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springsmile · 2 years ago

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over my shoulder || 01

18+ | h. shinso x f. reader

series masterlist

warnings: non-con, smut, pre-established trauma (r*pe), extreme anxiety/paranoia, victim blaming/shaming, abuse of prescriptions, self harm, suicidal ideation, disassociation, negativity around hospitalization, violent intrusive thoughts, kidnapping, murder, specific reader characterizations, manipulation, anorexia/bulimia allusions

** reader’s quirk is enhanced senses. upon activation, emotions and sensations are pretty much exacerbated. reader never learns how to channel or control it to its full potential, only to turn it on and off.

you would not walk out that door without a sense of pride toward your makeup application. you could decisively say the wings of your eyeliner were not up to par. if you paused now, the only thoughts your mind would be able to conjure would be ones of how one wing is pointing downward, the other seemingly kissing your brow, one bulky, and the other thin.

you’re late. so, so late. you know you won’t get in trouble, per se, but your pay would dip under what you’d estimated for the week, which was irritating in itself. you tell yourself it’s worth sparing yourself a smidge of the humiliation that accompanies leaving the walls of your apartment.

like every other day, it takes the realization that you have 10 minutes to get to your job that requires a 25 minute commute to narrow your eyes at the mirror on your desk, reflecting some unsightly black smudges framing your plain eyes. you had to admit that it was better than nothing, but nothing was just that— nothing. without the black you were disgusting, but with it… you guess that made you… palatable? nothing worth coveting, yet also not a sight which averted gazes. perfect for you.

beside you, your phone vibrates, and you feel the reverberations through the desk intensely. you jolt, silently cursing yourself and imagine a broken dam, water pouring from each crack and cranny. then, you imagine it all sealed up, halting the circulation… now, the lack thereof. that’s how you shut your quirk off; you’ve returned to your regular state of a hammering heart and sweaty palms.

your apartment complex is exactly what someone would envision upon estimating to them your pathetic salary. you worked at a bookstore, after all. it wasn’t exactly like you were some front-line worker, providing a necessary labor. you couldn’t complain. it was livable, nothing to sneeze at.

it’s cement—cold granite. the railings were once painted black and peeling, and your door had gaping orifices where its wooden fragments once laid. the apartment itself was dinky. you cleaned it consistently and decorated with a modest charm, but the odor of dampness was lingering in every corner. the complex was borderline ancient, built before the invention of the elevator, but it was at least a place you could pleasantly call home. ‘bad neighborhoods’ were hardly ever indicative of the tenants who lived inside the units.

you walk to work, having been fortunate enough to lease somewhere close enough to a place you liked working at. the other jobs were nothing short of disarray— inadequate managers hiring you on the spot during interviews out of desperation, and a disorienting lack of organization. needless to say, you were content at the bookstore.

currently, you’re conjuring scenarios that do nothing to soothe the thrumming of your heart, slamming against the cream cable sweater you’d thrown on in a haste to cover the largest of your insecurities—the vision of a car skidding off the street and plowing into your form, leaving fragments of your brain matter splattered into the pavement. next, you think of the thinnest, fresher piece of paper slicing your eye in two. now, you’re cringing. it’s replying in your mind over and over again. you swallow a wad of glue in your throat, eyes raking in your surroundings for a distraction.

a stray cat. it trills softly at you. you somehow manage a smile, and glance at your phone before deciding you could briefly pet the kitty.

its fur is a pure black, the kind that enveloped your eyes with a stark intensity when you shut the curtains, turned off the tv, and closed your bedroom door with the lights off. you’d always forget to turn on your fairy lights. it would making your eyes hum, an invisible pressure pushing downward, but it was pleasantly dissimilar this time.

its eyes are a gem-like amber, and they glisten in the waxing morning sun. you liked the shape of its pupils. almost a rhombus, softened at the edges, wide and dilated. you assumed it was happy, and that made you a little happy too.

you eventually pass a group of teenage girls, and you inadvertently shrink into yourself, chest seized with panic as they pass. you could’ve sworn they threw you a glance, eyes maliciously narrowed. your mouth goes dry when they crane their necks back and let out a shallow laugh.

you glance down at yourself once they’re out of your peripherals. your opaque tights were suddenly friction against your legs. itchy. you can’t even be upset at your fleeting elation.

with shaky fingers pinching the fabric, hoping for some surface-level relief, you realize you’ve reached the store. you pull on the dangling pieces of your backpack straps—the ones that tighten—and exhale as the padding presses to your armpits. tight and secure.

“morning, (y/n)!” you co-worker flashes you a radiant grin from behind the register, before you can will your lips to curve and feel that uncomfortable stretch in your cheeks, she’s back to bagging a customer’s purchases.

you sigh, locating one of the empty computers to punch your numbers in on.

“excuse me.” someone coughed at you. you raise your eyes ever so slightly, but zero in on the space beneath their eyes and though above the apples of your cheeks. they’re very tanned, and their skin is dry and rough.

“i need help finding a book, it’s called—“

“i’m sorry,” you interject timidly, interlocking your fingers with tight, white knuckles. it’s the only way you knew how to steady your composure. “i’m not clocked in yet, and i need to put my things away. i can grab someone to help you right now, though?”

he stares at you indignantly, with a pompous upward tilt of his chin. he’s looking down at you from his nose. your stomach does a 360 flip, and you’re bloating. absolutely sick.

“you work here, don’t you? you’re supposed to help a paying patron when they ask you for help.” he continues in disdain. you think of several quips, witty remarks that could maybe patch up your dignity that this man was so indelicately chipping away at. “i guess i can’t expect much from people like you. always so lazy. i see you all hanging around, talking. tch, whatever. thanks for nothing.”

he whips around and saunters away. you blink. the exchange hadn’t been fully registered and processed in your brain.

you know with utmost certainty that you’d soon be rendered to a hunched over, teary heap in the break room. and although the cancellation of your quirk hindered all emotions for an unspecified length of time, you could feel the onslaught of twinges racking your heart. and then, you find yourself trudging to break room in lethargy. you had nightmares again last night, having been jolted awake by your own tremors and cold beaded sweat dotting every conceivable part of your body. you’d had to shower. showering wasn’t fun for you.

you tried to relish in the knowledge that your lunch break was within the next two hours! whoopie! you wouldn’t let yourself eat, though. hoisting your achy feet onto those rigid metal chairs would be revitalizing enough.

when you find yourself on the sales floor again, you start for the customer service desk. as you had observed that there’s someone patiently waiting there, their fingers idly drumming on the worn wood. you half smile. maybe they wouldn’t give you an earful of all of their inconveniences that didn’t pertain to you. that’d be nice.

