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[kfrikly]

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[ketan31]

Metallic Veneer - Buy Premium Quality Metallic Veneer Online at Low Prices In India | Frikly

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[aprilsnardini]

Exterior - Farmhouse Exterior Large white two-story farmhouse with a wood exterior

[courtingchaos]

The Boy is Mine (Meg’s Version)

Eddie Munson x Fem Reader

For @carolmunson little prompt game/request/event/whathaveyou. Day week late and a dollar short as usual but I just can’t bust them out like I used to (ha ha ha). Event rules here. This is short and sweet because I’m not allowed to be precious about my writing anymore. It creates the anxiety in me.

Warnings: Weed smoking, drinking, tattooing (inebriated and unschooled), allusions to sex.

Word Count: 1.6k

A day spent rotting away in the dark recesses of his room. No Wayne, away on a hunting trip with his VFW buddies, and no work. Two days to yourselves with one reserved for outdoor activities and today set aside to spend the better part of the day in bed. The rain is what woke you up first, unexpected, the hard and sudden pattern beaten into the corrugated metal jolting you from your cocoon of worn soft sheets. The scratch of a record and the piney smoke of Rick’s good weed pulling you from the bed and into your discarded clothes.

You catch sight of Eddie moving around the kitchen in just his boxers, joint tucked neatly into the corner of his mouth that mutters along with Zeppelin.

“Just gonna abandon me like that?” You ask behind him, your hand stuck in the sleeve of your t-shirt. He turns before you can get it unstuck and he gets an eye full of your chest while you unintentionally flash him, his grin widening.

“Well good evening to me.” He leans against the counter where you can see two pizza boxes that weren’t there earlier and you try to reach past him but he snatches your hand in his and pulls you in for an embrace. Half hug, half struggle on your end while you try for the pizza. “Would you just hug me?” His laugh is low and scratchy from sleep and smoke, smoke that rolls from his mouth off his words. You just purse your lips at him until he gives in and places the damp paper between your pout with a sigh. “You just want me for my weed and my body huh?”

“Oh don’t be like that, you know that isn’t true!” You snag a slice and slip out of his grip with a grin and his joint to toss yourself on the couch. “I also want you for your mixtapes and the rides to work.”

Eddie watches you from under the cabinets with glassy eyes, a smirk playing on his lips while you shove half the slice in your mouth and rest the joint in the ashtray beside you. The tv plays the local news on almost mute while he moves around the kitchen again, cups clinking and fridge door shutting before he joins you on the couch in drape over your hip. A chipped high ball glass gets nudged in front of you on the side table before the cheap bottle of wine you brought over hovers in front of your face with the strain of his stretch.

“I ran out of nice cups your highness, I hope this is okay.” The liquid almost sloshes out onto the veneered table top but Eddie catches the slip of his fingers, neck of the bottle clutched tight in his fist so he can pour his own glass before setting the bottle down on the floor.

“No Garfield mug?”

“That stays on the wall now, I’m afraid.” With a sigh he nudges down to wedge behind you and prop himself up on an elbow, long arm reaching over to steal his weed back. “After Wayne found it on the floor that last time.” A pointed look at the back of your head that you can feel without seeing.

“I apologized for that.”

“I know, but he’s a stickler for his mugs my dear.” He runs a flat palm under your shirt and up your back, blunt nails scratching lightly on their way down. Over your shoulder he watches the news with you, half paying attention while he intermittently switches between rubbing your back and holding the joint over for you to pull off of. By the time the high school scores are being discussed you’ve hit a gentle high that relaxes you back into his chest, almost empty glass of wine cradled to your own. In the back of your thoughts you remember one of your weekend plans and try to remember if you brought your sketchbook with you.

Lips pressed to your temple Eddie whispers into your hair when he notices the crease in your brow. “What’s up?”

“Thinking.”

“I can tell.” A small nip at the high point of your cheek that makes you giggle. “Something wrong?”

“No, I just was thinking about that stick and poke idea.”

“Oh!” Suddenly his voice is bright and he sits up to look down at you. “You wanna do that?”

Before you can answer him he’s crawling over you, avoiding kicking over the empty bottle of wine on his way off the couch and back down to his room. A moment later he scurries back out with a big smile and a small tin box that rattles in is hands when he holds it out to you to take.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s your plan? What are you gonna put on me permanently?” He taps his feet against the carpet and you give him a once over, his small smattering of tattoos moving with him as he wiggles around anxiously. The glassy look that you know mirrors your own gives you half a minute of pause before you get up to find your bag and root around for the small notebook you usually take with you.

Eddie had watched over your shoulder one afternoon while you had doodled mindlessly and had suddenly pushed his finger into your pencil lines with a gasp.

“That one.”

“What about it?” You laugh at him when he invades your space.

“I want that on my leg.”

“A tattoo?”

“Yeah! We can bring it in and see if they can do it justice or,” he gives you a quick peck on the forehead, “You could always do it.”

Flipping to the page with the simple heart and dagger you show it to him with a raised eyebrow. “You still want this one?”

He gives it a glance before looking at you with an easy grin. “Unless you have something else in mind.”

A shake of your head before you grab one of the kitchenette chairs for him to sit in. He snags the remote and looks for anything on tv while you search for a clean glass and paper towels. When you come back to him he’s already pulled the coffee table over and left the box open, one of the throw pillows tossed on the floor between his feet for you to sit on.

“Get a little peckish out there?” He nods at your hands full of supplies, the tub of vanilla frosting hidden behind the glass of water.

“No, this is for you so you don’t get fidgety.” You drop it in his lap with a spoon and he rips into it before you can sit fully, the giggles between you two quiet and infectious. It’s quiet work while you find the perfect spot on his thigh for the simple drawing and use the makeshift safety-pin-turned-needle to gently draw out the shape with the India ink.

“You sure you shouldn’t make it a little bigger?” Eddie asks around a glob of frosting. He’s not demanding, anything but, however he gazes down at you with such an easy countenance you can’t find the right words to argue with him.

“Do you want it bigger?”

His head tilts while he admires your work, a low hum from the back of his throat while he thinks it over. “Just a skosh.”

He shares his frosting with you like he did his joint, holding the spoon down for you to eat off while you start over and finish, presenting his thigh to him with a flourish.

“Perfect.”

“Okay, now hold still. I don’t want to hurt you.” You dip the tip of the pin into the ink and look up at him watching you. He’s still firmly in the giddy part of his high and he can’t help but smirk at you. “But what if I like that?”

All you can do is roll your eyes at him before you set to your work. Steady pokes against his pale thigh that follow along your faint sketch, the heart a simple curve you can get lost in while Eddie watches you with rapt attention.

“I like watching you work.” He says lowly, frosting forgotten in his hand. You only answer him with a smile while you get more ink on the pin and start working on the point of the dagger, his hiss the only sign of his discomfort. Behind you the TV is just noise that neither of you pay attention to, a little bubble of contentment engulfing the two of you.

“You push your jaw forward when you concentrate.” He whispers while holding out a bite of frosting for you to take. “It’s cute.”

Your breath breezes over his sore thigh, a cool break from the mounting burn of his new tattoo. Finally you look up from your work to lick the spoon and you have to laugh at his groan.

“Pervert.” You tease while scooting in closer to him.

“How else would you want me? Decent?” He scoffs.

You sit up to admire your work, checking for any missed spots. “Never.” Your lines aren’t perfect but it’s yours and it’s on Eddie and he let you put it on him. In his skin. There’s a weird weighty feeling in your chest and before you can stop yourself you drop a kiss on the inside of his thigh, just under the new ink.

His hair curtains around you when he leans down to mimic you with a soft kiss to the back of your head. “If you aren’t careful,” He mutters against you, his smile evident, “we’re gonna have a problem maybe.” He teases you with fingers that brush against your hairline.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a problem, wasn’t that kind of the point of this weekend?”

“You’re absolutely right.” He lets you lean back into him as he sits up, frosting forgotten when your head finds its place in the crook of his hip, your handiwork just out of view.

[fuedalreesespieces]

inukag week - day 1: yearning

nan chun

read on ao3!

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Inuyasha waited for his mother to light the lanterns. It was a nightly tradition of theirs, unspoken but consistent throughout the long, tedious days of isolation. Though the luminous glow of stars flooded their home, Izayoi insisted on lighting the four lanterns christening each corner of the house – for warmth, she said simply, her sticks of incense trailing their smoky tresses through the buffeting winds. 

The orange flames made grand, admirable leaps past their wilting wicks, and Inuyasha watched them as they flickered desperately over the clay diyas. They bathed his mother in soft golden hues as she did away with the day’s cumbersome adornments, sheet after sheet of silk layers from her jūnihitoe. She tied up her heavy hair best as she could, then came to sit behind him, their chins tilted towards the moon’s silver face. 

