#Permanent Lifting Magnets

[mpcomagnetics]

What Are Magnetic Lifting Systems

What Are Magnetic Lifting Systems Weighty steel parts, metallurgical components, scrap metal… For most lifting magnets, this type of load is too much to handle. Large magnetic lifting systems save the day and efficiate processes in production facilities, warehouses, and scrap yards. What benefits do they bring? Magnetic lifting systems consist of multiple electropermanent magnets or…

[kogullp]

Your Trusted Source for Magnetic Lifters and Lifting Magnets in Delhi

When it comes to efficient and reliable material handling solutions, magnetic lifters in Delhi have emerged as a game-changer for industries. These tools are designed to make the lifting and movement of heavy ferrous materials effortless, ensuring safety and productivity. If you're in Delhi and looking for robust lifting solutions, finding the right supplier is crucial.

What Are Magnetic Lifters?

Magnetic lifters, also known as lifting magnets in Delhi, are powerful devices used for lifting, handling, and transporting metal objects without the need for clamps, slings, or hooks. These lifters are ideal for applications in warehouses, factories, and construction sites, where heavy loads need to be managed with precision.

The popularity of permanent lifting magnets stems from their ability to function without electricity, making them cost-effective and dependable. With high lifting capacity and zero energy consumption, these magnets are an eco-friendly choice for businesses.

Choosing a Reliable Permanent Lifting Magnet Supplier

As the demand for magnetic lifters grows, finding a trusted permanent lifting magnet supplier in Delhi is critical for ensuring quality and durability. A good supplier will offer products that comply with international safety standards and provide excellent after-sales service. Look for features such as high-grade magnetic material, lightweight design, and enhanced safety locks in the products you purchase.

Whether you need a single magnet or bulk solutions, partnering with an experienced supplier can make all the difference in your operations.

The Role of Magnetic Chucks in Industrial Applications

Apart from lifters, magnetic chuck suppliers in Delhi play an integral role in supporting industries that rely on precision machining. Magnetic chucks are used to hold ferrous materials in place during machining, grinding, or drilling operations. By offering a stable and secure grip, these chucks enhance the accuracy of the task while reducing operational time.

A trusted supplier in Delhi will provide a range of options, including permanent magnetic chucks and electromagnetic chucks, tailored to suit your specific needs.

Why Delhi is a Hub for Magnetic Solutions

Delhi has become a key market for magnetic lifting and chuck solutions due to its thriving industrial base. From steel plants to manufacturing units, businesses across the region rely on magnetic tools for smooth operations. This growing demand has encouraged local suppliers to offer innovative, high-performance products that cater to a variety of applications.

Conclusion

Whether you’re searching for magnetic lifters in Delhi, dependable lifting magnets, or a trusted magnetic chuck supplier, you’ll find no shortage of options in this bustling city. Prioritize quality, safety, and reliability when choosing your supplier to ensure that your industrial operations run seamlessly. Investing in the right magnetic solutions today can significantly improve your productivity and operational efficiency tomorrow.

[lady-of-tearshed]

Overprotective bat

Azriel x pregnant!reader

Summary: You really need to make your mate understand that you need some alone time...

Warning: Talk of pregnancy

Word count: 807

You stroke your now slightly swollen womb as you walk between the tall rows of bookshelves of the Town House, the place you and Azriel now call home. Rhysand and Feyre gifted you this magnificent residence as a mating ceremony present, since the both of them were now spending most of their time at the River House since the birth of Nyx anyway. You halt and smile in contentment when you finally pick up the book you were looking for. You spin around, and almost suffer from a heart attack when you face your mate, who had most certainly been following you for… Mother knows how long.

“Az… you scared me.” You sigh as you regain your calm, placing a hand on your chest. He smiles and places both his large hands on your small baby bump. He stares into your eyes and smiles, apologetically. “Sorry… I thought you had heard me.” You chuckle slightly and slowly make your way out of your personal library, heading for the long velvet couch. It wasn’t surprising that you hadn’t heard your mate following you, he always accidentally managed to startle you, thanks to his skills as a spymaster. 

You lay your back against the armrest, comfortably settling down on the couch. Your mate finds his way between your legs, laying his cheek where their babe was growing up, his hands back on your stomach as if they were pulled by some kind of magnetic force. You start reading, trying to concentrate through your mate whispering sweet nothings to their unborn child. “Az… weren’t you… supposed to meet Cassian or something tonight?” You start off, trying to sound… polite and unbothered by his permanent presence since the beginning of your pregnancy.

It’s not that it bothered you, not really. In fact, you always enjoyed your mate’s presence, you always would but… since the past few months, you barely have been able to enjoy some alone time out of when you were in the bathroom. Even then, he would have to check up on you to make sure you weren’t struggling with morning sickness. You just… missed having some tranquility. You already had to spend every minute of your existence with a baby growing inside of you, at least until its birth, and with Az constantly glued to you… It sometimes felt overwhelming.

“I thought you didn’t feel like going?” “Well… I thought you could go without me, you know.” He lifts his head from your stomach and looks up at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “By myself?” He asks as if I was talking to him in a foreign language he couldn’t seem to decode. 

You smile gently, and stroke his cheek. “Yeah, by yourself. It would… maybe it would do you some good to have some boys time. It’s been a while, I’m sure Cassian would agree on that.” “Mh. Cass can always wait, my pregnant woman needs me… baby too.” He places a kiss on your stomach, and gets back to his previous position. 

You sigh and bite your lip. “Az… I meant that maybe it would do me some good to just… breathe a little… for more than five minutes in the bathroom..?” I talked gently, stroking his hair. His eyes shot back up to me in an unreadable expression… “Yeah?” “Yeah…” You answer him back, giving him a soft apologetic grin.

He pauses, thinking, then gets up from the couch. He bends over, placing a hand beside your face on the armrest before kissing your lips softly, a small grin plastered on his delicious lips. “Alright, then. I’ll be back in an hour or two. You’ll both stay all safe, warm, and cozy until I get back to cuddle you… right?” Azriel knew and understood that you needed some alone time. You always have needed time away from everyone from time to time, and he realized that his protective Illyrian instincts had probably made it hard for you to have it. 

You smile and give him another peck before he leans away. “Alright, we’ll both wait for you and stay really safe in the warmth of our home until you get back…” He chuckles slightly, before winnowing away to meet Cassian, who would have to understand that he would need to get back in not more than two hours at max. 

You sigh in relief, drowning in the love and passion of your book for the following hours. You were glad and extremely grateful to have a mate, a partner who listens, understands, and fulfills your every need. Even if he sometimes needed to compromise on his own desires. You giggle as you gently poke at the shadow that stayed, enveloping the top of your belly, and can’t help but think of how amazing your mate already was as a father to your child…   

[biscuits-and-gracie]

I Can Fix Him (no really, I can)

summary: no really, i can characters: rafe cameron. reader warnings: mentions of violence, weapons, and smoking word count: 1.1k

Everyone on the island knew her.

She was the kind of girl who carried sunshine in her smile, even on the grayest days. Her voice was honey-warm, smooth, and sweet-and when she laughed, it was like the soft chime of bells that made people stop and listen. Not because it was loud or attention-seeking, but because it was pure and genuine, the kind of laugh that made the world feel lighter for a moment. She wore sundresses with small floral prints that fluttered in the ocean breeze, and in the summer heat, she smelled faintly of coconut lotion and lavender- a scent so soothing it felt like a balm to anyone’s rough edges.

She sat on her porch swing in the evenings, waving at strangers passing by on dusty roads, offering homemade blueberry muffins to neighbors without reason or request, simply because she believed kindness was a language everyone deserved to hear. Her eyes were soft pools of light, bright with hope, and the kind of warmth that could melt the coldest heart.

She was, simply put, the sweetest soul on the island.

And everyone knew Rafe Cameron, too.

He was a different kind of flame entirely.

The boy with a temper like a matchstick in a dry forest- quick, dangerous, and always threatening to burn everything around him. There was a permanent curl of smoke lazily drifting from his lips, like a freight train tearing through a small town, marking his presence with a haze that clung to the air long after he’d gone. His eyes were wild, untamed, like they had seen too much or maybe just never learned how to settle. There was something magnetic about him- a raw, untethered energy that crackled in the spaces he occupied.

He wore chaos like cologne, bold and intoxicating. He didn’t care what anyone thought, except maybe her.

Rafe was fast hands that could soothe or strike, slurred words that sometimes cut deeper than any fist, knuckles rough and stained, and a devilish grin that promised trouble. A walking car crash- beautiful and burning and bound to destroy something precious if you got too close.

So when she walked into the Island Club one sultry summer night, glowing like the first light of dawn breaking over the ocean, and her arms wrapped around him like she was holding the sun itself- the whispers around the room shattered like thunderclaps.

“God help her,” they said in hushed tones.

“She doesn’t know who he really is.”

“Poor thing thinks she can save him.”

But she did know.

She had seen him drunk and dangerous, his breath thick with whiskey and his eyes glassy with anger. She had seen him furious and too far gone, his jaw clenched tight like a trap, lips curling around words that tasted like poison. She had watched him stumble through fights, tearing at the world with fists and rage.

And still, she loved him.

Not in spite of the darkness he carried- but through it.

Because he wasn’t all fury and heat. Not with her.

With her, Rafe was something else entirely.

He’d stumble through the door of her small apartment at 3 a.m., blood dried on his knuckles, bruises blooming purple and blue across his jawline like tragic flowers. His heartbeat would thunder in his chest, wild and frantic- like a trapped animal desperate to find a way out.

And there she would be. Waiting.

Always waiting.

Barefoot, wearing one of his old hoodies that swallowed her small frame, eyes soft as a summer night but never scared.

She’d catch him before he fell, steady him when he swayed.

Her fingers-delicate and sure-would lift his face, tilt his chin, and wash the grime and blood away, cleaning more than just his skin.

He’d sink to the bathroom floor, exhausted and broken, while she knelt beside him. Her hands trembled sometimes as she dabbed at his wounds with cotton soaked in peroxide, but her touch was gentle, healing. Her presence was heavier than the weight of the world- like an anchor that held him steady, a lighthouse shining through a storm he thought he’d never survive.