“hi! sorry to keep you waiting.” you flash your well practiced ‘how can i help you today, valued customer?’ smile.

it’s another man, and you instinctively lower your gaze to that spot on his face that quells the exacerbating effects of your quirk. if you’d been taking in the whole of his countenance, perhaps you would have noted the abrupt shift in his eyes, insisted that a manager was calling you on your earpiece. you’d seen that look a lot. and when you did catch sight of it, it reminded you of high school, and that alone was enough to make you bail out— potentially, clock out early.

“hi, i was just looking for books on renting trucks? i’m looking to make a business out if it.” he smiles crookedly.

you pause, lips pressed in a tight, thin line. renting trucks? how the fuck were you supposed to search for a book like that?

“i’ll try, but no promises.” you swallowed, fingers licking the key caps hastily. you wanted to close this exchange as quickly as you could. then you could busy yourself with a task that didn’t require your deteriorating social skills.

“it’s weird, i know.” he chuckled. it felt pernicious in nature to you, and you certainly didn’t appreciate his attempt to revive the conversation. your palms were growing balmier by the second.

“nah, not weird. i’m just not sure how to search for it on here.” you half-lied, furrowing your brows at the search results. there were a myriad of titles relating to trucks, but you couldn’t conceive why someone would write a how-to on renting them to people, let alone why this man would want to reference one, instead of an article online. needless to say, you were having trouble schooling your expression. if that face you spent hours on contorting to perfection in the mirror were to falter, everything would be shot straight to hell. you couldn’t handle a nasty disagreement breaking out at the unbridled twitch of your eye.

“ah, i get’cha. let me see.” and without leaving any room for dissent, or breathing, he’s leant over the counter. very much invading your personal space, and very much violating company policy.

your mouth quivers at the corners, attempting to form phantoms of phrases you should’ve had the spine to utter. the poignance of his cologne has long invaded your nose, a more mature scent, one reserved for a man of his age. perhaps three times that of yours. get away get away get away.

he straightens, offering you a complacent yellowed grin. “i don’t really get that program you use, but i’m guessing you don’t got what i’m looking for?”

“correct, sorry about that.” you tell him stiffly. you swear his breath was sticky, humid, and clinging to the skin of your neck. you suppress a shiver.

“no problem, darlin’. i was just lookin’ for a side hustle, ‘cause i work in law enforcement and i wanted to hop onto that business owner bandwagon.” he’s not rambling, he’s not making small talk—he wants your attention. he wants you to engage, and he wants you to be interested. this is all sickeningly apparent to you as you fumble to select your next words. you know you’d have to humor him only slightly; blatant indifference could be interpreted as aggression and get you a strike. you didn’t need any more of those.

“oh, that’s pretty cool. my dad works in law enforcement.” you reply softly, praying that your inauthentic interest would be apparent to him. though, men are either willingly or inherently stupid, you learned. the gentleman before you was no exception.

“aw, yeah? what city?”

fuck fuck fuck fuck!

you’re left scrambling, mouth gaping, dry and full of sand. you feel every artery in your body painfully pulsate and flush against your skin, pleading to be torn free and relieved, and remind you that you’re alive and you feel like you’re gonna die. you don’t even know if you have the capacity to deactivate your quirk right now—you felt like you deserved this; you practically instigated the conversation—stupid!

it doesn’t occur to you to lie—yet another vulgar display of your absentmindedness. you tell him the truth, and to add further insult to injury, you’re unable to distract yourself from his slippery gaze. they held little regard, and revealed each deplorable thought with the blink of his eye. it was dehumanizing. the way his cheeks were carved into this smile that failed to accentuate his duchenne markers. your next move is a grave error, one that, if your head was in its right place, you wouldn’t have contemplated. looking into his eyes—the skin is flat, his eyes are visible, unobstructed and—you know that much. he’s not really smiling.

“i’m sorry, i can’t stop looking at you. you’re so beautiful.”

twitching uselessly at your sides, your hands come to fist your sweater, now damp from the slickness encasing your hands. the wool catches your sweat and sucks it in. much like the breaths slipping in and out of your aching lungs. the balmy air clings to the walls, perhaps as terrified as you were, before being ripped from their sanctuary and nakedly thrust into the open.

“thank you.” you gushed? you attempted to. the keyboard before you was littered with varying puddles of sweat. you didn’t appreciate the dampened wool prickling your torso. it felt like tv static, the feeling when you’d hover your fingertips in front of, and this inconceivable force would kiss and lick your skin. you’re privy to each and every sensation that your being can house, the overload was almost too much, you’d had to search deeply within yourself and pull out what you could.

“here, take down my number.” he’s offering, that smile never leaves his lips nor meets his eyes, but you could center yourself again. it’s okay. he’s sweating exorbitantly, unabashedly clinging to his armpits. you would laugh in a normal circumstance.

stiffly, you reach for a sticky note and a pen. you’re pushing both toward him with your index finger, deliberately dodging the potential of contact—he’s grasping your hand tightly. you gasp and there’s bile searing your esophagus.

“it’s nice to meet you…” he references your name tag with a brisk glance as though his eyes hadn’t been raking in your entire figure for the duration of your exchange. “(y/n). your name is also beautiful.”

you’re only able to smile and nod.