The wooden teeth of her comb gently began to part Inuyasha’s hair. “Haha-ue,” he said, “tell me a story.” 

She hummed in consideration. “Shall we continue last night’s tale of the bridge oni?” 

He refused to admit that that story had been so vivid it practically roosted by his ear like an owl, reminding him to check underneath the low stone bridges cusping the estate each time he crossed them. “No,” he said with feigned disinterest. “Something new.” 

“I’ll tell you...” her voice trailed off, “...the story of the youthful bakeneko.” 

Bakeneko?” 

“If she were to stretch her torso, it would span the length of this lake,” Izayoi said. “But she kept her form to that of a young village girl. She would offer to brush the hair of the other little girls – see, her brush was lacquered gold, and nobody could believe it was hers and hers alone. It was so shiny, the others could glimpse their reflection in its metal from afar. And so naturally they all wished to be pampered by the bakeneko, in the hopes that they might get a look. 

The girls came each day to get their hair combed. The bakeneko told them stories and gave them fresh persimmons, and she kept them so distracted that they hardly ever looked to her face.” Izayoi’s fingers pulled away at stray, tangled locks, tilting her son’s head to the right. The lake surface skewed in his vision like a spinning metal disk. “When they left, their hair shined with an silky veneer, but their skin was wrinkled and tight.” 

“What’d she do to them?” Inuyasha asked, wrenching his head out of his mother’s hands to face her.  

 “So impatient,” she teased, her grin endearing. “The youkai’s golden brush was the culprit. The comb’s teeth were magic, and with each stroke they tore the youth from one’s scalp, like a bat siphoning blood. In this way, the bakeneko could stay young forever.” 

Izayoi’s fingers traversed Inuyasha’s spine, slow as a spider’s crawl. “Eventually she was chased out of the village...but there were always other villages, and there would always be youth to steal.” Her fingers rested at his upper torso, and when he was sure she would say something, she attacked with a barrage of tickles. He shrieked with laughter, running out of her reach and tumbling onto their sole futon.  

“Not fair!” he shouted. 

Izayoi’s eyes glittered with mirth. “I’m afraid you walked right into the bakeneko’s trap, my dear son. Look how you crumble like an autumn leaf. You’ve grown old already!” 

He quickly returned to her lap, his stubby hands finding the ticklish spot on her neck, and she joined him in laughter, making no move to push him away. There were few moments where he was able to make her laugh so boisterously, and he suspected that years in the main estate had made her bottle up the sound, like a sweet fragrance stifled in a clay jar. 

But there was no one here on this wooden island, so she laughed until her chest hurt. For warmth , she repeated, snuggling close.  

“Haha-ue,” he asked sleepily, as they lay curled up on the futon, “why did the bakaneko want to live forever?” 

“Who can say?” she told him. “Perhaps there was something she wished to do. Perhaps she wanted to extend her life to figure out what.” 

Inuyasha thought about it for a moment, his mind muddled by encroaching sleep. He understood that part, at least. He’d never thought about how being half-youkai would effect his lifespan, but if it meant he could keep these nights with his mother, and every day after that, then...then he supposed he wouldn’t mind living forever. As long as she was at his back, her warm robes enveloping him and the sound of waves lapping at the edge of his consciousness, for as long as he was given. 

. . .

The first thing Inuyasha noticed was that his wife was not in the house. 

He knew she wouldn’t be. Her miko duties required that she rise early, and she could often be found in the shed assessing her medicine stock at this hour, or attending to the village herb garden. 

 Her side of the futon was neatly made, and he did his best to match her efforts as he rose for the day. The blankets smelt of the lavender soap she lathered herself with each day to remove the aroma of herbs from her skin, a mild yet soothing scent. He found himself holding them longer than necessary, savoring the comfort they brought. 

There was a cup of tea by the fire, the same kind she always made before departing. He decided to take it with him as he strode out, the ceramic warm in his wrinkled hands. He stood outside for a moment, watching the villagers slowly awaken – men heading out to the fields with their eldest sons in tow, women gathering together to cook the evening meal as they gossiped, their children playing beneath the shadow of their connected cutting boards. 

 A fine, powdery snow sprinkled the stones above their huts. Below, flowers began to push through the wet soil, flanked by dewy grass.  

“Dad?” a familiar voice cut through his inspection of the flourishing plant life. “Staring into space again, huh?” 

Moroha ascended the hill, a basket of apples at her hip. He smiled at the sight of her – it seemed her wife had finally convinced her to wear a cloak, much to Moroha’s chagrin, and it hung snugly at her shoulders. She reached into her basket and offered him a piece of fruit. 

Inuyasha slipped it into his suikan, ignoring her previous jab. “Is Kagome still at the shed?” 

“She just left the hot springs. Why?” 

“Nothin’. You know where we’ll be if ya need us.” 

“Dad...” she trailed off. “I dunno if you should go alone. The path there is still pretty icy. I heard ojisan fell on his way up to the temple.” 

“Sure is helpful that I ain’t Miroku.” 

“Yeah, but you’re also only three years younger than him and tripped over a root yesterday, so there isn’t that big a difference.” Inuyasha rolled his eyes. “At least let me get you the cane Aki made for you-” 

“Keh!” he bellowed. “To hell with that. I’ll be walkin’ with my own two feet.” 

“You’d be doing that regardless,” she said dryly.  

“I don’t need that scrap of wood. Tell Akira she can keep it.” 

“Dad!” she admonished. Her gaze sharpened, the way it did when they hunted together and she’d spotted their prey before him. “Fine. If you’re going to be like that...” 

Moroha dropped the basket of apples and lifted him off the ground, sprinting downhill. He sputtered – a combination of expletives Kagome would have whacked him on the head for saying, despite the fact that Moroha was well in her thirties and had exhausted cursing to its limit. Kagome herself was guilty of profanity too, the worst in the family by far, for she always cursed at the most inopportune times and immediately denied doing such a thing afterward. 

Mikos don’t curse, she once declared jokingly. So whatever you just heard come out of my mouth is the sign of a whimsical imagination.   

Just the reminder of that outlandish statement made him laugh, and Moroha peered down questioningly, though she didn’t say anything. He suspected she was starting to rationalize all his behavior with ‘he’s old’, which was a little insulting but granted him a sizeable amount of leeway. And though his younger self would rather have cut his tongue out than admit it, being carried was a nice gesture. She cradled him gently against his chest, just as he had done with her for the earliest years of her life. The thought made him yearn to raise her all over again.  

“Put me down here,” he told her, before he grew too emotional. It was much harder to hide things like this from her than ever before, and it was a conversation he wasn’t prepared to have so early in the morning.  

She obliged, eyebrows drawing forward in concern. “Are you sure? There’s still a ways to go.” 

“Not too far. I wanted to walk some of the path anyway.”  

Moroha squeezed his shoulder. “Alright. Stay safe.” She lightly kissed his cheek. “Don’t trip on any tree roots. I won’t be there to pick ya up.” 

He snorted at her cheeky grin, but allowed her the last word as she departed. The path ahead was a meager distance. Beneath his feat, the ice cracked and bit into his toes. It was cold enough that his breath steamed in the air, but warm enough for little blossoms to begin emerging from the dull earth.  

The goshinboku remained as unchanged as it had always been. Its thick trunk was dusted with the final shavings of winter’s snow and rose higher than its companions. Boughs stretched out to meet the sun, heavy with new, budding leaves. Kagome sat at its feet, her bright red hakama easy to spot among the pale foliage. She held one of her arrows, caressing the pointed tips with a fixed, droll gaze. 

At the sound of his footsteps, her eyes brightened. “You’re early.” 

“Moroha brought me,” he admitted, coming to sit beside her. “Said the path was too slippery for an old man.” 

Kagome laughed. No matter how many years passed, that sound was eternal, beautiful and never-changing. He found himself more desperate to hear it each day. “Whomever could she have been referring to?” 

“You’re laughin’ now, but it’ll be you next that she’s coddlin’.” 

“You shouldn’t say anything about coddling, Inu-ya-sha. You carried me everywhere.” 

“’Cause you were slow.” Their fingers coiled together like braided twine. The wrinkles in his skin are little compared to the ones in her own, but they share the same calluses. “And ‘cause I wanted to be close to you.” 

She smiled. “Maybe that’s how Moroha feels, then.” 

A silence descended between them. It happened often as they grew older and less words were needed, only the comfort of the other. A fox scampered past, kicking up snow. “Do you think she’s worried? ‘Bout us, I mean.” 

“It’s natural for her to worry,” Kagome said. “Sometimes I overhear her talking with Gyukuto. Miroku’s been sick lately, and his fall hasn’t helped. After Sango passed, I think it’s on all their minds.” 