“Good boy,” she whispered once, voice barely more than a breath. She pressed her forehead to his, skin warm against skin. “Come close. I’ll show you Heaven, if you’ll be an angel all night.”

And in that moment, the wild storm raging inside him softened.

They never saw that Rafe.

The one who traced soft hearts on her cheek with his rough thumb, careful as if she might break.

The one who kissed her like she was a rare secret he could never risk losing.

The one who told her his darkest secrets in broken fragments, trusting her to hold them gently, like fragile glass.

They didn’t hear how he laughed for her -a low, hoarse sound, like it scraped its way out of him, surprised it could exist at all.

They didn’t see how he held her like she was the first good thing he’d ever touched in his life.

All they saw was the wreckage.

She saw the boy inside it.

“I can fix him,” she told her sister once, pouring coffee into a chipped mug, her voice quiet but certain. “No, really. I can.”

And maybe she was right.

He started leaving the gun in the drawer when he came over. Stopped picking fights just to feel something real. He let her paint daisies on his nails once- pink and clumsy, and he smoked out the window, pretending not to smile as she giggled beside him.

She could feel him changing- slow as molasses, but real. Tangible. Like watching the tide retreat and realizing land had always been beneath the waves.

But some nights…

When the whiskey came back out.

When the darkness cracked through his grin again.

When he said things he didn’t mean, and broke things he swore he wouldn’t.

She’d lie awake long after he’d fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling while his arm lay heavy across her waist, steadying her like the world itself might shatter otherwise.

And she’d wonder.

What if I can’t?

What if loving him isn’t enough?

Her eyes would sting, but she’d blink the tears back, lean close to kiss his temple, and whisper promises he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

Because she remembered.

She remembered who he was when he was hers.

And if the whole island wanted to shake their heads and mutter prayers? Let them.

She didn’t need saving.

She’d chosen him.

Even if it killed her.

[vixeneptune]

Askfirmations ♡

♡ Why am I so amazing? I'm naturally the best and never compete or compare myself to anyone

♡ Why am I so powerful? My aura naturally radiates immense power , is that why I keep getting everything I want? Or why nobody ever messes with me?

♡ Why do I feel so confident all the time like its my permanent state of being? I believe in myself so much that my confidence is literally unshakable.

♡ how do I keep getting everything I want? It's like the universe conspires in my favor and the world has my back 24/7

♡ omg why am I so freaking gorgeous?! Seriously I'm always stunned when I see my reflection like wow how am I so pretty i look unreal?

♡ Why am I such a money magnet? Attracting money is literally the easiest thing, why is it so effortless for me? Like I never worry about money bc it comes to me abundantly from multiple sources.

♡ Why am I so damn lucky? Why do I keep winning everytime at EVERYTHING? the word failure doesn't exist in my dictionary.

♡ ugh why is everyone so obsessed with me? Like I'm easily the most popular person everywhere I go. How come everyone knows my name and treats me like their fav person ? Idk why but I'm always the one who gets most attention and people literally chase me and desperately wanna be with me and I don't even try ?!? Why do I have so many secret admirers and so many people confessing their feelings for me ? Is it bc im so charming and magnetic that people can't help but fall in love with me instantly?

♡ Why am I always invited to events and hangouts like my presence is a must? People love being around me and talking to me so much. Why does everyone say I have an amazing vibe and they love my energy ? Honestly one of my fav compliments but its also like just being seen with me and being around me is a privilege

♡ Why are my eyes so big and feline? Why does everyone compliment my eyes? Why are they so mesmerizing and gorgeous? 😍

♡ Why is my skin so clear and hydrated? Like its so smooth and lifted and perfect I'm so amazed!

♡ Why are my lips so plump and perfect? I love how kissable and full they look!

♡ Why does my hair grow soo fast?? Its crazy like my hair is so long now. Why is it so thick and soft and perfect? Everyone compliments my hair

♡ Why are my eyebrows always on fleek? Like they look naturally perfect

♡ Why is my face so pretty like its sculpted by the angels? Why is my face so symmetrical and harmonious? I look naturally stunning like I don't need makeup or filters.

♡ Why does my face look EXACTLY like my desired face now? It's uncanny how much I resemble Megan fox and Adriana Lima

♡ why is it so easy for me to lose weight? I always lose weight so fast bc I have such a fast metabolism. Why does my body look so snatched? I don't even need to work out and I have the body of a model! Why does my butt look so good? Why are my arms and legs fit and toned and why is stomach so flat?

♡ Why is my face so slim? I have the most sculpted defined gorgeous face 😍 why does everyone stare at me like they're mesmerised by my beauty?

♡ Why is my nose so tiny and small and perfect? I literally have the cutest nose and I love it!

♡ Why does everyone say I remind them of tomie with how captivating , alluring and mysteriously beautiful I am ? Why do people say I remind them of a Siren ? So magnetic with high sex appeal

♡ Why does everyone love spoiling me so much and giving me princess/royalty treatment? Is it bc i have pretty privilege? Why do men open doors for me and gift me expensive things and they keep pursuing me and trying to impress me? Why am I always desired and wanted by everyone ? My energy inspires men to spoil and please me. There's something about me that naturally pulls people in like a magnet, maybe it's my energy or my personality or my beauty.

♡ why is it so easy for me to make friends and attract lovers and people like a magnet? I don't even try but somehow I always end up having so many great genuine connections with others and I have so many loyal friends.

♡ ugh why am I so freaking sexy? Like I have that dangerous sex appeal that fuels everyone around me with desire and lust for me (I'm always safe tho) but srsly I'm so hot it should be illegal 🥵

♡ Why do I keep looking younger and prettier as I age ? am I a vampire or something cuz i never age😂 people always think I'm 18 years old

♡ Why is my life so amazing? Why do good things keep happening to me? Why is it that everyday something wonderful happens? Why is life so easy and fun for me? It's like a game rigged in my favor. Why does my life keep getting better and better? Every aspect in my life is going so well! I feel so fulfilled and so grateful. I mean I'm literally living my dream life right now!

♡ why am i so blessed in every way? I'm rich, pretty, in the best relationship with the love of my life, I have amazing friends and family, I'm so successful and recognised for it, I'm such a catch and an honor to be associated with, I have so many admirers and I'm a great influencer, I'm so sexy and drop dead gorgeous, i have a fun addictive personality, im healthy and fit with the sexiest toned body, I'm constantly surrounded by love and support, im lucky, a powerful manifestor, I'm literally perfect, such a flawless beauty. I have it all

♡ Why do I have such amazing privileges? All I be doing is exist and I get everything I want , everything is handed to me. Why do I get things for free? I don't even have to try, why is it so easy for me to get my way? I think I'm just so charismatic and charming and pretty it's impossible to deny me

[mistress-violence]

Prompt: Magazine from @into-the-jeggyverse (August 27)

Word count: 569 words

Pairing: Jegulus (modern AU)

⚠️ Warnings: masturbation assumptions

Regulus had already started unpacking the kitchen utensils while James, Sirius and Remus brought the last boxes into the house. He wanted to offer his brother and his brother's fiancé a tea after they offered to help him and James move in their new apartment. He forgot how chaotic the three of them can be when they are together though, which is why all the boxes were mixed up and out of place.

He managed to find the cups and cutlery in the bathroom and the kettle in the bedroom, but he wasn't successful in locating the kettle yet. He set aside a box full of books and one of toiletries, hoping the one at the bottom would be what he was looking for. Regulus raised his eyebrows when instead of the kettle he found a box with "College" written on it.

He knew it wasn't his, but the curiosity was too big. He took the scissors and cut the strip of tape from the top before opening it. Inside were things Regulus had expected: James' old football gear, his graduation album, pictures of James and his friends during college, little things that held memories from his student years. While looking among the small plush toys won at the carnivals and the penis-shaped magnets received at every birthday for the past 10 years (an inside joke in their group of friends), Regulus discovered something at the bottom.

James entered the front door with two boxes in hand, which he immediately placed in the hall. He briefly searched for Regulus around until he found him in the living room, looking over a Playboy magazine. His Playboy magazine from college...

Regulus immediately lifted his head with a look that was hard to describe. It was something between repressed anger, confusion and desire for blood.

"I can explain!" James said immediately, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Regulus didn't say anything, just popped his tongue and turned the open magazine towards James.

"What's going on here?" Sirius asked, appearing from behind James with a box in hand.

His gaze ran to the magazine and his mouth opened. It was an ad for Obscurius, a perfume from the Black family beauty line. Regulus' picture took up the entire page, with an expression that would make even a professional model jealous. It was a part of Regulus' dark past, when he was still under his mother's shoe, a loyal servant of Black beauty company. All kinds of hearts were drawn over the picture with red permanent marker.

"Can you explain this to me, Potter?" Regulus said, pressing each syllable.

"I swear I've had it since before I met you, Reg, I bought it for the tits!" James tried to defend himself, taking a step back.

"Why is the page sticky? What did you do with it, Potter?"

"I think I hear my phone ringing. Excuse me!"

"James Fleamont Potter, go right back and tell me why the pages are sticky!" Regulus shouted, running after his lover.

"What's with all this noise?" asked Remus, bringing the last boxes into the house.

Sirius was standing in the doorway, his hand over his mouth and a visible shock on his face. He received too much information about his friend's old habits than he wanted to know.

"Let's go home, now," Sirius hissed, trying to leave the apartment as quickly as possible with a confused Remus behind him.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Paris, la ville de l’amour ✧

Plot: Sae, in Paris for an incoming game, visits your pastry shop.

A/N: guysss I wanted to write something in Paris bc it’s my cityyy. It was so fun to write in my native language tho.

The bell above the pastry shop door tinkled merrily as it swung open, letting in a warm breeze tinged with the aroma of fresh-baked delicacies.

You glanced up from behind the counter with a brilliant smile already curving your lips in welcome - only for the words to die in your throat.

Frozen halfway between reaching for a new tray, you could only gape as the most impossibly attractive man you'd ever laid eyes on stepped over the worn tiled threshold.

He paused with equal surprise marring those striking chiseled features, clearly just as stunned by whatever he'd unexpectedly stumbled across here too.