“it’ll break my heart if you don’t text me, you know?” he chuckles lightly, but his tone is anything but. he anticipates your compliance, he thinks he’s subdued you into contacting him, or perhaps he’s genuinely convinced that he somehow charmed you into pursuing a relationship with him. he’s wrong.

as soon as his dubious eyes leave your vicinity, you take the sticky note into your hand, and with what remains of your strength, squeeze it. the edges are sharpened at the pressure, like thorny rose stems. they press into the joints of your fingers, but you don’t mind. by the time it’s released from your grasp, it’s like paper-mache.

lunch had trudged into your hour slot like an unyielding horse, unwittingly dragged along. your elation is muted, but palpable. it’s not like you were going to use it for its established purpose, anyway. you’d nap in the break room, preparing to flip-flop from position to position in those awful metal chairs, terrified that you’d reclined too deeply and slump onto the floor.

you can never sleep though. not really. it’s this hellish limbo. a plane where it could be argued that you were conscious, or that you were asleep. the sibling of sleep paralysis.

without a single breath between the back of your eyelids and the sudden shrill blaring, your nerves are electrified. and your body, with some newfound cognizance, snaps you upright. eyes blearily darting to and fro for danger, or the subject of your overstimulation, you find nothing but the alarm on your phone. the force of its vibrations have it circling with intense shutters. you hit stop.

your phone jerks to life again, screen flashing your generic wallpaper at you. there’s a notification lingering below the time display, a segment from some big shot newspaper. beneath the headline is some excruciatingly pretentious action shot of a hero; one with indigo tresses that were suspended in the hair, and bandages like tentacles unfurling from around his neck. the headline reads:

Villainous Quirk Saves the Day! 20 Lives Saved With a Single Word.

you can’t say your interest was piqued.

another day, another victim.

you hate leaving from the back exit. while it was designated for employees, some exclusive perk you should be immeasurably grateful for, it wasn’t afforded the same glare from the floodlights the adjacent parking lot was. comparatively, it was doused with light.

you’re one of the last to leave, the manager on duty singled you out and made you count the money in the registers. you’re horrible at keeping track at the tens and twenties, and not to mention your unwavering uneasiness. you hadn’t recovered from that unseemly encounter.

you’ve snugly positioned the various keys slid onto the ring between your fingers. they’re like claws—extracted kitty claws—and you’re prepared to drive it into some sicko’s chest at a moment’s notice.

ensuring the receiving room door had softly clicked shut behind you, you started off into the direction your quaint apartment complex resided. it takes less than a second for the hair on your arms and neck to flare up, and it’s even sooner your skin is forcibly aware of the sinister warmth of a hand—irrefutably larger than your own—locked onto your shoulder.

your instinct is to look over your shoulder. you suppress it, and instead tighten the grip on your the makeshift weapon, jutting out with an unparalleled menace.

you whirl around and swing, right for his sternum. you make contact, but its not hard enough. you’re not sure if it was the velocity that fell short, or if it was the puny strength that accompanied the strike that sealed your blunder. either way, he’s far from incapacitated. in fact, he’s enraged. you can feel the corona of his fury, it’s radiant and extending.

“i know that you had a long day, babe, but you couldn’t sneak a text in at all?”

his own clip is hard enough. it’s aimed straight at your gut, and it makes contact with more than the surface of your stomach. you think your intestines may have just been introduced to your kidneys. you splutter around that familiar acid.

you’re unable to cradle your belly as you’re plunged into another agonizing sensation. the uneven bricks—some ugly, stupid stylistic design—are cutting into the skin on your back.

“we can make this easy, or hard. i’m good either way, so the choice is yours, sweetheart.” this smile, wicked and conscienceless, begins in his eyes instead. they were more terrifying than the split of his lips. his hands, callous and aged, descend down your sides, pushing your panties and waistband of your jeans aside so he can clutch your bare hips. this terror, this terror you know all to well, the one that seized you when you awake from the most heinous dream, the same one almost every night when you’re transported back to high school, back to the shaming and the touching and the crying and—

this.

“please don’t do this.” you mutter, now your tongue is immobile. limp and numb in your mouth. some thick, wet deadweight that pulls you down to the soles of your feet. you wish your punch had been that heavy.

“man, i thought you’d be wrigglin’ by now. looks like you want it just as bad. i didn’t take you for a needy slut, (y/n).”

you flinch, flitting images and snippets of sound rush before you and climb into your muscles; ensuring your helplessness. you were very well-acquainted with that term.

you think it might hurt less, this time, if you pretend you’re not there. shallow-gazed, the darkness of the night blanketing the sky and presenting a comfortingly warm veil over your eyes. chin craning up, pointing to the north star.

he makes quick work of your jeans, they’re crunching around your ankles, as denim and fluid motion do not coincide. you fucking hate it. it’s almost as scratchy as the voices screaming at you from within the steel walls of your head, flailing and slamming on all sides, begging you to cry for help, begging you to turn your quirk back on, so maybe you’ll feel something, some terror, and leap into action. it’s growing weaker by the second, and you’re clamping your thighs shut as he growls a curse at you.

“what do we have here?” a voice from the dark muses. you might even say it held a semblance of amusement. ah, yet another sick fuck to partake in your humiliation.

“fuck off man, we’re just having some fun. we ain’t hurting anybody, isn’t that right, baby?”

the silence spoke for itself, you guess.

the anonymous gentleman, evading your line of sight, effortlessly conquers your assailant. you expect some cringey catchphrase, a declaration of victory or defeat, maybe some name calling, but you can’t hear anything but the boiling hot blood circling your ears.

you don’t need to see him to know from the shuddering groans and shallow gasps of air and pleading and promises of atonement (never directed at you) that tear from his mouth, that your savior was well-versed in combat. you don’t even try to conceal your chuckle, one that ascends your throat wryly and produces some stinging pain. a hero.

“walk down to the police station, and confess.” these words were unlike the ones he posed in his prior inquiry. the contrast, though, couldn’t be placed. the man who nearly became the brand new subject of your nightmares, heeds. face blank, eyes stoney and vacant. there’s no resistance, no more pleading or crying. it reminded you of the instantaneous numbness that sweetly enveloped you when you patched up that dam in your mind. then he’s languidly walking in opposite direction. it’s unsurprising that he knows the route.

now, you’re the object of the hero’s attention. and to your dismay, you quickly discern that he’s the hero with the villainous quirk. the very same that backhandedly glorified him in the article.

“that’s rude.” you mumble.

his staring persists, a muted violet with hollow pupils. you’d always heard that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, but upon your unwitting contact, you were compelled to judge that he was soulless.

the observation was brief enough to settle that the movement couldn’t have been misconstrued for eye contact.

“w-what?” you blurt, eyes cast at the asphalt in shame. you often took solace in the fleetingness of passerby gazes—even that of people your age. regrettably, you could feel the judgement, the assessment, and the heat of his prodding eyes.