Sango’s passing had been, thankfully, a peaceful one. She had succumbed to the long lasting injuries from Kohaku’s sickle. They had revealed themselves slowly after the birth of her final child: a consistently aching back, stiff muscles, and in a year, she couldn’t move above her hip. Confined, her children kept her entertained in their hut. Despite the confounding nature of their mother’s condition, in Sango’s final months, their home had been a merry one. 

Kohaku had shown up briefly for the funeral, and no one had seen him since, but Sango’s grave was always clean when Miroku and Kin’u came to pray. Moroha had been inconsolable for weeks, and eventually she began looking at her parents differently, realizing that they, too, could leave at any moment.

“Did ya ever think about it?” 

“Mm?” she hummed. 

“During the journey, when we were hunting the shards...” It felt like such a long time ago. “Did you ever wonder about dyin’?”

Kagome was silent for a moment. “A few times,” she admitted. “But it was always dreams about you, or Sango, or Miroku’s deaths. Naraku kept pulling the rug out from under our feet, and I always wondered when we would hit our limit on how much power we could consolidate. Naraku always had something up his sleeve, but there were only so many things we could do...”  

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her silver hair plastered against the tree. “In the end, he was mortal like us, and it didn’t matter how many tricks he had.” 

Inuyasha nestled closer. “‘M glad.” 

Kagome rose one incredulous eyebrow. “Glad I was thinking about death?” 

He gave her a deadpan look, and she laughed again, clear as melted springwater. “Very funny.”  

“I try.” 

He pressed a kiss against her forehead, savoring the dregs of her laughter. “What I meant was...’M glad we have this. Enough peace that we can sit and think about a natural death.” Inuyasha sighed. “Sometimes I just think I’m dreamin’. I never thought about bein’ old. Now my daughter’s offerin’ to carry me to my wife. My daughter. My wife.” He made a sound of incredulity.  

“It’s not so crazy. You’re very handsome,” she teased, snuggling close. “What were you thinking of when you were younger, then?” 

“Survival, mostly. What I was gonna eat that night.” His claws brushed against her knuckles. “When I was livin’ with my mother...I dreamed about stayin’ forever with her.” 

“Immortality?” 

“Nah. I wanted to live as long as she did. That was the only way to be with her forever, ‘cause if I lived longer than a normal human, she would die before me. And after she died, it was food. Shelter.” He peered up at the branches, where light filtered through. “Strength. That’s when I started searchin’ for the jewel. I wanted a lotta things. And then I wanted you. You know...you made me start wishin’ for things I didn’t think I gave a damn about.” 

It was always his most candid statements that made Kagome blush like she was in junior high again. “Oh?” she squeaked. 

"Oh?” he echoed. “Soundin’ real mousy there, Kagome-” 

“Shut it, you,” she hissed, a grin on her lips. “You don’t get to romance me and make fun of me after.” 

“I thought that was our routine by now?” 

Her grin widened. A flock of birds settled in the goshinboku’s branches, shaking snow onto their heads. Inuyasha remembered the apple he had stashed away and broke it in two, offering one half to his wife. The ate in silence, the sounds of the village greeting them from below. They had sat here season through season, but the comforting presence of the tree never waned. It stood steady and reassuring, even as their backs bent from age. 

Inuyasha shifted gently, opening his mouth to tell Kagome they should get going, but she had fallen asleep. Her eyes were fluttered shut, and she made no movement as he swept her hair across her brow. He could hear her heartbeat and the soft cycle of breathing, in and out. The blood-red apple laid listless in her hand. With how pale her skin had gotten in the cold, she resembled a body awaiting embalming. 

He draped his suikan over her and kissed her forehead. It could be his last, but strangely enough, there was no fear in the thought.  

[zyrafowe-sny]

who gives a shit about tomorrow? (when it comes, we can worry then)

Inspired by the @goldenheart-week Day 5 prompts "disability" and "regret" along with Mika's Tomorrow. Cross-posted on AO3.

Chapter 1: you and I, we're really / really not that innocent

Perhaps the unreasonable heat had scrambled his ability to reason. There certainly was no other logical explanation for why Lord Ballister Blackheart, notorious villain, would reply in the affirmative to a middle-of-the-night message from Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin, Champion of the Realm, asking simply: “Awake? :)”

God, that smiley face.

He immediately regretted responding, but decided it was a problem for tomorrow and went back to willing himself to sleep.

Unsuccessfully.

He tried no blankets, but that felt deeply wrong on a fundamental level. Using a thin sheet to keep his sweaty limbs from rubbing together was a slight improvement, but he still found himself tossing and turning when the doorbell rang.

Ballister blinked at the clock, which informed him that it was a little after two. He had an unfortunate suspicion as to who it might be, and cursed his past self for not blocking his number. And/or for not changing his own.

He considered pretending that he hadn't heard the doorbell, but a series of impatient rings nixed that plan. Grumpily, he searched for his robe. While his visitor had seen him in less on (many) prior occasions — albeit over a decade before — just boxers felt entirely insufficient after all that happened between them.

As expected, he found Ambrosius Goldenloin on the other side of the door. Ballister couldn't remember the last time he had seen the knight in civilian clothes. His blouse was low cut — Ambrosius always did like showing off those collar bones — though a metallic gold instead of the minty green he used to favor. Before.

“Goldenloin,” Ballister greeted him flatly.

Ambrosius wore the same infuriating grin as he did when they sparred. “I thought you might like a fan in this fine weather we’re having.”

Ballister raised an eyebrow. “I don't see one.”

“Me. I'm your fan.” Ambrosius attempted to flip his signature mane of blond hair, but it was limp with humidity and the effect was altogether unimpressive. (At least compared to baseline.)

Ballister snorted. “Aren't you my archnemesis?”

“A hero can hold a certain…admiration for a worthy adversary,” he said not-quite-petulantly with a trace of a familiar pout.

Typical Ambrosius. Lately, it felt like he was treating their encounters like an ongoing game of pretend. Play-acting at knights and villains while conveniently ignoring all their history and baggage. Never once apologizing for his choices that had landed them into those roles.

And always, always flirting beneath a thin veneer of plausible deniability.

It was maddening.

Some combination of oppressive heat and tired delirium overrode all of Ballister’s better judgment, and he invaded Ambrosius’ space, trying to get under his skin the way he (regrettably all too often) got under Ballister’s. “Is that what I am? A worthy adversary?” he asked in a low voice.

Their eyes (and mouths) were less than a foot apart. Ambrosius’ previously cocksure gaze now held uncertainty, and Ballister could practically feel the huff of his ragged breath on his face.

Ambrosius retreated with a noticeable gulp.

Ballister pursued. (That is, if simply taking a single step forward could be considered a pursuit.)

This time, Ambrosius stood his ground, hand fruitlessly reaching for where his sword’s pommel would normally be, wary but likely aware he was in a trap of his own making.

Possessed by that same heatwave recklessness foolishness, Ballister’s left hand pushed back some of Ambrosius’ (slightly damp) hair, and his one-time lover stood still as a statue as Ballister continued to cup his head despite himself.

“Why'd you even come here, Zee?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The nickname — for so long locked behind years of hurt — slipped off his tongue without a thought, freed by the strange spell that had come over him. (And over Ambrosius too, presumably — he didn't usually do house calls. Especially unarmed. Damn this weather.)

Ambrosius shook off his trance and Ballister’s hand. “We should get out of the street.”

The lack of neighbors had been one of the strongest appeals of this warehouse-turned-lair and he doubted anyone was around to see them, but Ballister let him in anyway.

The thick security door closed behind them with a loud thunk.

And so they stood, inside, together, the stagnant air between them thick with humidity and awful awkward silence.

(A fan would be an improvement, actually, Ballister had to admit. The industrial ones in his workshop didn't do much for the living quarters. Pity Ambrosius usually blew hot air.)

After what felt like an eternity but was probably just a minute or so, Ambrosius cleared his throat. “I'm thirsty.”

When in doubt, Ballister apparently defaulted to banter. “Is that why you're here? That fancy townhouse of yours ran out of water?”

Still, Ballister made his way to the kitchen, and Ambrosius followed.

“Out of air conditioning, actually. Power’s out.”

“Grid probably got overloaded.” Another reason that setting up his own solar panel system — completely with backup batteries — had been worth the trouble (and cost — he’d had to pull off a few heists to raise the funds for materials).

Ambrosius nodded and made himself at home at the kitchen counter, perching himself on a stool. “Do you still make…oh, what did you call it, bottled starlight?” he asked wistfully.

Ballister’s earliest attempts at moonshine at the Institution were barely drinkable and hardly worthy of such a poetic name. Since then, with better lab equipment and more privacy — it had been damnably difficult to run a mini distillery undetected under the Director's nose — he’d managed to experiment and refine the process. As a minor side project, of course.

“I do. But moonshine isn't going to help with hydration.”