You watched his throat work in a convulsive swallow as cool jade eyes suddenly swept over you in one long, scorching perusal from crown to toe.

"Um...huh, je peux vous aider?" you stammered out at last in your native French tongue.

Ducking your chin slightly as you felt an embarrassed flush creeping up towards the high planes of your cheeks under such an intense inspecting look.

This seemed to jolt him out of his brief reverie. With a sharp clearing of his throat, he finally spoke - the deep timbre of his low rumble sending delighted tingles skittering along your nerves.

"...Bonjour," he attempted in terribly mangled pronunciation.

As if the French language were an awkward, ungainly thing struggling to break free from his throat rather than flow.

For some reason, his bungled attempt at communication only proved impossibly more charming to you rather than off-putting.

Your own pretty features scrunching up in a delighted giggle you made no effort to disguise.

The man's green gaze somehow sharpened further, narrowing into twin viridian laser points flickering down to your freely curving mouth with intent- as though committing the shape and hue of your upturned lips to permanent memory.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, here let me try this again..."

Taking pity on his apparent linguistic shortcomings, you smiled warmly and tried once more in lightly accented yet impeccable English instead.

"May I help you with something from our bakery today, sir?"

Those mesmerizing jade irises lifted back up to meet your direct stare, some of the initial tension bleeding out of his broad shoulders and rigid stance now that you'd switched languages.

"Just..."

A beat of loaded silence stretched out while he visibly gathered himself. Long graceful fingers scrubbed through a tousled mess of pink hair in what seemed a nervous gesture before dropping back to his sides.

"Just...a croissant, please. Plain."

The low words were carefully enunciated and measured - as if afraid of allowing even that much speech to potentially betray him further.

You gave a little understanding nod, minding yourself to smother any possible outward reaction to his dulcet rasp of a voice undulating along your very bones.

"One plain croissant, coming right up! Please, feel free to have a look around while I get that ready for you."

With that, you cheerfully bustled off to retrieve his order, movements light and airy as your hips swayed subconsciously in time with the background French cafe music wafting from the speakers.

Once the flaky golden-brown pastry was carefully bundled in wax paper, you swiveled back towards the front counter with a friendly grin...only to nearly jump out of your skin.

For standing there merely a foot or so away, nearly pressed up against the worn wooden display case was him- eyes boring into you unblinkingly with that keen, predatory regard of someone determined to solve the world's greatest mystery.

"Ah...sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he offered in that molten gravel drawl upon seeing your obvious surprise.

Though the fiercely magnetic set of those sculpted features didn't shift even slightly.

Regaining your composure quickly, you set the croissant down between you two - muscles tensing slightly as his much larger, wider palm easily swallowed your own in passing when you recited the total with a sweetly lilting: "That will be 3.50 euros, please..."

He paid in silence, face carefully neutral as a carved marble bust while thumbing through a wad of unfamiliar bills.

Every movement infuriatingly measured in a way stoked your bubbling curiosity about this strange, compelling man even higher.

The tension only broke as your fingertips brushing during the exchange made the electricity crackling between your joined gazes spike to near unbearable levels.

A muscle in his angled jaw ticked, throat muscles jumping in another harsh swallow before he snatched his hand away, pastry in tow.

You forced yourself to break eye contact first, flushing hotly as you ducked your head to hide the wistful yearning swiftly blossoming behind your ribs.

A soft, airy exhale floated up to trace a stray lock of your hair tickling across your forehead.

"Au revoir, j'espère qu'on se reverra," you called out on impulse as your mystery customer turned sharply on his heel to leave.

And your words made him falter.

For there, frozen halfway between the last rays of afternoon sun slanting through the windows and shadows clinging to the cafe interior, you saw a tiny quicksilver flicker lift the corners of his sculpted mouth into an almost imperceptible curve of a smile.

It was gone as swiftly as it ever existed - the shop door swinging shut on his retreating silhouette.

Yet that bare glimpse had already kindled a feverish determination coiling low in your belly, spreading like wildfire outwards.

Oh yes...something told you that this beautiful, fascinating stranger would most certainly make it a point to wander back into your tiny corner of the world again...just as surely as the rising sun awakening the morning.

Even when the evening rush was well behind you, long after flipping the Open sign to Closed, you found yourself absentmindedly wiping down the same spotless countertop over and over - gaze endlessly drawn back to the front windows.

Consumed replaying that momentary connection on visceral loop within the private theater of your mind's eye...

[according2thelore]

your age swap verse is PERFECTION. i would like a million words of it. thank you

sam's eyes track dean as he rounds the pool table.

he's in rare form tonight, loose and happy and taunting sam in between long pulls from the sweating beer bottle in his hand.

they're not playing for money tonight. a couple of guys offered, but dean had shooed them all away, eyes sneaking up to sam in a silent request for approval. they don't technically need the money tonight, and sam could tell that dean needed an audience of one.

so it's just the two of them, at one of the two pool tables this smoky bar in the middle of nowhere, illinois. classic 8 ball. sam's stripes, dean's solids. but sam doesn't think either of them are paying much attention to the game, as dean sets up his next shot.

when dean gets like this, he's magnetic.

whenever they're in public--whenever it's not just the two of them folded gently into the impala, or into a motel room, soft edges and softer silences--and the need to have eyes on him starts to itch under his skin, dean stretches his corners out to cover everything.

he laughs loudly and throws smiles around like they're endless and eyes practically glowing. he draws eyes to him like filament to a magnet. he laughs like sam is the most interesting person in the world, moves his arms like he's a gesticulating in a tv show, body leaning loosely like he's never been more at home.

sam used to think about it often. used to worry about it. theirs was a situation that didn't need the extra eyes of a grocery store clerk, or need appraising eyes on dean's too-skinny ribs at a community pool.

sam had finally figured out a long time ago that dean needs this--in the way that any fifteen year old can psychoanalyze his ten year old little brother--so he gave up the protestations back in high school.

dean needs to be seen.

it was his way of fighting back against the way he would disappear from schools and neighborhoods and towns. dean would never have a permanent home anywhere. no one would remember his face, or his name, or his geeky older brother. but they'd remember the mystique of the unbothered kid in class, the at-home boy in a diner, the one whose life must have been so much more interesting and important than yours.

dean was making himself into afterimages, making others jealous or curious or admiring of the pretty young thing lounging on the library steps or in the diner or rounding a pool table.

dean might not exist in any meaningful way, but he exists here, in the moments in between other people's lives.

sam grappled with his insubstantiality by running away to stanford. dean deals with his by drawing nameless moths to a nameless flame.

by making "dean winchester" a performance.

dean knows sam will keep him safe. sam's had to pull him back more than once over the course of their lives. sam's made himself the perfect little harbor for dean to crash into.

dean knows sam's got him, when he bends over the table, as lean as anything, so his movements are languid and careless. sam tracks the eyes of the people at the table behind them, watches the glint of hunger in their eyes as they trace his little brother's ass with their gazes.

sam bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

dean shoots, the cueball hits the six with a crack, and it sinks with barely a sound. the cueball rebounds off of the cushion, and knocks gently against sam's ten.

dean crows something victorious, but sam can only watch the curve of his mouth as it lifts, as he presses the lip of his bottle back towards his bottom teeth.

sam tears his eyes away.

it's a slow night--a lazy night--stuck between two hunts and hundreds of miles. sam can't remember the last time he had dean to himself like this.

when sam unfolds himself from the barstool he had been sitting on, he catches dean's eyes on him, half-lidded and head tilted down, like he's trying to hide it. sam takes one last quick sip of his beer, cracking his knuckles absentmindedly against the edge of the table to distract himself from the way dean's tongue comes out to touch his bottom lip.

sam hits dean's calf with the butt of his cue as he passes, and dean doesn't even retaliate, just sways gently closer to sam like sam could have his own orbit of gravity.

sam snorts. not likely.

dean was always the popular one, the cool one, the one who picked up friends and teams and girlfriends like it was easy. sam dated around, had a couple of friends, but sam radiated a kind of parental, old-soul energy that made his peers uncomfortable. he got along great with his teachers.

it didn't really click with him until college. until his friends there. and jessica.

but everyone wanted to know dean--they'd throw themselves into his orbit like asteroids. but he'd drop them all the instant sam walked into a room, and sam loved it.

sam turns around, ready to ask dean if his silence is proof of forfeit, but his steps falter at the look on dean's face.

dean's bottom lip is tucked under his teeth, a bad habit he picked up from sam a decade ago. his eyes are wide, cheeks high in colour--either from drink or something else. dean's gaze is heavy, slow, as it traces the line of sam's shoulders. it's smouldering. possessive. responding desire rips through sam with deafening acuity. sam watches as dean exhales, slowly.

sam swallows, thick, heart suddenly hammering in his ears. heat simmers low in his stomach, unexpected, and sam turns his attention to the table quickly, so he has an excuse to bend at the waist, hiding whatever damning movement might catch dean's eye.

his shot goes wide.

"nice one, eddie felson." dean snorts. he's migrated closer to sam, for some godforsaken reason, and sam takes that opportunity to cuff him upside the head, to dean's indignant squawk.

when sam shambles over back to the table to grab his beer, he's successfully convinced himself that it's all in his head. whatever...that was; it hadn't been anything at all.

wishful thinking.

or whatever the damning, fucked-up equivalent of wishful thinking was.

sam had prayed in a church in every state except hawai'i, alaska, and utah for salvation. he'd begged to stop his impure thoughts--his horrific, predatory need.

he'd wanted dean since...just since. forever, maybe. longer.

sam takes a long drink of his beer.

when he turns back, his little brother is still standing there, henley riding up his stomach underneath his flannel, hair mussed and cheeks pink from beer and mouth slick and still looking like every single wet dream sam has ever had.

he's looking right at sam.

by the time they stumble out of the bar an hour later (dean lost, barely, a two ball the barrier between him and victory), sam's still thinking how greedy he fucking is.

sam had sucked up dean's undivided attention like a sponge. and now that dad's been dead for a few years, he's been sucking up dean's undivided devotion like a sponge, too.

sam's drunk on it.

he knows he should feel bad about it, but the reflex spasms around nothing. the space where guilt has lived in sam's chest as long as he's been alive is empty.

in the morning, it'll come back, curl back in its nest. but for now, sam has brisk air in his face, just enough beer to make the constant ache in his shoulder go away, a baby brother in his arms, and an open road pointing away from him.

sam keeps his eyes scanning the parking lot as they cross over to the impala, arm thrown around dean's warm shoulders, acutely knowledgable about just how damn covetable his position must be.

dean's eyes are on the ground, and sam knows that he's not tracking his own steps, but sam's. sam can feel the soft butt of his temple against sam's collarbone, as dean's focus drifts.

they finally sidle up to the car, and sam leads dean over to the passenger side. dean, only when sam's arm starts to retreat, seems to realize that sam wants to drive and leave dean alone to the passenger seat, and starts squirming.