“nothing. i was just thinking about how you never screamed once. i never heard you ask for help.” he reveals with an unabashed curiosity seeping into his tone. yet, the sentiment was lost on his eyes.

yeah, well, years of guilt and torment will do that to ya.

“i… didn’t think anyone would come to help.” you admitted quietly, your hand is wrapped around your forearm so tightly, you were beginning to lose feeling. at some point, your quirk had activated inadvertently. the static-y tingles envelope the skin.

“really. how come?”

the shift in his tone was… nothing of note. so slight, so easy to miss, but perceivable, nonetheless, if you willed yourself to observe it. the effort was not something that came naturally to you. most people were none the wiser, and you were no exception. as far as your ears had gathered, he was speaking plainly.

“i don’t expect anyone to act selflessly. not even heroes. no one’s ever helped me when things like… this happen.” things you’d never bothered sharing with anyone were unfiltered as they left your tongue, and you’re flummoxed. where went your restraint and trepidation?

your eyes are still cemented to the floor. and the hero, though intrigued, was growing tired of your hesitance.

“you could look me in the eyes when you thank me, at least.”

your breath escapes you at his unexpected audacious tone. but you know you’re in no position to chastise someone, as unsolicited as it was, who did in fact come to your rescue.

the air staggers in your trachea, slinking upside and downside the membrane as your eyes reorient themselves. they’d been fixed on the asphalt. your mary janes. and the intentional design of the boots strapped to his feet. the light above your ankles was disconcerting—having attrited the cordiality you found in what wasn’t another person.

unwittingly, bound to fulfill what was the edict of gratitude and respect in society, you lift your head, your sight following closely behind.

upon contact, your own vision sways, and you don’t know if the fault lay in the fatigue militating your uprightness, or the interference of cohesion in your head.

all at once, his voice becomes softer, and his face contorts from that laidback, complacent grin and relaxes entirely. almost tranquil. you’re not sure about his eyes though. for all your lack of skill in all areas concerning social reciprocity, you were excellent at avoidance. you could spent a very comfortably and fulfilled lifetime without staring anyone in the eye.

you weren’t sure if you could hold it together if you saw pity swirling around those murky irises.

“that was a joke. a bad one.” he says, it’s an apology without the proper structure. you’d take it. you didn’t know him, and you were set on having it remain that way. you’re hoping you become another faceless civilian in the cloud of enthusiastic praises, extensions of gratitude, love admissions, and just unremarkable people. you hope you’re another random headstone in a cemetery that people pass and never consider the bones beneath the soil, what they were composed of. you want to stop this charade of the assessment of your well-being, one supposedly conducted out of compassion, and go home and scrub your skin raw.

“you can skip the pleasantries. i don’t need any services. i’m going home. thanks for your help.” you say quickly, and when you leant over to scoop the contents of your purse into your hands, you found that the hero had beaten you to the punch.

“i’m shinso hitoshi.” he says as amicably as he can muster. the artificiality isn’t difficult to see through. he offers you your purse, palm outstretched where the strap laid loosely. you watch the mole under his eye as you regard him.

the data is before your eyes, yet you couldn’t construe it one way or another.

the metal toes of his boots point at you, and his eyes flit across the features of your face, mapping the expanse— it’s absolutely unnerving.

you couldn’t read his body language, gauge his facial expression, or even bear to allow the intermingling of your gazes.

“it’s nice to meet you, i’m (y/n).” you weren’t going to disclose any obvious identifiers, leaving you susceptible to a breach of privacy. your last name wasn’t necessary in this introduction— one you prayed would soon reach its conclusion.

he breathes a chuckle; your disinterest is painstakingly apparent, comically so.

“well… (y/n), i really insist; let me take you home. walk you. what just happened was… a lot. i’d bet you’d feel safer if—“

“you’d lose.” you snipped quickly. “i’ll go now. thank you again, sir.”

you now your head, intentionally at a higher decline, avoiding that pain in your lower neck that’s reserved for only the utmost respect. you spin on your heel, and you’re blinking back the fiery pain in your eyes.

you swore to whatever god that refused to heed any of your pleas that your back was scorched from a pair of eyes. but when you looked over your shoulder, the only sight that greeted you was that of flickering floodlights.

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vitospaghetta · 7 months ago

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How do you imagine Leon's place to look like and where do you think he lives? Some flat?

Also alaooo what do you think he does in his free time?

You have no idea how much thought I've put into this over the years.

Let me preface this with the fact that I'm specifically talking about original continuity Leon post-RE6 here, where he's a seasoned adult and has been in his career field for a while.

Leon more-than-likely lives in D.C. (he could also live in VA or MD but he strikes me as the kinda guy who would rather eat glass than commute, especially with D.C. traffic being absolute bullshit) in an apartment somewhere in the city.

As a federal agent, he makes a salary, which is something that is determined by things like the amount responsibility you have within the agency, your credentials/experience, your skillset, etc. Given his role and responsibilities within the D.S.O., he's easily a top earner. The top earners within the FBI make $153,000 annually, but it looks like top earners within the CIA can make more — like with all things, every agency is different. The D.S.O. obviously isn't a real agency, but as one that is held above all others (as far as authority within the criminal justice system is concerned), Leon probably receives a pretty cushy salary. Around $200,000 annually, easy. Income tax would fuck him over, but he'd still walk away with a reasonable amount per month to afford a $4,000+ per month apartment or to buy one and pay off a mortgage.

He can easily afford a one or two bedroom apartment in the city is what I'm saying. And I mean a nice apartment. We're talking granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, washer and dryer in-unit, floor-to-ceiling windows, in a modern building in a nice area of the city. An area that consists entirely of nice apartment buildings like the one he lives in. There's actually an area just outside of NYC that reminds me of the kinda area I can see him living in. I was there to take the ferry over into the city for a memorial/organ donation event I was attending last year.

The pics don't exactly encapsulate the full vibe, and these apartments probably go for millions due to the proximity to the city and being right off the Hudson, but it's quiet, safe, and filled with sporty people. Lots of folks walking dogs, jogging after work hours, and a sense of community amongst people that seemingly have their shit together.

