rescue. He couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah.”

They both looked over at the kitchen where the little brother in question was busying himself with making ludicrously extravagant cocktails.

“I guess… none of these things have to be completely logical, right?” Scott glanced back and reached over to squeeze Virgil’s shoulder.

“Hmmmph. Maybe. Would be easier if it was.”

In fairness there wasn’t much his brother could say to that. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Scott was holding himself very still in a way that betrayed he was trying very hard to look relaxed. Virgil wasn’t fooled and slyly observed him - every so often his eyebrows would raise a little as if he was about to say something but caught himself.

“What do you want to ask, Scooter?”

“I was just wondering… look we don’t have to talk about it now. Don’t worry.”

“I’d like to though. What are you wondering?”

“Ok I was wondering… What happened, Vee? In the hospital? I know you were there, you were the only reason I knew I was out of… There but… my memory is, well it’s pretty hazy. I looked up your records… I’m sorry” he chewed on his lip “I guess that was out of order but I needed to know how to help and what the psychiatrist and grandma were talking about. But all I could see was you were admitted and there was some security incident but no details and then you were seemingly staying in the same ward as me but as a patient? And you… you had an injury? And… I was just worried whether…that, that wasn’t me lashing out, was it? When I was… I didn’t…?”

“Scotty it wasn’t you. I promise, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Ok. Ok that’s good. So what… did… how were you?” Scott trailed off inarticulately and in the face of his brother’s confusion, Virgil found himself suddenly, finally equal to the task of talking about the time he’d spent a decade trying to pretend was a horribly vivid dream.

“I don’t remember it so very well myself. I got told later that I wasn’t compliant with the meds and so most of what I remember isn’t exactly… y’know... uh reliable? But I believe you and I escaped a secure ward and scaled the side of the building in quite unsuitable pants. Well it was only me in the bad pants, you were…” he frowned and shook his head “Well. Not… not there. Actually. So… heh. It’s academically quite interesting because I can see you there in my memory as clear as anything else. But you weren’t of course… anyway at the time I was adamant it was all your idea which, err, concerned them. Obviously. Dad was… well I dread to think about his reaction. You were on the seventh floor so um… yeah. It was probably nuclear. But he was unusually gentle with me. And I guess somehow during that I cut myself on something. And after that I slept in your room which must have been contrary to every policy in the book but he’d probably threatened the entire hospital administration with something unpleasant and legal so… yeah. I was there while you were getting better.”

“You climbed out a seventh floor window?”

“In. My room was lower down. Maybe only a floor or two. To be honest I mostly just remember having to hold up my own pants as they had no waistband to speak of… you were entirely unsympathetic about that, by the way.”

Scott blinked then tried to school the smirk off his face as Virgil blushed.

“So even while unconscious in a hospital bed I still managed to get you into a ludicrously dangerous situation.”

“That’s about the sum of it, yeah.” Virgil grinned back, suddenly feeling a weight lifting as the incident became a source of humour rather than fear. Catching amused blue eyes he added in a quieter voice: “I had to find you, didn’t I?”

Scott reached for his hand again and seemed to be searching for the right thing to say when Gordon materialised bearing a broad grin and a tray precariously loaded with a wide range of comfort foods and brightly coloured cocktails.

Scott cleared his throat, accepted and took a tentative sip of the blue one. Then screwed up his face and spluttered:

“Fie, Squid! What treachery is this?”

“Sherbet! Some fruit purées. Rums. A smidge of chilli, that blue stuff. Standard summer cocktail fare Scotty boy.”

“Rums PLURAL?”

“It’ll put hairs on your chest! Relax you a bit.” Gordon added something under his breath but Virgil was distracted from asking him to repeat it by the more pressing matter of observing his elder brother’s attempts to scrape the fizzy residue off his tongue with a cocktail umbrella.

Virgil eyed his green-containing glass with some trepidation.

Yours is virgin, Virgie-oh. I’m not stupid. Last time you painted a portrait whilst drinking, John had a giant eye on his cheek.

“It was a cubist piece! You’re even more of a heathen than he is!” The tiny head jerk towards Scott was unnecessary.

“Hey! I get art!”

Virgil conveyed his skepticism through the medium of eyebrows.

“Well… once you’ve explained that’s it’s meant to be art… then I get it!”

“So, gentlemen,” Gordon cut in before Virgil could launch himself into a distracting but satisfying lecture on art appreciation, “have you got a plan?”

Virgil tried to remember how to swallow and let Scott confirm that no, they hadn’t got that far yet.

“Well lucky for you chumps, your genius little brother does!” He grinned like a trashy quiz show host from the 1900s then pointed at Scott and the glass of blue stuff:

“You - drink that. Ideally in one. And you…”

His wingman’s finger of inevitability swung to rest on Virgil’s nose.

“You’re ready.”

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💛💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

[tanoraqui]

Somewhat of a Curufin character study (+bonus short Gil-Galad study?) in the Celechwes Fixes the Noldor timeline, specifically related to the fic "Curufinwë Spite Gifts, and Other Welcomes"

A true masterwork, Curufin's had father told him, on the first day they sat together at a workbench, required intent. Any elf could master the technical aspects of a craft—the most wine-drunk Vanya could, with enough tutelage, craft a perfectly balanced gemstone and set it in a gold chain without a single flawed link. They might even be able to reach the Great Music and Sing notes into it for extra color, or some echo of emotion, or light! (As Fëanáro himself had made so popular.)

It was intent that set the masters apart from the apprentices. Intent for the work—what it would look like, of course, how it would be made and come together, but moreover, intent for what it would be. For what it would do. Would it be beautiful? In what way—would it awe alone, or would it glorify the bearer? Would it evoke thought—what thoughts? What questions? Or was it a more practical work—the iron nail to bind (to bind what?), the leather bag to hold (to hold what?)...the sword to guard or prove or kill...

(That was all it felt like Curufin could craft anymore—weapons for bloody intent. Even armor for protection eluded him some days, much less any form of beauty or scholarship. And so he left leadership of the forges to Celebrimbor, and threw himself into the management of armies and peoples.)

Underlying the intent of a masterwork had to be understanding, Fëanáro had explained to his then-young son. Understanding of the work itself, and of the world, and how one would fit into the other. How this single note, or even a motif of ones own, would fit into the Great Music. And before that, understanding of oneself—because more than anything, the intent had to be true. If you said you meant to make a set of horseshoes, but the whole time you smithed, you were smarting with jealousy because your brother's new horse was faster than yours, your iron would be as brittle and bitter as your temper, and your shoes would snap and injure rather than shield. If you had to make a present for someone whom you didn't like, you had to sit with yourself and with your tools and think until you could find something good to wish for them, to put into your gift. Or you had to accept the fact that you had nothing for them, and find a way to craft for beauty alone, or beauty for the sake of showing off your own skill, or as an indirect gift to someone who wished you two would get along, or...