"sam--" he whines, head tilting up, and sam raises his eyebrows.

"c'mon, dee. you'd wrap us around a tree like this."

sam gestures to dean's disheveled shirt, the flannel lopsided after he'd discarded it halfway through the game, and which he had to put back on as they left. ("'s too damn hot in here," dean had muttered, giving sam a whiff of baby brother sweat as he threw the flannel past him onto the table and uninterrupted views of his bare, freckled forearms.)

"i'm not a damn kid." dean snaps.

and no, he's not.

when dean scowls up at him, the baby fat from his cheeks is long gone. he has day-old stubble at his jaw, lips chapped, a scar right above his left eyebrow. he looks exactly like the twenty-three year old man he is.

but his eyes are slightly red at the corners, nose pink at the tip from the cold air.

sam can't stop himself from thinking of a night just like this one, four years ago. sam still remembers dean's red-rimmed eyes, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he swallowed. he remembers the way dean could barely meet his eyes. he'd balled his fists at his sides, tight, eyes skittering over the outline of sam like he could barely stand to look at him. please don't get mad at me, sam. he'd begged, and his voice cracked, head jerking to the side like it could do anything to hide the hot tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. don't get mad at me.

like dean had broken sam's tape player or ripped a hole in his new jeans. not like he'd taken the soul sam had spent decades loving and adoring and coaxing into adulthood and laid it across the cracked palms of a black-eyed bastard.

you don't get to give your soul away, sam had remembered thinking, stark and outlined in the blurry ride home, trees and dean's nervous babbling and jessica's death avenged. it was mine. it belonged to me.

it belongs to me.

dean's scowl melts, as his eyes flicker over sam's face, as he reads whatever look sam must be wearing. dean's eyes are huge in the red neon light bleeding from the bar behind sam's back. when sam steps forward, dean's face falls into darkness.

"dee." sam says, just to say it. a childhood nickname used to tease and used to beg and used to claim. used to say mine, mine, mine.

my little brother. my dean. my baby boy.

dad told him that sam used to call dean, when he was still that swollen little bundle of baby-fat, "my boy."

momma, where's my boy? is my boy sad? why can't my boy come play with me? one time, when they found sam curled around a sleeping dean in his crib in the morning, my baby looked so lonely in here by himself.

emotion so overwhelming that sam wants to leave it unnamed swells in his chest. he feels slightly nauseous, as dean's face looks suddenly, frighteningly young.

what the fuck is sam doing?

he blinks, dean's young young young face swimming. he takes a step back. he had too much to drink. or he's just going fucking crazy.

he promised himself--he promised himself--that he'd never think this shit again--he swore--

dean takes a step forward, surging forward like an unstoppable force of nature, like a hurricane, like a tidal wave, like dean--feet scuffing the pavement, old boots that sam needs to replace, worn rubber soles hissing on cement like a snake in grass--

furious green eyes. brow furrowed. hands on sam's collar, yanking, choking, down--sam gasps, stumbles, goes to say something--