He strikes me as the type to have a two bedroom apartment just for an office that he's hardly ever in. He'd want to live in a building that has a gym as an amenity because it's easier than hoofing it to a gym elsewhere, and a garage for him to put his car and the crotch rocket he's currently mourning courtesy of Maria.

As for the apartment's interior, I feel like it would completely lack personality or cluttered charm. There's a level of almost sterility to it, in that it's devoid of knick-knacks, personal photos, and encompasses a strong aesthetic of maturity. Everything in it is nice. There's tasteful artwork on the walls, and it's furnished with well-made and sometimes expensive furniture and appliances, because, as a childless adult, if Leon's going to spend money on only himself, he's going to spend it well. You get what you pay for, after all. There are obviously some traces of Leon's personality strewn about — skin care products in the bathroom, boots and leather jackets by the door, some books, laundry crumpled at the foot of his bed and piled by the washer/dryer, maybe a single sarcastic coffee mug somewhere in the cabinet — but there's no novelty.

Due to his constant bouncing around, he isn't home enough to put too much effort into it, and he hasn't had the luxury of certainty or normalcy in so long that all he wants out of his home is for it to look nice and be a comfortable place to sleep. He appreciates coming home to a place that is his, but it doesn't need to be a display of everything he's ever enjoyed. Even when he is home, he strikes me as the type to start going stir crazy when he sits for too long. The most amount of time he probably ever spent at home was when he was self-isolating and hitting the bottle really hard. There's also the generational element of Gen-X'ers being extremely lowkey about shit.

As far as what Leon does in his free time, I feel like he enjoys doing things that are out of the house due to the aforementioned inability to stay alone with his thoughts for too long. The man is constantly trying to distract himself to place distance between himself and his trauma, so where he might have been able to sit and watch a movie alone before, he struggles to now.

Leon's very extroverted, likable, and adaptable, so he probably enjoys being around other people, even if he's not actively talking to them. Though he appreciates silence as well, when he's kicking things around in his head and is trying to find some semblance of peace and a means to calm the noise. He might get a coffee at a shop right by his apartment where he's a regular and everyone knows him by name, or go for a run, or go shopping. Maybe he tries to make plans with those he cares about to go out for dinner, like he did with Claire in Infinite Darkness. Maybe he tries to catch a good sunset over the Potomac River. He goes to the gym, he rides his motorcycle around the city or takes a scenic route on the outskirts just for the hell of it, he meets up with a fellow agent and they do shots at his favorite bar.

I don't think he has hobbies, as in crafting or gaming or being too involved in any specific interests, but everything he does is fueled by his love of people, his appreciation for what good he has in his life, and his need for escape.

#leon kennedy #ask #anon #asks: leon #HOOOO BOY i'm so sorry for all of this but #this is like my favorite thing to talk about #you really opened pandora's box with this ask my god

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usafphantom2 · 11 months ago

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Today is the SR -71's 59th birthday as a birthday present I would like to share a part of Paul Crickmore’s (a humble yet highly, intelligent English gentleman) summary of the SR 71 from his new book Lockheed Blackbird: behind the Secret Missions the Missing Chapters (it can be found on page 498.)

The SR 71 with cameras in the chine bay and SLAR sideways-looking airborne radar our SR 71 boasted the ability to provide simultaneous optic coverage of the target area.PHOTINT and RADINT ( photograph, and radar intelligence) which the A-12 could not do.

It was the SLAR system was continuously upgraded throughout the life of the program accumulating in an operational development of Loral Advance synthetic aperture radar system a SARS. This advance, digitalized radar system with a resolution of less than 1 foot at NADAR enabled, imagery to be transmitted and real time /near real time direct to the end user.

This capability was demonstrated at Det 2, and could have been deployed operationally much earlier if the program hadn’t been starved funds by the so-called “fighter mafia” that held the balance of power in the Pentagon during the late 1980s early 1990s and that ultimately allocated Air Force funding accordingly the same generals as well as senior officials of other US intelligence agencies were the ones who argued that the aircraft was far more expensive to operate than any other aircraft in the inventory.

🌟OF COURSE IT WAS. THAT’S BECAUSE NO OTHER AIRCRAFT IN THE INVENTORY COULD DO ANYTHING LIKE WHAT THE SR 71 AND ITS SENSORS COULD DO. AS HABU PILOT, MAC McKENDREE OBSERVED “IT’S NOT AN AIRPLANE. IT’S AN AIR-BREATHING MAN SUBORBITAL SATELLITE. EVERYTHING ABOUT IT WAS UNIQUE: FUEL, HYDRAULIC FUEL, TIRES SCREWS, FASTENERS, TITANIUM CONSTRUCTION IS UNIQUE IF YOU WANT TO COMPARE THE SR TO SOMETHING THEN COMPARE IT TO THE SPACE SHUTTLE “

Air Crews selection, for the SR-71 program was always hotly contested as they were all unquestionably at the top of their game. They had to be….The demanding mission, the complexity of the aircraft and its systems…

Consequently, crewmembers entering the SR-71 program with the rank of major were usually promoted to Lt.Col among completing their tour. However, all of this changed with the arrival of General Larry Welch, as Air Force chief of staff, and his cohort as a result, the last six crews that entered the program as Majors, were all passed for promotion, the rumor was that their personal folders were never passed the promotion board and NOT surprisingly. This had the demoralizing effect on their pride, and a detrimoralizing impact on their salary and pension. There is no doubt that those involved with the Blackbirds were of the highest caliber and real team players… totally focused on ensuring that the mission whatever it may have been was a success. as Pratt and Whitney‘s Arnie Gunderson recalled” Everyone I encountered on the program was proud of the role. From the commander of the wing to the airman who mopping up the JP seven from under the wings everyone demonstrate the highest degree of respect for their teammates “

And it’s final analysis it can be argued that the SR-71 program was terminated at least five years earlier than necessary. Indeed, it had received the technology packages that already existed and were demonstrated during the period which it was briefly reactivated during Det 2 at Edwards from 1995 to October 10, 1997

Kelly Johnson would have been bang on the money when he predicted in 1964 that his platform could perform its duty to the intelligence community and national leadership until 2001 and beyond.

If history teaches us anything it is that we should never take democracy for granite and that dictators should never be appeased.

Thank you, Paul Crickmore a honorary member of the Habu family. We all appreciate what you have done to tell the story of the unique SR 71 program Linda Sheffield a proud Habubrat.