“So give me two glasses then. Just like you did when we were training together. One for water, one for the good stuff.”

Ballister rolled his eyes, but opened the cabinet with barware. He took out four glasses, one at a time, then reached for a bottle hidden in the back. A specially-built vice held it steady on the counter as he struggled momentarily with the cap.

When he looked up again, Ambrosius was staring — not at his face, but lower and to the side. At his injured shoulder, and the empty sleeve of his robe that flapped uselessly.

“Your arm…it's gone…”

Ballister took a deep breath, pinched his nose, and reevaluated his prior assessment of Ambrosius’ powers of observation. “You’re the one responsible for it and you're only just noticing.”

“Yes. No. I mean…” Ambrosius looked down. “When you're wearing your prosthetic…”

“Prosthesis.”

“Prosthesis. It's easy to… forget?” He dared to raise his gaze once more, and in those sky blue eyes Ballister could read guilt, clear as day.

“Ignore?” Ballister corrected pointedly.

Ambrosius winced. “I didn't have much time to see you immediately…after. You went from a hospital bed to walking around with a new arm in no time. And then you disappeared.”

“That's because the Institution was pushing one on me before my stump was ready for it, and then decided I was too much of a deadweight to keep around.” Ballister poured himself a glass of the moonshine and knocked it back. This batch was smoother than the last one, and in his current mood, he missed some of the harsh burn of his earlier attempts. “And maybe having me as a villain was always going to be more useful to them. Maybe that was the Director’s plan all along.”

Ambrosius didn't try to defend her. Instead, in a small voice, he asked, “May I see?”

The stool made an unpleasant scraping sound as he slid off it. He then made his way around to the other side of the counter — slowly, deliberately — to where Ballister stood.

Ambrosius’ hand rested gently against the belt of Ballister’s robe, but stopped short of opening it.

“Go ahead,” he said gruffly.

Ambrosius carefully undid the knot, slid the robe off of Ballister's shoulders, and folded it neatly on the counter. Ballister’s heart hammered inside his chest as a delicate finger traced each angry ridge and groove, but he willed himself to remain still.

“It's still so red,” Ambrosius whispered.

“I don't take off my prosthesis as often as I should,” Ballister said conversationally, as if he weren’t revealing his weaknesses to his self-proclaimed archnemesis. “It's devilishly hard to do on my own, but with this heat… I made the mistake of going outside yesterday and the metal got miserably hot.”

“Like that slide.” Ambrosius’ voice sounded distant as he revisited old memories. “At the playground we used to sneak off to. Near the orphanage. It would burn us during the summer.”

“Exactly. And the sweat” — Ballister wrinkled his face in displeasure — “it made the connector plate on my shoulder slide more than usual. And you know how you get puffy sometimes in the heat?”

Ambrosius nodded, eyes wide as he tried to imagine — likely for the first time — all the unpleasant details of a life with a metal prosthetic arm.

“Well that threw off the fit too. So that also made the chafing worse, and so...” Even one-armed, Ballister could shrug.

“I…I didn't know.”

“Fifteen years, Ambrosius,” he spat. “And you’ve never even wondered what you did to me.”

He flinched. “I’ve never met your equal with a sword. Before or…or after.”

“It hurts. Whenever I'm pushing against enough weight that it shifts the connector plate. Doesn't happen all the time, but broadswords…”

Ambrosius blinked as something finally clicked. “That's why you switch arms sometimes.” His expression shifted into something that might have been genuine (overdue) contrition. “Ballister, I'm so sorry.”

“Took you long enough to apologize,” he said acidly.

“I...I didn't before? Oh God.” His face grew pale and he raised a hand to cover his mouth.

“Doesn't mean I forgive you,” Ballister warned as he rested his (remaining) hand on Ambrosius' shaking shoulders, tapping a finger to time his breath.

“I… I under…stand.” It took a few cycles of long inhales and exhales, but soon enough Ambrosius stilled and Ballister stepped back.

“Ready to go home?” This middle-of-the-night foolishness had lasted long enough, and if Ambrosius left now, maybe they could both pretend it didn't happen.

“I still want that drink,” Ambrosius said with conviction, and his eyes burned blue.

“So you can blame whatever happens next on the alcohol?” Ballister accused. “So like you, Ambrosius, always deflecting responsibility on something — or someone — else. Well, I'm not going to let you this time.”

And he pulled him close for a fierce kiss.

His teeth scraped against Ambrosius’ lips, and then his tongue took advantage of the slightest part to invade his mouth.

Ambrosius let out a soft moan, and — just as expected — reciprocated.

Their tongues dueled, and manicured nails scratched at Ballister’s back.

“Wait.” Ambrosius pulled back, panting, pupils still blown wide. “Unhand me, villain?” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“This isn't what you came here for?” Ballister breathed into his ear.

Ambrosius shivered.

“Still trying to tell yourself that I'm the one in the wrong, even after you finally apologized? That you didn't kiss me back just now? That you didn't come here yourself with not-so-innocent intentions?”

Ballister was close enough to see the trajectory of Ambrosius' Adam's apple as he swallowed.

“If you want this, want me… you make that choice. Own that choice,” Ballister hissed.

Ambrosius searched his eyes for a beat, lips parted, then cupped his face with both hands.

And kissed him.

Regrets could wait until tomorrow.

[lykieu]

Iced water in winter. That’s just the kind of person Blaze is. She paces, tracking a dirt path along the floor. An engine drones nearby, comforting in its steadiness, yet strangely numbing all the same. From the airship’s rounded windows, she can see Rhodes Island fast approaching, a distant speck over looming mountains. Past the embrace of cloud and sky, it seems they’re nearing home at last.

“You should get some rest too,” Shining says without looking up. Her tone is soft, as soothing as her Arts. There aren’t many people Blaze would trust in urgency; for all her confidence, she’s only ever known how to burn.

Light fills the room for a split second, blinding and warm beyond the partition. Like a miracle, Blaze thinks, staring in awe at wounds that fade and mend.

“How is she looking?”

“She will be fine. Sore but ready to return to the field after some rest.”

Blaze releases a breath, unknowingly held. “Good to know.”

Shining hums idly, turning to lock their eyes at this. “I didn’t know that you were close.”

The paper cup slips a little in her hand, condensation building to drip along constantly heated skin. Blaze blinks, confused, but she doesn’t look away. “She’s my assigned partner,” she answers. Like, it’s obvious. Like…

There’s no other response, only a murmured, “I see.”

The senior medic nods before exiting soundlessly, an ethereal glow about her, residual tricks or something more. Yet again, Blaze thinks of miracles, and warmth that seeps.

“I should care this much,” Blaze says quietly, chasing crystals in her mind. “At least.”

A moment passes, wherein the only movement is the steady rise and fall of GreyThroat’s chest, tucked beneath clinically white sheets. Blaze simply watches, more sentinel than anything. Her drink is no longer cold by the time she decides to move. She takes a step closer, inspecting the sniper’s expression, so serene in the absence of its usual scowl.

Infected… Uninfected…

Blaze hates that she’ll always have to choose.

The airship dips as they approach landing. Blaze feels her balance tilt unexpectedly. She staggers into a chair. The airship leans again, sharply this time.

They should be close by now. There should be an announcement—

But it happens at once: the flash-bang-shriek of metal on metal. Voices scream. Alarms sound. Blaze spares one glance at her partner before launching herself across the makeshift quarters, crushing the cup in her hand. She scrambles towards the commotion, assessing as she goes, sorting chaos from the scene. The main hatch has been unlocked, door open to billowing air. They’re not far from solid ground. Not far at all.

There’s yelling of enemy fire and the flurry of their own retaliation. A swarm of silver surrounds them. And beside her—

“Don’t jump without me.”

Blaze almost trips in shock.

GreyThroat is strapping her quiver to her back. Her face is pale, still painted with dust and fatigue. But her eyes are alight with drive, gleaming forest green. Her cloak is missing, leaving bandages to peek from her sleeveless top. She’s loading, aiming—

Blaze wants to argue but the first bolt streaks past her without a word.

In the distance, a drone explodes, then another, and another. Each one is shot down in a stunning display of accuracy. GreyThroat reloads with chilling grace, raising a brow at Blaze’s astonishment.

“They followed us,” she notes in her pragmatic way, though it isn’t enough to hide the worry flickering beneath her veneer.

“They did,” Blaze answers soberly, hefting her weapon from its case.

“Let’s go,” they say at once.

Blaze swallows her surprise, leaning past the doorway to meet the freezing air. Those words strike a chord within her chest. That tone, so similar to her own, lacking in any sense of fear…

It occurs to her suddenly that GreyThroat is on their side. Really. Her side.

Infected… Uninfected…

As they drop from the airship, fingertips grazing, Blaze wonders if they can choose both.

[justa-rat]

Drive-Thru Danger.