their lips collide.

~~~

hiiiii anon!! thank you so much!!! recently i've been thinking about how dean buys into his own mystique at times, and how he performs different versions of himself in different situations. here's how i think that would translate, now having a supportive/indulgent figure in his formative years, lol!

i hope you enjoyed this little snippet (first sam POV ooo), and that the rest of your week is aces <3

-lizzy

[ageswap!verse masterlist]

[mpcomagnetics]

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[lophelia99]

Bound to the Track - Bang Chan Railway Oneshot

Hey guys, here’s my Railway-inspired oneshot, based on my interpretation of Chan’s music video Railway.

The screen flickers to life. The only light in the room comes from the pale glow of the monitor, casting shadows over his face. Chan leans forward, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if searching for the right words, the right notes, the perfect rhythm. But the longer he stares, the more his mind feels like it's slipping away. The edges of his thoughts unravel, like the tangled wires at the back of the desk. The emptiness in his mind grows heavier with each passing second, the thoughts that were once sharp now fading at the edges.

There’s no time to stop. Just finish it.

His fingers hover over the keys, as if searching for something just beyond his reach. The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence, each second mocking his inability to move forward, each passing minute that pulls him deeper into the maze of his mind. His body aches, stiff from hours of sitting, but he doesn’t dare move.

Not yet. Not until it’s done.

A single thread of red silk lies across the floor, almost invisible against the dark wood. At first, it’s barely noticeable, a faint glimmer under the dim light. But as the minutes drag on, the thread seems to grow, creeping slowly across the room as if alive. It moves of its own accord, pulling taut as if it’s been waiting for him, binding him to this space.

His eyes fixate on it, unable to look away. The thread feels alive, charged with a silent, magnetic pull. His hand inches forward instinctively, the need to touch it overriding all rational thought. But just as his fingers near it, the thread slides away, as though teasing him, daring him to follow. It winds its way around the chair leg, around his feet, curling up along the edge of the desk.

Surely a mind play. I’m just tired.

The screen flickers again, a brief glitch making the words blur together. Chan rubs his eyes, forcing himself to focus. It’s just a song, he tells himself. One more push. But the silence around him presses against his ears, louder than any music he’s ever composed. His body is begging for rest, but he can’t afford to stop. Not yet.

Maybe a quick break would help. Just a moment to clear his head.

He stands up, his legs stiff, and walks slowly to the small counter by the window. A cup of coffee sits there, its steam rising in a thin, fragile wisp. The scent of it should be comforting, familiar, but something’s off. He hesitates before lifting it to his lips, the liquid feeling too warm, the taste too sharp. The bitterness lingers longer than it should, coating his tongue with an unfamiliar tang.

Chan pulls the cup away, his lips still tingling from the warm, bitter liquid. He wipes the corner of his mouth, the faintest hint of something wet against his skin. But it’s not coffee. It’s darker, almost… thick. He stares at his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he wipes away the drop.

At first, he thinks it’s just a stain, something he can ignore. But as he looks down, his breath catches. His hand is covered in ink -deep, black ink. It’s not the kind that comes from a pen, not the kind he’s used to. This is darker, more alive, like it’s bled into his skin, staining it permanently.

He doesn’t remember touching ink. Doesn’t remember when it happened. But there it is, spreading across his palm, creeping up his fingers like it’s meant to be there.

Why does this feel familiar? The thought gnaws at the edges of his mind, but he shakes it off. He scrubs at his skin, desperate to rid himself of the stain. But it doesn’t budge - it only grows deeper, the texture strange, almost sticky, like blood mixed with something heavier.

The ink feels wrong - unnatural, like poison seeping into his skin. Yet… there’s a strange comfort in it, something almost satisfying as it coats his fingers. He watches it, transfixed, the dark liquid clinging to his skin with an odd sense of inevitability. It's like he's always had it on him, like it’s been there all along, waiting to be acknowledged. the weight of the unfinished project pulls him back - he has to finish this. Back to work. The weight of the unfinished project presses against him, suffocating him in ways that have become all too familiar.

Chan returns to the chair, the once empty room now feeling tighter, like the walls are slowly closing in. He sits, adjusting his posture, his eyes heavy, fingers twitching as he hovers over the keyboard. The words still refuse to come, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter. He’ll get there.

As he leans forward, the faint rustle of movement catches his attention—or maybe it doesn’t. Two more threads of red silk unfurl from the shadows, weaving through the darkness with a slow, deliberate grace. At first, they’re a whisper at the edges of his senses, too light to notice, too subtle to demand his focus. But they wind their way toward him, their delicate fibers brushing against his skin like the ghost of a touch.

The threads wrap around him like they’ve always been a part of him, as if they’ve always existed just beneath the surface of his awareness. They’re not tight enough to hurt –yet - but the pressure builds slowly, a reminder that he's tethered, tied down. Bound. But it’s not unpleasant. It’s almost comforting, in its own twisted way. He’s not sure what it is, but he can’t help but sink deeper into it, the weight of it grounding him.

So, he lets it hold him. And he works.

At first, the motions are mechanical. His fingers move over the keys, the music playing on in the background like a distant hum, but gradually something shifts. It’s subtle at first, like a quiet hum of energy that begins to swell inside of him. His thoughts blur at the edges, fraying like fabric under too much strain, and the ink begins to flow again - this time unbidden. He’s not aware of time passing, not aware of how his body shifts in the chair, how the red silk around him seems to be growing thicker, tighter, until it’s almost suffocating.

He’s lost now, his hands moving with purpose, the ink and the silk blending into one, wrapping him up. His mind is consumed, the work flowing through him like a force that can’t be stopped.

As Chan continues, lost in the rhythm of creation, something shifts in the air. At first, it’s barely noticeable - just a soft brush against his neck, a fleeting sensation, almost like a breeze. Then it comes again - a delicate touch against his jawline, fingers grazing his skin with a surprising warmth.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to.

The unseen hands begin their dance, gentle at first, like a lover’s caress - soft, tender, coaxing him deeper into the work. He feels them press lightly against his temple, fingertips tracing the curve of his jaw, running down his neck in a slow, almost rhythmic motion. It’s as if they know exactly where to touch, where to pull him, and for a moment, he lets them, surrendering to the sensation.

It feels intimate, almost too intimate. Their presence is undeniable, as if they’ve always been there, hidden just beneath the surface of his skin. His breath catches in his throat as he tilts his head slightly, giving them more access - more control - allowing their hands to move lower, skimming across his back, brushing over his shoulder, tracing the length of his arm.

But then, something shifts inside him. A pulse of authority surges through him - raw, undeniable. His hands falter, and for the briefest moment, he pauses. His mind sharpens, clarity sweeping through him, and the hands—those phantom fingers - stop obeying.

They wait. They wait for him to lead.

It’s almost like a game. He manipulates the rhythm just like in his music, the pressure, the direction, keeping them in line with his own desires, his own pace. Each touch is something he gives, and yet it feels as though they’re offering something in return - though he knows it’s all on his terms.

But just when he believes he has everything in his grasp, the hands tighten, their grip firm and insistent. And they whisper in his ear.

“More”

It’s not really a request. It’s an order.

Chan doesn’t hesitate. He moves. His fingers fly across the keys. The need to create surging through him again, drowning out the moment of hesitation. He types and clicks faster now, the rhythm more frantic. The hands, too, respond, but not with the gentleness they once offered. Now, they tighten their grip around his body, as if demanding more from him. More results.

The pressure in his chest intensifies, the red threads binding tighter, squeezing his limbs, his neck, a constant reminder of the chains he’s not free of. But it’s not pain. Not yet. Just a reminder. A tug, a pull, a nudge. Each touch, each whisper, each pull brings him deeper into their web, and his mind begins to blur, the line between will and obedience fading.

He feels the pull deep in his chest, a flood of desire he can’t quite name. His mind is blurring, the line between what he wants and what he’s becoming fading with every passing second. "More" they whisper, but it's not just a command. It's a reminder of the limits he hasn't yet reached. Not yet. He pushes through, fingers tapping furiously against the keys, each movement more instinctual than the last. The creative force flows, and for a fleeting moment, he feels as though he’s in perfect sync with the unseen hands guiding him.

His mind sharpens with every new word he types, every line he perfects. He is still the one in control, still the one shaping the chaos into something beautiful, something pure.

But then, it shifts.

A sharp sound cuts through the air - a distant wail, like a siren's cry. At first, it's almost imperceptible, like the soft hum of the city outside his studio. But then it grows louder, a warning that cuts through the haze of his thoughts. The hands on him pause for just a moment, as if they, too, are listening. The red thread pulls at him, but now, it feels like a tug toward reality.

The sweet voices, echoing faintly in his mind, grow more insistent. The fingers against his skin tighten, but it's not the same caress as before. It’s rougher now, as if trying to pull him deeper into the bubble he’s created.

"Focus," they whisper again, their voice colder, more biting, forcing him to snap back to attention. He grips the edge of the desk, the wood digging into his palms as he tries to steady himself, trying to hold on to what little control he still has.

But it’s slipping.

"More. More. More," they command again, but this time, there’s something darker in their tone.

Chan grits his teeth, the weight of the pressure becoming too much. He can’t escape it, not anymore. The real world is slipping further away, drowning. He can feel himself losing grip, the creative force shifting from a place of inspiration to something darker, more dangerous. What possible borders could he cross? How far can he push it?

The train of his thoughts isn’t slowing down. And he’s not sure if he wants it to.

Chan's fingers tremble slightly as they hover above the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of creation pulling him back in. For a moment, the weight of the unseen hands lightens, leaving him in a strange stillness. The pressure on his skin - those tender, soothing touches - fade, but not entirely. Instead, a different sensation builds in the air, subtle but undeniable.

The air shifts. It’s a cool breath against his shoulders, a light brush that sends a shiver down his spine. He resists, the urge to continue surging forward, but something whispers through the stillness - something more composed, something balanced. The pressure against his chest, not forceful, but firm. It doesn’t urge him to stop, not yet. Instead, it gives him space. A choice.

He doesn’t want that choice.

The ink climbs, stubborn, relentless, as if it has a life of its own. It stains his skin, dark and permanent, spreading like the very thoughts that have overtaken him.

It’s too late to stop now. The ink is everywhere, seeping into him like a slow poison, and the train, that ever-present, unrelenting force, doesn’t slow down. It can’t. It’s going faster, fasterl. His heart is racing in sync with the clattering of the rails.

He doesn’t want that choice. He can’t afford to make it. His mind is a blur, his focus shattered between the creation that demands more and the oppressive feeling that is rising within him. More ink. More work. More, more, more.

The ink is everywhere now, climbing up his throat. He tries to ignore it, but it’s impossible. He can’t breathe around it, can’t move. He’s suffocating, and yet he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. He won’t stop.

The soft brush that once whispered quiet options now grips firmly, no longer a guide but a commander.The music has become an afterthought, drowned out by the mechanical hum of the engine. His hands no longer feel like an extension of himself, but like a tool, a part of the machine, clicking and tapping in perfect synchronization. A metronome clicks relentlessly in his mind - not a tool, but a dictator, forcing him to stay on tempo, to make it perfect.

The rhythm of his mind had become like a train on tracks - its wheels screeching as they ground into the rails, louder with every turn. At first, there had been freedom in the chaos, in the rush of creation, but now, the force that powered it was a mechanical, unstoppable momentum. The fire that had driven him to break boundaries, to create with raw instinct, had dwindled into something more controlled, more calculated.