@Habubrats71 via X

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wolfsbanemanor · 2 months ago

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Their childhood home, part 1

You walk up to a two-story house in the Courtyard Lane area of Willow Creek. It looks a lot like other houses in the neighborhood. Not as nice as the ones in the Sage Estates area, or even Pendula View, but nicer than your modest little house in Foundry Cove. The lawn is meticulously groomed, and the heady scent from the Southern magnolia tree fills your nostrils. Many flowers line the walkway to the house, and you step onto a large, wraparound porch with wicker chairs, windchimes, and hanging baskets. You ring the doorbell, and are invited in, though no one is actually home right now. The "Take Your Dang Shoes Off!" sign (a tiny one, hidden behind opulent blue curtains) prompts you to take your shoes off. You take in the view of the living room. The floor is carpeted wall-to-wall, and the windows are covered with decadent blue curtains. There's a large TV, larger than you could hope to afford on your modest salary. On the coffee table, there's a large silk floral arrangement, though there are some real plants in the room as well. Nothing is out of place; all the magazines are in a holder by the couch. The walls are covered in portraits: wedding pictures, family portraits, pictures of two children, a boy and a girl (who seem to be twins), at various stages of development. Paintings, too. You get the feeling they were done by someone who lives here; they lack that "mass-produced" quality. And sculptures of eyes. The Eye of the Watcher. These people are Worshippers of the Watcher. There's a formal dining room with a table (to which more leaves can be added should more people need to be seated), and a large hutch containing high-end china- purely decorative, of course. There's also an area of the living room with a large baby-grand piano. More eyes, too. You walk into the kitchen. The walls are a buttery, cheery yellow color, and the cabinets are oak. The kitchen features nice granite countertops, and it smells like someone has been baking recently. Fake ivy and grape vines line the tops of the cabinets, and there are a few rooster sculptures. Whoever lives here is inspired by Tartosa, wishes they were there, and/or has Tartosan ancestry. The appliances are some of the best Simoleons can buy, and they have some small appliances, too: an espresso machine and a high-end mixer. A large bowl of fruit sits on the kitchen island. The fridge features artwork and A+ schoolwork done by the kids, and magnets with passages from the Watcherian Holy Book, and there's a family bulletin board. More eyes. Off in the corner is a small half-bath, and a laundry room. The kitchen opens up to the backyard. You'll check that out later. You head upstairs, more paintings, portraits, and eye sculptures following you. You enter a landing area/hallway, with a choice of several bedrooms. There's also a hall bath with a sailboat motif, likely used mainly by the children. You pick a bedroom at random. You enter a yellow room, with lots of sports trophies and posters. An eye can be seen over the bed, and there's a soccer ball on the dresser. At first, you assume that this bedroom belongs to the boy from the pictures downstairs, but on closer inspection, this room belongs to his sister. There are paintings done by her, as well as by her mother, and there's a musical jewelry box with a ballerina in it. A Victorian-style dollhouse is in one corner of the room, and in another corner is an antique-style toy box, pink, and decorated with teddy bears. There is a large teddy bear in the corner, too.

#headcanons #willow creek #childhood home #formative years #caleb vatore #lilith vatore

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azeez-unv · 8 months ago

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TEACHERS RETENTION STRATEGY

WHY DO TEACHERS LEAVE? If you ask me, I will tell you

1. Poor communication skills

Look, there is a difference between how you relate as a wife, mother and as a teacher and a school owner. You need to be very careful with words. Once you say it out, it will be difficult to withdraw your statement.

Some people live with words spoken to them for the rest of their lives and they don't forgive. Some people will even forgive, but, won't forget.

Some school owners talk to teachers like slaves. They use vulgar language as if they are nothing. You don't treat a teacher like an animal and expect him or her to stay.

People leave their marriages because of insults. You see, when people tolerate insults for long, they will one day leave. If you have teachers who tolerate insults, they are just there to collect salary

Let me burst your bubbles, they are looking for a better offer, once they get it, they will move without saying goodbye.

2. Delay in payment of salary

If you owe teachers, they will leave. You don't owe teachers and expect growth! You don't owe teachers expect them to recommend your school. It has rendered many schools, schools of yesterday

You are owing teachers yet you are buying granite for building and you expect them to stay. It is not possible.

A hungry man is an angry man. You don't beat a child and say he shouldn't cry. Lack of salary increase another thing. You can't be growing as a school and allow your teachers to be stagnant. You have to make them grow with you.

3. Micromanaging teachers

If you are fond of this, change. Some schools allow teachers to take two classes together. Teachers won't stay long in such a school.

Remember, bad news spread faster than good news. Teachers network together. They tell themselves about their former schools. What do you think they will say or are saying about your school?

The comments of your former or present teachers have a lot to do with your school's marketing strategy. If your school is known for giving teachers troubles getting teachers will be difficult. I know a school owner who is always in need of a teacher every term. If you ask me, it is bad for business.

What strategies can you use to reduce staff migration?

4. Not being part decision-making team by setting up a committee

5. Zero roles and responsibilities

❄️ STRATEGIES

1. Payment of salary on time and regular

Pay your teachers what they deserve. Don't judge your staff based on his or her last salary from the previous school he's worked at before joining your team.

Don't wait until the month ends before you do the needful. Do not keep your teachers in suspense because you want to pay.

Make sure you pay on time. If possible, the 26th of every month. Every teacher expects school owners to pay as at when due.

Owing teachers for a month or two will not motivate them. You don't expect an angry teacher to deliver beyond your expectation. Pay as at when due and see how happy your staff will be.

2. Long service rise

Little things count. Don't wait until you hear that a teacher wants to leave your school before you increase his or her salary. Increase the salary of a teacher who is doing the job well.

Every teacher you see is expecting an increase whether you wish to or not. A lot of schools have lost good teachers due ta a lack of increase. A teacher once told me he bade the teaching profession goodbye because the boss had never increased his salary before.

Now, that things are expensive, don't you think teachers deserve an increase? As school owners, we must be willing to do what is right to keep the good teachers who are in our schools to support our vision. Dont wait, increase the salary of a teacher who truly deserves it.