There were many roads to great works of craft, was the point. Curufin had struggled with this at times, but so had Fëanáro, with his temper that burned both hot and long. So it wasn't such a matter of shame. That was why you sat and thought, maybe while doing filler-work like nails or wire-pulling with no particular intent. There were as many truths in a soul as there were stars in the sky—you would find something eventually.

Finally, a master crafter's intention for their work was no mere "goal." It was belief, that this purpose could be achieved, and it was will, that it would be achieved. Prayer and declaration entwined. The material and the metaphysical of Eru's Great Music, bound together by the undying, ever-enduring hands and will of the Eldar.

(Maybe that was why Curufin could no longer forge anything decent but swords, and sometimes not even those. Even when he filled his heart with the Oath, the fiercest-burning intent in his soul, and poured its fiery song into every beat of his hammer - how could he believe that they could succeed, that they possibly would succeed, when even Fëanáro Curufinwë had failed? Treasonously, he asked, how could their father have expected them to? Most treasonously of all, why was he even heeding these old lessons, when his father had—)

Curufin pushed away the doubts that gnawed on his mind like spiders on bone, and focused on the smithing of nails, and more nails, and yet more nails. He had to make a gift—three gifts, in fact, because Maedhros had not just married without telling the rest of them, to Nolofinwë's son, and married twice over, with a child, in blatant defiance of everything—

But this, too, would not do. Curufin was a master crafter of the Noldor, and, as such, a master of his own self. He breathed with the rhythm of the bellows and the stroke of his hammer. He aligned his fëa not with the seething heat of the fire, but with its warmth (an important distinction), its unhesitating contribution to the work.

He used to prefer the drawing of thin wire as meditative practice, or even eschewed metalwork in favor of spinning rope. But a fortress—in Beleriand, where rot, rust, and erosion ruled—always needed more nails, of no quality greater than "functional." So nails he made.

Typically, it was actually irritatingly easy for Curufin to find something true to wish to gift to Fingon, when he'd finally hammered out his seething thoughts with the nails. Everything about Fingon was always irritating. But Maedhros's marriage to him was so little a surprise that it barely counted as treason to Fëanáro's cause—it was just the partisanship expected of Maitimo, for as long as Curufinwë had been alive. It had only redoubled when it had finally been earned, when the Lord of Eagles circled down to land in the camp across the lake, and even before Celegorm—sharpest-eyed among them—had seen the familiar copper-red alongside black on its back, the (remaining) sons of Fëanáro had all known an anchor of unsettled horror and loss lifted at last from their souls—

So, yes. It was easy to find something to gift to Fingon—to gift back, in truth. (This, too, was irritating, but only because it was true.) Salvation, gratitude, relief, for Maedhros's sake if nothing else—but not just in the sense of acquiescence to his bull-headed determination to staple what could never truly be sewn together. Just...for Maedhros's sake. For Curufin's eldest brother whom he loved, and whom he'd miraculously gotten back from worse-than-dead, through absolutely no effort of his own. For Maedhros's life, for his left hand that he'd learned to fight with and his fire which had outlasted even their father's, and for the way he smiled to see Fingon like he never did for his own brothers—

It was no particular effort to extend the wish to Celechwes and young Ereinion (though, that name! Curufin despaired of his every relation, he really did). Not with the way Maedhros smiled, like he hadn't since Treelit days, when he spoke freely of them, too. Not with even just the minute Curufin had observed of the three of them having breakfast—the prince and princess of Barad Eithel and their young son, casual (yet still condescending) in little more than sleepwear, comfortable and affectionate; and Curufin was too experienced a parent himself not to have noticed the discreet byplay of Fingon and Celechwes's joint, losing campaign to make Ereinion actually eat his eggs... (Tyelpë's personal vendetta had been against any green leafy enough to be good for him; Curufin remembered negotiating with his own mother over how much milk he'd have to drink before he left the table.)

Curufin went straight from the forge to the jewelsmithery workroom, holding the bright, warm, well-wishing intent in his heart. Come home safe, he willed, with each turn of the drill, carving the sapphires he'd already chosen. The sky is often dark, hope goes up only in flames—but may you be delivered home safe to each other. A prayer, a molding of golden eagle wings, a demand, a careful setting of gems, a new string of notes in Great Music. (A meticulous, technically perfect crafting of facets, such that one angle showed the Sun of Fingolfin and the other, the Star of Fëanor, for the entwined truths of welcome and, okay, a dash of spite and showing off.) Relief and deliverance beyond all reasonable hope, as you delivered my brother back to me. Fëanor's son and chief inheritor of his craft, apprentice in the Halls of Aulë like his father before him, master crafter of the Noldor, Curufin Sang to the jewels as he wrought them, and they rang true with his Song.

- - -

Excerpt from an early draft of Records of Notable Jewelcraft of the First Age (Vol 3), Lalwen Míredlinn, pub. 1321 TA, Tirion Press.

Three brooches of sapphire in gold did Curufin wright for Fingoln the Valiant, his lady Celechwes Sulaearil, and their son Ereionion, later called Gil-Galad, as belated wedding presents and a 23rd begetting day present, respectively. (See images for details of design.)

.

Fingon's was the largest, with a sapphire the exact dark hue of Fingolfinian banners. He left it in a box in his bedroom when he last rode to war, in what came to be called the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Mightily enspelled though it may be, there is no place for a brooch on a fully armored elf. Its fate is unknown with the collapse of Barad Eithel.

.

Celechwes's sapphire was the pale blue of an unclouded afternoon sky, and of her eyes. She, too, left hers in a jewelry box in her bedroom in Barad Eithel—however, one of her guards slipped it into a pocket ere they left the fort, despite the official exhortation that evacuees should only take essentials. It was returned to the queen with a sheepish smile in a cave near the Pools of Ivrin, when she requested all the extraneous glitter that her Noldorin companions had inevitably squirreled away, that she might make as eye-catching a distraction as possible for the orcs who hunted them, while the rest of her party slipped away unseen.

There are many forces in this world greater than the will of even such a crafter as Curufinwë Atarinkë. Many melodies far stronger. Celechwes's brooch, marked with the crests of the Houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor alike, lies with her bones in the remains of the Pools of Ivrin, at the bottom of the sea with the rest of sunken Beleriand. To be fair, she would have wished for nothing else.

.

Ereinion's brooch, smallest, sapphire's hue a perfect midpoint between his parents', was included in the belongings sent with his person to the safety of the Falas when the mountains of Thangorodrim erupted on the first night of the Dagor Bragollach. (Another few weeks and he could have celebrated his fiftieth birthday by traveling to Himring for the start of an apprenticeship in Fëanorian leadership, the public start of a plan to unite the Noldor once and for all.)

He took it with him to the Isle of Balar, when the coastal cities, too, fell.

When certain word came of the Fall of Doriath, from refugees who'd witnessed the last, bloody battles in Menegroth firsthand, including who died, he noticed Celebrimbor trying to neither shout nor weep. He (just barely come of age, arguably High King of the Noldor) followed his cousin to the end of a dock, where they hung their legs off the edge together, and Ereinion tentatively offered him the brooch, that he might have something good of his father's hand.