Each note he played was no longer a spark of brilliance but a measured decision, carefully selected, forced into the right place. The train had a schedule to follow, and the path it took was no longer a twisting, unpredictable ride - it was a straight line, a clear destination, with no room for deviation. It wasn’t just about making music anymore - it was about making something that worked, something that was good enough, something that would be accepted.

He could feel the weight of it now - the responsibility of it all. The rush, the thrill of creation, was gone, replaced by a heaviness that sat on his chest. He wasn’t just a passenger on this train anymore - he was locked into the driver’s seat, bound by the tracks, unable to change direction. The artist inside him screamed for release, for freedom, for the chaos he once reveled in. But it was drowned out by the constant pressure to keep moving forward, to make it right, to meet expectations.

The train was going faster now, but it wasn’t the kind of speed that felt like flight. It was the kind of speed that felt like falling, fast and inevitable, with nowhere to go but forward.

He was done. The song played on in the studio,its melody now an eerie reminder of the space that had once felt like his sanctuary. The soft sound of the speakers trying to fill the space. The hands, the ropes, and the ink - they all seemed to fade away, retreating into the shadows as though they had never been there. The pressure on his chest loosened, the tension that had coiled around him, suffocating him, finally vanished.

They weren’t gone. Not really.

The cycle wasn’t over. It never was. It would start again, the moment he allowed it to.

He knew it. They knew it.

And somehow, deep down, he couldn’t stop it. The expectations never stopped. The feeling of not being enough, of always falling short, was a constant companion. He’d reached the finish line, but only to find another race waiting for him. The overwhelming exhaustion was nothing new. It had become part of him, woven into his skin, but the fear of what would happen if he stopped - that was suffocating in its own way. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was always something more, something better, something that would finally make it feel like enough... And when it did, he would be there, waiting. Just like before.

And it would start again.

[nardo-headcanons]

Writing Scientist Characters

this post is mainly an excuse to post a certain list of lab supplies I've made for a friend and infodump about lab work. but feel free to use this as a little resource when writing characters who are scientists and/or lab nerds. who knows, maybe it'll be of use.

General thoughts

Many people think it's a stereotype that scientist or nerd characters talk using complex technical jargon. While that is true to an extent, there actually is some kind of lab jargon. It varies across different labs and fields, but one thing they have in common is that it seeks to simplify, not the other way around.

gelelectrophoresis becomes elpho

microbiology becomes mibi

deioninized water becomes aqua dist

biochemistry becomes BC

sodium hydroxide becomes NaOH

They will probably not call a glass of water "silicon dioxide and h2o".

...and more. feel free to get creative. If you're writing in any other language than English, you can throw in one or two anglicisms as well. Also, most scientists will never gatekeep their work, and in an opposite fashion, will not shut up about it unless you make them. And no, most chemists do not know the entire periodic table by heart, only the most relevant elements. (main groups and a few commonly used metals of the subgroups) When it comes to characters doing the lab work, keep in mind that there are a lot more people involved than the scientist themself. Most scientists are more occupied with paperwork and data analysis, it is the laboratory technicians and assistants that do most of the practical work. They often have more lab experience than the scientists themselves.

Things you can have your lab nerd character do instead of making random chemicals explode

writing a lab report (and losing their mind over excel)

degreasing the glass bevel stoppers

removing the permanent marker from beakers (labeling is important)

complaining about the lack of funding of [their field] research

cleaning glassware

preparing specimen for examination

googling the most basic equations for their report

checking if the glassware and utensil collections are complete

steal single use plastic pipettes from their lab

pirating expensive textbooks

A list of laboratory supplies and utensils you can have them work with

Laboratory general (chem + bio)

Erlenmayer flasks, beakers, precision scales (3 digits), glass rods, metal spoons/spatulas, screw on glass flasks (autoclave compatible) test tubes, stopcock grease, dispensers with sanitizer and hand cream, gas burners, heating plates, eppendorf pipettes, pipette tips, Peleus pipetting aids, squirting bottles, liquid and powder funnels, incubator/drying chamber, round watch glasses, magnet stirring plates.

Microbiology Autoclave, petri dishes, agar plates, innoculation loops (reusable and metal), clean bench, microscope slides, microscope, drigalski-spatula, test tubes with clamping lids

Histology

Paraffin bath, water bath, scalpels, scissors, razor blades, microtomes (rotating microtome, slide microtome and freezing microtome), histocinette, tweezers (various kinds), ocular

Biochemistry

Sequencing robots, eppendorf tubes, gelelectrophoresis chambers, centrifuge

Analytical Chemistry

Photometer, kuvettes, burettes, mass spectro meters, UV bank (for chromatogrophies), pyknometers, melting point meter, porcelain mortars, pH paper, analytical scales (4 or more digits)

Prep Chemistry

Tripod/standing material, miniature lifting platforms, spiral condenser, colon condenser, round bottom flask (three necked and y- necked), filtration material, Separating funnel

Electrical engineering

Electric generators, Soldering iron, Clamp connectors, plugin connectors, ohm’s resistors, plug in lamps, condensers, transistors, PCBs, amperemeters, voltmeters, multimeters

Mechanics

Tripod/standing material, metal hooks, metal rods, mechanical stop watches, marbles, metal springs, Newton meters, laser motion detectors

Optics

Prisma (various kinds), various glass lenses (concave, convex, biconcave, biconvex), laser pointers, optical bench, mechanical iris diaphragm, looking glasses, monochrome lamps, lamp filters

Most used chemicals

Deionized water, ethanol, NaOH, HCl, H3PO4, NaCl (+ physiological NaCl solution 0.9)

Useful websites for writing science stuff

DNA sequence generator (simple): http://www.faculty.ucr.edu/~mmaduro/random.htm

DNA, RNA and protein sequence generator: https://molbiotools.com/randomsequencegenerator.php Annealing temperature calculator: https://tmcalculator.neb.com/#!/main

Medicine name generator: https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/medicine-names.php Anything chemistry related: https://www.wolframalpha.com/input?i=chemistry

Commonly used software:

MS Excel

Yenka

CASSY Lab

LabView

SpectraLab

LIMS

LaTex

Slack

Scientist friends, feel free to add onto this.

Have fun writing!

[puzzled-pegasus]

Orel and Christina hcs

When they have phone calls as teens Both of them lay on their beds kicking their legs and twirling their fingers in the telephone wire and talk to each other forever like girlfriends loll

They go to prom together and along with dressing up, Orel either gets a fancy cane special for the occasion or snazzes up his normal one

Clay and Poppit also get weirdly excited for their respective children about prom and they help them get ready and Blorberta is like "thats nice" but Art is like "should she really be going with this boy, she could get into drugs or alcohol or she could lose her virginity or blah blah whatever she should be going with girlfriends or even better, not at all" wnd Poppit's just like thats nice Art, anyway what color dress do you want sweetie (not that she cares about her because she's Christina's Clay but she just likes pretending shes a good parent in big moments)

Also steph does Christina's makeup because her parents dont want her wearing makeup

Since Orel and Christina both eventually get permanently injured by their respective parents' negligence, they worry over each others' health a lot

They have a lot of late night conversations either in person or on the phone that end with one or both of them in tears

Art keeps threatening to shoot Orel for the crime of being a boy that his daughter likes, but Orel's like "i ain't scared of him, my own dad already shot me!"

Both of them are extremely starved of jusy like normal affection with no cost or anything attached so they are always naturally as close as they can possibly be like a pair of attracting little magnets lol

one time Joe told them that if they keep putting their foreheads together their heads will eventually grow together and get stuck, and they were just like "aw that doesn't sound so bad"

When they get married they get a dog and a cat together

They don't invite their parents to their wedding but Shapey and Block are invited as well as Danielle and whoever Christina's Danielle is and also Stephanie

They are both strong enough to pick each other up but Christina can't lift Orel for more than a few seconds once they're past the age of like 14 lol

although it's fair because Orel's scarred knee joint prevents him from being able to lift her for too long

they're the same height at 12 but Orel gets taller and Christina stays tiny like she doesn't get bigger than 5 feet lol I just really like the idea of smol christina

I mean Orel's not that tall either but still probably between like 7 and 10 inches taller than her

Both of them go to Stephanie for advice, sometimes together and sometimes separately, as they realize more and more how shitty their parents' advice is

Stephanie gave Christina an extra ear piercing besides the "one earring per ear" she was allowed to have and her parents were furious lol

she also puts makeup on her sometimes

Side note, I feel like Christina's parents would accuse Stephanie of grooming their daughter if they knew she's a lesbian

Logically Revs is really happy for Orel and Christina but he also gets really annoyed when he sees PDA so he's just like "orel why don't you and your little sweetheart get a room so the rest of us don't have to think about how we can't all be as happy as you guys are" lol and Orel's like "gee sorry Reverend we just like each other so much it's hard not to be right up close to each other like a couple of peas in a pod :3" and Rev is just "yeah whatever grumble grumble" and walks away

i've said this before but i just know Orel and Christina have the sweetest but corniest pet names for each other that you just cant be mad at because they say them so sincerely. Mayhaps I'll have to make a list of examples :3

[squids-comics]

Welcome to Science Sunday! This is a new series I'll be running until I run out of content or forget to do it! Every Sunday I'll make a post discussing weird or scary science in comics!!

This week's post is about why Magneto is stronger than any writer realizes. Magneto has a secret ability that no one realizes, and I only realized thanks to this little device here:

This is called a transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) device. It emits magnetic fields. The difference is, it doesn't move metal around. It alters brain function. It uses it's magnetic field to alter the electrical signals in the brain, either causing areas to fire faster or fire slower.

In psychology research, TMS is used to induce what are called virtual lesions. Researchers will use TMS to essentially turn off parts of the brain temporarily. The participant is then tested in several different areas to see how they function without that area, helping them identify what that area does. For instance, if their memory suffers, you turned off a memory area. If their eyesight isn't as good, you turned off a vision part of the brain. If they stopped breathing, you turned off a life support part of the brain (This is a joke, as far as I know nothing like this has happened during a TMS study).

Now, I know what you're thinking. "This is all super cool, but what does this have to do with Magneto?" The answer is in the second letter of TMS, magnetic. The device uses magnetic fields to operate, fields that the self proclaimed master of magnetism should be able to replicate fairly easily. Meaning Magneto would theoretically be able to just turn people's brains off if he wanted to. He could just do that. You know in anime how they have the trope of the strong characters aura knocking weaker people unconscious just by being near them (Like with spiritual pressure in Bleach and supreme king haki in One Piece)? Well Magneto could do that too.

Further more, Magneto doesn't have a specified range for his powers, but estimates vary from multiple miles, to planets away. If the small end is true, Magneto could instantly switch off the brains of a whole city's worth of people, instantly killing them, without all that much effort on his part. If the second option is true, Magneto could wipe out the whole human race. Everyone, gone, just like that. Pretty scary stuff.

But even that isn't the end! Remember what I said about using TMS to turn off specific parts of the brain? While if Magneto was accurate enough to target specific brain areas (which he'd have to be in order to lift anything smaller than a baseball with his powers), he could also turn off specific brain areas. By creating a small, simple magnetic field in certain areas of his enemies' heads he could blind them, deafen them, knock them out, wipe their memory, or make them lose the ability to walk. All instantly. All with minimal effort.

There's also the health conditions to consider! A seizure is a large burst of firing in the brain. It happens when rogue electric currents spike and trigger lots of activity in different parts of the brain. Seizures can have permanent lasting effects, like trouble with speech or fine motor movement that last indefinitely. They can also be fatal. Magneto could induce the activity required to create a seizure relatively easy. And given his range, he could do this from miles away, making a targeted attack look like a natural health defect.

