#hollow particle board

[swifty-fox]

mr predictable in with "did you eat today?" however benny/ johnny to really keep u on ur toes

for those who do not know this is for OP's punk au that I'm literally waiting for like the rapture

cw: self harm, eating disorders, John Brady being a Mess, discussions of drug abuse, ocd in connection to food contamination

"Stop picking at it."

Johnny pauses, fingers curled under his shirt and a faint stinging spreading across his stomach. His fingertips feel damp and he shoots Benny a moody look. The pillows on their bed are soft and smell clean which means Benny's done laundry sometime in the last few days because Johnny sure as hell doesn't remember doing any.

"M not," He says, pulling his hand out and rubbing the blood from his nails

"You're gonna feel stupid if that scars," Benny says, pulling his head from blowing smoke out the window.

It wasn't that either of them really cared about smoking inside, but the landlord had threatened them if they took the batteries of the smoke detector one more time

"I'm not touching it," Johnny repeats stubbornly, rolls onto his stomach and tucks a pillow under his ribs, pressing against the scratched letters on the skin.

HOLLOW.

He felt a little stupid now, but it's not something he'll admit to anyone because if he was gonna snort whatever shit John put in front of him without asking what was in it he was going to take it like a man. Probably, it felt very existential and profound and stick-it-to-em at the time and he's pretty sure he even sterilized the pin. But now, his stomach just stings whenever he tries to wash in the shower and Benny keeps giving him concerned looks whenever they fuck and really it's more trouble than it might have been worth

"What'd you think of John's new groupie?"

It's a little bit cool. Richey Edwards had done it, so maybe it was kind of cool. A spiritual ode to the greats.

Or something.

"Think he's doing a great impression of a snow plow," Johnny says.

Benny snorts, and theres a dip in gravity and a creak of cheap boxsprings as he crawls onto the bed with Johnny. Something cold and beaded with condensation touches the back of his neck and he hisses, swiping back against the water bottle. Benny snickers and settles on Johnny's thighs, knees caging him easily. His fingers run up Johnny's sides, bumping along his ribs and cool lips press against his neck in replacement.

"If he's a snow plow what're you?" a finger hooks around Johnny's chain necklace, tugging lightly against the broad links.

"Tired," Johnny mutters.

Benny turns him, lifting onto his knees to allow for the movement of Johnny's body. Johnny huffs, going with the movement. He keeps his arms crossed above his head, frowns at Benny for all of a minute before he feels it shift so something a tad more gentle. Benny bends down to kiss him, tasting of menthols and cold water. Johnny opens up for him like he has for longer than it felt easy to think about.

Hands slip under Johnny's Ranger's hoodie, seeking and assessing and he nips Benny's lip in irritation but Benny's already abandoning him, pushing the blue fabric up to his armpits and tsking.

"I knew you were fucking with the scabs."

The neosporin is still on the nightstand where they'd left it, along with a half-finished packet of disinfectant wipes and an ashtray so caked with tar it had half molded to the cheap particle board. The wipes are as cold and stinging as Johnny remembers. He hisses, stomach jumping away from Benny's touch but the heavier man just holds him still.

Johnny watches him spread the neosporin, watches his frown deepen, eyes traveling over his skin. Johnny casts his eyes to the headboard, breathing through his nose with intention. His heart is racing and it makes him dizzy, it beats against the wall of his sternum with almost bruising force.

"Did you eat today?" Benny asks casually, placing a patchwork of bandaids over the worst of the irritation.

Johnny's hungry, in the sort of way where you feel it in your head rather than a physical pain. Crystal clear but surrounded by cotton. Where he felt sharp and horribly relaxed. It was better than checking every piece of food before it passes his lips, picking it apart into tiny pieces like a toddler might in the off chance there was something in it.

By the time he got through a meal sometimes it felt like he'd already digested the start of it.

He sits up, shoving Benny off him. The other man goes easy, never one for fighting back. He stood his ground sometimes, but somehow did it without ever putting up a fight. Johnny swings his feet over the side of the bed. He doesn't like lying to Benny, found it difficult to lie to most people really, but Benny especially was hard because he's pretty sure Benny wouldn't resent him for it. And that just made the whole attempt unsatisfying.

"I don't -" He clucks his tongue, feels a few bandaids loosen and peel away from his stomach, "It's-"

"Jack."

"Can't you just leave it be?"

Benny's thumb smooths behind the shell of Johnny's ear, brushing the short hairs there. He shoves the other man off, takes a ragged breath.

"If you don't want to be with someone sick the door is right there."

He says the words before they're really considered and part of him doesn't know where they come from. It's not something he'd been ruminating on, really. He gave Benny enough self-agency to know the man wouldn't be here if he damn well didn't want to be. But even that doesn't erase the simple fact of the matter. John Brady was not a simple kind of person to share a life with.

"That," Benny says slowly, "isn't even remotely the conversation I was trying to have here."

Johnny stands, resting a palm against one of the brick support beams of the apartment at the sudden headrush, "I'm not changing, so if that's not-"

"I'm not asking you to change, I'm asking if you've eaten today."

"Does it turn you on to have this same fight every couple of weeks?"

"I'm here," Benny answers. "Having it."

Johnny exhales sharply, taps quick fingers against his thigh.

"If you want to sit here and argue about it all night I can do that. If you want to sit here and pick apart every speck of food until it's safe I'll put on Band of Brothers or some other war documentary you like and we'll make a night of it."

Johnny groans and tips his head to the ceiling, presses the hells of his palms to his eyes and claws desperately at the fading threads of his anger.

Benny shrugs, "Your choice. But I'm definitely not walking out that door, asshole."

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - chapter 1

" 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠- 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 "

[ C I C A D A ] hosho mccreesh.

___________________________________________________________

~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears, a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, and a girl found alive in the woods months after her mysterious death.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

c h a p t e r    o n e .

Peter Rumancek

<<>>

IT WAS WITH A HEAVY HEART SOMEWHERE INSIDE THAT Lance Evergreen would lay his daughter to finally rest, but not heavy enough.

On a muggy October evening, the man would stumble into his house, more of a trailer trash dwelling than anything, and hit the drinks as though he had never left them. Judith had been gone for months, and in his mind, seeing them lower her battered corpse into a hole in the ground where he would never see her again felt almost offensively anti-climactic. He had dreamt of the worst-case scenario over and over again, had imagined how it happened, when and why. How they would find her and what would be left of her.

By the time her body was found dumped in that ditch, in his head, Lance had already seen it all.

He had already mourned. He would never stop.

Peter went to visit him the day after the funeral.

He kicked his way through discarded beer cans and shattered bottles that spilled sticky ichor onto the bare particle board. He thought Uncle Vince was bad, given his lethal alcoholism that had eventually killed him, but this was just sad and Peter was just sad.

He knew Lance as well as he had known Vince, the two men having been close friends. Peter knew that Lance had an ex-wife, Judith's mother, who had shown up for the funeral and left promptly afterwards. Peter hadn't known her all that well from the couple of times he met the woman when he was little, but he had seen the way she clung to her cigarette and never said a word to anyone at the funeral. She used to be a local, but neither his uncle or Lance had brought it up so he had never had a reason to ask why she left. They also had a son who died.

Peter had also known Judith, which only made his heart squeeze more to think about it. He had fond memories of throwing worms at each other, collecting snails as kids, and gathering around Nicolae Rumancek to observe the fairy he had caught in a mason jar. He remembered so clearly how Jude was so adamant that it was in fact not a fairy, but a firefly, and that Peter's grandfather ought to let it go. Now his grandfather was gone, the girl was gone, and all he had left were faded recollections to remember it all by.

The man was already out cold by the time he reached the couch, which had been torn up by a dog- he could tell from the scent. It must have died not too long ago, because the food bowl still sat in the corner of the kitchen, flies buzzing around it. Peter took it upon himself to dispatch the old food with a hollow feeling in his chest and returned to the living room.

It was difficult to see how much this man had changed. Peter had fond memories of Lance giving him shoulder rides and driving around in his car. He remembered his stories, many of which he and Vince made up, and remembered how life-like and exciting he had been. Now all that was left was a husk of the soul of a man- a man with a failed marriage, two dead kids and one dead best friend. Alone in the world to drink and then die.

Peter didn't know what to do to fix his uncle's friend. He didn't know how to help his sad, hulking body off the couch when he had no interest in learning how to move. He didn't know how to console a father whose daughter was gone. But he did know that he wanted to be there for him, and that he wanted to help.

So, he helped. All while the man had drank himself into a stupor, the boy found his way to the kitchen and to the garbage bags beneath the rusted sink with the constant drip. He put the bottles, the cans, the wrappers, and all of the litter that his eye could see into the bag and hauled that bag out to the trash. He came back. He repeated the process.

It should not have been Peter's job to clean up this mess, but for once he didn't mind doing it. It felt almost therapeutic to cleanse the trailer of the mess and the alcohol and the despair he wished Uncle Vince had the chance to. The last thing he did was pry the bottle from his hand and set it away on the kitchen table. 

Then Lance muttered in his sleep. Something something not worth it anymore.

When Peter came home later, he hugged his mother. He loved Lynda and she loved him, but they had never been a family for too much sentimentalism. Tonight was different. He needed that hug. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to never hug her again.

The following day at school felt like walking through a land of zombies. Peter was new to town, having arrived a couple of weeks prior to Judith Evergreen's funeral. He didn't know whether or not it was because of that, that everyone here seemed so lifeless and flat. He didn't think so, because he only found one or two funeral flyers dangling from the noticeboards, all of which had been trampled on or discarded on the floor.

It was the end of the day and Peter was in the middle of picking up one of the memorial notices for her when Roman Godfrey spoke to him for the first time.

"So you knew her," he said. A statement, not a question. His eyes– those eyes– tore right through the flesh and into his soul.

Peter knew at once that the boy was upir. He could sense it from a mile away, from the very first time he had glanced in the rich boy's direction on his first day at school. He could sense it like a serpent shifting beneath Roman's skin in the dark.

Roman was impossibly tall for the age of seventeen and had a face that had been morbidly carved by the holiest of angels. His hair was brown and loose, unlike his crisp blazer or tucked-in shirt and trousers. Peter wondered if the boy could smell his blood.

"Yeah. When I was a kid" he replied, anything to erase the unbearable cloud of tension that was the upir standing behind him.

"Mm. It's weird. I knew her too," Roman said. His voice didn't sound sympathetic, or if it did, it fronted as disjointed and monotone. "You want a lift home?"

It was raining and Peter had no interest in walking until he became a soggy wet dog. So he accepted. 

The car was a vintage cherry red Jaguar, which Roman explained had belonged to his father. Peter wasn't sure what he was meant to do with this information but nonetheless continued to listen. The ride was relatively quiet and the radio hummed in the stretches of silence between admittedly one sided conversations. 

"You're new in town," Roman said, making small talk.

"Are you a Gypsy?" he asked, but surprisingly not in that sneering way most other folk did.

"People at school say you're a werewolf. Is it true?" he questioned, as if Peter hadn't heard the rumours already, much like a subtle interrogation.

All of those things were correct, but Peter scooted around the last question by declaring that he was just an obscenely hairy teenager. 

The car stopped on the side of the road near a slope that rolled down into a clearing, pulling up just in front of a rusted mailbox. 

"You're related to Vince," Roman evaluated, seeming to recognize the dwelling. "He used to work for my mom at one point."

Peter had not known about that, and briefly found himself wondering what exactly his uncle had been doing with Olivia Godfrey. A strange, unnerving woman indeed.

As he thanked the rich boy and got out of the car, retrieving the mailbox, a car drove by.

Peter jolted. 

In the seconds it had taken for the other vehicle to pass, a girl had appeared sitting in the passenger seat of Roman's car, where Peter had only been sitting seconds ago. In the small window of time he caught a glimpse of her, he saw black and blue and gray skin and teary, blood-filled eyes.