Celebrimbor saw how Ereinion clutched the jewelry that had been of a set with his own beloved, heroically lost parents, and bit his tongue on a bitter comment. (Celebrimbor had technically been outside of the loop on Maedhros's marriage, but he was far from dull-witted, but he also had no desire to burden his young cousin with the guilty weight on his own shoulders.) He politely declined.

At the end the War of Wrath, Eonwë the Herald of Manwë declared that the "House of Fëanor" might petition the Valar for return of the Silmarils, and Ereinion's few remaining elder relatives finally told him the full truth of his parentage. Before he could make a decision, that very night Maedhros and Maglor slew the guards and stole the jewels, and Maedhros cast one and himself into the flames while Maglor cast the other into the sea and disappeared.

Gil-Galad nearly cast his brooch, with the Sun of Fingolfin from one angle and the Star of Fëanor from another, into the fucking sea as well. But he didn't.

Eventually, in the Second Age, (after some conversations with Elrond Half-Elven), he even wore it again, publicly and privately. Though he claimed no more than the brooch itself.

Like his father, he did not wear it to war. After Gil-Galad's death, upon some consideration, Elrond gave it to Perolhaleth, mother of Celechwes, to bear across the Sea. Bear it she did, and returned it to her grandson when he returned from Mandos. He wears it now, as he rides with Celechwes and Fingon.

[aestariiwilderness]

Bad Batch Season 3 Episode 15 Spoilers

Finale-Inspired Scenario

I know it was very touching and all with Hunter's "if you need us [Omega], we'll be there". I was Touched™. But all I could think of then was this scenario: Omega: mysterious badass pilot in the Rebellion from any outsider POV. Strange mildly Force-sensitive, very young woman with very extensive, if unorthodox military experience. Animals follow her around. May or may not be a pirate. Has devoted mildly Force-sensitive friends who appear to consider her their leader. Has very odd contacts in very odd places. Weirdly naive about a lot of things (dirt continues to fascinate her) but terrifyingly experienced with others (cloning, mind-wiping, sentient experimentation, etc.). Can fix anything. Has a weird grudge against Saw Gerrera (but who doesn't?). Escape artist who overflows with compassion at the MOST INCONVENIENT times but will also absolutely stab a bitch with no compunction and watch him fall to his death riddled with blaster holes. Never speaks of her origins, history, or family. The famous Captain Rex knows her personally. Senator Chuchi hugs her. Captain Hera Syndulla has apparently known her since childhood. Other pilots and members of the Rebellion are fascinated by this mystery. They place bets on her past -- former Jedi Padawan is currently leading the pool, with "amnesiac formerly brainwashed Imperial child soldier or Emperor's Hand" trailing not far behind. And then. Oh no! Mysterious badass pilot Omega is in a bind. Trapped somewhere behind enemy lines. The Rebellion is collectively in despair, dithering about whether they can spare a "suicide mission" to get her. And then. Multiple (three or four, depending on whether Echo retired to Pabu :D) oddly similar geriatric hippies with scars, facial tattoos, and a tamed lurca hound apparate into their council room. One of them has a toothpick. He has no teeth left, but he is somehow still chewing it disdainfully. Another has one eye and appears to be 1. made of durasteel and 2. has a hard time fitting in the council room. The shortest one has a Ponytail with a capital P, seems to be cosplaying as Moses, and refuses to listen to anyone. They have an incomprehensible system of numbered plans that correspond to no military system anyone has ever seen. They spend 70 percent of the twenty minutes they are on base arguing with each other and ignoring absolutely everyone else. Rex gets a pat on the shoulder. A middle-aged pirate is their getaway driver. The hound will not stop chewing Important Wires. No one has any idea what they want. People only start to get a clue when they yeet themselves at the planet Omega is trapped on and disappear as quickly as they came. There are multiple explosions, screaming, and what sounds suspiciously like a fusion generator overloading catastrophically over an open comm before it is abruptly cut off. The Rebellion gives them up for dead even though Rex, Syndulla, and Chuchi seem oddly unconcerned. Cut to three weeks of radio silence later. There is an unauthorized landing. The code is very old, the signature masked, and it blasts through their security measures like it doesn't exist. A very beat-up ship trailing smoke and parts coasts in to the hangar bay over the protests of the landing crews. Geriatric Hippies Numbers 2 and 3 spill out in a flood of more smoke, completely untouched and looking mildly irritated instead of suffocated. 3 has two stumps and no hands now. He does not appear concerned about this. Somehow, he is still gumming the toothpick. The getaway pilot/pirate is yammering on about where she can (steal?? borrow? liberate?? what?) some upper class robotic hands for him. Geriatric Hippie Moses emerges next. The lurca hound beside him is trailing what looks suspiciously like stormtrooper armor from the corner of her jaws. Badass Pilot Omega, none the worse for wear, is thrown over Hippie Moses' shoulders fireman-carry style, complaining loudly and vociferously that she is NOT A KID and does NOT NEED TO BE CARRIED and YOU KNOW HOW YOUR BACK GETS, HUNTER, PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW --

Omega is summarily deposited in front of Rex with several squinty, semi-threatening looks that he cheerfully ignores. They leave -- without bothering to repair their ship, it is absolutely still on fire -- with a lot of meaningful silences, back-slapping, hair fussing, armor-tightening, you-forgot-this and did-you-take-your-kit and do-you-have-the-grenades-I-made-you and are-you-drinking-enough and don't-forget-to-comm-home.

A brave technician who had nothing to do with any of this dares to inquire about the injuries, the second missing hand, and the, uh, wreck they're driving. They are summarily sneered at, called a "reg" in the most scathing tones possible, threatened with dire death should Omega come to any harm, and left standing on the landing pad.

Rex is pinching the bridge of his nose and doing Lamaze breathing. Syndulla is trying not to laugh. Chuchi just looks fond; Omega just looks sheepish.

The entire Rebellion: ....what was that

Omega, sighing deeply: ...my younger brothers

The ghost of Rampart in the background: I HATE CLONES Bonus points if Jedi Knight "Kanan Jarrus" aka Caleb Dume happens to be strolling past the hangar bay just in time to see Geriatric Hippie #3 ("Toothpicked, Toothless, and Handless") and Geriatric Hippie #1 ("Skullface Moses"), screams piercingly, and Force-levitates himself to the base roof. It takes both Hera and Ahsoka to get him down three hours later

[srjsteel]

Why Binding Wire Quality Directly Impacts the Longevity of Dowel Bar Installations

In any well-carried-out infrastructure project, binding wire won't be the star; however, it is often the silent hero.

Tucked away from view, it quietly holds collectively vital additives like dowel bars and construction rings, appearing as a bridge between intent and execution. The pleasantness of this unsung fabric can be the difference between a structure that stands the test of time and one that fails when it is subjected to the most.