Written May 1st,

Total Word Count: 1535

There’s always something unsettling about being the last one to go home. It’s dark outside, the lobby is quiet and empty, and all that’s left is you and your phone resting in your pocket. It’s currently struggling to project your playlist throughout the building as you go about your business. You glance to the clock - only fifteen more minutes before you can finally close down the store. The front doors are already locked, and you’re anxious to leave - but you feel safe.

You’ve already finished your main closing duties, so you take a lap around the store to ensure nothing was missed. The heavy musk of fryer grease still hangs heavily in the air. It’s been a miserably slow night, presumably thanks to the rumbling storm just outside. Your manager left only a half an hour ago, leaving behind the store key so you could lock up.

Ding!

Your stomach drops - customers always love rushing down to the wire for a late night snack. You sigh - all it means to you is dirtying all the dishes you just washed and put away for the morning. You quickly make your way through a narrow hall in the back of the building - leading you to a much smaller setup for the drive-thru specifically. You reach up to the button on your headset - eyes stuck to the screen of various options of burger and fry combos.

“Hello, what can I get started for you today?” Your words are coated with the honied tone of a veteran.

Nothing.

You speak again, a bit louder - fearing the microphone was unable to properly project your voice. “Hello?”

Not a peep. Turning 180 degrees from the register, your eyes look upwards towards the screen. It’s split in half, one camera showing the front lobby, the second focused on the drive-thru line. There is no car in sight.

Odd, but it wouldn’t be the first time the censor misfired. Maybe a bird flew by? It felt unlikely. The rain was falling in thick sheets now. It made you anxious to drive home in it. Hopefully it would lighten up in the next half hour, long enough to safely drive home.

Ding!

This time, there is no excuse. You spin around the moment the sound queue plays - hand already pressing the button. Your mouth opens to speak the typical greeting but-

No car.

You look towards the drive-thru window itself - peering through the frosted glass. Not even the dark shadow of an indecisive customer’s car crept through. Completely empty.

You fold your arms, leaning back against the metal counter. One foot crosses over the other, the entirety of your weight resting on a single limb. It seemed to happen almost every time you looked away, and whatever was doing it was fast enough to hide by the time you looked. The solution felt simple: you simply wouldn’t look away. There were only ten minutes left in the night, after all.

So you stare.

And stare.

And stare.

A whole lot of nothing happens, that’s for certain.

Your draped leg begins to tap, a slow creeping feeling of anxiety seeping into your bones.

You realize, you don’t really want to go home.

Well, more-so you didn’t want to have to make the trip out to your car. The rain was already bad enough, but if there was some psycho out there screwing with the drive-thru too?

The veneer of safety you felt at the beginning of your shift has melted away.

You spare a glance at the clock, only two minutes have passed. Time seemed to slow down as the approaching end drew closer. You look back to the screen, remembering you need to be watching it.

There is a man.

The man stood directly in the middle of the drive-thru lane, staring intently at the security camera hidden snugly against the wall of the building. A disconnected staring contest takes place, your eyes locked onto his. You can hardly make out his features, the poor quality of the camera obscuring his identity. He didn’t look like a teenager, though. He didn’t look like someone pulling a prank.

It was his body language that tipped you off, how perfectly still and stiff he stood. You finally tear your eyes away and towards the unlocked drive-thru window. Dashing forward, your fingers clumsily lock it. When you glance back at the screen, the man is gone.

You've had enough. You dart to the front, back behind the counter of the lobby registers. You drop to a crouch quickly, reaching for your purse. What little hope you had stored away vanished within a moment. The sound of glass breaking ensued, along with the grunts and pants of a distinctly male voice. You stayed absolutely still.

You could hear his footsteps coming closer, you suppressed a whimper. Every inch of your body was shaking, fear rooted up from the basest of your survival instincts.

The footsteps stopped.

You heard him grunt, and then you heard his voice. It was low and gravelly, assertive. He sounded annoyed. "Hello!?" He sneered. Your head shot upwards, to find him leaning over the counter - staring down at you. He looked like he hadn't showered in weeks, stringy hair covered in oil. Dirt was smudged on his cheeks, his clothing tattered and worn. He smelt horrible.

"You're supposed to take my order." He demanded, slowly leaning back. You stayed still a moment, until he spoke again. "Don't make me come back there."

You quickly stood, summoning what courage you had left to speak. "Sir, w-we… We're closed…" Your voice came out weaker than you had intended.

"It's not eight, yet." He responded. You didn't know how to reply at first, words taken from your very being.

"Th-The drive-thru s-stays open until eight… Th-The lobby closes at seven-thirty! You're not supposed to be in here, you fucking psycho! The doors were locked for a reason!" Maybe it was the adrenaline that fueled your sudden spark of rage, but the man seemed completely unphased. Before, you hadn't truly seen his face. Now, staring at him, he was emotionless. He still had expression in his tone in his voice, but everything came from a completely blank face. You felt your skin begin to prickle.

"You didn't take my FUCKING ORDER!" He screamed suddenly. His voice was loud, explosive, damn near deafening. His face did not change at all, only the movements in his lips needed to form the words.

"Y-You have to have a car for the drive-thru!" A sob breaks your words, you're terrified. You can't help but spare a glance back towards the emergency exit. You needed the alarms to go off, you needed to call the fucking cops. your thoughts were interrupted by a soft mechanical click.

"Take. My. Order." As he stares at you, the only thing you are able to focus on, is what is down the barrel of the gun he has pointed at you. Your stomach dropped, and you turned fully back towards him. You have no choice but to play along, and so you say…

"W-What can I g-get started f-for you t-today…"

"I want… I-… I want a… I…" He struggled for a moment, silence hung in the air. "Ham sandwich! I want a ham sandwich!

Despair washed over you, alongside another wave of fear. You sniffled, blinking tears from your eyes. "S-Sir… W-We just have burgers-I don't- We don't have ha-"

"I said get me a GODDAMN HAM SANDWICH!" Your body jerks back at the sudden shout, before you simply nod. You don't even bother putting his order in the register. You slowly step back towards the kitchen, walking backwards to avoid turning away from him. Just before you're about to slip behind the wall, he follows you to the back.

You don't have ham, so you make him a burger and fries. He doesn't say anything. You don't care about the mess you're making, either. Your hands are shaking too badly to be perfect. Fries tumble out of the basket and into the oil as you shake them out desperately. You drop buns and lettuce. You don't pick them up. You're out of sliced tomatoes. He keeps his gun pointed squarely at you as you use a chef's knife to clumsily cut some more. You leave it on the counter. All the while, you can feel his eyes burning into your back. Before long, you have a tray with a burger and fries on it. "Take it to my table." He demands, and turns his back on you.

You don't let those few seconds go to waste. You grab the knife, hold it beneath the tray. You follow him.

He picks a table, and takes a seat. You set the tray down in front of him - and without second thought ram the knife into the shoulder of the arm holding the gun. As pain rips through him, he releases - curling around his injured arm. You waste no time grabbing the gun, but he grabs your arm before you can pull away. You wrestle desperately for the weapon, all the while trying to avoid the barrel pointing to your own head.

He's stronger than you. The world drops to silence.

[yeahcurrahhe-e]

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖

〚 𝐋.𝐍𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 〛

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➛ mentions of alcohol, language

𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 two days since Easy had been removed from the frontline, and D-Day weeks in a muddled past of crimson, screams, and bullets. Y/N still wasted any obtainable moment of the night scrubbing at her hands, which were pristine in a pale veneer but throbbed with concealed tragedies. A brush on the concave porcelain of the sink was seedy in its bristles and oak handle cracking subtly, her own skin springing with similar blemishes. Her hands would ache long into the morning, prickle with soreness when scouring over reports and writing them, throb with irks when she clasped her metal cup of morning coffee.

Yet, it seemed to subdue the gnawing of her chest, something resembling inflammation in the linings of the cavity. If grief — guilt — could have done such injury. She would’ve gambled with alcohol like a few other war-ravaged soldiers had, but elected for the sober approach of submerging herself in tides of reports. The last thing her exhausted body needed was a dependency on alcohol, a lifeline being a metal flask in her rear pocket. Alcohol was no vice, no forbidden outlet, but she beared witness to such a dependency in her fellow officer, Lewis Nixon, and picked out the gradual cracks shattering his conscious.

He’d typically stumble about to her quarters, trailing in step the lantern light beckoning his debauched attention. He’d collapse on the ramshackle twin bed in the far corner, rumbling about whatever matter swirled into his rampant stupor whilst she penned at her stack of reports. She’d primarily disregard his dreary mumbles until he’d stagger to her desk, beaming giddily in the spill of lantern light and bolstering himself with his hands on the structure’s edge. He’d beg away her attention from the chicken scratches of her reports, something alike to a keen child, and wouldn’t relent until her pen was absent from her hand. Lewis Nixon wasn’t a marauder for attention, yet stirred with fever when it was her undivided attention that he received. The alcohol in his nerves would bitter quickly, however, when some billow of practicality reminded him that he was married and that the woman before him could never be his.