He saw Judith Evergreen, and then she disappeared.

"Something wrong?" Roman asked, viridian eyes narrowing. 

After taking a moment to settle himself, unconvincingly the werewolf shook his head. The Upir left, but not without staring at Peter for a little longer than what was considered a normal duration of time to stare at someone. 

He descended the old wooden staircase and into the clearing by the river where his home, previously Vince's, sat overlooking the water. He entered, greeting his mother, and opened the fridge to pop open a beer. 

"So what's up with the Godfreys?" he asked, swigging from the bottle as he went over to plunge into the couch, stretching lazily to reach the remote and flicking on the TV.

"Bad business," Lynda said as she sipped on her cup of tea, already seated on the couch. "You should steer clear of them."

"The boy, Roman. He's an upir. I don't think he knows it himself," he sighed. All he could think about was the sinking feeling he got when he was near him, the feeling of drowning slowly, or being buried alive beneath the burning weight of his stare alone. Despite this, Peter couldn't deny his nagging intrigue. Call it morbid curiosity.

"He dropped you home?"

"He offered. It was raining."

Lynda said nothing in response, but Peter knew what she would have said. 

Be careful with him.

That night Peter sat down on the edge of his bed and found himself staring through his window and out into the woods. In those woods, he thought he saw a girl.

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boring but we're getting there i swear also oh my god i'm actually posting for once????

anyways this is also on wattpad and chapter two will be out very soon :) i'll shut my mouth now.

[prismaticpichu]

Dear Zack and Sephiroth,

To Zack: is snuggles allowed?

I'm confused.

Both: Do you know about Northern lights? Have you seen it before?

To Sephiroth: Do you like science? can you explain why?

I'm sorry if that was rude.

To Zack: Which board games you like?

Both: Which plushies are your favorite?

To Sephiroth: I'm sorry, I like your hugs so much! Can you hug me please?🥺💛🩷🩵✨🌟🫂❇️🎇🎆❤️🤗.

Both: You guys are the best!💟.

Zack: Heya Bob! Good to see ya again!! ✨

Zack: Snuggles?? Is that the name of a plushie? Are you asking if he’s allowed in ShinRa Tower…? Heh! I’m just pulling your sock V^ω^V l don’t see why snuggling wouldn’t be allowed in the appropriate locations with the appropriate people! I snuggle up against Seph on the couch all the time! You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve fallen asleep wrapped in my best bud’s arms, some cheesy movie playing in the back <3 Guy is such a soft serve ice cream come when you get to know him!!

~

Zack: The Northern Lights??? Ooohhhh yeah!! You mean when the sky goes all disco with color!! I personally haven’t seen them during my own lifetime, but they sure do make beautiful desktop screensavers!

Sephiroth: Ah, yes. You’re referring to Aurora Borealis. Despite never seeing it myself, I am indeed aware of the natural phenomenon.. It is actually caused by the planet’s electromagnetic field interacting with particles from the sun, which was only one of the many facts I researched while a small child in the labs. Astronomy and geoscience have always been favorites of mine, to answer your other question.There is also no need to apologize; your query is perfectly appropriate. But to reiterate—yes, I am indeed an avid readers science nonfiction, predominantly homing in on the study of space and natural phenomena that occur on the planet. I suppose this stems from being surrounded by such a rich scientific atmosphere as a child. However, while my “father” studies biochemistry, I have strictly chosen to focus my studies on other fields. I am not interested in cellular matters, and I don’t think I ever will be.

~

Zack: Ooh! Good question!! I think I gotta spring for Jenga!! (Whiiiich I think counts!) ✨ There is really nothing funnier on this planet than watching Seph decide which block to move like each piece is a wire attached to a bomb or something. It’s good stuff!! OOH! Also Twister!!! (P.S!! DO NOT PLAY THIS GAME WITH SOMEONE WITH KNEE-LENGTH HAIR YOU WILL GET TANGLED LIKE A MEATBALL IN SPAGHETTI.)

~

Zack: My favorite plushie?? Easy cheesy! That’s my ol’ pal, Muffin… AND his twin brother, Stuffin, who’s another little dragon dude who Seph stitched up for me on my birthday. Never can I miss a night without them!!

Sephiroth: Hmph. I do not own many “plushies”… barring the one Zack purchased for me, of course, to commemorate the one-year anniversary of our friendship. So I suppose my answer would have to be my stuffed Ifrit.

~

Sephiroth: Heh. I never knew someone besides Zack could be so fond of my embraces. It is actually… quite nice. Most people are afraid of me, you know. It’s most certainly a chance of pace. Ergo, I accept your request for another one.

*still stiff, but noticeably less awkward, Sephiroth puts both his hands on your shoulders in a vague embrace. the contact lasts for about four seconds.*

Sephiroth: I hope that was adequate ^_^

~

Zack: NO U, MY FRIEND!! YOU’RE THE BEST!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Sephiroth: Heh… so I’ve been told. But the words are always less hollow when coming from a genuine soul.

[ruleofexception]

Ruined (Life Eternal)

A continuation of this.

_____

Humans are fond of the saying ‘when life gives you lemons, make lemonade’. 

As a demon, it’s a phrase he’s never really understood because unless you’re comfortable drinking straight acid powerful enough to permanently pucker even Satan’s lips, lemonade requires a few more ingredients than just the juice of a handful of lemons. 

However, as life has just handed him a mountain of lemons all while laughing in his face, he understands the desire to drink acid and take his chances. Turn this misfortune into something that may or may not kill him.

Standing in the tiny, grimy bathroom of the apartment that is meant to be his, arms folded over his chest and lips being worked between sharp teeth, he hisses, quiet so she does not hear. “Fuck.” 

The corpse in the bathtub – purple and distended to the point where he dare not touch it, out of fear it’ll explode and paint the walls in a putrid shower of rotted guts – stares at him with one fogged over, dead eye; the other socket, empty and caved in. In hindsight, probably should have taken a note from the monkey’s books and buried him beneath some petunias weeks ago, but-

But he’s just not had a chance to. Between answering Lucy’s calls and trying to avoid being caught by the beautiful angel who’s currently sitting in the shithole that is now his living room, he’s had hardly a moment to himself. If he could have seen his own future and known how difficult it would be to keep that wingless beauty from learning him to be a demon and not the human she so desperately wishes to save, perhaps he’d have talked himself out of it. Convinced himself that it wasn’t worth it.

Though, realistically, that’s not likely. 

He’s never once passed up the opportunity for a bit of fun; even if it did mean some extra work on the side. And, even based on the limited interactions they’ve shared thus far, his gut’s telling him that this is almost certainly going to be the most fun he’s had in centuries. It may even end up being a contender with the nun-orgy.

Nose wrinkling, he leans a little closer and snarls at the body turning to mush in the bathtub, “I swear to Satan, if I’m found out because of you and your God-awful stench, before I’m able to have any fun with that angel out there, I will find you in the pits of Hell and make it my sole responsibility to torture you until the end of time.”

“Uhm, Obi?” There’s the faintest of knocks upon the bathroom door; Shirayuki clears her throat, then asks with far more concern in her tone than should be possible, “Are you alright in there?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He says, stealing a quick and panicked glance towards the thin particle board separating them. Silently, and with as much grace as he can muster, he offers up pleas to Lucy and the rest of the denizens of Hell that Shirayuki doesn’t take it upon herself to just barge in here, with the intent of making sure he’s not lying or doing something sketchy.

“You’re sure?” A worried whisper slips in to caress him; like her lips have been pressed right up against the shell of his ear instead of the filthy door frame as she coos, “Do you need me to get anything for you?”

Unbidden, he shivers. Ichor thrums hotly in his veins.

Given that it’s only been a handful of weeks since she meddled her way into his life, mistook him for a human and promised that she would save him from the pits of Hell itself, it’s far too easy to envision how she must look right now.

The soft white dress she wears, hugging her in a way that’s likely considered sinful or distasteful amongst the feathered-fucks she’s trying to impress; but that has the demon in him wanting to rip it to shreds with his teeth. Her intelligent emerald gaze, wide with concern, while pale, delicate fingers sprawl out across the door; fingernails working to carve half moons into the surface, as she presses her ear closer; as if she’s trying to find a heartbeat in the depths of his hollow chest, instead of merely waiting for him to respond.

What he wouldn’t give, to get her into that position.

To hold her, with her red hair splashed out across his chest like blood. The freckles that dance along the bridge of her nose, so near that he can count each one, as green – the same colour as the leaves of the trees he’s fond of hiding amongst – study him; a mix of horror and understanding blossoming in their depths as she finally realizes he’s not the human she thought him to be, but has always been one of the monsters she was taught to hate.

Inhaling deeply – pushing the fantasy down into the shadows and ignoring the ache in his gut – the sharp gold eyes that stare back at him from the mirror harbour an expression he’s never worn before. One that’s akin to the excitement of a possession, but something that’s not quite so visceral or raw. It’s an expression that starts somewhere in his belly, and burns all the way through. Like hellfire, loose beneath his skin.

Another deep breath. A slow exhale, to keep his words from trembling, “Nope. I’m fine. Be right there.” 

Flushing the toilet to keep up appearances and letting the sink run, he yanks the shower curtain back into place, covering up the body but not the smell. Tomorrow, he’ll dispose of the corpse he’s pretending to be, but today, he needs to be with her. Keep the lie alive, as he leads her further down the path to ruin.

Wiping sweaty palms on his thighs, it takes great restraint not to send his foot through the curtain to kick in the man’s face, and he growls a final warning under his breath, “Do not fuck this up for me, monkey.” 

One last look in the mirror – mindlessly tugging at and trying to fix a stray hair that’s decided to cling to his forehead – he takes a deep and steadying breath, before plastering a smile on his face, and throwing open the bathroom door to greet the angel waiting on the other side.

[mxdam]

favourite and / or least favourite societal trend(s) vampire margerethe has witnessed in her time seeing the world change?

so this was really fun to think about!

vampire margarethe is like regular marg but very... burnt and hollowed out. where og marg is a highly social and socialized person, vampire marg is separated from human life and lacks community and interaction. she is always looking for some form of interaction in order to give her stimulation and energy, but she's so depressed it doesn't usually work. so she's different from og marg, who would be very up to date on trends so that she could follow them. she's not so plugged in to the cultural changes, especially once they start happening on social media, because she really does not understand the internet lmao.

i think the one trend overall, a longer-term one, that really disgusts her is globalization + mass production and the way that it dilutes artisanship and lessens quality. at her core, she's a snob and a classist. she doesn't like the dispersal of "high art" and various kinds of goods into the homes of the less-than, and all cheap reproductions of furniture, art, home goods, etc. disturb and disgust her. she hates, for example, anything made out of particle board. she hates any 'artwork' or 'craft good' that came off a factory line. she hates fast fashion. obviously as i touch on above, part of this is hating the diffusion of "culture" from the upper class into the lower.

another part of this is that she is a believer in craftsmanship, art, provenance, and skilled work. that's not noble on her part; again, she is a snob and a consumer, and the reason she feels this way isn't a noble ideal nor a marxist critique. it's because she can see and feel that high-quality valuable goods are swamped in a market of products made cheaply on assembly lines and thrown out to the masses as free-market balms for our capitalism-pulverized psyches.

she feels much the same way about the globalization and industrialization of food, but because she very rarely eats human food anymore, she has less cause to polish this particular hatred.

this isn't to say that these trends didn't have precedents in her own time, but the rapid progression of technology, economies, etc. since, oh, the mid-late 1800s has been pretty insane for her to witness, and these trends have never been so intense or present before in history.

thank you so, so much for sending this in!

[wizardphds]

Recrystallized Silicon Carbide

Recrystallized silicon carbide boasts exceptional mechanical strength and erosion resistance. Furthermore, it boasts excellent oxidation resistance as well as low thermal expansion coefficient.