The Hidden Backbone of Reinforcement

At first glance, binding wire may also seem easy: just twisted steel tying two elements collectively. But in truth, it is a structural dedication. Especially while securing dowel bars, the wire must keep anxiety and form below steady strain, it from vehicular load, thermal expansion, or shifting subgrades. Inferior fine wires lose tension over time, which weakens the alignment of bars and reduces the efficiency of load switching among pavement slabs.

On large-scale production sites, especially on highways and airport runways, even a minor lapse in reinforcement balance can lead to catastrophic failures. Engineers understand this all too well, often, every time, every ring is subject. That’s why there’s no room for compromise on the subject of the material, keeping it all together.

The Real Cost of Using Low-Grade Wire

A dowel bar setup is only as reliable as the material that holds it in its vicinity. If binding twine corrodes early or becomes brittle, the alignment and anchorage of the dowel bars are compromised. This results in cracking inside the concrete, spalling, and eventually untimely failure of the slab. Once this happens, repair isn’t simply expensive—it’s disruptive and time-ingesting.

What’s more, terrible first-rate cord won't bond nicely with creation rings, especially in high-moisture or saline environments. The wire's gauge, tensile strength, and corrosion resistance directly affect how well it performs on-site  Cheap twine may also keep some rupees in step with the package deal, but it often leads to primary structural problems that far outweigh any initial savings.

The Technical Perspective: Why Quality Matters

Highly exceptional twine is made from low-carbon metal and undergoes a particular annealing system. This makes it smooth enough to bend effortlessly but robust enough to keep its form beneath a load. Such traits are critical when used with dowel bars that want to stay aligned throughout the enlargement joints without lateral motion.

Properly annealed cord would not snap or flake at any point of twisting, which guarantees uniform tension throughout all creation rings and joints. It also resists rust better, preserving structural integrity even when exposed to water and competitive weather situations. For packages in coastal regions or industrial zones, this delivered resistance isn't always a bonus—it’s a need.

Trusted Materials Build Lasting Infrastructure

Every nice-aware engineer understands that infrastructure isn’t just about electricity; it’s approximately patience. From bridges and expressways to urban flyovers, the overall performance of dowel bars depends heavily on how they're tied and secured in place. And that protection starts off with the dependable binding cord.

In India’s rapid-paced creation atmosphere, in which timelines are tight and expectations are excessive, making an investment in the right substances could make or break a mission. Reputed suppliers ensure consistency in tensile power, diameter, and rust resistance. These are not minor technicalities—they may be fine checkpoints that immediately impact the structure’s lifecycle.

Final Thought

Precision in construction starts at the micro stage. The integrity of dowel bars, the alignment of production jewelry, and the very existence of a pavement slab rely on the quiet energy of binding cord. It won't shout for interest, but its effect speaks volumes through the durability of the very last shape.

[cryptidcorners]

Gardenia - Josh Futturman x M!Reader

Description: Being Josh's childhood friend, you never would have expected to see him appear by your doorstep after a month of radio silence. Though, in this particular visit, he's desperate to air out his true feelings before traveling through time. Unknowing if he'll ever come back to see you again.

Media: Future Man!Show

Character: Josh Futturman

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Childhood Friends, Catching Up, Confessions, Light Angst to Fluff, Kissing, Romantic, Comfort, Sweet Stuff

Warnings: Arguing (+ about Josh ghosting reader), Foul Language, Mental Breakdown/Depression Mentions

read my TOS + Josh Futturman Masterlist

Dread twisted in your stomach like rusted wire, and your constant stirring on your mattress was robbing you of any justice of getting any variant of rest. Your eyes grew heavy, dangerously puffy from expelling your grief several dark hours ago. Though, it had only felt like seconds to you. Your thoughts raced like a wild flock of puzzled birds, breath hitching along with it as you slowly fell into decay.

Your gaze was fixed to your glowing digital screen, eyes fixed on your messages with your old friend, Josh Futturman. It had been weeks of endless radio silence, along with your desperate texts. You were more worried than upset if anything. You went to his house to drop off a game you had finished, but his parents said he wasn't there. Along with all the other days you had made excuses to stand at his doorstep.

His parents weren't liars, and they wouldn't deny you. They knew Josh and you were close. You even remembered Diane saying you were helping him in ways they had struggled to for years. Your lip quivered, so why would he leave?

You two only argued once during a blue moon, you shared so much in common and you swore every second was sincere with him. It had always been him, and it had always been you. Ever since you were kids you were inseparable, to the point others figured you were his boyfriend due to how close you were. It was ridiculous.

Yet, here you were, hunched over and dry with internal pain, thoughts still clinging onto the thought of Josh. You were starved to see him again. He understood everything about you, even with the design of your mind being incredibly complicated. Had you done something wrong? Had you offended him? Had he grown tired of you? Did he even like you?

Then, you heard your doorbell. The familiar tune caught you off guard, but it had made you fix up your wrecked expression promptly and sluggishly fix your clothes. You raced downstairs while catching your breath. You were too out of it to care who it was, but you weren't stupid enough to open it at random. You rested your forehead against the door, "Who is it?" you asked weakly.

"Josh," a familiar voice answered. Muffled, and seemingly distressed as well. You jolted up and needily worked your hands to unlock the door. Your face was brimmed with shock. It was him, but covered in bruises and sweat. His curls were lazy and messy, his eyes were wide and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. Still, his gentle tone made you weak, relieved. But also incredibly angry. "Hey." He said, "Long time no see?"

You struggled to collect your thoughts. "Yeah." Your eyes narrowed, "Do you want to come inside?"

"Please." Josh stated. You didn't say anything, and gestured for him to walk toward. As soon as you shut the door, he immediately opened his mouth and began rambling, "Look, I'm—, I'm so sorry I didn't talk to you." His eyes met yours, "Trust me, I didn't mean to leave you for so long." Josh stammered, "I was just, so wrapped up in something. And, I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn't, please, I didn't–"

You sucked your teeth, "Where were you Josh?"

"I–" his hands landed heavily at his sides, his face slightly appalled at himself. As if he were a dumbfounded audience. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?" You grew agitated, spilling out your gallons of binded frustration. "Why did you ghost me for over a month? Where . . . Where were you?" You breathed heavily, "I thought you hated me, or something terrible happened to you. God, your parents didn't even know where you were!"

Josh choked out a cry, "You don't understand. I didn't want to hurt you,"

"But you did!" You interrupted. "Josh, why did you leave? What happened?"

"I can't fucking tell you!" Josh shouted. "You wouldn't understand. It's too complicated!" You grabbed him by the shoulder before he could turn around, "No, I don't think you understand. How could you just go with no explanation? You look terrible. What are you running away from?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you." Josh winced, "I'm sorry, okay? Please, I had no choice. I didn't mean to leave you. I didn't do it because I hated you or anything like that, okay?" His breaths were unraveling, "Do you know how much I care about you? You know me. You're my best friend," a low whimper escaped your lips as you stated at him. The tension shifted, and you both gazed at each other longingly. "I love you."

"Josh." You released your grip. "Please, I, don't have much time. I love you, so much. I would never, ever, hurt you." His hands found your face, "I need you to know this." Something grew in your chest, and you brought your head forward. "I love you too."