And she eventually decided, hardly accepted, the same fate when she’d relented to his companionship, his throbbing eyes of desire and inertia in the lantern light. But, that’s all she could have of him, a giddy man that would make her companion on those nights where ghosts of soldiers past would extend from beyond the afterlife to seize her. He would never be hers — even if the ring on his finger was absent a majority of the time she’d be in his presence, day or night. His marriage wasn’t any of her business, no matter the desire to question prickling in her chest in the moments he was skewed by alcohol’s seduction.

Nevertheless, she was still bewildered, nearly amused, when the man asked her for a date on one of those tonic evenings he basked in her attention. She was certain that the words were the rumblings of the alcohol swirling in his chest, yet the sincerity in his illuminated dark eyes had an anchor settling in her own chest. She was not about to toss herself into a relationship with a married man, for the sake of her morality and her position in the Airborne. The second shock of the night was just as abrupt and nonchalant as the first as he yanked out a rumpled sheet of parchment from his jacket; the pristine cursive words of his wife declaring a divorce and arranging out all the assets she’d be acquiring in his absence in Europe. His vexation was pushed through the grousings of the dog she’d be taking — a dog that was essentially his — and how she had no edge of affection towards the animal.

Y/N was seldom stunned into silence — being subdued in talk was no way to maneuver the Airborne as a female — yet Lewis Nixon had a tendency to pull out an oddball behavior from her, and she bit her tongue the entirety of his furious ramble. Bitter ice pummeled in an avalanche through her veins when he leveled his face with her own, impossibly close, breaths interlacing in the few meters of openness. He inquired in a whisper once more for her to go on a date with him, an almost apprehensive pinch in his face that had seeped of fury in a matter of seconds before.

A buried misery in her core beckoned irrelevance to his words — that it was purely the alcohol disintegrating the beauty of his words. Yet, a ‘yes’ spilled from her agape mouth before the hostile flood could dispel in her nerves entirely. And, honest to God, she had never saw Lewis Nixon beam so broadly as he did in the half-light of the lantern that night.

Now Y/N was a fidgety truss of nerves as she sat pinched in a corner booth of the local pub; all the reasons not to do this had come in a barrage in her mind, the chemicals of her nerves alight with alarm, her instinct to flee projecting in her perturbed glance to the doors. A soft panic blistered in her stomach as she tinkered with the cuffs of her jacket compulsively; if she breathed slowly, she could allow for the thoughts to not spew into the ether of her conscious, to spur into a vortex of stupidity.

Anxiously, she delved her fingernails into the crevices of her cuticles as the glut of talk in the pub deluged her ears, her eyes pointedly on the glass entrance of the pub. The watch fastened on her subtly quivering wrist declared the time as 7:30 — he should be here in a mere few minutes. She nearly cussed herself out for the nerves that shackled her insides — she was a lieutenant, for fuck’s sakes, and the thing she was dooming herself with was a man. A man she had proved superior skills over.

The glass door rattled amidst the chaotic din of slurs and laughs, her eyes tracing the entrance of Lewis Nixon, adorned in his tailored and pristinely pressed olive uniform. The skin beneath her own uniform blanched and goose flesh puddled over the ivory canvas of her skin. He halted at the counter of the bar, tapping the sheen of its oak surface, an exchange of words between the bartender and himself as he peered over his shoulder at her, leering at the corner of his mouth. This damn man had her mesmerized.

The bartender weighted a tray into Nixon’s anticipatory hands, two pints of effervescent beer subtly spattering about its glass confines as he walked over to the booth.

“Good evening, m’lady,” he beamed in a full expanse of pearly ivory teeth and ample lips, easing the tray at the center of the table, “Now I know you don’t drink — I think Dick is rubbing off on you — but I think war is a first time for a lot of things.”

Y/N propelled her hands from their trembling iron clasp beneath the table, plucking a crisp glass from the tray begrudgingly — alcohol wasn’t a vice she desired to wager with, yet anything that would subdue the nerves entangling her insides would be an appreciated miracle.

“Sure is,” she murmured in agreement, chasing away the nervous blisters in her throat with a sting of alcohol.

He sunk into the leather cushion with an instinctive hand seizing his own glass, sipping with a smirk on the horizon of the cup’s edge, the shrewd eyes of an intelligence officer regarding her, “You’re nervous, ha! Who would’ve thought…I make Y/N Y/L/N nervous.”

“In your wildest dreams, Nix,” she hastily asserted to downplay the uncomfortable reality of his observation, “If that blush on your cheeks says anything, it’s that I make you nervous. Now, that’s something I’m certain the company would enjoy hearing—”

“It’s stuffy and hot in here!” He proclaimed with an exaggerated gesture to the torrent of soldiers and townsfolk alike, then pointing a finger to her, “And your face is just as red, doll.”

Y/N stilted an eye roll through the veil of the inflaming crimson on the apple of her cheeks, “I snatched some blush from the family’s daughter I’m housing with.”

“And lipstick, I see,” Lewis denoted the burgundy of her lips, tipping his glass towards them, the glass veneer subduing the unspoken adoration within his eyes. He shouldered it away with a hasty sip of his drink, “Haven’t seen you all dolled up since you came strolling in, as sure as anything, the first day of officer school.”

The day the pair had met.

“I much prefer grime, sweat….war paint,” she simpered slyly, a bleared memory of the two encountering each other on a dark forested path in Normandy after a rushed jump into the wrong drop zone, forever in the rear of her head.

“And yet you still manage to be beautiful,” he muttered, narrowly penetrating the obstruction of noise throttling them, but her keen hearing had it echoing through her ears and ice bounding any rationale in her head. For a fleeting second, he peered at her, as if his own mind was rattling with perplexion at just how that was possible — for beauty to prevail in the crimson tragedy of war.

“Are you always this forward with every girl you take on a date, Nix?” Y/N shouldered away her momentary halt in sense and any ember of humiliation.

“No…not every one of them is someone I’ve liked for awhile,” he nonchalantly retorted, thrumming his fingers on the concave of his glass and she nearly gagged on the swig of alcohol in her throat, a nip bobbing in her esophagus.

She cleared her throat, irritation presenting subtle creases of water in her eyes, and chuckling through a cough, “And just how long has that been?”

Lewis quirked the corner of his mouth in a familiar smirk, straying his eyes from the swaying lurch of frothy beer in his glass, “Probably since that a month into officer school….that afternoon class we had in rifle practice, remember? And you fucking got every shot into the target, right in the center. I think every guy there shit himself.”

Y/N nodded fondly; the same men still were apprehensive of her, the five foot exact, petite, trigger-happy female Paratrooper. But it wasn’t a showcase for proving herself as a woman, but as a soldier, just like any man. It never crossed her mind that any man that day left with feelings outside of distaste and humiliation. And, yet, Lewis Nixon was here, defying her thoughts once more.

“Well, I think it was a week after that when you told a few men who were harassing me that ‘she could shove a gun up your ass and have you whimpering for your ma’s’. I don’t seek out any defense of my honor but, I guess, it was just reassuring to know that someone had my back. Besides, you aren’t too hard on the eyes, Lewis Nixon,” she asserted, peering pointedly into the concave bottom of her glass, realizing its sudden emptiness and the liquid courage in her chest.

“Well, it was better than just straight out punching their faces in,” he chuckled, retrieving a carton of Lucky Strikes from the lappet of his jacket and his metal lighter, engraved from a tactical knife with L.N. He struck a kindling on the rear of the toxic stick, pendant at the corner of his mouth as he proceeded, “But, I thought you’d better appreciate the honor of doing so yourself.”

Her lips curled into the most seraphic smile he had seen, despite her distaste for the wrinkled noxious stick and its slow creeping stench. He remembers the way she nudged his shoulder whenever they’d be running Currahee, and the exhaustion slipped him and his robust facade up, how she’d flick away the cigarette lurching about on his lips, rambling on about her fret over breathing issues and other health complications such a leisure could bring. Such wandering words always seized his supposedly stagnant heart.

“I just didn’t think we could afford to have any injured men,” she shrugged with a subtle rise of her shoulders; whilst her male peers elected to physically discipline Easy’s sporadic lapse of maturity, she was far more intimidating with her reprimands than any slap upon the cheek could be.

“Yeah, yeah,” he shook his head, inhaling a hefty drag from the smoldering cigarette, then tapping away haphazard ashes into the adjacent ashtray, “Perhaps you should have drinks more often if they make you this talkative — shit, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so open about anything resembling feelings.”