RSiC can be found in many applications due to its versatile combination of properties. R-SiC typically is used in furniture for kilns and rollers for roller presses as well as shed boards and shed boards - it even makes excellent insulation materials!

Excellent mechanical properties

Silicon carbide boasts exceptional mechanical properties, making it an excellent material choice for industrial use in various fields. Its Mohs hardness scale 13 hardness rating and strength characteristics help components endure even harsh environments while its chemical inertness make it suitable for environments susceptible to corrosion from acids, bases or liquid metals.

Recrystallized silicon carbide is manufactured through evaporation-coagulation and fired at temperatures reaching 2400 degC, yielding a porous network structure with open porosities between 11-15% and an open grain size of 100 pm, distinguished from reaction sintered and pressureless sintered materials that feature higher densities but poorer mechanical stress performance.

Due to its dimensional stability and high-temperature bearing capacity, steel is well suited to use as kiln furniture and kiln accessories, including rollers, shed boards and hollow beams. Furthermore, its use can also assist in the manufacturing of refractories, electric ceramics and semiconductor industry equipment.

R-SiC's superior corrosion resistance has contributed to its wide adoption across high-tech industries. Coating it onto the shaft of a turbine impeller can increase wear resistance by over one time, thus prolonging maintenance period. Applying boronized R-SiC to 45degsteel harvester blades significantly increase their hardness allowing them to resist erosion from molten metals and chemicals more effectively.

Excellent electrical properties

Recrystallized silicon carbide is an engineered ceramic material with exceptional thermal, chemical, and mechanical properties. It can be formed into flat and elongated shapes such as plates, tubes or beams by sublimation and condensation processes at temperatures exceeding 2000 degC; then solidified at high temperatures by sublimating and condensation processes of fine silicon carbide particles consolidated at these elevated temperatures. Recrystallized silicon carbide has outstanding inherent thermochemical and mechanical properties.

SiC's popularity can be attributed to its crystalline formation, with silicon and carbon atoms arranged in a tetrahedral lattice structure. Furthermore, its outstanding thermal stability, strength, durability, abrasion resistance and thermal conductivity make it highly suitable for applications. Furthermore, doping it with aluminium or boron impurities results in p-type semiconductors while nitrogen or phosphorus impurities produce N-type semiconductors; additionally controlled doping may even result in superconducing material properties if this material meets specific conditions - all very promising features indeed!

SiC's high atomic density makes it an outstanding electrical conductor with low dissipation and parasitic losses, making it suitable for use in various electronic devices such as diodes, MOSFETs and IGBTs that offer favorable electrical characteristics such as high breakdown voltages, low turn-on resistances and fast operating times.

This report offers a comprehensive view of key players operating in the Recrystallized Silicon Carbide Material (RSiC) Market as well as their business strategies. In particular, its competitive landscape section gives an in-depth view into company profiles, product offerings, financial details, and recent developments of key market participants.

Excellent thermal properties

Recrystallized silicon carbide's excellent thermal properties make it an excellent material for high-performance refractories, such as fireclay refractories. It has an exceptional thermal conductivity ten times greater than fireclay materials, along with superior resistance to cooling shock and corrosion as well as low thermal expansion coefficient and strength and hardness, all characteristics which have made RSiC an outstanding choice in applications across metallurgy, ceramics and electrical engineering industries.

RSiC stands out from other porous ceramics by not shrinking during the firing process and its open porosity does not diminish material strength. Furthermore, no additional additives or porogen are necessary to combat oxidation and erosion as its voids are filled with silica particles that act as solid insulators material.

RSiC is an advanced engineered material capable of being cast into flat or elongated forms such as plates, tubes, or beams. Created through sublimation and condensation of fine silicon carbide particles, it comes in several grades including granular and crystalline varieties with maximum dimensions up to 3.5 meters (11 feet). As such it can be used as a mirror alternative in large space telescopes like Herschel and Gaia observatories as well as for filtering of diesel vehicle exhaust emissions and metal smelting applications.

Excellent corrosion resistance

Recrystallized silicon carbide is well known for its outstanding corrosion resistance, making it the ideal material for applications where other materials would quickly degrade. Due to its durability, recrystallized silicon carbide is used in ceramic products like construction and sanitary ware, industrial furnaces that need to withstand high-voltage electric discharges, as well as pump bearings, valves and sandblasting injectors.

Recrystallized silicon carbide offers exceptional corrosion resistance due to its crystalline structure, which contains a passive oxide layer that provides protection from acids, alkalis, and solvents - an asset in industries like oil refining and chemical processing that regularly encounter these substances. This makes recrystallized silicon carbide an excellent material choice.

Recrystallized silicon carbide not only offers superior mechanical properties, but its thermal conductivity is outstanding as well. Thanks to its low coefficient of expansion and high melting point, recrystallized silicon carbide can withstand temperatures that would melt or damage other materials such as glass, plastics or metals; its excellent thermal conductivity also makes it an attractive choice for electrical components such as resistors and semiconductors.

Gelcasting is an ideal method for fabricating complex-shaped refractory components with uniform density and strong flexural strength, according to this paper. A concentrated suspension of coarse SiC powders was created specifically for gelcasting; with its rheological properties helping produce green bodies with consistent densities and great flexural strengths.

[canuckdoorsystems]

Wood Painted Doors

Canuck Door Systems offers factory-finished wood-painted doors. We can make them fire-rated and soundproof. Also, they are available in a variety of surface materials to meet aesthetic preferences. So, you can always specify with confidence.          

FEATURES

An array of custom painting colours

Composite particle board, structural composite lumber, and hollow constructions.

Automatic Operators and Handicap Buttons.

BENEFITSINEXPENSIVE

Firstly, Wood Painted Doors are much less expensive than stained veneer doors. So, it might be a huge advantage for many commercial customers. Also, if the price point is the leading contender for your commercial projects, then painted doors are your solution.

FAST DELIVERY

In addition, this kind of Door usually has a shorter production time than veneer-stained doors. Expedited project completion with production scheduled factory finishing. Also, lower finishing costs, as job-site preparation, painting, and cleanup are not necessary. Moreover, if there is a strict timeline, you should order painted doors.

CONSISTENCY

Besides, this door type has a uniform colour, texture, and coating consistency. Also, paint is applied and cured with a state-of-the-art modern spray system. It is designed for optimal flash-drying and cooling cycles. Plus, it provides a quality finish with more excellent durability than field-painted doors.

RELIABILITY

A factory-controlled environment reduces dust and dirt. Also, it enhanced design options afforded by reliable and repeatable factory colour matching, unlike field-finished doors. They are less susceptible to colour inconsistency and damage. As a result, our factory-finished doors offer superior uniformity.

LOW TRAFFIC DOOR

Finally, these doors are typically the best option for an interior door that doesn’t see much traffic.

WOOD-PAINTED DOORS INSTALLATION

We are a dealer of Baillargeon, the largest Wood Door manufacturer in Canada.

Paint Colors

We install such Doors in Toronto, Mississauga, Brampton, Vaughan, Richmond Hill, Markham, Hamilton, Burlington, Oakville, Pickering, Ajax, Oshawa, Aurora, Newmarket, and throughout South Ontario is no exception.

Canuck Door Systems also installs Wood Laminated Doors, Wood Veneer Stained Doors, Fire Rated Wood Doors, and Acoustic Soundproof Doors.

[vpkdistribiutors]

PVC Boards

PVC board is a thin, rigid material that is regarded as tough for usage outside because it is impervious to rain and resistant to wind and sunshine. A network of interconnected polymers between PVC and polyurea makes up a PVC board. Polyurea and polyvinyl chloride are first combined under carefully regulated circumstances. After that, the mixture is poured into a mould. The sides of the filled mould are clamped shut to seal it, and the mould is then heated in a big press. Then, a slab of sturdy material pops out of the mould. The substance is then expanded to its final density in a hot bath before being cured. Depending on the needs of the buyer, the material is then prepared to be cut into sheets of varying widths and thicknesses.

Types of PVC Boards

There are now two types of PVC boards: hollow and foam. Foam boards are hard and thicker/wider in nature, while hollow boards are flexible and hollow on the inside. Both foam PVC kitchen cabinets and hollow PVC kitchen cabinets are excellent options because they come in a selection of vibrant colors that will quickly liven up the appearance of your kitchen. PVC foam boards come in glossy, laminated, and matt finishes as well.

PVC Vs Plywood

PVC panels perform better than conventional plywood. When constructing or restoring a home, we have seen plywood or chip/particle boards employed in a variety of applications. But more lately, architects and builders have been choosing PVC board over plywood, and this appears to be a wise decision for a variety of reasons. All the uses for traditional plywood that PVC boards can take the place of include: building wardrobes, cabinets, countertops and tables, doors, shutters and door frames, classroom desks and benches, partitions, louvres and windows, false ceilings, fences, garden furniture, walls, office workstations, wall cladding, switch cabinets, control panels, signage, column wraps, etc. PVC boards come in a variety of thicknesses. They come in a variety of colours and are appropriate for many applications.

Properties

They merely need to be dusted or cleaned using cleaning solutions and a soft cloth, unlike wood and steel doors, which require routine maintenance. They deliver improved effectiveness. It aids in raising the project's general LEED or comparable green building ratings. Because of their small weight, they are easily loaded and transported. Given their improved longevity, they are inexpensive and offer value. Less money is spent on shipping and handling. They can be applied to surfaces both as ornamental finishing materials and for structural functions and have a polished surface that is smooth. The density of the PVC board is uniform throughout the board and it is homogeneous. PVC boards are resistant to termites, waterproof, and long-lasting. They don't have any lead or cadmium. They are free of lead, cadmium, and other carcinogens. As PVC foam boards can be recycled, they don't harm the environment. PVC Boards never erupt and are self-extinguishing.

[sinembalsu-blog]

Tubular Chipboard For Wooden Interior Doors

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Insatiable - Prequel

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales

Word count: 1k

Chapter Tags: Wolf shifter AU, Angst, blood, allusions to self-harm, hurt/comfort

Author’s Note: Sorry to leave you hanging with the main story, but I couldn’t get this prequel scene out of my mind! This takes place during the events of Triple Frontier, the night before the meeting to discuss the money. Inspired by this gifset and me wondering when Frankie shaved.

Thank you to @acrossthesestars for being my amazing beta reader, cheerleader, and friend 🖤

Moodboard by @acrossthesestars

The heavy door swings shut with a metallic hiss, its lock engaging with a finite click. Two double beds, bland watercolors, an aged air conditioner on full blast. The door to the en suite bathroom is propped open, the formica counter across from it boasting a tiny coffee-maker, plastic wrapped cups, and a stack of fluffy, slightly off-white towels beside an additional sink.

After days spent fighting just to survive, scaling mountains, wading rivers, fighting and bleeding and taking hit after hit after hit, the comfort and safety of the modest hotel room feels excessive. Unearned.

At least, that’s what Pope thinks as he drops his travel-stained duffel, letting it fall to the thin beige carpet with a dull thud. Grasping for normalcy, he turns to his partner, the ghost of a smile on his exhausted face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Flip you for the first shower.”

The familiar words, usually met with affectionate bickering about who smells worse or, more often when they have this kind of privacy, the two of them showering together, ring hollow this time. Fish, his eyes haunted and dull, only shakes his head as he trudges to the bathroom, alone.

Santiago can hear him undressing through the closed door. It’s slow at first. Hushed. The wet smack of waterlogged clothing hitting linoleum. The clink of a belt buckle. One boot tossed to the floor, the other flung there. A flurry of muffled thumps, each louder than the last - the unmistakable sound of knuckles striking tile. A cracked sob.

“Fuck,” Santi winces. He leans his head against the door and knocks. Frankie doesn’t answer.

“Come on, man.” He tries the door, but it’s locked from the other side. It’s the last straw for nerves already stretched past breaking, and Santi slams a hand against the cheap particle-board door, making it rattle on its flimsy hinges. He raises his voice to carry over the shower’s spray and Frankie’s attempts to shut him out.