You don't know who fell first, but you felt relieved once Josh kissed you. His hands scavenged across your back, and you dug your fingers into his hair. He hummed, body relaxing at the feel of you. Once his palm found its way under your shirt, you both collapsed onto your couch.

You were both crosslegged and smothered in each other, skin blazing as your love untangled. His hands found your sides and you were eagerly grabbing his collar to pull him closer. You swear you could see stars once he pulled away, trying to catch his breath. Josh held you close, face still red from the passion you had inflicted just a few seconds ago.

"Hey, I'm sorry." You whispered.

"For what?"

"For getting so angry." You frowned, "I shouldn't have gotten so pissed at something personal happening to you."

Josh cupped your face. You swore you could drown in his eyes, "Don't say that. You deserve to be mad at me, I left you. And it's okay, just . . . stay here with me." You cuddled up next to him with a sleepy exhale, smiling softly. "Stay."

Josh whispered, "I promise I'll make it up to you. In any way I can,"

[alchexmy]

we love insane König here.

tw | obsession | stalker tendencies

The Beginning.

It surprised him. The lengths he would go to, to feel close to you, the way he would degrade himself to quench his desires.

It really surprised him.

Wired eyes with pinprick pupils staring into the harsh blue light of his computer screen in the office, looking through your file, figuring as much of you out as possible without even having to be near you. Not that he didn't want to be near you. Oh, he very much did. But he had no real reason to be, you were just the intelligence officer, a quiet girl, absorbed in paperwork, rubbing your temples when you worked too late. And you always worked late.

That's when it had started.

All it took was one night, him planted at his desk, you at yours. Everyone else had finished up hours prior. His gaze had been enamoured by your every movement. Captivated. You didn't even notice him staring, eyes narrowing, assessing you. For some reason that lack of attention really irked him, it got right under his skin.

Then you had looked up.

"Colonel, can I ask you something?"

Yes.

He had rolled himself back in his chair, wheels bumping on the uneven carpet, silently gesturing his acceptance of your question with hands open.

That slender figure of yours had rose from its stationary position, fingers selective over the sheets they picked up, neck flexing to stretch out the long hours of arduous work. It took seven strides for you to be right beside him, the scent of your skin filling his nostrils, the undone top button of your shirt just loose enough to provide the most fleeting distraction for his mind.

You had been speaking to him with a determined, stressed tone, arms brushing. He had listened to your every word, but he had also been admiring your details. The way your nails were in perfect manicured condition, yet the skin around them bitten and picked until they were red raw. The slightly oval shape of the mole which decorated the back of your hand as it flexed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, index finger pointing out that highlighted section and this highlighted section, there is a connection here right? Your handwriting in deep black ink small, neat, cursive even, at times. It made sense, it suited you.

The conversation was brief, hands tapping the sheets on his desk to straighten them into a bundle. Do you mind? You reached over him to borrow his stapler, binding them irreversibly, putting them back on your desk. The ladder in your tights as you walked away, what had you ripped that sheer black nylon on? 

When the door swung closed 43 minutes later, he raised that stapler to his mouth, breathing in the trace of you left behind. It's not like it even smelt of anything, he could barely understand the compulsion to do it.

And so the obsession had begun.

Your mug, swiped from the side of the sink one day.

That had been him.

The kettle boiling as eyes scrutinised where your lips had been, those faint marks from your lipgloss. His only desire to emulate you, copy your actions, pouring the water in, steeping the tea and drinking from exactly where you had.

But the simple thrill died off quickly, so he had to ramp it up, needing his fix. The more he fed it the more it grew like a malignance, uncontrolled, invading every single second of his thoughts. Thus, the more he needed you, his drug.

It surprised him, how a man of such stature could creep so unnoticed through the corridors at night. It actually took him a couple of tries to get the courage to follow through, his heart pounding, a sensation so intoxicating. The third night, his fist enveloped the door handle, carefully pressing down until it clicked and he could swing it open with ease. And there you lay. His heart hammering so loud he could actually hear it echoing gently within those four walls, your four walls.

In the end, you only noticed what he had done because all of your underwear was matching, the easiest way to pack for work. And suddenly, there was an odd number.

He found new excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to smell you, to watch you. Even if you didn't see him. The middle of the night, first just standing against the door, watching you from afar as you slept, your chest slowly rising and falling. Then he would sit on the floor, his face inches from yours, the exhilarating rush making him electric. You never stirred.

Everything was mesmerising, the way you sat, the way you chewed the inside of your cheek when concentrating, the tone of your voice, the flush of your cheeks, the way you walked, the way you ate. It consumed him. He needed you. But he would never touch you, not yet. The thought of requite was tempting, yet would kill off the private intense pleasure he got from knowing you didn't know.

It didn't take long for him to figure your whole routine out. Every night around 8 you would retire from the office and head to the shower block, you would take 20 minutes to wash the day off and then leave. And you always left your caddy of stuff there until the following morning.

So he would wait 10 minutes after you finished before going to the block and lathering his body in the same cubicle with your scent.

But you see, he needed his fix.

8.30 turned into 8.29, and he used your shampoo to wash his hair.

8.29 turned into 8.25 and he scrubbed his teeth clean with your toothbrush, still damp, faintly tasting of mint as he ran it over his enamel.

But he needed his fix.

So at 8.21 he went in, practically walking into you as you left, your small body colliding into his mass. It had shocked you. Sorry, Colonel.

You had simply no idea.

No idea as headed straight into the same cubicle as always, this time, fully clothed.

No idea as he knelt down, leaning his chest forwards, his nose millimetres from the acrylic base.

No idea as he stuck his tongue out and licked where your feet had been, lapping up a little of that stagnant water infused with you.

Now it was his turn to stay late in the office, turning all the lights out, basking in the darkness.

He leaned back taking in that f—king scent which lingered all over his skin, legs spread, staring at your file in the darkness. Large hands ran through his hair as he shifted forwards, clicking on your profile photo.

He could feel the twitching, begging for release, begging for the stroke of his palm to alleviate the tension. A single digit outlining your jaw on the screen. God he wanted to finally touch you, finally have you.

The door opened, that silhouette unmistakable, making his throbbing c-ck scream.

"Colonel, I need to ask you something."

[starksbabie]

The Ink That Binds Us - Chapter 1

Next

Summary: Omega reader moves to Stark County, ND after her grandmother dies and she inherits her house. She gets a job at a local diner where she meets charismatic asshole alpha, Deputy Gator Tillman. Will his rough around-the-edge ways push her away before she even knows that he’s her perfect match?

Tags/Warnings: Soulmates AU, A/B/O, eventual smut, 18+ mdni, mentioned unwanted touching, soulmates have matching tattoos, Gator Tillman (he’s his own warning).