Lightly, she shoved his shoulder whilst they buzzed with giddy chuckles in their chests, descending into the reality of their abruptly close proximity and bracing into reluctance. Forebode imploded down her body with impressive debris yet she rooted herself rather than wrenching away into comfortable territory.

“I guess I just found the right person to tell them to,” Y/N muttered scarcely, his eyes were blazing with life as they managed a stable lock with her own.

She moved forward to place his lips on his, a gradual, dubious movement still gratifying despite the chapped state of their lips. Her subconscious yearned to memorize every inch of his warm lips, how his hands were situated on her, and the intoxicating desire that was unspoken. The pressure of his own were laid upon her abuzz lips, and she absentmindedly settled aside her empty glass to cup his cheek.

"Yeah, no kidding," he grinned back at her once they parted with a mixture of a pant and a chuckle, his eyes sparkling with mischief and an almost melodic laugh cascading from his mouth, setting her heart a flutter. There he was, beaming down at her like she was the source of his content and life.

“Smartass,” she merely murmured in return, observing softly as, in that fragmented burst of time, his expression acquired a quality both warm and admiring.

And then they smiled to themselves in that cigarette smoke hazy and alcohol stenched English pub.

[maridarkmoon-all]

Today I saw this frame, and... One good, the altar is nice.

And then I saw the walls, and I had only one reaction. A scaly ship? WTF?!

Let's hope it's an interior finish of well-varnished wood veneer. Otherwise I have too many questions.

If these are metal sheets from which the superstructure (tower) is made, then this is one big problem: the amount and weight of all metal (yes, weight is also important on water), excessive complexity of manufacturing, and so many more places for corrosion. And this is only if one superstructure is so scaly. If the hull is also the same, then... Well. Let's remember this creation of a mad designer.

I was afraid that on the eve of the series or after its release, the analysis of Zuko's ship would be irrelevant, but apparently this is an empty fear.

[raajrajasharma]

Frikly offers premium quality Metallic Veneer at low prices in India.

Get the highest quality Metallic Veneer at affordable prices. We offer a wide range of colours and finishes, so you can create the perfect look for your project. Shop online for Free Delivery, COD, fast delivery and excellent customer service.

[fiction-quotes]

What I have been thinking, captain, is what is exempt from import tax in one country is what I'd like to stick through the crack in my skull to start to fill it: hay, oranges, lemons, pineapples, cocoa nuts, grapes, green fruit, and vegetables of every variety, and linseed oil cake. Horses, pigs, poultry, dogs, and living animals of every description, except cattle and sheep. Corks, bark, firewood, logwood, and dyewoods. Copper or yellow metal, rod bolts or sheathing, and copper and yellow metal nails. Felt for sheathing, oakum and junk, pitch, tar, and resin. Sail canvas, boats, and boat oars.

I fill my head with ships' blocks, binnacle lamps, signal lamps, compasses, shackles, sheaves, deadeyes, rings and thimbles, dead lights, anchors, and chain cables of every description, and galvanized iron wire rope. Lime juice and ice. Printed books, music, and newspapers, maps, charts, globes, and uncut cardboard, millboard, and pasteboard. Ink, printing presses, printing type, and other printing materials. Passengers' baggage or cabin furniture arriving in the colony at any time within three months before or after the owner thereof. Tablets, memorial windows, harmoniums, organs, bells, and clocks specially imported for churches or chapels. Hides and skins of every description, raw and unmanufactured. Veneers of all sorts. Rattans, split or unsplit.

Carriage shafts, spokes, naves, and felloes. School slates and slate pencils, slates for roofing, and slates and stone for flagging. Marble, granite, slate, or stone in rough block.

Soda ash, caustic soda, and silicate of soda. Cotton waste, woollen waste, candle cotton, wood, flax, hemp, tow, and jute, unmanufactured. Specimens of natural history, mineralogy, or botany. Gold dust, gold bars, bullion, and coin. Coir bristles and hair unmanufactured. Broom heads and stocks, partly manufactured for brushmaking purposes. Jars of glass or of earthenware, specially imported for jam. Rod bar hoop sheet plate and pig iron and pighead share moulds and mould boards. Epsom salts, citric acid, sulphuric acid, muriatic acid, carbolic acid. Hair cloth for hopkilns. Wines and spirits.

Captain.

What's true?

  —  McGlue (Ottessa Moshfegh)

[motimac]

Enhancing Precision in Woodworking: A Comprehensive Guide to Veneer Sanding Machines

Introduction

In the world of woodworking and furniture manufacturing, achieving a smooth and flawless finish is crucial for both aesthetic appeal and durability. Veneer, a thin slice of wood applied to surfaces, is particularly sensitive to sanding processes. A veneer sanding machine is a specialized tool designed to delicately sand veneer surfaces without causing damage. In this article, we will explore the key features, benefits, and the importance of veneer sanding machines in modern woodworking.

What is a Veneer Sanding Machine?

A veneer sanding machine is designed specifically for sanding thin sheets of wood veneer. Veneer, typically around 0.6 to 1 mm thick, requires careful handling to avoid tearing or sanding through the surface. Unlike standard sanding machines, veneer sanders are equipped with precision mechanisms to ensure even pressure and consistent sanding across delicate surfaces.

Key Features of Veneer Sanding Machines

Variable Speed Control Veneer sanding machines come with adjustable speed settings, allowing users to choose the appropriate speed depending on the material’s sensitivity. Slower speeds are ideal for thin veneers, reducing the risk of damage.

Precision Rollers and Sanding Heads These machines are built with precision rollers and heads that ensure uniform pressure is applied, preventing uneven sanding and maintaining the integrity of the veneer.

Vacuum Suction for Dust Control A key feature of modern veneer sanding machines is their integrated dust extraction systems, which keep the work surface clean and free from sawdust. This not only enhances the finish but also protects the machine from clogging.

Soft Contact Sanding Pads The soft, flexible contact sanding pads in veneer machines ensure that the veneer surface is sanded smoothly without harsh pressure that could lead to scratches or tearing.

Benefits of Using Veneer Sanding Machines

Enhanced Precision and Control Veneer sanding machines offer unparalleled control during the sanding process. The delicate nature of veneer requires careful handling, and these machines ensure that even the thinnest layers are sanded evenly.

Increased Efficiency Automating the sanding process with a veneer sanding machine greatly reduces manual labor, allowing craftsmen to focus on other intricate details. The consistent performance of these machines improves production speed without compromising on quality.

Prevention of Damage Sanding veneer manually or using inappropriate machinery can result in cracks, chips, or an uneven finish. Veneer sanding machines are designed specifically to avoid these issues, making them indispensable for high-quality woodworking.

Sustainability and Cost-Effectiveness Since veneer is a cost-effective alternative to solid wood, ensuring its proper treatment and finishing extends its lifespan. Veneer sanding machines help minimize wastage and increase the durability of the final product, making them an eco-friendly and cost-effective investment.

Applications of Veneer Sanding Machines

Veneer sanding machines are used in a variety of industries, including

Furniture Manufacturing Whether it’s tabletops, cabinets, or intricate inlays, veneer sanding machines help furniture manufacturers achieve a perfect finish on veneer-covered surfaces.

Interior Design Veneered surfaces are commonly used in high-end interior designs, from wall panels to decorative elements. Sanding machines ensure these finishes are flawless and smooth.

Musical Instrument Production Instruments like pianos and guitars often feature veneered surfaces. A veneer sanding machine is essential in maintaining the delicate texture and finish required for such instruments.

For more info:-

Sanding Belt for Metal

Wide Sanding Machine

[standardtitaniumu]

The Adaptability of Titanium: Investigating Titanium Tubes and Sheets

Titanium is eminent for its noteworthy blend of solidarity, toughness, and lightweight properties, making it an optimal material for different modern and business applications. At Standard Titanium Co, we work in giving great titanium items, including titanium Tubesand titanium sheet, intended to meet the different requirements of our clients.

Understanding Titanium Cylinders

Titanium tubes are a fundamental part in numerous ventures because of their novel attributes. Known for their outstanding solidarity to-weight proportion, titanium tubes offer prevalent execution in requesting conditions. These cylinders are profoundly impervious to consumption, which makes them ideal for use in substance handling, aviation, and marine applications.

*1. * Utilizations of Titanium Cylinders

Avionic business: Titanium tubes are significant in the aviation area for their capacity to endure outrageous temperatures and tensions. They are regularly utilized in airplane and rocket for underlying parts and fuel lines.

Substance Handling: The consumption opposition of titanium tubes makes them ideal for taking care of forceful synthetic compounds and acids. They are utilized in reactors, heat exchangers, and other hardware where sturdiness and protection from substance assault are vital.

Clinical Field: Titanium tubes are utilized in different clinical gadgets because of their biocompatibility. They are utilized in inserts, prosthetics, and careful instruments.