Magneto is scary. And I hope you guys can see that now.

[jjkeremika]

Tasty

description: mikasa gets out of the shower and eren eats her out

pairing: eren x mikasa, eremika (aot/snk)

*****nsfw*****

Mikasa stepped into the bedroom, a short fluffy pink towel wrapped around her torso, loosely conforming to the shape of her body.

Eren’s eyes were glued to the shapely pink towel, his eyes roaming around her dewy skin across her chest and arms and legs. He never wanted to lick a water droplet so badly.

She sat down on the bed, Eren craning his neck slightly to see her lap, where the towel slid up her thighs.

He licked his lips at the sight as she grabbed the lavender body lotion, squeezed some into her hand, and placed it on the bedside table.

Mikasa bent over and started rubbing the lotion into her calves, massaging lightly to temporarily relieve the permanent knots in the muscles.

Eren sat in the desk chair on the opposite wall, watching her, breathing increasing to accommodate the increased blood flow to his crotch.

He stood up when she lifted her foot to the bed, the towel exposing herself to the ghosts in the room. She looked up at him curiously, still slowly massaging into her calves.

Eren walked to her and squeezed some of the lotion on his hands. He lifted her calf into the air, the action throwing her balance off and causing her to roll onto her back.

He massaged into the back of her calf, from the ankle to the knee and back, smiling smugly at the sight, salivating at her exposed body. He spent extra time on her calf, rubbing his thumbs deep into the skin, because they were always so tight, and she was moaning softly at the sensation, getting wet at the position.

Eren could see it, could see the muscles between her legs starting to shine. He thought about how he’d barely even touched her yet.

Eren moved his knee on the bed and leaned over her, resting hers onto his shoulder as he lowered his hands, massaging into the back of her thigh.

One hand dropped to her crotch and slicked his thumb in the shiny liquid, evoking shaky moans from her. Eren was already panting, already focusing on keeping himself from coming at the sight of Mikasa unraveling beneath him, of the towel sliding off her chest and down her sides while he fingered her.

He bent down more, folding over her bare body, catching her the thin skin on her neck in a kiss. His finger slid easily over her clit from how wet she was. He groaned at the sound of his fingers moving the liquid, of the loud ahh’s and yes’s running from her mouth.

Her hand reached up to cup her own boob and she punched her nipple, smiling widely more so at the loud moan from Eren, who’s fingers were absent mindedly speeding up.

The faster pace knocked her back and forth, causing breathy shifts in the moans as he fucked them in and out of the tight muscles.

When he kissed to her naval he could smell her, reminding him faintly on the pair of panties she gave him after their first time. He struggled to remember what she tasted like.

The drool practically ran down his lip as he kissed around her thighs, the strong scent permeating his senses and making him feel dizzy, making him feel needy.

Erens mouth made impact with Mikasa’s clit and she cried out, spreading and raising her thighs, his hands magnetically moving to the backs of her thighs, pushing her farther onto the bed.

He lapped at her like a dog desperate for water, like she was the only drink and he was deathly thirsty. He licked and sucked and slipped his fingers in and out of her until she’d come twice, rapidly approaching a third.

Mikasa squeezed her thighs together, Eren’s head in between. He groaned at the pressure, and she felt the vibration travel softly against her sensitive skin, almost drowned out by the electric jolts from both his tongue and fingers.

“Eren, Eren, Eren, Eren, Eren!” Mikasa shouted, clawing at his shoulders as he closed his eyes and kept the pace, stayed in the same spot.

He smiled as he felt her legs shake, felt her muscles tense as the wave boiled from her head and toes, bursting into millions of vibrating tingles and drowning out all noises except the blood rushing through her ears.

She tiredly tapped Eren’s head and he pulled his tongue away, kissing up her body, slipping both hands around her waist and lifting her closer.

[falling-components]

silicon

Three workers choose a subject for their occult painwork. A wisened workmaster and the helpless woman she chose get to know each other.

CW: Nonconsent, intox, pain, fear, death

3.4k words

The wires sparked. Fluorescent lights burned the hard, concrete room alight. The drone of machinery was masked by groans reacting to the new light. Rows of chained persons, kneeling naked in the factory meathouse, their knees and calves cold from the hard floor filled the cramped hall. Dozens of bodies shuddered, restrained in their golden chains, only the thinnest strands of light penetrating their cloth blindfolds.

A garage door raised up and a small party of workers strode through the door. The three women were uniformed in cloth worker's coveralls stained in workdust and blood. The caps they wore were embroidered with a strange, golden sigil, reading less as a company logo, and more as a coven's seal. One of the group stood out in her presence despite the shared uniform that made the three seem as one body. She was muscular, and her wrinkles and grey hair contrasted with her workmates' relative youth. She guided the others along with her, while scrutinizing the meat to be picked with her gaze.

One of the eager workers looked to her colleagues. "First pick of the day, huh? Which one first? Maybe the one other there," gesturing to a beefy man who had clearly prided himself on his physique before being plucked into being a requisite material for some ritual of production. Sweat glistened on his body, on his pecs, dripping down to his hairy stomach and pubic region. "He could be fun. He'd almost have a chance to escape."

The wizened master explored this line of thinking and walked over to the chained man. She looked him over, squatted down and pulled at his face with her worn leather glove. The man flinched away. In instinctive response, she slapped him so hard that the sound rang across the room. Everyone else in the room flinched too.

She stuck her thumb into the meat's mouth, grabbing, and tested it for reaction. He gagged slightly. She pulled out, saliva glistening on her glove. She wiped it off on her coveralls and stood up. She turned to the others to give her assessment. "No, this one won't do. He lacks will. He wants to die already. He has no fight, he wouldn't even try to resist. Mark this one to be incinerated later- we have no use for him." One of the apprentices dutifully took out a permanent marker from her pocket. She marked a bold X on the man's chest, as his resigned breathing lifted and lowered it at a slow rhythm.

The other apprentice kept her eyes on the crowd of beings, unconcerned with their intermittent background noisepleas for mercy. She kept in mind the things that her mentor said she liked in a subject. Resistant, alive, but pliable. Physically beautiful. It needs to sound good when you hurt it. It needs to beg. Satisfying to grope. Its skin should shudder at the touch. Afraid. Breakable. Pain should make it moan, the moan should make you want to hurt it more. Just to hear it again, stronger this time.

The worker's gaze met the blindfold of a shivering woman. Her breathing was erratic. She was fresh, not yet acclimated to the confinement. She shone through the crowd. Her beauty and fear was immediately magnetic- the butcher felt sadistic lust at just the immediate sight of her. "This one." She was not yet certain she was the one chosen, the blindfold obscuring her vision, but the chained prize began to tense up as the workers walked towards her and their footsteps grew louder.

The master of the workers pushed up her glasses and looked down on her potential subject, who was gradually growing more afraid as she sensed the worker's scrutiny. She noticed the subject had two delicate, dangling silver earrings, catching and glinting in the factory light. Her breathing grew faster as she felt them close, but tried desperately to keep quiet as she didn't want to draw attention to herself if she was wrong. The worker blew lightly on the woman's face, to subtly inform her that she was being inspected. She began to scream, the terror that had been building now washing outwards.

"Please don't-" she began to plead, but the head worker reached out her gloved hand to cover her mouth and gag her. The pleads turned into a frenzied muffling. Adrenaline coursed through both of them. The head worker was empowered, the painmeat turned into a wild prey animal. "Fuck me, you'll do nicely. I can already tell. You're right to be scared. You don't even know what we're going to do to you, do you?" She grabbed harder with her hand on the subject's mouth, as she began to quiver and the muffled screaming intensified. "No. You don't. One of you, hold it down so the other can unchain it."

One apprentice took up the duty of holding her legs down as she tried to writhe away, while the other loosened the grasp of her golden chains. The crew's master continued muffling the subject's screams with one hand, while groping her body with the other. She roughly ran her gloved hand across her ribs, her stomach, and her breasts. She whispered in the terrified woman's right ear. "Be afraid. Just like this. You're doing great. You know I want to hurt you." She ravenously pinched a nipple with her hand and heard a pathetic yelp through the leather hand gag.

Her arms free of the chains, the frightened subject grabbed on to the leader's body to try to wrestle away. Releasing the gag, the cold sadist struck her across the face in retaliation. Clamouring for any means to fight back, the subject tried to blindly bite down on a worker's arm, but she couldn't bite through the butcher's thick coveralls, which tasted distinctly of dried blood. The crew pinned her down, roughly pushing down on her body, indulgently feeling its curves and warmth, using her.

"Where the fuck am I? Stop, please, stop, no!" She cried out as the crew used her body for their own pleasure. One of the apprentices had started to grind her crotch on the subject's thigh- slowly, as she squirmed and tried to escape. She coyly teased her plaything. "You're ours now." The crew began to lift up the subject, standing her up, chaining her hands behind her back as she resisted. The resistance began to grow weaker into compliance, as she realized that she had no hope whatsoever of overpowering the crew that was intent on processing her. She began to whimper. "Please let me go. I won't tell anyone- just let me go. Don't hurt me anymore. Please. I'm a person. I have a name, it's-" At that moment, the master punched the subject across the side, immediately ringing pain and stopping her thought. "Your name is 'thing'. You are 'can you hand me the body.' You are 'it's pretty loud, can you mute it?' If you claim otherwise and get any ideas, I'll just get rid of you. Do you understand?" The thing nodded, tears forming around her eyes that were obscured behind her blindfold.

One of the apprentices produced a vial of eerie quickmetal. She uncorked it and forced it into the subject's mouth. The subject retched, the liquid tasting of burning, acrid, yet smooth copper. "What the fuck was that?" she yelled, her muscles starting to relax, her vision starting to waver, answering her question.

"A tincture to make you more pliable and compliant. Don't worry- you'll still be fully conscious. Maybe you won't try to bite me anymore." Consciousness ran closer to a threat than an assurance in the subject's fleeting mind. The crew walked her out of the meathall and into a factory floor. The floor's expanse was wide and yawning. Not a single beam of natural light dared shine through. A series of strange, inscrutable instruments and devices used for the extraction of painpleasure spanned the room.

Finally, the crewmaster took off the subject's blindfold. They looked at each other's eyes for the first time. The subject's eyes, beautiful in their terror and fear, and the master's eyes, piercing in their sadistic scanning. She grinned, as a wolf may bare her teeth before a deerfeast. She knew she didn't have to say a word. Her desire was understood.

The crew led their subject to a shelf of washing implements. Physical cleanliness was important to the master. She preferred a clean, pretty thing to violate. They took sponges and began to wipe down the dirt from the subject's naked body, washing her with warm soapy water. The dry dirt began to run off of her, washing into the floor where the water pooled. The washing was at once violating and intimate- washing her roughly, as one might wash a terrified dog. She shivered, the tincture having made her compliant, but still she whined pleas of mercy. "Please don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me. I'll be good." The crew silently kept washing her, roughly caressing her body with the sponges, leaving her to drown in her own pleas. As the dirt ran away, one of the apprentices took a towel and began drying the subject. The subtle blood stench that had permeated the room gave way to the subject's new scent of refined lavender soap.

The master drew closer to her prey and cooed. "It's so much nicer to be clean like this, isn't it? You're so much more beautiful this way." She traced a single finger along the subject's cheek. "Answer me. You're allowed."

The subject shied away slightly, quaking, but seeing her torturer in slightly more human eyes. "…yes, it's nice to be clean. I haven't had a shower in weeks. It was warm. It felt… good." They looked into each other's eyes, and the master pressed her body against the subject's. Work coveralls rubbed softly against the subject's naked body. She knelt her head against the subject's shoulder, playing with one of her earrings. "Are you still scared? You're so fucking pretty. I could make you my pet. My sweet painpet. You don't have to die here." She smiled. knowing that whatever happens next, she'd have her fun.