“Fish, talk to me! I know that job was - what did you call it? A serious fuck-up? You were right, okay? I know everything’s fucked, I just - “ His voice cracks, just a little. “I just need to know you’re okay.”

There’s a long silence, long enough for Santi to seriously consider busting down the door because like hell is he losing anyone else on this godforsaken trip, least of all his mate. Frankie can hate him as much as he needs to, Christ knows he deserves it for dragging them all into this, but if he’s hurt himself -

I’m fine.

Frankie’s answer, when it comes through their mental bond, is terse, and obviously bullshit, but it still nearly takes Santi’s knees out from under him, relief slamming into him like the waves on that damn beach.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Worry still tears at Santi but he leaves it at that. He strips off his own clothing, still drenched in seawater and blood and failure, piling it in a sodden heap. Finding hand towels and a neatly-wrapped cake of soap smelling faintly of lavender, he scrubs days worth of grime from his body. Even washing off in front of a sink feels indulgent after the hell he’s dragged his pack through. He stares at the gray suds swirling down the drain every time he wrings out the towel, watching it grow darker and grimier with every pass over his bruised and battered skin.

Every memory is like a blow: Ironhead’s grunt of pain after being shot. The wailing of the helicopter’s alarms as it crashed. Fish's worry and fear and flat-out panic. Blood on granite, sand, the sea. It’s too much, and all his fault…

Just as adrenaline begins to claw at him, the bathroom door opens. Frankie emerges, cleaner now, water still dripping from his dark hair, seal-slick against his skull. The haunted look has receded from his eyes, leaving him looking as exhausted and hollowed out as Santi feels. Santi doesn’t miss the blood welling along his still-clenched knuckles.

“Hey,” he ventures. “Feeling any better?”

Frankie only shrugs. Santi takes him by the shoulder and steers him to the foot of the bed.

“My contact is going to stop by in a few hours to pick up the money. She said she’d bring some clothes, first aid shit, some real food.” As he talks, he uses the last clean towel to dab at Frankie’s split knuckles, careful not to scrub too roughly against raw, tender skin. “You want anything else?”

Frankie shakes his head. They both know the only things they want are out of reach, even with the remaining money they had fought and sacrificed for. Because of that money.

“You heard from the Millers?” They’re the first words Frankie has spoken in hours, his voice as hoarse as if it had been days.

“Not yet, but they’re across the hall if you want to check in.”

“Maybe later.” Frankie’s shoulders are hunched, his eyes downcast. He scratches absently at his jawline, his salt and pepper whiskers longer than he usually prefers. Catching his hand, Santi gives it a quick, steadying squeeze.

“I think I still have a razor around here somewhere.”

“Would you - “ Frankie finally meets his mate’s eyes and the hurt there nearly splits Santi’s chest open. He swallows, unable to finish, but Santi nods, his own throat aching.

“Of course.”

-

Santi has to get a little creative - a warm washcloth rather than a hot towel, hotel conditioner instead of shaving cream, but none of that matters. What matters is the sight of Frankie’s tight shoulders easing as Santi sweeps the razor over his cheek, fingers steady beneath the other man’s jaw.

“I’ve been thinking - after we get all the paperwork sorted, what do you think about getting away for a few days? Just the two of us?”

Frankie looks up at him, interest and skepticism that cuts Santi to the quick warring in his brown eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just a vacation, I promise,” Santi says, raising his hands in a jokingly defensive way that falls entirely flat. He blows out a breath and tries again.

“We’re due some leave, especially after this shitshow. I was thinking maybe Ponta Preta?” He swishes the razor in a nearby cup before turning Frankie’s jaw to reach another angle.

“I don’t know, man.”

“No surfing, got it. Rio?”

Frankie shifts nervously and mutters “Too many tourists.”

Santi sighs, defeated. “Yeah, maybe we should just head…back to base.” He’d been about to say “home” but the shifter barracks on the base, spartan and secret as they are, are the closest the two of them get.

He makes a final pass of his razor, checking his work before setting it aside. “All set.” He squeezes Frankie’s shoulders and is about to pull away when the other man catches his hand.

“What about… Costa Rica?”

Part One

[phantomrose96]

Hero Syndrome

There’s a young woman who has admired the Symbol of Peace for her entire life.

She doesn’t remember the first time she saw him on television. He’s just always been there as an eternal, unshakable constant – a comfort through every part of her life – promising to save anyone who needs him. And he does save her, even if he doesn’t know it. Because it’s his laughter, his smile, his ease and assurance speaking about rescues that keeps the flame burning in her heart when she had nothing else to cling to. He is the guiding light for her life that had no other purpose in it.

She is ignited with an all-consuming drive to follow in his footsteps. And it is a drive that defines her more than her own name.

She wants to save people with a smile. She wants to pull people from the depths of despair. She wants to stand at the top of the world and say “It’s alright now, because I am here.” if only so she can pay him back for all the comfort he’s given her in her life.  

Posters of the Symbol of Peace find their way onto her walls, into her binders and desktop backgrounds. She joins no clubs so she can spend all her free time honing her quirk. She runs more, and lifts more, and trains more than anyone else. The future she imagines every day has her standing at his side, and it is a bright, bright future.

She doesn’t get into U.A.

As much as she prepared herself for it, the reality is crushing. She sobs into her bedspread when the rejection letter comes, and stops briefly to peel the posters off the walls first, so the Symbol of Peace cannot see her cry like this. Heroes shouldn’t cry. Heroes shouldn’t give up. She can’t either. Her 4th-choice school has sent her an acceptance letter, and she’ll make sure that’s still good enough. She vows to keep working harder than everyone at U.A. to make up for it.

She graduates from her hero course as valedictorian. She’s given a ten minute slot during graduation to present her speech, and the speech suddenly means nothing and everything to her when she learns her school managed to book the Symbol of Peace as the keynote speaker. The Symbol of Peace far upstages her, and she doesn’t even care. She’s spellbound all over, and savors the ghost of the tingle in her fingertips from the brief second they pass each other. He doesn’t know this, but the moments spent sharing the stage mean the entire world to her.

She takes another vow now, to share a stage with him again in the future, as a colleague. She vows to make this moment the starting line for the beginning of the rest of her life.

When she shows up to Slice’N’Dice’s hero agency on her first day as a debut sidekick, she’s met with a bare white-walled room of peeling paint. There’s a single sputtering fan in the corner pointed directly, and only, at Slice’N’Dice’s desk. She feels the sweat trickling down her neck already, the swampy humid air, the cicadas chirping behind her, as she stands there holding her hero uniform in a box.

“I’m very excited to be working with you,” she says with a full bow. Slice’N’Dice looks up from his desk, and grunts, and goes back to puffing on the loose cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s slumped in his chair, uniform loose-fitting around rather skeletal arms and ballooned around his distended waist. He’s unbuckled his belt, and pulls deeply from his cigarette, and tunes the dial on the crackling police scanner on his desk.

“You know how to make a pot of coffee?” he asks her.

On the third day of her sidekick career, they go on patrol. Her mom has washed and pressed her uniform for exactly this occasion. She feels hope bubbling in her stomach where a rock-like weight had sat before. She wonders what it’ll feel like to have eyes shift to her as she walks, what excited kids will tug on their parents’ sleeves and point, what it will really feel like to be on this side of the uniform.

Slice’N’Dice doesn’t take her to the streets of Tokyo. They meander through empty alleys and hot, putrid industrial backways. He stops at an outdoor storage unit, and unloops the keys from his unbuckled belt, and opens the unit. Inside are bikes. Dozens of them. Dented and rusted into disrepair. He pulls out two and walks them on either side of him, motioning her to do the same. She does.

“What are the bikes for?”

Slice’N’Dice grunts.

Ten minutes more of walking, and they are standing at the mouth of a neighborhood. The air carries the pungent scent of gasoline. Windows appear as broken glass and particle boards, nailed into place. The peeling paint along the apartment facades reminds her of the peeling paint in the office.

Slice’N’Dice props a bike against a lamppost. And he pulls a small metal lens from his pocket and affixes it to the post just above the bike. On his phone, he fiddles an app open, and she sees two green lights blink on the metal lens.

Slice’N’Dice moves on. He motions her to follow.

“Why are we leaving the bike?” she asks.

“Gonna catch some thieves.”

“With the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re leaving it here.”

Slice’N’Dice shrugs. “Yeah? Ain’t telling anyone to steal it. That’s their problem.”

“You want it to get stolen?”

“We gotta resolve some incidents if we wanna get paid.”

“Then, let’s resolve some incidents for real!” She thrusts a hand out, motioning, nearly tipping and just barely catching the bike at her left side. “Let’s patrol Tokyo and stop actual crime that’s happening.”

Slice’N’Dice barks a laugh. “We don’t have a zoning permit to patrol Tokyo, are you nuts? Maybe if the 2,000 Tokyo hero agencies all go belly-up, and the other 20,000 on the waiting list drop dead too, then maybe we could stake out Tokyo.”

She falters. “We shouldn’t be creating crime. We’re heroes, that’s just--”

“431.” Slice’N’Dice holds a hand up to her, and he draws his words out, like all the smoke from his cigarettes. “I got 431 applications for sidekicks. If you’re gonna leave, leave. I don’t really care. I’ll take any of the other ones. I don’t care.”

She freezes, sick with ice in her stomach.

“…And why’d you choose me?”

“Top of the pile.”

Slice’N’Dice shuffles along. She stands rooted in place. She’d been one of only three people from her graduating class to have a sidekick offer lined up right out of school.

It had been because she’d worked hard – harder than everyone else – to be a hero. Because she – more than anyone – had dreamed of this future.

Slice’N’Dice coughs wetly. He pauses to spit into the street, and keeps on shuffling.

…

There is a young man who’s admired the Symbol of Peace for his entire life.

He’s grown up half-raising himself, enraptured by the glow of the television with the Symbol of Peace’s shining smile. It is a smile that could move mountains, and his is a laugh that could shake oceans.  The young man watched these interviews on repeat while his mother worked double-shifts through the night. Those interviews formed him, brought a flicker of hope into his small and hollow world, brought moments to his life where he did not mind the opportunistic roaches scuttling up the couch, nor the rattle of the leaking pipes overhead, nor the dense headiness of mold in the carpets. They showed him hope. They showed him a path forward.

The young man dreams every day of the life he’ll lead when he’s a hero as well. His mom won’t suffer anymore when he’s a hero. No kid will go to bed hungry when he’s a hero. He’ll smile like the Symbol of Peace smiles, and he’ll move the oceans and the mountains too.

The U.A. rejection doesn’t deter him. He knew it would be a rejection before he even received the envelope. Only 1 in 1,000 applicants get into U.A. anymore, and that number skews further out of his favor when considering the legacy admissions to U.A., and the recommended kids who’d been through expensive personal hero-training regimens, and the parents who could curry a bit more favor by offering to fund a new U.A. training ground.

The young man never stood a chance, and he knew it. He’s more motivated, if anything, by the rejection letter. He wants the chance to stand out as someone who can break the U.A.-to-Pro pipeline. He’ll start from lower, and he’ll rise above the rest, because it’s who he is at his core.

The rejection letters continue to roll in. His second, his third, his fourth choices – down to his fifteenth – all come in thin, thin envelopes, too thin to contain good news. This happens to a lot of people, he reads. The hero market is oversaturated, he knows. Caps on hero course enrollment are getting tighter, he understands. But to have every door shut on him almost shakes his hard-earned resolve.

His tenth-choice school informs him there is a General Studies slot open. They offer it to him, and he almost, almost takes it.

But the Symbol of Peace never gave up his dreams. So he won’t either.

The young man has a pamphlet on his desk for a for-profit hero school just 20 miles outside town. It boasts no enrollment cap, no admissions test, We believe everyone is capable of proving themselves through hard work! We do not let dreams die halfway! The only admission criteria is the price tag. It is steep, the kind of steep that his part-time jobs and meager savings could never cover.