Word Count: 2.4k

“We were just two broken souls trying to fix one another… Somehow I ended up with a piece of you and you, me.” — Evy Michaels

- 10 years earlier -

You wake up and stretch, your nest is cozy and warm around you. The blankets, pillows, and stolen clothes from the people important in your life are arranged just so. Slowly, you sit up and climb out, headed to the bathroom before you head to school. On your way past the vanity you freeze in your tracks. There on your right bicep is a large tattoo. 

When a soulmate permanently marks their skin, their other half also receives an identical mark. You gasp and cover your mouth, tears forming as you inspect closer. It’s the letters LOL in dark colors, and the O is clearly made up of barbed wire. 

Why would your match do this to you? Why would your alpha mark up your pretty skin with such a crude tattoo? You don’t know who your alpha is, but you're upset, and this has left a sour taste in the back of your throat. 

- Present Day -

Gator walks into the diner pulling the door open with gusto, knowing he’s late to meet Roy. It seems he’s always late lately. He slides himself into the booth across from his father and sags into the cracked and creaking leather. 

“What kept ya?” Roy asks, not even bothering to look up at his son from his paper as he takes a sip from his coffee. 

“Was dealing with that… uh, assignment you gave me.” He smiles at his father as the waitress sets down a mug, and begins to fill it up for him. 

“Would you like anything else?” You look at the deputy, your hip cocked as you wait for his response, setting the carafe on the edge of the table. 

“You’re new.” Gator looks the new waitress up and down, he knows all the staff in the diner. He eats here more than he eats at home. 

You nod and pull out your notepad. 

“Mhmm just moved here recently.” You pull out a pink pen, tapping the end of it against your plush lower lip. 

He tries to scent you and finds himself a little disappointed when he can’t pick up any trace of you. Damn scent blockers, he’ll never understand why you omegas use them. 

Meanwhile, you’re taken aback by this man’s strong scent. It’s almost as if he’s intentionally giving it off, trying to fill the air around you. Notes of palo santo and sage wrap you in warmth, and nostalgia while still being refreshing, exciting, and new. Your heart begins to race, and you’re nervous that these two alphas sitting in front of you are able to hear it beating out of your chest. You almost miss his order as he asks for what he wants. 

“Western omelet. Bacon and white toast.” He sits back and looks at his father as you make your notes and lift the carafe heading back to the kitchen. He can’t help himself watching the way your hips move as you walk away. 

Roy reaches over and slaps his son upside the head, “If your eye causes you to sin son, pluck it out.” 

Gator immediately drops his gaze and keeps it on the table when you deliver his and Roy’s food. 

He mumbles a soft, “Thank you, miss.” 

Having noted the lack of a mating mark on your neck when you originally took his order. 

You come and refill coffee and check on them, before setting the check on the table. At the bottom you’ve written Thank You in your loopy handwriting, followed by a smiley face. 

You bid them both good day before walking away. The smell of palo santo and sage lingering around you for the rest of the day. 

 The next day you’re leaning against the cool bricks outside the diner, trying to take some deep breaths and slow your heart rate, when some black steel toe boots enter your line of sight. You slowly look up the khaki-clad legs, your breath catching when you see a gun seated in a holster wrapped snugly around their thigh. That’s when the scent hits you. Palo santo and sage, your eyes snap up to meet the honey-colored ones of the alpha you served yesterday morning. 

“You hiding out here?” 

His eyes aren’t the only thing that’s like honey, the timbre of his voice pours over you like a warm drink on a cold winter’s morning, soothing your heckles that were raised from the alphas inside.

“I’m not hiding from anything.” You snap, your voice harsh. 

Gator’s not used to being spoken to like that, certainly not by an omega. He draws himself to his full height and steps closer. 

“Then what’s got you so riled up, little one?” 

He gently tugs on the hem of your sleeve, and his eye catches on the ink hidden there. 

“What’s that?” He asks, as he goes to lift your sleeve but you slap your hand over your bicep stopping him. 

“Don’t touch me! You alphas are all the same. You don’t know how to keep your hands to yourself.” 

That stops him dead in his tracks. His voice gets low and serious. 

“Who touched you?” 

You fix your sleeve, making sure the embarrassing tattoo is completely covered, “it’s not important.” 

“It is to me, I’m the law. It’s my job to protect.” 

You notice he doesn’t finish that statement but don’t say anything, your eyes dropping back to the ground. 

“Who touched you?” His voice drops even lower, this time into his alpha register, the one that makes it hard for you to resist, your omega hindbrain begging to submit to him. 

When you’re still silent, he’s slightly impressed. Most omegas he knows submit as soon as they hear that tone. 

“Don’t make me ask again.” 

“The alphas sitting in the corner booth… one grabbed my ass as I walked by. Told me I should be raising pups, not working.” The words rush out of you even as you try to hold them back, sometimes you hate your designation. 

A growl rumbles low in Gator’s chest as he stalks into the diner. He spots them almost immediately, two alphas and a beta sitting in the back corner booth by the entrance to the kitchen. You follow after him, nervous about what this hot-headed alpha is going to do. 

He slams his hand down on the table, effectively shutting them up. 

“If I ever hear about one of you touching another omega without their permission again. We’re going to have problems. Do you understand me?” He glared, at the three men. 

“Yeah? I don’t see your mark on her pretty little matting gland. So why don’t you mind your own business?” The biggest of the alphas says, straightening up. 

Gator opens his jacket to reveal his badge and rests his free hand on his holster, the alphas pale as they realize who they’re talking to. 

“I said, do you understand me?” He repeats. 

They nod and throw some cash on the table, pushing past him to leave, not even casting you a glance as they make their hasty retreat. 

You look at him, “You didn’t have to do that.” 

He straightens up and turns to look at you, “How about a little gratitude? If anyone else bothers you, you come straight to me.” 

You look at him, and after a long pause you nod, even though it wasn’t a question. 

“Good.” 

He grabs a seat at the counter and looks up at the specials board.  

“Can I get a Coke and a burger? Fries too…” He trails off, realizing he never got your name. 

“Y/N.” You supply, smiling a little as you write his order on the ticket. 

“Y/N. That’s pretty. I’m Gator.” He sits back as you ring in his order and slide his drink across the counter. 

“Gator… like the animal?” You ask, looking at him as if he’s playing a joke on you, and at any minute, he’s going to bust out laughing because you believed him. 

“Yeah, just like that.” He smiles and pulls a business card from his pocket handing it to you. 

You hold it in your hands and inspect it. Sure enough, there in the center, it says ‘Gator Tillman’ Deputy Sheriff. 

You smile and nod, sliding the card into your apron pocket.

“Well, alrighty, Deputy.” 

After lunch, Gator spends most of his afternoon sitting at the counter talking to you between customers. 

You find yourself rolling your eyes as he makes terrible jokes, mostly at the expense of the other patrons. 

As your shift ends, you clock out and wash your hands, drying them as he watches you. 

“How are you getting home?” Gator asks as he stands, following you outside. 

You kick your feet in the dirt a bit. 

“It’s not that far from here. I just walk.”  

“Let me give you a lift. C’mon.” He turns and heads to his truck without waiting for your answer. 