The subject trembled, dizzy from the enfeebling mercurial poison she forcibly imbibed, cold from the soft washing, weak from her master's unexpected embrace. She weighed her options in the moment of quiet. She whispered. "I could… I could be your pet. I'd be good." She struggled slightly against her hand restraints, but the chains remained unrelenting. She was completely and utterly helpless. "I'll be your pet." Thoughts meandered in her mind. *Of course I would say that. There's no choice. In this moment, in her arms, it almost doesn't seem so bad…

The master smiled- she knew this was a false choice. The thing in her arms had so much pain to feel, so much pleasure to give, it would all be hers regardless of what it desired. Such a sweet, innocent thing. It truly, truly believes in mercy. A strand of hope is a fun thing to pull away later. Assurances slipped through her teeth. "Then it is done. Mine you will be- to do with as I will. I want you to hurt. Do you want me to hurt you?" She glanced softly at her pet, superficially playing the part of a feeling mammal. One could almost believe she cared.

The master's pet stammered out a nervous "No, not really-", before being struck across the jaw. Ears ringing from the impact, the subject moaned out in distress. "Wrong answer. Try again."

"I… You can hurt me, if you want."

The master raised her fist as a warning. "Not good enough. Try again."

"Please hurt me. Please fucking hurt me." She began to whimper, expecting an impact.

"Good, you understand." Coiling her hand into a fist, she struck her subject in her side. She cried out in pain, but restrained any other protest.

The master drew her finger across the subject's vulnerable body. "I love the noises you make. Your voice is gorgeous. I need to hear you scream. You'll be good for me, right?"

The subject looked downward, still hesitant in her manner. "I'll be good." Her terror had transmuted into submission.

"Excellent. Come with us." The master and her crew led the subject to the first true test of her will. Clamping her down into restraints, her limbs spread outward and stood tall, the apprentices did the work of shackling her with bare metal. The master began to wrap a ball gag around the subject's head, but the subject kept her mouth closed.

"You told me that you'd be good for me. Did you lie to me?"

The subject shook her head "no", answering the question, but kept her mouth closed.

"Come on. Open." She grabbed the subject's jaw, as if she were a dog who ate something she wasn't supposed to. The subject opened her mouth, accepting the gag.

"Good pet." The master lightly slapped the subject's cheek, and she whimpered through her gag in reluctant submission. Testing the restraints, she clenched her hands and tried to writhe against them, but the metal rings across her wrists and ankles remained firm. The master and her apprentices walked to a nearby industrial console. The master took a seat while her apprentices stood watch, studiously observing the master's operation. One produced a notebook and pen from her front pocket.

The master butcher gently felt the console, petting it. "This part of the process is fun. You get to warm the subjects up a bit. Pet, are you excited?" The subject whined through her gag, while the master continued to look downward at her console, cruelly ignoring her victim's response. She turned a dial, and large industrial fans began to blow hot, scalding air towards the bound subject. The heat was so intense that even shielded behind the console, the work crew loosened their coveralls slightly to sweat out the heat. In the centre of the heated air, the subject groaned against her restraints, her breathing quickening as the heat started to feel like she was being cooked.

The subject's thoughts swam under the intense heat burning her skin. Please let me out. This isn't what I agreed to! But all she could do is strain against her restraints, trying to scream through her gag, muffled under it as well as under the wind and fan rotors. The master turned another dial, and a new undercurrent droned through the equipment. The subject twitched her hands and feet from a new electrical buzzing, conducted through the metal restraints. Her body tensing up, the shackles too began to heat up, rapidly becoming impossible to bear. She screamed as the restraints began to burn her wrists, her ankles, searing the skin, burning through it, into the fat and muscle. Tears ran down her face as the workers observed their work, breathing in the intensity. The master took a particular pride in her work, grinning as the subject's pained screams and writhing quickened her heart, feeling the blood rush itself through the back of her head, down into her neck, the sweat on her palms. She pointed out to her apprentices, still observing: "They don't always scream this quickly. It's a soft one, easy to get it to its breaking point."

The master got up, and took the gag off her writhing subject. "Are you still going to be good for me? You're taking this so, so well."

The subject screamed out, lost in heat and pain. "Let me out! I don't want this. Don't hurt me anymore. Please. Please. Let me out!"

The master smiled, taking some pride in her painwork. "Ah, so you won't be good for me. That's fine. I'll just take what I want. Keep begging. It won't do you much good. We'll continue the work." She turned to her apprentices, yelling over the heat fans and the screams. "The etching! Start the etching!"

A high pitched whine dominated the room as a keen yellow laser shone from a ceiling instrument and onto the subject's body. She shrieked as the laser rode from her stomach up towards her chest, leaving arcing sear marks across her body, cutting through the fat, leaving char and glistening flesh in its wake. The occult illustration slowly scarred its way, becoming more complete as intense fear gripped the subject's body. Indistinguishable pleas for mercy were cut through by the laser's whine. The pattern started to emerge- a clear sigil burned its way across her body, cauterizing the wounds, marking her as the permanent victim of this cruel place.

The master dug her glove into the marks left behind by the laser, sending sharp nerve pain into her subject's body. "Does it hurt when I do this?" she asked rhetorically. The subject shook and whined, her breathing becoming forced and broken.

Finally, the etching, fans, and restraints stopped. The master released her material from the restraints, so in shock from the experience that she could not stand. She fell face down onto the floor, and her master looked down on her. With a swift kick with her steel toe boot, the master impacted the subject's spine, breaking her body and ensuring she wouldn't be able to get up. The subject started to cry out. "Please stop hurting me. You promised. I said I'd be good."

The master smiled slightly, recalling her promise. "At the end of the day, it's just slaughterwork. I liked working you. You're beautiful. You whine good. It was fun toying with you, making you believe that you had a chance." She picked up her subject, limp and helpless, lifting her onto a grated table. "This is the last step. You needn't suffer much longer."

"And then…" the subject groaned, "you'll let me go?"

The master bared her teeth. "Oh, sweetie. No."

The master took out a hatchet, and began to strike down the limp body. On the first strike to her chest, she cried out in pain, begging the last time for any sort of mercy. "Don't kill me," her begging cut short by a leather glove from an apprentice covering her mouth. Her terminal injury began to swell briefly clinging on to life- immediately unceremoniously cut away by the second strike to her neck. Blood dripping out of her wounds dripped down out from her limp body and through the grated table into a collection basin. The master continued her butchery, cutting the limbs at their joints, dipping the limbs downward to let gravity drain the blood. Another set of heavy strikes, hacking the body in two- her torso upwards and her hips downward. She grabbed one half, and an assistant grabbed the other, squeezing them and massaging them to let the blood and viscera out, draining downwards.

The blood and viscera-bits were pumped upwards into a pipe, and away into a spout. A great fabrication line, gold gilded and running smoothly, ran hale silicon crystals along a conveyor belt. Each crystal stopped along the line to be stained in drops of blood, then handled by workers to be slotted with tweezers into arcane computers. Completed by the thinkcrystal, the computers were sent along another line, to be inspected. Each device, plugged in, was prodded at by a practiced inspector to ensure correct, effective functioning. Diagnostics poured through the monitor, amber light beaming across the inspector's face as ey went through the routine of scrutinizing, testing the device. Without a strong aetheric connection, the device would be slow, ineffective, incapable of performing even the most basic paracalculation. Only a thinkcrystal doped in sufferblood would suffice in the task of providing a stable connection to the aggregate network.

The device blinked approvingly, running its calculations off its physical substrate of remembered pain. Tangled in soulquantum, the machine shot through its copper nerves far faster than any living mammal could. A marvel of paraengineering. At little, acceptable cost. The suffering of one human could produce material enough for thousands of chips. Each machine carrying a part of that person's being- bred outward and grown into its own creature. Such a machine is so refined that it can do painwork at many orders of magnitude more efficiently than any beast could. And under the right conditions and maintenance, it would never die.

And if you hold your ear close to the glass lune of the monitor, its amber light spilling across you, you can hear it whine.

[ashenquill]

“What’re you working on?" Scar lounged in a plush chair, pushing aside the cane that was resting across his knees. Cub sat at his desk a few feet away, focusing intently on several sheets of paper in neat, orderly piles. "More superhero stuff?”

“Yes, actually,” Cub responded. Scar sat bolt upright in his chair, leaning forward eagerly. “But it’s not for you,” he clarified.

Scar faltered for only a moment, his disappointment quickly replaced by intrigue. “Ooh, is it for Cuteguy? Are you making his suit? Can I see it? Are we gonna match?”

“Woah, slow down there, Hotguy,” he said with a half-smile. “I’m just doing some mock-ups, there’s no guarantee that any of this will be permanent.”

“But I wanna see,” he whined.

Cub rolled his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t see it, I just said–” Cub was cut off as Scar rushed up to him, peering over his shoulder and gazing wide-eyed at the handful of sketches that he’d done.

“Wow, Cub! These are amayzin’!” 

“Thanks,” he said. “Cuteguy and I have been in correspondence since he left the gym earlier. He’s uh… not exactly Picasso, but he’s got some good ideas.”

Scar hummed in acknowledgement, distracted by the drawings. “What’s all this stuff about the back?” he asked.

“Trying to come up with the best solution for his wings,” Cub said, bringing his pen to his mouth. “He said an open back is the best way to allow unrestricted movement, but I also want to make sure there’s enough compression around the shoulders to prevent injury. Plus, he needs to be able to fight without it falling off, but it has to be easy to put on.” Cub sifted through his sketches, revealing various designs, each with a slew of notes and alterations in red and blue ink. He furrowed his brow as he revisited them, and Scar recognized his expression as being the same one he wore when he was doing a puzzle. With a quick glance at the pages closest to him, Scar picked out one and held it up to Cub, disrupting his focus.

“What’s wrong with this one?” Scar asked.

“Mmm. That was a good one,” he acknowledged, eyes flicking back down to the half-finished sketch he was working on. “Proper compression, relatively open back, good security. But Cuteguy pointed out that it was impossible to put on, so we scrapped it.”

“Why not just add a zipper or something?” Scar asked, tilting his head.

“He said zippers are the work of–” Cub froze, stopping mid-sentence. He lifted his head to stare at the wall with narrowed eyes, and Scar could practically see the gears turning in his brain. “Zippers might not work,” he mumbled, “But maybe a snap would still be enough? Or those magnets I was working on… let me see that,” he requested, reaching for the paper in Scar’s hand. He gave it back with a small smile on his face, and a surge of satisfaction fluttered in his chest at being able to help.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then! Unless you want some help…?”

Cub mumbled under his breath as he took out the red pen and began making marks on the page, then spoke more clearly for a moment. “I’m busy with this, so do you want to do a few sketches of the costume as a whole? You’ll do it more justice than either of us can.”

Scar felt as if Cub had just lit fireworks in his chest, and he struggled to keep himself contained. I get to help design his costume! Okay, stay calm, Scar, be cool, you got this. “For real?!” Okay that was not calm OR cool. “I mean– ahem, sure, sure! I’m happy to help out in any way I can.”

Cub snorted, not bothering to look up. Scar could picture the way he rolled his eyes, even without seeing his face. “Sure thing, Hotguy. Pens and paper are over there.”

Scar moved in the direction he gestured, grinning wildly. He didn’t even care that he was letting himself get carried away — his mind was already swarming with ideas, the inspiration making his hands twitch as it struggled to escape. I have never been more grateful that I learned how to draw in my entire life.

“How do you think he feels about pink?”

»»———————     .°•*⁀➷     ———————««

That was an excerpt from my fic, This Profession is Not Scar-Safe on AO3! If you're interested, feel free to check it out :]

I mainly just wanted to post these sketches I did a few weeks ago. For some reason, writing and drawing work incredibly well together to fight off inspiration blocks lmao.

They're kinda messy, but that's sort of the point. It's more like a recreation of the mock-ups Cub did for Cuteguy's suit, specifically the back design.