*2. * Advantages of Utilizing Titanium Cylinders

Lightweight: Titanium tubes offer critical weight reserve funds contrasted with different metals like steel, which can prompt expanded proficiency and diminished fuel utilization in aviation applications.

High Strength: Regardless of their lightweight nature, titanium tubes are major areas of strength for staggeringly, them appropriate for high-stress applications.

Erosion Obstruction: Titanium's regular protection from consumption guarantees that the cylinders stay sturdy and dependable even in cruel conditions.

*3. * Picking the Right Titanium Cylinder

Grade: The decision of titanium grade relies upon the particular application. For instance, Grade 2 titanium is ordinarily utilized for general purposes, while Grade 5 titanium (Ti-6Al-4V) is utilized in additional requesting applications because of its predominant strength.

Aspects: It means a lot to choose the proper measurement and wall thickness for the planned application to guarantee ideal execution.

Investigating Titanium Sheets

Titanium sheets are one more adaptable item presented by Standard Titanium Co. They are utilized in different ventures because of their phenomenal mechanical properties and protection from consumption. Titanium sheets are accessible in various grades and thicknesses to suit different applications.

*1. * Utilizations of Titanium Sheets

Aviation and Guard: In the aviation and safeguard areas, titanium sheets are utilized for underlying parts, airplane skin, and rocket housings. Their solidarity and lightweight properties make them ideal for these requesting applications.

Marine Industry: Titanium sheets are utilized in marine conditions for their protection from seawater erosion. They are utilized in shipbuilding, seaward stages, and desalination plants.

Engineering: The stylish allure and strength of titanium sheets make them well known in building applications. They are utilized in building veneers, material, and inside plan.

*2. * Advantages of Utilizing Titanium Sheets

Strength: Titanium sheets offer remarkable solidness, which expands the life expectancy of items and designs produced using them.

Consumption Opposition: The innate erosion obstruction of titanium guarantees that sheets stay in one piece and useful even in unforgiving ecological circumstances.

Stylish Adaptability: Titanium sheets can be done in different ways, including cleaning and anodizing, to accomplish the ideal tasteful impact.

*3. * Choosing the Right Titanium Sheet

Grade: Various grades of titanium offer fluctuating degrees of solidarity, consumption obstruction, and machinability. For instance, Grade 1 is profoundly pliable and erosion safe, while Grade 5 is more grounded and more appropriate for primary applications.

Thickness: The thickness of titanium sheets ought to be chosen in light of the application's prerequisites, adjusting strength and weight contemplations.

End

At Standard Titanium Co, we are focused on giving top-quality titanium Tube and sheets that fulfill the most elevated industry guidelines. Our items are intended to offer prevalent execution, unwavering quality, and solidness across a great many applications. Whether you want titanium tubes for advanced plane design or titanium sheets for building projects, our broad scope of items guarantees that you will track down the right answer for your requirements.

By picking Standard Titanium Co, you are choosing a confided in provider with long periods of mastery in the titanium business. Our commitment to quality and consumer loyalty implies that you can depend on us for all your titanium needs. Investigate our contributions today and experience the remarkable advantages of titanium for your tasks.

[inayaxx55]

Global Burial Caskets Market 2024 Key Players, Analysis, Share, Trends And Forecast To 2034

The Burial Caskets market report offered by Reports Intellect is meant to serve as a helpful means to evaluate the market together with an exhaustive scrutiny and crystal-clear statistics linked to this market. The report consists of the drivers and restraints of the Burial Caskets Market accompanied by their impact on the demand over the forecast period. Additionally, the report includes the study of prospects available in the market on a global level.

With tables and figures helping evaluate the Global Burial Caskets market, this research offers key statistics on the state of the industry and is a beneficial source of guidance and direction for companies and entities interested in the market. This report comes along with an additional Excel data-sheet suite taking quantitative data from all numeric forecasts offered in the study.

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Key players offered in the market: Batesville Matthews International Corp Thacker Caskets Southern Cremations & Funerals Sich Caskets Victoriaville & Co. Astral Industries The Clark Grave Vault Company J.M. Hutton & Co. Schuylkill Haven Casket Company C J Boots Casket Company

Additionally, it takes account of the prominent players of the Burial Caskets market with insights including market share, product specifications, key strategies, contact details, and company profiles. Similarly, the report involves the market computed CAGR of the market created on previous records regarding the market and existing market trends accompanied by future developments. It also divulges the future impact of enforcing regulations and policies on the expansion of the Burial Caskets Market.

Scope and Segmentation of the Burial Caskets Market

The estimates for all segments including type and application/end-user have been provided on a regional basis for the forecast period from 2024 to 2034. We have applied a mix of bottom-up and top-down methods for market estimation, analyzing the crucial regional markets, dynamics, and trends for numerous applications. Moreover, the fastest & slowest growing market segments are pointed out in the study to give out significant insights into each core element of the market.

Burial Caskets Market Type Coverage: - Veneer Wood Casket Solid Wood Casket Metal Caskets

Burial Caskets Market Application Coverage: - Men Women

Regional Analysis:

North America Country (United States, Canada) South America Asia Country (China, Japan, India, Korea) Europe Country (Germany, UK, France, Italy) Other Countries (Middle East, Africa, GCC)

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The comprehensive report provides:

Complete assessment of all opportunities and threats in the global market.

Burial Caskets Market recent advancements and major events.

A thorough study of business policies for the growth of the Burial Caskets Market leading players.

Concluding study about the growth plot of Burial Caskets Market for upcoming years.

Detailed understanding of Burial Caskets Market particular drivers, restraints, and major micro markets.

Favorable impression inside vital technological and market latest trends hitting the Burial Caskets Market.

Reasons to Purchase Burial Caskets Market Research Report

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Prepare management and tactical presentations using the Burial Caskets market data

Plan for new product promotion and portfolio in advance

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[riokitchen12]

Different Types Of Slab Finishes From Which You Can Choose

The Modular Kitchen Store In Andheri West, Mumbai, is offering everyone excellent quality slab finishes from which you can choose.

1. Gloss Finish

Appearance: Shiny and reflective surface.

Features: Enhances the brightness of the kitchen, makes spaces appear larger, easy to clean but may show fingerprints and smudges.

Materials: Often used with acrylic, high-gloss laminates, and glossy polyurethane paints.

2. Matte Finish

Appearance: Non-reflective, smooth surface.

Features: Provides a subtle and sophisticated look, hides fingerprints and smudges better than gloss, and may require more effort to clean.

Materials: Available in laminates, matte paints, and matte-finish veneers.

3. Textured Finish

Appearance: Surface with tactile textures like wood grain, stone, or concrete.

Features: Adds depth and interest to the kitchen design, and can hide scratches and imperfections well.

Materials: Commonly found in laminates and veneers that mimic natural textures.

4. Metallic Finish

Appearance: Shimmering, metallic surface.

Features: Adds a modern and industrial touch, reflects light for a vibrant look, and may show scratches more easily.

Materials: Achieved with metallic laminates or metallic paint.

5. Acrylic Finish

Appearance: High-gloss and ultra-smooth surface.

Features: Extremely durable, highly reflective, resistant to UV light, and maintain color over time.

Materials: Pure acrylic sheets or acrylic-coated laminates.

6. Glass Finish

Appearance: Glossy and reflective, can be back-painted in various colors.

Features: Adds a sleek and contemporary look, easy to clean, but may be prone to smudging.

Materials: Tempered glass or back-painted glass panels.

7. Laminate Finish

Features: Durable, affordable, easy to maintain, resistant to heat and moisture.

Materials: High-pressure laminates (HPL) and low-pressure laminates (LPL).

8. Veneer Finish

Appearance: Natural wood looks with a variety of grain patterns and colors.

Features: Provides a rich and elegant appearance, but needs regular maintenance and polishing to retain its look.

Materials: Thin slices of natural wood bonded to a substrate.

9. PU (Polyurethane) Finish

Appearance: Can be matte, semi-gloss, or high-gloss.

Features: Provides a smooth and durable surface, is resistant to water and chemicals, available in a range of colors.

Materials: Polyurethane coating applied over MDF or other substrates.

10. Solid Surface Finish

Appearance: Seamless, homogenous surface available in various colors and patterns.

Features: Non-porous, hygienic, and repairable, suitable for countertops and backsplashes.

Materials: Composite materials like Corian, Staron, and LG Hi-Macs.

The Modular Kitchen Shop In Andheri West Mumbai offers everyone excellent quality finishes for your countertop.

About Rio Modular Kitchen Gallery

Rio Modular Kitchen Gallery is one of the leading names for offering everyone with a wide range of cabinets, finishes, and other modular kitchen things at reasonable prices. To avail the services for your kitchen, you can connect with them.

Source: https://penzu.com/p/3144487335699bea