3. Don't micromanage teachers.

I know a school owner who uses teachers like railway workers. He doesn't like to employ instead he improvises. Today, the school is struggling for survival

If you overstress your teachers, they will be forced to leave the job. Too much workload will make a teacher leave. To keep teachers you must design a perfect job description for the position they occupy

A lot of primary schools that aren't ripe for secondary schools are giving teachers a lot of workloads yet expecting results. You must see these teachers as your vision supporter.

If you overuse them, by the time they get a better offer, they will leave. Dont micromanage or overuse them if you want them to stay with you to build your school.

4. Lesson notes.

I have made my findings and still finding. I have asked teachers questions and they are complaining about the lesson notes. Most schools just want to see the lesson plan ready without marking.

Do you know that most of these teachers just copy and paste these lesson notes without any idea of theirs? They just want to please the management.

We should allow creative ideas of lesson note writing. It shouldn't be business as usual. E-note is the new normal.

Pupils don't need to do eight subjects in a day. Have a standard timetable. If five subjects are what they can do allow your teachers too. The most important thing is the discharge of effective duties.

5. On the job training

Do not stop training teachers. And if you want to train them, don't ask them to pay for training

Remember your teachers are your foot soldiers. It is what you give them that they will give you.

Things are changing in the education section. Train them to know what is trending. Everything about teaching in your school shouldn't be about the classroom alone. There is a need to take a break from the norms.

6. Midterm bonus

A little thing makes teachers happy. A little gift will go a long way in showing them how much you care.

Every midterm, buy your staff detergent, tablet soap and tissue paper. Package it in fancy nylon and give it to them each. They will be happy

Teachers want to see a school owner that cares. If you care about them, they will care for your school and remain in your school.

7. Teachers protection against assault.

Protect your teachers. Dont let parents disrespect your teachers. You must protect them then come back to discipline them if they are found wanting

Your teachers are your school's ambassadors. Dont let parents disrespect them for no reason. If you do, they will go in their numbers

Make them see that you care about them. They will be willing to stay with you because they know you care

8. Real estate

Purchase a landed property for a teacher. Have a document for it. Keep the document. Dedecut it from the teacher's salary for some years. As soon as the years complete handover the document. Teachers will stay and be willing to put in their best.

Just as the way you as a school owner want to secure your future teachers too wants to secure theirs. Everyone wants to protect their future and have something to fall back on.

What plan do you have for your teachers?

Think about this.

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meghalayacareer · 8 months ago

Link

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sassypotatoe1 · 1 year ago

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When the average cost of living in your country is about 4k higher than the average income with HOD, CEO and upper management salaries excluded you see wonderful things like PEOPLE SELLING THE GRANITE COUNTER TOPS FROM THEIR KITCHENS.

Anyway eat the rich basic needs should be inherently met give homeless people money fuck consumerism and fuck planned obsolescence.

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murphyglassmirror · 1 year ago

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Becoming a Glazier

Glaziers work with glass and its substitutes to install, repair or remove fixtures on building structures. They select the appropriate material for a residential or commercial project, size it and then cut it to fit the desired area. They also use other materials such as plastics, granite and marble to frame windows or doors and apply films to improve the durability and safety of glass. Many glaziers also serve as artists, designing and installing artistic glass creations. This career requires significant physical stamina as glaziers often work at heights using ladders and scaffolding.

A high school diploma is the minimum requirement to become a glazier, although many enroll in an apprenticeship program that provides hands-on experience under the guidance of experienced glaziers. These programs usually last three years and combine paid on-the-job training with related classroom instruction. The average glazier salary is $53,000, according to TurboTax.

Those interested in becoming a glazier can earn vocational education and training (VET) certificates, diplomas or advanced diplomas that provide practical skills to prepare them for the job. They can also take industry certification courses, which are often shorter and have lower entry requirements than certificate and diploma programs. These certificates and qualifications can be a good way to show employers you have the right skills for the job, while helping you stay current with your skill set.

Once a person is certified as a glazier, he or she may choose to specialize in particular types of projects. They can find employment with construction and manufacturing companies, or in commercial or residential jobs. Some glaziers also run their own independent businesses.

As with any tradesman, glaziers must have the proper tools to perform their work. The most important item in a glazier’s tool bag is a utility knife, which comes in a variety of styles and blade lengths. A good quality utility knife will have a durable grip and be comfortable to hold even when wearing gloves. Glaziers will also need a pair of needle-nose pliers. These pliers are designed for precision and detail. Glaziers need a tape measure to ensure they are putting in the right glass pieces and measuring correctly. They also need a hex key kit, which includes a variety of sizes for easy access.

Glaziers also need a window scraper, which is essential for cleaning up the area before putting in a new piece of glass. These tools come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but are typically made from stainless steel and have an ergonomic handle for comfort. Glaziers should also have a pry bar, which is used to remove wood or other materials from the wall and frame before installing the new glass. These bars should be durable and long enough to give the glazier adequate leverage when needed. Finally, a glazier needs a pair of safety glasses. These are necessary to protect the glazier from flying debris and other potential hazards that could cause injuries or even permanent damage.

source https://murphyglassandmirror.wordpress.com/2023/06/28/becoming-a-glazier-2/

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lyaenidae · 1 year ago

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The next chapter

San Sequoia. Kenta wasn't expecting to find accommodation that easily, but as soon as he started looking, he saw there were plenty of townhouses in the city. His new salary was definitely enough to cover the rent, so he didn't hesitate. A few months after leaving Granite Falls, he was moving into another new place.

He was happy, making a difference. After all, not everyone gets to decide what policies a whole city will follow to get to the greener side. Plus, he was finding the sea air quite enjoyable. He was mainly sleeping in the tent he had set up in his small townhouse garden anyway. Until that one night, when he had decided he would have a small one-person barbeque... And the grill caught fire.

We all know Kenta is a bit terrified of fire at this point. After calling the firefighters, he looked at it growing and growing, trying to figure out what to do. How to stop it. Then he remembered the extinguisher his landlord had had installed... And he decided it was about time he stopped fearing something he could have control over.

Proud of himself for putting it out, but not so proud of having to go and apologise to his close neighbours, he took a minute to appreciate the feeling of overcoming a fear he had carried with him for so long. He honestly didn't think there was any more evolving he could do after he had left the forest, but it turned out there were always more things to learn.