There’s an old man running the backroom of the corner store who gives out loans. This man doesn’t ask for credit or credentials there. His loans are in cash, day-of, with few questions asked. The young man knows this because he works part-time at this corner store, and sees the steady stream of strung-out clients filtering in and out, wracking up debt, caught in a personal hell the young man vowed to never fall into himself. But these are the people he intends to help one day as a pro-hero. And sacrifice must become something he’s comfortable with if he ever hopes to live up to the Symbol of Peace.

During his next shift, the young man takes to the backroom, and lays out his terms while the old man breathes cigar smoke into his face, and he has the money in-hand before the end of the night.

He’ll likely have to pay it back two-fold – maybe three-fold -- in interest. The young man knows this, he is not dumb. But he also knows how lucrative the pro-hero business is for those at the top. The government payout for heroes is pittance, at best, but hero merch sales pay out in gold. The Symbol of Peace has been named among Japan’s top 100 wealthiest men for the last ten years.

He won’t tell his mother about the loan. He intends to pay the debt back before she ever finds out.

He enrolls. He pays the tuition fee. He’s given a class schedule, a uniform, a syllabus, a dormitory. He moves out, away from the roaches and the rats, and it is a dream. He sees the start of the rest of his life on the day that he and all his new classmates are welcomed to campus as up-and-coming heroes.

Two years pass when the for-profit hero school loses its accreditation.

He, and all other students, are informed in a single curt email from the administration. All staff are fired. All courses are canceled. All students have three days to vacate the dormitories. The school entity is dissolved, and there money is gone.

The world drops out from beneath his feet. He can’t take the provisional license exam without a hero institution behind him. He can’t apply to sidekick positions without a provisional license. He moves back home, and resumes his part-time job, and sends in ten applications a day to every hero course in the country that accepts transfer students. When all of them yield rejections, he focuses on applying to every internship listing he can find.

None of them want him. Not when the market is already oversaturated with applicants who have an actual hero school backing them.

Years pass around him in a blur. His every cent earned from the corner store job is immediately garnished to pay his debts that come due, and they hardly make a dent. The compounding interest builds as a rate that surpasses his pay. A lifetime of this work would never repay his debt.

The old man in the tattered wifebeater shirt calls him into the back room one day. The old man shows no malice in his sleepy eyes, but exudes a pressure the young man can only describe as blood-lust. He’s heard the man’s quirk is suffocation, and he prays that this is not the day he learns this first-hand.

“These numbers… are not trending in your favor,” the man says between long drags of the cigar in his hand.

“I know.”

“I’d like to know. How do you plan to pay me back for my generosity?”

“Hero work,” the young man answers, just as he did all those years back when he first negotiated for his loan. “I just need—”

“What hero agency is hiring these days?” the man asks. “So, so few, anymore. Hardly any, anymore.”

“I know.”

“I’m not optimistic for you, you know.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I just—” the young man jolts forward, pleading eyes boring into the old man. “I just need to catch one break! I just need one ‘yes’ to kick things off! I can handle everything after that. I just need your patience, until then, and then I’ll make good. I’ll make you whole.”

“I’m old,” the man says with another long drag of his cigar. “Old old old, and getting older. Money won’t be much good to me when I’m all too old and dead. We agreed on now… being when you paid me back what I gave you so kindly.”

“Please… I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it.”

“You will. You’ll earn it.” The man’s joints crack as he pushes to his feet, and hobbles into the cellar-dark back of the shop, and returns gripping a single weathered gun which he slides across to the young man. “Here. For your protection. You’re no good dead. Don’t try anything funny with it though, I’m faster than I look.”

The young man swallows. “…Why are you giving me a gun?”

“Because you’ll need it for the jobs I have for you.”

“Please… I have a job already. I work in this shop already.”

“I have many more jobs for you right now. You should be grateful. You’ve had so little luck with jobs. Take the gun.”

Hesitantly, reluctantly, the young man picks up the gun. It’s heavier than he expects. But just as cold as he imagined.

“I don’t want the gun…”

“You’ll need the gun.”

“I don’t…” he hesitates. “I don’t want to do your jobs. I don’t want to be a villain. I don’t—”

The old man wheezes out a laugh. Mirth cracks on his old face. “What even is a villain? Childish word.”

“The Symbol says—”

The young man’s breath freezes in his throat, and it is not of his own doing.

“Silence, now. You talk to much. Your mother talks too much too, about you. Shopping here, all the time, for you two. Chatter chatter chatter. I like to make people quiet. It’s good for my peace of mind.”

The young man exhales forcefully. His breath comes back in gasps. His world crushes in around him.

“Now, would you like to hear about the new jobs I have for you?” the old man asks.

The young man shuts his eyes tight, and he wills, prays, hopes for this to end. And nothing answers his prayers.

“…Yes, I’d like to hear about my new jobs,” the young villain answers.

…

There is a boy who has admired the Symbol of Peace his entire life.

He plays hero in the park with his two friends every day of elementary school, even through wind and rain and snow and scorching heat. Their games are squall rescues in the rain, and avalanche missions in the snow, and desert expeditions in the heat.

Those two friends are his only two friends. They go elsewhere for middle school, and he is left alone. And his every attempt to make new friends is squashed by the bullies that have found him to be such a deliciously easy target. He endures it, he accepts it, he channels all his hope and all his faith into the Symbol of Peace. The bullies’ words hurt less when he trawls through video playlists of interviews, and motivational speeches, and candid rescues. There is no hurt, and there is no danger, and there is no unfairness where the Symbol of Peace is involved. When the boy’s parents divorce, when his dog passes on, when his grandmother gets cancer, he watches the Symbol of Peace’s interviews on loop.

The boy stops bothering trying to make friends in middle school. The enormity of the task ahead of him is too much and too important for friends. He trains alone every day during recess instead, and after school, and into the night, and early in the morning. Every pull-up is another imaginary meter scaled in a mountain rescue. Every mile run with his weighted vest is a collapsed hiker carried out of the woods. Every deadlift is raising the roof from the victim of a hurricane. Every heat-exhausted quirk honing session is another life saved.

He’s sure to smile, every time, no matter what, because one day there will be real people he rescues who need to see that smile.

He is 12 when he buys a police scanner.

It’s not a real one. More like a repurposed ham radio, rigged up to the emergency response frequencies. He purchased the radio online from a man with the username radrigs89, and the purchase eats up most of the boy’s savings. He’s heartbroken when he finds the radio does not actually pick up signals.

But he doesn’t give up. Instead the boy pours all his free time into rigging it up properly himself. He needs this to work. Because he knows from the Symbol of Peace that a true hallmark of a top hero is having stories of bravery from their middle school days.

Three months after his purchase, he strikes gold.

The raspy speakers crackle out with police chatter. He sits enraptured in his room, idling away his Friday night listening for anything nearby. Anything he could get to on his bike. Any scene that would need his quirk. Most things that comes through are traffic infractions, or noise complaints, or incidents with heroes already at the scene. The boy decides to be patient. He’ll know in his gut when the right report comes through.

Just over a week later, at 10pm on a Saturday, there is a fire twelve blocks from his home.

He is on his bike from the moment the address is relayed over the radio.

The ride over is a blur. His fingers tingle. The building is an apartment complex. The police are at least fifteen minutes away by car. There are no heroes yet on the scene.

He takes the final left too hard and wipes out, bike skidding away horizontally beneath him. He bounces up to his feet and pays it little mind, because the air has spiked hot, because the red-orange light dances and reflects in his eyes, consuming the building, consuming his thoughts. It is like a heartbeat licking inside the windows, and it compels his body to move without his mind.

Residents are crowded in the street below, pajama-clad and chilled in the night air. And he spots her – a little girl, no older than five, gripping her mother’s nightgown and wailing. The little girl has practically gone limp, held up by her balled fists in her mother’s clothing, screaming “MY BUNNY! BUNNY! WE GOTTA GO GET BUNNY!! WE GOTTA SAVE BUNNY!!!”

“We’ll buy a brand new bunny after this, okay? I promise. Brand new bunny! We can get two bunnies who are friends, I promise. I promise.”

“NOIWANTBUNNY!!!!”

The boy races over, and he crouches to the girl’s level, and he smiles. “It’s okay now! I’m here! There’s no need to cry now. I can rescue your bunny. I have a quirk just right for this! Where’s your bunny?”

The little girl blinks through her tears. “My room.”

“What apartment?” the boy asks.

“No. Dear. No please, I promise we’ll get a new bunny!”

“2…. 2-J!” the girl answers.

“HEY WAIT!” the mother yells after him, but it is too late. The boy has turned heel and run. There’s fear in his heart, sure, but heroes fight through fear. There’s a voice in his head saying “turn back!” but he has to act without thinking if he wants to rise to the likes of the Symbol of Peace. The bunny. The bunny is a life worth protecting. The little girl’s smile is a smile worth protecting.

He bursts through the front door, and he curls his fingers to activate his quirk. A chill sweeps through the hallway, dragging the air from scalding to breathable. His internal temperature ticks up just a fraction.

The stairs, only one flight. He scales it, the white floral wallpaper glowing with am amber ambiance from the flames eating the scaffolding behind it. He rounds into the hallway where the heat claws into his throat once more. Another tensing of his fingers, another activation of his quirk, another gust of chilled air. He feels his brow grow hotter in recoil.

All doors have been flung open all along the hall, including the one marked with the 2-J plaque beside it. He wastes no time entering, and hesitates only a moment as the first bare sight of fire meets his eyes. The living room is consumed, the lemon couch scorched to half a skeletal frame, the television melted unrecognizable. Aerosolized plastics, wood, and fibers assault his throat, so hot he feels he is breathing in a solid mass. It reduces him to a fit of coughing, soot taking out his sight for the moment. His fist curls, a gust of cold air blasts through, and he is breathing again. Just a bit dizzier. His forehead burns independent of the flame.

Girl’s room. Little girl’s room.

It’s easy enough to find. Pink walls, a single twin bed with frills along the skirt, circular white rug plush and soft at the dead center of the room. It’s less hot in here, by a fraction. The fire hasn’t claimed it yet.

Cage. Bunny. Rabbit. Where?

He scans the length of the room in a second, and scans it again. He expects a cage at shelf-level, and when he sees none, he scans the floor for any sign of a pen. He steps over the threshold, growing more frantic.

“Bunny!” he calls out and feels foolish for wasting the breath.

Closet, maybe. He grabs the metal handle, and recoils when the heat bites him. He wads his hand in his shirt the second time around and yanks the door open. Clothes, hangers. He sweeps everything aside and stares at a floor of shoes. Sweat trickles down his neck in rivulets. Every article of clothing sticks to him. His mouth is drying.

He sweeps his hand out, tensed into a claw. Another swirl of cold air streams through the room. He feels it in his heart this time, a slight stutter, a hotness and redness along his cheeks. His internal temperature ticks up another fraction.

“Run,” the little voice in his head says. “You’ll over-exert your quirk. You know that’s dangerous. Run.”

But he can’t. Because heroes act without thinking.

There’s a creaking overhead. It starts low and slow, almost inaudible over the hum and crackle of the fire one room over. It crescendos to a groaning, and it steals the boy’s full attention right when it hits its breaking point.

The ceiling caves, just above the doorway. Lumber and drywall and embers pour down like sand. He dodges, just in time, throwing himself sprawling on the super-heated ground such that the collapsing rubble only claims his right ankle.

The floor is burning into him. He twists, staring at his foot, staring at the entrance to the room now blockaded with debris. The fire licks about the doorway, crawling with slow, opportunistic bursts.

His lungs hurt.

“…Freeze,” he wheezes out, fingers curling, another sweep of bitter cold air bursting through the room. The momentary relief is welcome, but the lingering swell of heat in his cheeks negates it. He sees the flames stutter, and hesitate, and crawl forward again.