You freeze, watching as he jumps up into the cab of his truck. 

“C’mon, it’s too late for you to be walking home. Get in.” He doesn’t leave you any room for argument. 

You hesitate a moment longer before walking around and climbing into the passenger seat of his truck. His scent is so much more intense in this confined space. You find yourself a bit dizzy as you buckle yourself in, and hesitantly begin to give him directions to your house. 

Gator considers himself a pretty good officer. After a moment, he glances over and watches your face as you guide him through the turns towards your home. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks, relaxing back into the seat, and sucking on his vape, being careful to blow the sweet-smelling smoke away from you. 

“It’s just,” you anxiously rub at your matting gland, “I’m an unmarked omega taking an alpha to my house…” You trail off, your skin heating in embarrassment. 

He smirks and takes the last turn onto your street. 

“Yea? Well, I mean… you don’t have to be unmarked for long.” He drapes his arm over the back of your seat, and suddenly it feels as if the temperature in the car shot up 20 degrees. 

You let out a small squeaky noise at which Gator laughs. 

“Relax, I’m just kidding. I’m just dropping you off at home. No funny business, I mean… unless…” he looks you up and down, his gaze lingering on your thighs. 

You let out an indignant sound, “Gator!” 

He laughs and turns into the driveway of the little 1950s ranch you call home. 

You grab your bag and climb out of the truck, breathing in the fresh air clearing your head. He leans across the center console of his truck watching as you walk up the steps to your door. 

He rolls down the window and hollers after you.

“See you soon!” 

He says it with such sincerity that you shake your head and roll your eyes fondly, looking back at him. 

“Goodbye, Gator!” You wave before slipping into the house, locking the door behind you.

You peek out the front window and watch as he takes his time backing down the driveway and pulling away. 

That evening, after taking a shower and changing into pajamas, you flit around your kitchen making yourself something to eat while you relax in front of the TV. 

You turn on the sink to fill your glass when you hear a sound coming from the cabinet below. You frown and open the oak-colored door, gasping when you see water spraying from one of the pipes. 

You quickly turn off the sink, but unfortunately, that doesn’t stop the water from spreading across the bottom of the cabinet and out onto the floor. 

“Shit!” You try to block the flow of water with your hands, but it’s no use. 

You panic, not sure what to do, but you know you need help. Then in a moment of clarity, you remember Gator’s card in your apron pocket. You grab your apron off the hook by the door digging in the pocket before snatching your phone off the counter. You call him in a bit of a daze, watching as the puddle on your floor grows. 

“Pick up, pick up!” You mumble under your breath. 

“Hello?” 

His voice is deeper, gruff over the phone. You feel guilty for inconveniencing him, but you really didn’t have anyone else to call. 

“Gator..?” 

“Y/N? What is it? You okay?” You hear some shuffling, on his end of the line. 

“Um… no? My sink is leaking everywhere, and I don’t know what to do. I… I didn’t have anyone else I could call. I’m sorry.” 

He runs his fingers through his hair, a little surprised at your admission. 

“I’ll be right there. Okay?” 

“Okay. Thank you.” You relax a little, knowing that help is coming. 

You hang up and run to the linen closet grabbing out towels, in the meantime. Your ears perk up when you hear a car pulling up outside only a few minutes later. You run to the door and pull it open. Smiling wide when you see Gator’s truck in your drive. 

He puts his truck in park and gets out, grabbing a toolkit from the truck bed before heading to your front door. He looks good in dark wash jeans and a white shirt, his hair soft no longer styled from the day. 

“Thank you again for coming, I don’t know what else I would have done.” 

He hops up your steps and steps into your home and the first thing he notices is your scent. It permeates every inch of your space, fresh greens, mimosa buds, and beechwood wash over him, fruity and floral. 

The second thing he notices stops him dead in his tracks. Your pajamas consist of shorts that show off your legs, something he’s sure to appreciate later, and a tank top. There on your arm, the mark that he’d noticed earlier, is his tattoo plain as day. Etched onto your skin. 

You are his soulmate.

Next

[katyawriteswhump]

Never let me go (Steddie holiday drabble)

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 18, Free Space--Hurt/Comfort. 

Steve’s really good at pretending he’s fixed—especially to himself—and decides he’s totally up for kinky fun with Eddie. Also part of my steve whump fic thread on ao3

WC: 922.

Rating: M.

CW: Mild kink and bondage, sexual content, panic attacks, PTSD, flashbacks. Tags: Emotional hurt/comfort. Trauma. Fluff, whump.

***

Eddie draws the tinsel garland around Steve’s arm, looping it loosely before dragging it tighter. Not too tight. Steve swallows hard, nerves fizzing. Eddie tethers Steve’s wrist to the bed frame behind his head with a loopy, hitchy knot.

“Where the heck did you learn—"

“My uncle. He’s worse than a billion scout leaders, I shit you not.” Eddie lazily kisses the tender underside of Steve’s wrist, beneath the knot, setting Steve’s pulse skittering. Eddie shifts his attention to Steve’s other hand. Steve has, without thinking, moved himself into place, ready to be tied. He’s happily drowning in Eddie’s gorgeous eyes, lapping up Eddie's hungry appreciation of him, till…

“You’re sure you’re good with this, Stevie?” 

“How many times, dude? I’m fine.” Steve slides his tongue around suddenly dry-feeling lips. “Tinsel is dangerous for cats and babies. I could literally snap this crap in half.”

“You could snap me in half.”

“I dunno. You’re crafty. And deceptively strong.” Steve tugs speculatively at the tinsel. It’s deceptively strong too, and the wire holding it together grooves into his flesh. Clearly breakable, though. If he wanted out.

He doesn’t.

When Eddie confessed a drunken desire to tie Steve to their bed, they’d both been apprehensive—given Steve’s “history,” with Soviets and throttling vines, and the rest of the shitshow. Using tinsel was Steve’s dumb, buzzed-out-of-his-skull idea.

Now, Eddie drags the tinsel across Steve’s bare chest, swirls it over his abs, raising goosebumps in its wake. Eddie’s using black and silver tinsel. “So pretty against your skin,” he purrs. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, because the sensations… Gnng! So good! Also, kinda excruciating. Both too little contact, and too much.

Eddie trails the tinsel lower. Steve’s wearing his boxers, and he moans, whimpers—why isn’t he naked yet? Eddie’s fingers drift down Steve’s leg, and Steve flexes into Eddie’s hand. Eddie spreads Steve’s leg toward the bedpost then crouches beside.

Eddie’s hot breaths scorch his flesh. Steve’s breaths accelerate further. As he binds Steve’s ankle, Eddie’s brows knit in concentration. Why’s that super-hot? Steve’s gotten a semi already, and he’s no clue what Eddie’s gonna do next.

“I better be naked soon, Munson.” Eddie lightly pinches Steve’s inner thigh, a total blindside. “Ow!”

“Patience, Babe. Or I’ll start over with your ass upward.”

Steve smirks: “Only just thought of that, moron?”