“Freeze!” again. A blow of icy air. A buffeting of the flames. A scorch to his cheeks heating with the quirk recoil.

He yanks on his ankle, and the lumber pinning it shifts a fraction.

“Freeze!”

He looks forward, chin pressed to the carpet. He sees it now, one floppy ear peeking out beneath the bed skirt. The fraction of space between the skirt and the floor reveals a plush face in shadow, and he sees two beady glass eyes dancing with the reflection of flames.

He’s licked with a moment of nostalgia, for the days spent playing hero with his friends. Stuffed animals had played their rescue victims so many times before. The stuffed bunny is a welcome sight, almost, it fits right into the fantasy he’d spent so many years constructing.

The other pieces don’t fit. The air licks so, so much hotter than the pretend arson rescues. The smoke is so much more choking than the fantasies in his head. Even the heat training, with the heaviest vest weights, in the peak of summer, couldn’t compare.

The Symbol of Peace never seemed bothered, even in the worst of his rescues. The Symbol of Peace never failed. Somehow, the boy had never considered failure as a possibility. Heroes just needed the courage to act, and the rest followed.

“...Freeze.”

His fingers curl. The flames reel back like a scolded animal, but linger, curious, experimental, as if testing his resolve. His face is burning up. He can’t tell how high his fever has spiked, but it’s high enough to make him drowsy. His eyelids flicker, and flutter, and it would be so much easier to let them shut.

The flames catch him dozing off, as they crawl forward with courage.

Before his eyes shut, he remembers one important thing. He smiles at the bunny.

Its wide glass eyes reflect his smile back. And even when the boy’s eyes flutter shut, the bunny’s remain open, unblinking, unseeing, dancing in the flames.

…

The Symbol of Peace mounts the stage with slow, commanding steps. The crowd that’s gathered tips into the tens of thousands, and that is not even counting those redirected to the overflow area. The people right near the front of the stage have been camping in their spots for over a day.

The applause that meets him is uproarious. He raises a gloved hand to ask for quiet, and is met only with a crescendo of hollers. They settle, eventually, as he takes his position by the podium, as he sets one white-gloved hand to the stand, and raises the microphone to his mouth with the other. The audience hushes steadily, enraptured, eager for him to speak.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out here today,” he says, and he says it with a voice that can shake oceans, and delivers it with a smile that can move mountains. “This day means a lot to me, more than I can put into words, to be so honored by all of you.” He taps the medal affixed to his chest. “To be receiving the highest honor I could have ever imagined receiving. The Lifetime Achievement in Heroics…”

Applause, stronger and more raucous than the first round, meet his ears. He lets it ring this time, while tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“I would not be here without you! I would not be anywhere near this podium without the love and patience and inspiration from all the people who believed it me when I needed it the most. I would not be 15,000 rescues into my career, and I would not be the second person to ever receive this award, if I had been traveling this path alone.”

Hoots. Hollers. Screams of “WELOVEYOU!”

“And it’s actually that first recipient of the Lifetime Achievement award who I want to talk about today, with you all. Because this day is special to me for an entirely other reason. Today marks the anniversary of the day that man – that first recipient – All Might – told me the words that set me on the path to where I stand today.” The Symbol of Peace steps away from the podium, microphone still in hand, and moves to the very front of the stage. “ ‘You can be a hero, too.’ Those words. That single sentence. Changed my life forever. I would not be here. I would not be ‘Deku’. I would not be the Symbol of Peace without them.”

He pauses for another chorus of cheers, screams and applause and celebration. His smile spreads wide, his soft freckled cheeks dimpled and scrunched high, his messy hair falling over his forehead, and it is a look that has captured an entire nation’s heart.

“So I want to take this time I have in front of you all to return the favor All Might gave me all those years ago. This is for everyone who needs to hear these words! For everyone who needs someone who believes in them! For everyone looking to do right in the world. This goes out to you!” And he lifts his microphone up high. “YOU can be a hero too!”

The audience erupts unlike anything before. Their sounds consume the very air. Together, they drown out all other noise as Deku, the Symbol of Peace, clenches his fist high in the air.

Across the nation, children are watching the television broadcast. They are enraptured. They are bright-eyed. They are making plans for what they will say on stage once they stand beside him.

Once they are all heroes too.

[watermelonlipstick]

Blood

I was thinking it might be cute to do a little moment with Sam and Dean being sweet about getting your period. It doesn’t really matter when this would take place, but I mention Dean being 34, so I guess it’s around season 8! But I think they’d be like this pretty much anytime. 

Thanks so much for reading!! I’d love any advice or critiques if you have them.

Title: Blood

Pairing: Winchesters x Reader, mostly platonic

Word Count: 974

Summary: The reader gets her period on a hunt, so Sam and Dean try to help.

Warning: mention of periods, blood, etc

gif from bilosan!

“Dude, it’s just blood. Don’t act like such a fucking virgin.”

           “I’m not acting li—I’m not getting into this with you, Dean. Can you just ask her?”

           “It’s not rocket science, college boy. Leak, plug. What’s she going to illuminate?”

           “Give me the phone,” you said, yanking it out of Dean’s hand. “Yeah, Sam?”

           His voice was tinny over the burner’s line. “So I know you usually get the ones without applicators because they’re better for the environment but I’m not seeing any here. Do you have a second choice?”

           “Whichever box is the smallest; I don’t have a ton of room in my bag.”

           “Ah, okay, got it.” You heard the faint sound of cardboard sliding along a metal shelf. “Want anything else, while I’m out?”

           “Yeah, if they have scalpels grab a couple of those, you’re giving me a hysterectomy when you get back,” you groaned drily into the cell.

           “How about gummy worms and Tylenol?”

           It wasn’t hard to imagine Sam’s smile when you only grumbled in response.

           “I’ll be back in a minute. Hang in there babe,” he said, ending the call.

           Dean was standing at the sink in the motel bathroom, trying to flatten out a defiant cowlick he’d gotten from napping in the car earlier. A wave of pain-induced nausea hit you so fast you almost didn’t have time to yank the back of his shirt to switch places with him, slamming the door behind you as you threw up into the echoes of the dated avocado green toilet.

           “Christ, it’s really that bad?” Dean called, muffled through the cheap hollow particle board.

           When you caught a breath, you answered him sarcastically. “No, I just thought yakking might be fun.” You cleaned yourself up and brushed your teeth thoroughly before going out to meet him. “It’s not always this bad, obviously. I must have some extra good karma this month.”

           Dean winced in sympathy from his new post, sitting against the headboard with his legs crossed over the length of one of the motel’s double beds. “Well, I’m sorry kid. Come here.” He patted the mattress next to himself, and you crawled in next to him to curl into the fetal position with your head on his chest. Dean wrapped an arm around you to rub firm circles into the taut-rope muscles of your lower back. The pressure helped and whatever syndicated show he was watching on the slightly fuzzy TV was just distracting enough to let you unclench your jaw.

           Sam returned a few minutes later bearing gifts. He threw the gummy worms on the other bed and deftly cracked open the small bottle of painkillers before handing it to you with a bottle of Dr. Pepper. When you’d thrown back a few, he pulled a petite box of tampons out of the plastic bag. He gave them to you, balling the bag in his palm before tossing it across the room into the wastebasket. Folding his long legs to sit opposite you on the other mattress, he braced his elbows on his knees. “Are you hungry?”

           “Always—” Dean answered, cut off by Sam’s exasperated look over your shoulder to his brother before he turned his gaze back to you.

           You unfurled yourself and sat up straight through the thick ache gripping your abdomen. “You’re sweet, but I’m not sick or anything, I’ll be fine. I don’t want you guys to think I’m a baby. Give me like five minutes and we can head out.” You grabbed the box and went to the bathroom.

           When you came out the boys weren’t suiting up like you’d expected, still where you’d left them on the plasticky paisley quilts. “It’s late, the sheriff can wait until tomorrow,” Dean said, motioning for you to refill your spot next to him. You quirked up an eyebrow in question.

           “Chinese food is on the way—got veggie lo mein and fried rice for you because I didn’t know which one you were in the mood for,” Sam offered, finally getting up to shuck off his jacket and boots.

           “Guys, come on, I’m okay.” You rifled through your duffel bag to pull out the all-purpose pumps you kept for pretending to be someone who didn’t wear work boots 90% of the time.

           “We know you are, killer. You’re forgetting who stitches your stoic ass up; you’ve got nothing to prove. Let a couple old men have a day off.”

           “You’re 34.”

           “Even more reason I need a night off, I feel like I’m 70.”

           Sam smiled at that one just as you did, tossing a beer to Dean from the minifridge in the corner. He held another up in a silent question and lobbed it when you opened your palms to catch. You looked between the brothers from next to your duffel, straining to see frustration or pity in their eyes and finding nothing as Sam crossed the room to sit opposite Dean in a few lazy strides.

           A beat of waiting didn’t help you come up with a reason to get back to work, so you kicked off the unlaced boots on your feet and cracked open the can feeling both thankful and reluctant. When you followed Sam over to the beds, you leaned over where he sat to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” you half-whispered, your voice low near his ear. His shy, empathetic half smile was all the ‘you’re welcome’ you wanted, and you flopped down onto a bed.

           When the takeout came, Sam doled out chopsticks (and a fork for Dean) and food. You stopped to think about how nice it was; how much beer, TV, salty food, back rubs, and your boys really were what you wanted, not just now but every day. Maybe not everything about being on your period was so bad.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request! Tags are always open. 

Tags: @sams-sass , @jarpadjenackles , @anxiousbarnes​ , @akshi8278​ , @whatareyousearchingfordean , @deanwinchesterswitch , @flannellover67

[michals]

Can i please kindly request something with klaus and diego? ✨

Klaus is being antisocial, which is strange for him, but then again no one seems to have noticed. This one time though he’ll let it go, everyone’s got a lot on their minds these days what with the whole world being rearranged. So he’s hunkered down on the fire escape outside of the run down boarding house Allison rumored the landlord to get, smoking and listening to his thoughts echo through his head that’s emptier than it was a day ago.

“We might not technically exist anymore but those things will still kill you,” says a voice from the open window. Diego’s head appears, giving him that disapproving look like he’s chiding a kid. Jokes on him though, Klaus is officially second oldest at this point.

“Well, considering the laundry list of things I’ve put in my body a cigarette might as well be a Tootsie Pop, mi hermano,” Klaus says, trying to sound teasing but he can hear the futility in his voice. He’s hoping Diego doesn’t.

Diego frowns harder at him, looks like he’s about to give another health class lecture but after a beat he just lets out a breath through his nose, the frown softening. He looks out across the city, studying it for a long moment. Klaus watches him out of the corner of his eye, hoping he doesn’t do exactly what he ends up doing. Diego hefts himself up over the window frame, testing the strength of the ancient fire escape before settling down with his back against the brick wall.

Klaus tries not to sigh. He’s not really the ‘sit in silence and reflect’ type, even all those years in the 60’s he’d rarely had a moment of peace with the cult around, but right now he just wants to be alone. Everyone else gets to brood, dammit.

“It’s all exactly the same,” Diego says, still looking out over the skyline. He shrugs like he didn’t just say something kind of stupid, “I mean like, the city – so far – it’s just like I remember.”

Diego would know, he’d stalked these streets for years; so did Klaus but he usually saw them through a drunken haze. “Guess our Sparrow friends also kept Valex Valex from blowing up the Sears Tower.” Klaus tries to remember that mission but doesn’t put much effort into it. If anything’s at the back of his mind it’s their old missions.

Diego’s mouth twists at the mention of the Sparrow Academy. Klaus hates that whole thing too, sort of. It’s more he hates that one specific person is in it. He blows out a smoke ring.

“It’s sunny though,” he says. Was sunny anyway, it’s 6 p.m. so the horizon’s getting dark.

“Yeah, wonder how that works,” Diego says, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s supposed to be raining.”

Klaus wonders where his umbrella is right now. “Oh, sure Five’s got the answer somewhere in that quizzical little brain of his. Any grand ideas from our young old man?”

Diego shakes his head, “Naw he’s down for the count. Finally ran outta steam.”

“Aww, poor little guy.”

Diego shoots him a look that says ‘don’t let him hear you call him that’. Then he pauses, says in a curious voice, “He was asking all of us our favorite colors.”

Klaus’s turn to pause. “…unexpected. Why? He knitting us all sweaters?”

“Somewhere between the second and third whiskey – before Allison took it away – he said something about-” he stops to think about it, like he’s not sure he heard right, “how the last time he saw us we were kids and he doesn’t really know us. This version of us.”

“Huh,” is all Klaus can say. Now that the thought’s in his head it actually makes sense. Five doesn’t really know them as adults. Even though 45 years is longer than 17 that’s still 17 years between the siblings Five knew and the ones he’s come back to. Makes sense too that this new wrinkle in their situation would make him realize that.

“What’re the results?” he asks, “What’d everyone say?”

“Allison likes pink-” Klaus hums cause that’s not surprising, “Vanya likes green. Luther likes yellow.”

“Yellow?”

“Yeah I wasn’t expecting that either. Five likes blue.”

“And? What about you?”

“Orange,” Diego says like he’s waiting for Klaus to make a comment.

But Klaus just thinks it’s funny, and fitting, that’d they’d all be different. He takes a drag on his cigarette.

“Well?” Diego asks, eyebrows raised, “Come on, what’s yours? Five passed out before he could get out here.”

“Oh ya know frère, I like all the colors of the rainbow, I can’t possibly discriminate against the others just to pick one,” there, that sounds more successfully flippant.

He purposefully keeps his eyes on the horizon cause he knows Diego’s staring him with some kind of look on his face.

“For real,” he says, his tone as gentle as it gets for him, “you’ve got one don’t you.”

Klaus breathes out more smoke. Dave’s eyes had been light blue, his dog tags are slate gray, Klaus’s favorite shirt had been yellow, that umbrella had had a pink stripe, but no, those are all wrong.

“Purple,” he says. He points over the railing towards the sunset at the melting decrescendo of the sky, at a dark royal purple strip, “that shade specifically.”

Diego stares at it with him for a while, they watch as it disappears as it gets darker out.

“We really don’t know shit about each other do we?” Diego says. He sounds annoyed by it, frustrated. “Any of us.”

Understatement of the year brother, Klaus thinks but it suddenly widens the hollow part in his heart that lingers there now. He had someone who knew him. He had someone who’d been there with him his whole life. Ben knew all his likes, his dislikes, all his secrets both dark and stupid. Klaus had taken it all for granted, more obvious now more than ever when Diego says that. The cherry on the big beautiful cake of a mess that this is is that Ben does exist, and he’d looked Klaus in the eye and had no fucking clue who he was.

Diego breaks the silence: “First year I started going out, doing the solo hero thing-” Klaus is tempted to interrupt with ‘illegal vigilante thing you mean’, “got this sucker.” He points to the scar running from his cheekbone past his hairline. “Mafia enforcer. Took him down, got him arrested, 14 stitches and 3 staples. Walked away like it was nothing. Got back to my place and fell down the stairs. Broke my leg.”

Klaus is very much full of grief and malaise but he laughs out loud.

“That night was when I met Patch actually,” Diego gives a wan smile, but none of this is lost on Klaus. Probably took a lot to admit to any of that but he looks like some kind of weight – a small one – just fell off his shoulder. Probably wanted to tell someone that stupid story for a long time, probably ever since the idea of Team Zero popped into his head.

“Allison’s gonna wanna hear that one.”

Diego blanches. He turns to Klaus. “Alright, your turn. What d'you you got?”

That is a very, very loaded request. Klaus isn’t ready to answer it. He could be glib, like always, he’s got plenty of stories like the chocolate pudding one. He can’t give anything big right now but he knows what he can say to Diego.

“You’re the only one I told about what happened with Hazel and Cha Cha.”

Diego’s brow knit together again in surprise. “Yeah?” Klaus nods. Diego goes quiet, looks at his knees like he’s taking this in. After a bit he nods.

“Thanks,” he says, all macho sincerity in his voice and eyes. Klaus gives into a smile. All different aren’t they, like their favorite colors.

Klaus’s cigarette is burning down and he takes a drag to take advantage of what’s left of it. He wishes he could just pass out like Five.

Diego seems to understand that’s enough for one night. He climbs to his feet, brushes rust particles from his pants. “Don’t stay out all night. You already lost out on the bed and couch by the way.”

Five in the bed and Klaus will bet Allison and Vanya are gonna sleep head to feet on the couch. Poor tall Luther never had a chance at either. “I’ve slept in plenty of tubs in my day. Including a nice clawfoot one in a senator’s mansion.” He points the nearly gone cigarette up at him, “There you go. There’s another one.”

Diego gives another approving smile but doesn’t ask for the story, not yet anyway. Allison will love that one too. He disappears through the window.

Klaus stays outside for another two cigarettes, after the sky’s gone dark. He thinks a whole lot and not much at all. He wishes he had something to take but he can’t bring himself to go out to find anything. Instead he picks himself up and meanders back to the room, says a half cheery goodnight and takes a throw pillow into the bathroom and settles down in the tub.

[kyberphilosopher]

Yᴏᴜʀ Qᴜᴇʀᴇɴᴄɪᴀ

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I just want you to be happy.”

Word Count: 2407

Requested: yes, by a drunk anon. they wanted rex to be happy for more than 5 minutes, so this is what i came up with. might go back and edit some more, but to be honest i’m sick of looking at the english language at this point. i hope you like it. 

a/n. heavy allusions to sex. 

Querencia. (N.)... a place where one feels safe, a place from which one’s strength of character is drawn.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

He had slept with you. He knew that for certain.

Bodies close together, he could remember the heat from it all so clearly. Heat from you, heat from him, heat from the both of you. He could close is his eyes and remember the thin layer of sweat earned from working at you. Rex hadn’t minded the work, though. In fact, he enjoyed it. He reveled in knowing you had enjoyed it as well.

During the act, Rex swore to himself he’d commit every millisecond to memory. He promised he’d think back on your warmth in hard times of battle, that he’d even attempt to see it in dreams. It was just so nice. Better than he’d been able to fathom. But he couldn’t remember if he’d been able to last one long round (which was the more unlikely option), or if he’d gone multiple, short rounds. The sensations were too intense, the arousal too heavy for him to have managed to last the time that it did- but he couldn’t remember.

You’d served together many times, and at no point has Rex heard the noises he’d been able to coax from you. He’d idolized you for your remarkable, Jedi mind. You’d led him and his men to victory on several occasions- sometimes with General Skywalker, sometimes all on your own. It hadn’t been til the Captain happened to look over at you during your first battle together, and immediately desired you.

The way you handled your lightsabers... the fluidity of your movements... Rex found it to be beautiful. He’d seen it before in other Jedi, but this was different. You were... you. And you had made the man restless with lust, overtaken with infatuation and adoration alike. Therefor Rex had fallen into either love or something like it with you, and after a rather annebriated night, he’d gotten what he wanted.

Neither of you were drunk enough to be out of your mind. Rex would never have allowed himself to take advantage of your state, but he was just as tipsy as you were. You’d spent the majority of the time together giggling and telling stories in some neon lighted Coruscant cantina to celebrate a recent victory. General Skywalker had made a rather hollow excuse to slip away to Padmé. Obi-Wan declined the offer and chosen to rest instead. The majority of the 501st had spread itself thin across the planet in search of fun. This left Rex alone with you, General Koon, and a few other soldiers.

Had Rex laughed at your joke first, or had you laughed at his? The liquor had made you feel warm and giddy, and it hadn’t taken awhile before he had held your stare for a little too long. With a few more lines of dialogue exchanged, you’d invited Rex back to your quarters.

“I’ve a few strategies I’d love to talk over with you,” you’d told him. “Just back in the Temple. Come on.”

Rex didn’t need to be told twice. Even if he had wanted to stop himself from following you and your sweet aroma, he couldn’t have. It was too enticing to turn down being alone with you. Jesse had smiled knowingly at him as he left, which somewhat spurred Rex on.

One thing led to another. Rex could only remember how hot you had felt, but not how it had started. He’d worry about recounting that part of his memory later. For the time, he’d focused on melting into you and you alone.

Eventually, the both of you tired out. The Captain would’ve kept going if not for your exhaustion, but he was quick and deciding to let you rest. He followed after you not long after.

In the night, the man woke up out of a sudden fear that it had all been a dream. He bolted upright, skin still glistening from the earlier acts. They’d only been committed approximately three hours ago at this point, but he had to be sure. He knew in the morning you would be gone, but if he could keep you from slipping away now, he would.

The Captain looked over at you. Your hair was spread out across the pillow as your cheek pressed to it. Your lips were parted slightly as you breathed in and out, complimenting the pink dust on your cheeks from the past alcohol and sweat. Your bare back was facing the ceiling, palms lazily spread out as your legs only further tangled themselves in the sheets.

Rex thought you were beautiful, even with a half alarmed, half asleep brain. The acts you had shared had been as true as they come, and so the man knew that for certain. The back of his mind was shouting that it was worse for it to be real- you were a Jedi! You were forbidden from any forms of intimacy! Oh Maker, had he been your first? On top of it all, you were his superior! The level of inappropriateness was insurmountable!

But the Clone decided he’d deal with it at morning. Slowly, as not to wake your divine form, he scooted closer to you. His right hand reached out to pull you towards him with a bit of a roll. Then you collapsed against his broad chest easily, still soundly snoozing away.

Rex kept his arm around you firm. While you were out cold, the city system was wide awake and bustling, and Rex let the distant sounds of wind and speeders alike lull him back into a similar state of sleep.

The man was right, though. You weren’t there when he woke up.

The arm that was so tight around you in sleep was now limp on the bed. He had gone to squeeze it to make sure you hadn’t been taken, only to find air and sheets in your place. 

The man’s golden eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the particles of dust he could see in the rising sunlight. Your suite was quiet, and the glass of the window behind him blocked out the noise of the world. Rex rather appreciated things that were soundproof, because sometimes if he closed his eyes for too long, he would remember the noisiness of war. 

Your bed was the most comfortable he had ever slept on. Back on Kamino, he and his brothers grew accustomed to sleeping in pods. During times of active duty, he spends most of his nights in a cot, on the floor, or on a slab. But your mattress was firm but soft, able to work out the knots of his back with no trouble at all. The deep red sheets were smooth as silk, with plenty of soft pillows to nestle your head into. Though now, all but two pillows were strewn across the floor. 

Rex sat himself up. He took the right side, you took the left. His head rolled over the window that was previously given a view of his back. Floor to ceiling, stretching from wall corner to wall corner. Being an important figure in the Republic certainly had it’s perks, it seemed. Yours was the view. Skyscrapers climbed higher and higher the farther he looked, and all sorts of transports zipped and zapped as they tried to beat the growing sun. The light cast orange shadows into the room, and made Rex’s eyes appear golden. 

But despite all this, Rex couldn’t relax. Your leaving before he woke up meant something. It meant you thought the night was a mistake. It meant you didn’t want to see him again. Rex was right for holding you as tightly as he did. At least because of that, he knew it was real. 

If you came back to your room, would you throw him out? Would you yell at him? Accuse him of taking advantage of your tipsy state? It was foolish of him to assume he would come close to any semblance, of happiness, wasn’t it? Last night was the closest thing he would ever get, but of course nothing gold can stay. 

You would be furious. This makes the Captain sigh and sink further against the board. Of all the foolish people he’d come across- clankers, seppies, fellow brothers- he was the biggest fool of them all.