“Haha, don’t be a brat. Takin’ this slow. Now, shhhh.”

Steve shudders, frets his lip. Eddie winds the last of the tinsel around Steve’s other leg. This is still fun—right?—and he trusts Eddie. Okay, that nervous stirring in the pit of his stomach persists, but it’s sure as hell exciting. Eddie backs away, and Steve rolls his eyes. “Gonna eat me or fuck me?”

“C’mon on, man. Didn’t I say, ‘Sssssh’?”

“There’s better ways to shut me up.”

The kiss is delicious and deep, and Steve just breeeaaaaks. It’s easy to surrender to this—the hot, thrumming weight of Eddie’s clothed body pressed to his near-nakedness, the slick sweep of Eddie’s tongue, the frisson of tinsel against Steve’s ever-more-sensitive flesh as he fidgets and sighs. He feels wanted, worshipped… and randy as hell.

Eddie breaks the kiss abruptly. Before Steve can whine about it, Eddie presses a finger to his own lips, looking… kinda stressed?

The blood thundering in Steve’s ears calms enough for him to hear the loud knocking on the door.

“Eddie? Steve? Hellloooo!” It’s goddamn Henderson.

“I’ll tell him to scram.” Eddie leaves.

Steve’s breathing speeds up again—his face burns, the rest of his skin feels oddly chilled. Distant voices murmur, an owl hoots, and he’s all alone… and feeling… okay, yeah, vulnerable.

Don’t be a wuss, Harrington. You can break free if you want. It’s candy-ass tinsel.

He tugs at his bonds. 

No, don’t spoil the game.

His eyes lull closed, and he’s lost in an instant. 

His hands are tightly bound… above his head… no, behind his back? Shit, shit, shit, he’s losing track of everything save his terror. All he knows is he’s struggling, and he can’t get free and the Soviets are gonna hit him again. They just keep hitting him. Shouting in his face. He tastes the blood, and he’s screaming it over and over: “For the millionth time, I work at Scoops Ahoy.”

His raw throat clogs, then closes up. He can’t breathe! The vines… Those goddamn vines. They’re winding about his every limb, slithering, squeezing tight around his neck. His whole existence reduces to a desperate fight for air… I’m choking… drowning… suffocating… Oh God… Oh God! He fights in small, snatchy gasps that he barely believes in. Vecna’s got him, and he’s gonna die, and…

“Steve! Sweetheart, you’re okay… You’re okay… I gotcha.”

“Wha—” Steve’s eyes fly wide. Eddie. Eddie’s here! Leaning over him. Touching him tenderly. Reality slams back, and he throws an arm around Eddie’s neck and clings. Eddie hugs him close, and the whirlwind of his panic slows. His only actual pain is a faint sting in his wrists and ankles, where he’s busted through the tinsel.

“Crap, I’m sorry.” Eddie presses a soft kiss to Steve’s clammy brow. “Leaving you was dumb. The whole idea was dumb.”

“S’okay.” Steve buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder, and his pulse and breaths calm further. “I kinda enjoyed it till…” I totally lost my shit. He slowly inhales Eddie’s warm, reassuring scent. The terrifying flashbacks retreat a little further. He’s okay… He’s okay! As long as Eddie never lets him go, the darkness won’t win.

He nuzzles up toward Eddie’s ear: “Maybe try again next year?”

[noisilyeclecticmilkshake]

Something about powered whump.

The way, in any other situation, they'd be fine.

In any other situation, their power would rip through these bindings and they run.

Superspeed, but the doors locked. What now? Put them in a particle accelerator, good luck doing your stupid 'fazing through walls' trick now.

Ice powers? Their partners dying of hypothermia. Stuck in a too hot room. Stuck in an absolute zero room, no way to make it colder. Can't freeze the lock, its already as cold as its going to get.

Heat powers? Same thing, put that fucker in a volcano. Good luck finding your way through 8,000 feet of lava. Or an incinerator, yeah, just try and melt that lock off. Oh whumpee? They have a fever and your emotions are haywire, hope you can get that water to them without it evaporating.

Superstrength? Fighting a cotton powered villain. What are they gonna do, punch their way through pillows?

It's so fun.

It's funny if its for mundane things too.

Yeah, of course superstrength can move your entire apartment belongs in one trip. What's that? You want help building a bookshelf from Wal-Mart. They've never seen a screwdriver in their life.

You want a coffee run? Okay, but you better fine with no coffee left in the cup afterward. Just because they can run faster than light, doesn't mean liquid stops obeying physics.

Want the lights a different color? Just ask. You want them to fix the wiring in your remote? Why would they know anything about that?

Fun. The possibilities of powers being absolutely useless in everyday life is just good soup to me.

[percentage7]

Empurple (English Translyrics) / エンパープル

Song: Harumaki Gohan

References: Vocaloid Lyrics Wiki

----------------------------------------------------------

Empurple

She rides on the power lines

Brooding on how her lilac will morph this time

Still hiding her fated life

Loosening violet corsets made of frilly lies

The answer has rusted away

So what will be your fate, trapped in the vase, my Rebecca*?

These words lodging in my throat, my bluish soul dyed in blood is being empurpled

Come open my left hand so tight and see what lies inside

These simple blue eyes shining so bright

Won’t I gasp if navy blood

Fills my heart where I once stood?

I just want to live my truth under this burning crimson sky

Hurting hearts and holding hands

Hoping you would understand

Please forgive me and ‘Purple’

All my wavering soul is being empurpled

She rips power lines apart

Catching the snake that killed the heart of that one innocent young princess**

Legs sore at the traffic light

Watching the crowds all intersperse, herself lost in all their sight, she’s-

-staring at those fading girls with foggy eyes, another Alice*** on a puppet string has passed right by

So shall I bind the wires around her heart if that would lighten up your mind?

Come open my right hand so bright and see my burning blight

A bloodied red sky trapped inside

Won’t you gasp at what lies bare?

Scarlet pouring in the air

Never knowing all these sights of my stunning crimson sky

Holding hands in pouring storms

Feeling your unending warmth

Please forgive me and ‘Purple’

All my wavering soul is being empurpled

Tinged with those blue eyes, colors swirling inside

Painting all my heart with a hue undefined

Reaching for your hand, standing bare in your sight

Do you see the sky that your love earnestly hides?

Grasping shards of red and blue

As I bid my mask adieu

But this dust won’t be enough to fix my shattered heart inside

If you hold my hand, I plead

Mend my fraying ruby seams

Please forgive me and ‘Purple’

All my wavering soul is being empurpled

--------------------------------------------------------

* 'Rebecca' may refer to Clematis Rebecca (red / purple flowers), the shade 'Rebecca' Purple' which is the key color in the song above, or the Hebrew name Rebecca which means 'to tie' / 'to bind'.

** This may refer to a Russian fairytale where an emperor marries a willing daughter off to a snake, where she is abused and killed; it may also refer to Cleopatra’s death, in which it’s believed she allowed an Egyptian cobra to bite her.

*** This may refer to Alice in Alice in Wonderland.