Silently and slowly, you appear before him. Just at the other end of the room, by a doorway that led to your bathroom. A cream color towel was draped around your form, but it didn’t matter. Rex had already committed you to memory. He could see the dark bruises he’d been nervous about marking you with across your breasts, up your collarbones, and trailing around your neck. The sunlight hadn’t reached you yet, but if it did, you would’ve been just as golden as the Captain’s irises. 

“Good morning,” he said with disbelief. His eyes were wide- shocked you were here still. He was glad for it, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be kicked out. His lips were beginning to feel more dry and chapped as his anxiety grew. 

You didn’t look furious. “Good morning, Captain,” you said calmly. A shadow of a smile danced on your lips calmly. “I just went to shower. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh,” Rex said, eyes still wide. “Oh. Right.”

You hold his gaze a second longer before starting towards the window. Your feet patter against your floor. Skin becomes lightened in the sun so you appear to be glowing. Rex can partially see your back, and get a glimpse of a mark he had made on your shoulder blade. He could faintly remember giving that one, but the memory was hot and blurred together by sweat. 

You were looking out the window. Observing the metropolitan city before you. Your intelligent eyes were flitting everywhere, working a click a minute. “Do you want breakfast?” you asked, eyes not shifting over to the man until your sentence was done. “We can go out to a diner near here, or I can make something. Not a very good cook, though.”

What? What was this? No yelling. No noticeable anger. You hadn’t immediately told him to leave. You hadn’t woken him up to shout. You were instead asking if the man wanted to stay a while longer with you. This must’ve been a dream. Perhaps Rex had been mistaken, and it actually wasn’t real. 

“I don’t understand,” he said aloud. 

You flash a quick smirk at him calmly, exhaling as though it were obvious. “Well you must be hungry,” you said. “And I have the credits.”

“You’re not going... to make me leave?”

You turn to him fully. Your eyebrows furrow together softly in a sort of confusion. “Now why would I make you do that?”

Rex’s heart gives a sudden pound. He feels something catch in his throat and his skin grow hot. In contrast, his veins feel cold as ice. 

“Rex,” you say softly, almost like a whisper. Your eyes glow, skin covered in all the hickeys he had given on you. “I don’t want you to go.” Then the hand clutching the towel to you tightens and clenches around the knuckles. “Unless you want to go.”

“No,” he says immediately. He sits up straighter, rustling the sheet draped over his legs. Rex’s body is perked up in alarm now, anything to prove your words wrong. “I just thought that you would think last night was a mistake.”

“I don’t think it was a mistake. Do you think last night was a mistake?”

Maker, the way you look at him. “No,” Rex says, completely entranced. “No, General. I don’t think last night was a mistake.”

Your lips curve into a smile. Your eyes are shining. Rex has been a lot of places in his life, with a lot of people. Nothing and no one compares to how beautiful you look right at this moment. Not even the radiating sun or the distant, blinking neon lights. 

The hand around your towel loosens enough to make the cloth slip from you. It falls to the floor in a puddle by your feet. 

You’re naked again. You’re naked in front of a giant window so anyone flying by could see, but Rex is the only one of them who really matters. He’s important to you. Rex isn’t just a Clone, or a soldier, or the best Captain in the world. He’s not a master of blasters, a drinking buddy, or even a one night stand. He’s a friend, a companion, a lover, even. 

He’s taken aback by the revelation. How many people in his life had told him that he hadn’t mattered in the slightest? How many people had made him feel that way? You weren’t one of them. This made Rex feel something more than happiness, which was a bit of a big step for the man. He may have never felt happiness for this long in his entire life. 

He deserves it. 

Rex climbs out of bed peacefully, not daring to lose eye contact with you. He’s naked too, but all he can think about is you. It’s real. There’s no competition, no way of changing his mind. The normal, raging and torn up storm in his chest is completely obliterated. Replaced instead by something much more calm and welcoming and loving. It’s odd and new to him, but Rex wants to get used to it. 

He holds you tight. Not as tight as all those hours ago- there’s no need to now. He knows you won’t disappear because he has your word. Your hands snake around his back, raking over the shadows of scratch marks you’d left the previous night. His thumb smooths over the bruise on your shoulder blade. 

He’s taller than you, so it’s easy to rest your head against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, and he can feel yours. If you stayed like this long enough, they would sync up rather quickly, giving the truthful illusion that they were the same. 

So you stood there together, in front of all of Coruscant to see, holding each other tightly as your naked forms melted together, for the second time. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I finished this one quickly, but the english in it was difficult for me. Why is sink and sync spelled differently...? Whatever. Reader has a fire pussy. 

Taglist: @omg-we-really-doo​ @haztory​ @chokemeanakin​ @fanficsforheartandsoul​ @anakinswhore​ @.drunkanon :) is that everyone?

[weeb-stomper]

Motels

Mirio Togata x F!SexWorker Reader

Prompt: “I’m tired of being your secret.”

Word Count: 1,404

A/N: I thought, the prompt usually makes people think that there’s a half in the relationship begging for love and so I did a little subverting of that. Sorry, it’s pretty angsty. Also, I felt like this piece was a lot more about reader than it was about Mirio, so he’s not actually really in it outside of reader’s thoughts.

@reinawritesbnha Haha, I feel like this is maybe not your normal type of fic but I’m really kinda proud of how this turned out and wanted to share with you.

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     You’ve always hated motels. The horrendous patterns of the carpets that never seem to change no matter where you go, the stale air that never freshens despite the open windows, the dirty sheets that smell like the hundreds of people who have abused them no matter how many times they’ve been washed. You hate the artificial swirls and patterns that cover the ceiling in every room and the judgemental eyes of the desk workers who have come to be familiar with your presence. You share a moment of awkward eye contact with the woman behind the counter tonight as you collect the small room key, not missing the pitying look in her eyes and the sad smile that takes her lips. Your finger traces the large number eighteen emblazoned on the plastic tag, and you huff out a mirthless laugh.

     “Key to misery…” you mumble to her, turning on your heel to head towards your prison cell for the evening.

     Your fingers trace along the sparsely decorated walls, occasionally catching against a raised edge of the peeling paint. The smell of the dingy hall was gag-inducing, memories of your history in any given one of these disgusting rooms flooding your mind despite your efforts to knock them back, and your forward progress halts. You can see it up ahead. The dirty white door set into the wall accompanied by the dimly shining bronze eighteen drilled to the wall beside it. Breathing isn’t so easy at the moment, knowing that as soon as you step into that room the waiting game begins. Your now-long hair tickles the small of your back, kickstarting your nerves once more, and your heart hurts.

     Taking a shuddering breath, you teeter forward, falling into an uneven gait. The soreness in the soles of your feet radiates up your calves, the strappy black heels having long since blistered your feet through the thin black nylon tights that clung to your skin. Slipping the key into the lock, you take one last look at the nightmarish halls that surround you before slipping through the door and locking yourself into your nightly cage. 

     You forgo the lights, opting instead for one moment longer of semi-peace. One extra minute of not being able to see your reality, and you could indulge in the fantasy of being literally anywhere else. Crossing the small room to the far left corner, you drop your bag into the padded chair that resided there. It was a terrible muddy yellow color, musty from overuse and under-cleaning, and (for tonight) home to a large bag of gifts from your client. A grimace mars your face as you pull out an intricate black-lace teddy, laying it out on the bed before slipping off your thick black coat. The cool air of the room stings against your previously shielded skin as you continue undressing, removing your shirt and folding it carefully before placing it, along with your skirt and jacket, inside the cheap particle board dresser drilled into the wall below the cheap and old tv. There’s something calming about separating your personal belongings from the job you do. Like locking your personality inside an industrial safe and exchanging it for the illustrious mask you don for the sake of the people who seek you out in the darkest hours of the night,

     You cast a side-long glance at the old digital alarm clock sat on the simple bedside table. 8:52 flashes back at you in angry red lettering. Eight minutes to prepare before the ever-so punctual hero arrives to inadvertently destroy what little sense of ease you’ve managed to scrape together in the days since your last meeting. You’ve seen others since you last met him, but he was always the worst. Maybe because he’s a hero. Maybe because you know how truly sadistic he is behind that golden smile. But most likely because he demanded things be so extraordinarily personal. He treated every meeting with you like a beautiful secret meeting between a count and his mistress, cloaked in darkness and complete with loving embraces and chaste kisses before a teary departure. Forcibly disconnecting from your internal monologue, you turn back to the lacy article resting gingerly on the bed below you. 

     The scratchy material of the lingerie gouges canyons in your skin as it slides up your legs to settle across your torso, and a chill of a different kind tears through your muscles. Wearing the gifts was never pleasant, the sheer material writhing you in a permanent sense of discomfort, but there was something especially terrifying about tonight. You knew him well enough now to know that he’d been gearing up to something bigger than normal, and your instincts were screaming that tonight was the night it would culminate into whatever he’d been planning. Those thoughts, however, were for later. Now is the time for preparation, for rebuilding the mental barriers that he insists on tearing down every. Single. Time. Time to guard the parts of you that you’d rather not share and the words that you’d rather keep to yourself.

     The smell of oranges turns your stomach. He loves the smell of oranges and had bought you his favorite version of the scent to coat the room before he appears for his evening visits. A generous spray for each pillow and blanket, pull back the sheets to spray the mattress, mist the doorway as per request. You can hardly control the rising bile in your throat, but you manage to choke it down. In a way it makes sense for him to seek the scent of oranges. It’s like a child reaching for a security blanket, a man seeking solace in the scent of summer. Fitting for the someone who “shines like the sun”, as his friends tell the news reporters in interview after interview. Lazily strolling to the large bag, you almost laugh. Your hand snakes inside, gripping the leather bound handle of your least favorite gift. A long, eight tailed braided flogger. Your fingers trail along the name etched into the handle, the weight of it amplified by the memory of the heavy strikes it’s performed on your skin time and time again.

     Laying the weighty toy across the foot of the bed you take one last look at yourself in the cloudy mirror on the wall. Hair frames your face in a way that you’ve come to hate, in a hairstyle that he’s picked out for you. A long braid down your back that swings just so when you walk. You don’t understand why he always insists on it, he’s only going to rip it to shreds 20 minutes from his arrival. Sitting gently on the bed, your shoulders slump forward, and you remember better times. Being small, running through parks and playgrounds with friends and family, your feeling the wind rush through your short hair. The feeling of that smile stretching and splitting the chapped skin of your lips. You’d grown out your hair when he’d asked you to. The pay was too good to refuse. You miss your short hair.

     A hollow feeling slams against your weary bones as a knock sounds at the door. Your eyes shoot to the clock. 9 o’clock on the dot it screams at you, dread settling deeply in your bones. You rise from your spot on the bed and walk languidly to the door. You can almost watch the mask fall over your face as a sensual smile slides onto your lips, a foreign and bizarre sensation. The door clicks open and there he stands. Looming impossibly tall above you, golden blond hair swept back and away from his face. The piercing blue of his eyes rakes up and down your body in an appraising gaze, a certain softness to his face that you knew better than anyone to be as false as the love he claims for you. He offers you a hushed greeting as he steps inside the room, pressing a small bouquet into your hands that is identical to every other he’d ever brought, right down to the bright yellow ribbon tied around the stems. You watch him as he approaches the bed, pulling his shirt off before lifting the play thing from amongst the bunched sheets. You can already feel the merciless strikes against your skin as the door closes to seal you in for the evening.

     You’ve always hated motels.

[ezywud]

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Top Material: Prelaminated Particle Board of thickness 25 mm with 2 mm PVC Edge Banding Tape.

Sizes - 1200 X 600 mm D X 25 mm Thickness Front, Side Partition Material: Aluminum Panel of thickness 45mm (Hollow section) with 5 mm Plain Glass with desired fasteners and fixtures in this image with 9 + 9 mm Prelam particle board fixed in Hollow section under tabletop with 2-way cable raceway one under tabletop and one at bottom.

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