He tried to focus on that confident feeling as he was heading to the front of the townhouses to meet his neighbours and apologise for starting a fire that close to their toddler... He was busy explaining what happened and how he had put it out as quickly as possible when one of the other townhouses' door opened. It took a couple seconds for Kenta to look up and notice who was coming down the stairs...

The small family he was apologising to thanked him for the explanation and asked him to be more careful in the future, then went back inside. And Kenta was left dumbfounded... Miki Akiyama had been his neighbour this whole time ?!

"I can't believe it !" For a fleeting moment, he wasn't sure if she would recognise him. It had been almost two years since they had seen each other. They had never crossed paths in Mt Komorebi, never being back there at the same time. But then her eyes locked with his and he knew instantly they hadn't forgotten about each other. "Kenta ?!" she said, just as surprised as he was.

"What are you doing here ?" she asked, seemingly happy to see him yet a bit confused at how he was on her doorstep that late in the evening. "I live here ! The blue townhouse ? Your next door neighbour on the right ? This is so weird, I didn't think I'd run into anyone I know so far from home, let alone live so close to them !"

"Wait, are you the one responsible for the fire alarms going off ?" "Hum... Yeah, that was my bad, sorry... But I was also the one who saved everyone by putting the fire out !" he tried to joke it off, the shame coming back all at once.

"Oh Kenta, I'm glad you weren't hurt !" she quickly answers, sensing his discomfort. "Do you need any help tidying up anything, is there any damage ?" "No, I'm okay, it was minor. Well as minor as a fire can be, I guess." his heart feels a bit fuller suddenly, knowing that her first instinct is to check on him and offer him assistance instead of making fun of him.

"Thank you for offering though, it's nice to know I can count on my neighbours' help if needed !" he chuckled. "And please don't tell your brother, he'll alert the whole town back home..." "Oh you know he would !" she laughs, her smile lighting up the street. "Tell you what, I won't tell him as long as it's not a repeated offense, what do you say ?" "Alright, I'll take that deal, I'm not trying to put anyone's lives in danger again, even though I'm not scared of fire anymore." he answered, smiling back.

"And who is that ?" he continued, happy for a change in subject. "That is my Amber ! She's my boss' dog. I'm keeping an eye on her at the moment. Same for the house, actually. It's not mine, I'm just here because she asked me to house and dogsit while she was away." "Oh... So you're not staying ?" Kenta's heart felt a bit heavier at that thought. He'd just gotten her back, he didn't want them to walk away from each other again.

"No, I'm going to stay here quite a long time, she's doing a TV show somewhere on the other side of the world, I'm not even sure how long it's supposed to last... And I wouldn't want to leave this little lady behind, I'm sure I'll find something nearby whenever I move."

"Do you like San Sequoia ?" she asked after giving the dog a hug. "I do, I loved different things about all the places I lived in, but I have to admit, this city seems to agree with me more than I expected..." he answered, thoughtful. He hadn't dug deep into his feeling for this place just yet, but he was realising as he was talking about it that he did feel at home here. Maybe not in this specific house, but in San Sequoia as a whole. "What about you ?"

"I like it..." she answered, her voice trailing away while her eyes seemed to be searching the night for something. "It just sometimes feels a bit lonely, I guess... Even though I have friends here, it's not the same as it was back home. I guess I've had that feeling a lot since we left high school though, so I can't tell how much of it is from this place and how much is just from me..." Kenta got back up and looked at her for a bit. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but all he wanted was to hold her in his arms. "Well now that we know we're next door neighbours, you better expect the loneliness to go away !" he joked instead, trying to bring her spirits up. She took one step towards him and embraced him, no words needed.

The hug lasted. It was somehow bittersweet, like they had been deprived of these hugs for too long. And in that moment, they both felt like the love they had shared back when they were teenagers had never left their hearts...

#takaofamily #sims4 #sims4gameplay #vanillagameplay #kentatakao #vanilla #gen2 #ts4 #SanSequoia

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stateofnevadajobsneats · 2 years ago

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construction jobs in nevada

Construction Jobs in Nevada: Opportunities, Salaries, and Requirements

Are you looking for construction jobs in Nevada? Whether you are a seasoned professional or just starting your career, Nevada offers numerous job opportunities in the construction industry. With the state's booming economy and growing population, there is a high demand for skilled workers in the construction field.

In this article, we will provide you with a comprehensive guide to construction jobs in Nevada. We will cover the job opportunities available, the salaries offered, the requirements for the jobs, and more. Let's get started.

Job Opportunities in Nevada

Nevada's construction industry is experiencing a period of rapid growth. According to the Nevada Department of Employment, Training and Rehabilitation, the construction sector is projected to add over 20,000 jobs between 2020 and 2028. This growth is driven by the state's population increase, expanding tourism industry, and ongoing construction projects.

Construction jobs in Nevada range from entry-level positions to management roles. Some of the common job titles in the construction industry include:

Carpenter

Electrician

Plumber

Heavy equipment operator

Construction manager

Project manager

Surveyor

Estimator

Welder

HVAC technician

These are just a few examples of the many job opportunities available in Nevada's construction industry.

Salaries for Construction Jobs in Nevada

The salaries for construction jobs in Nevada vary based on several factors, including experience, education, and job position. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), the median hourly wage for construction workers in Nevada is $22.69, which is slightly higher than the national median of $21.69.

Here are some of the average salaries for different construction jobs in Nevada:

Carpenter: $54,470 per year

Electrician: $63,030 per year

Plumber: $66,160 per year

Heavy equipment operator: $53,670 per year

Construction manager: $111,380 per year

Project manager: $96,520 per year

Surveyor: $75,050 per year

Estimator: $65,320 per year

Welder: $47,840 per year

HVAC technician: $53,310 per year

These are just average salaries, and actual wages may vary based on individual circumstances.

Requirements for Construction Jobs in Nevada

The requirements for construction jobs in Nevada vary depending on the job position. However, some general requirements include:

High school diploma or GED

Apprenticeship or vocational training

Certification or license

Relevant experience

Good physical condition

In addition to these requirements, some jobs may require specific skills or knowledge. For example, an electrician must have a thorough understanding of electrical systems, while a carpenter must know how to use various tools and materials.

Top Companies Hiring for Construction Jobs in Nevada

Many top companies in Nevada's construction industry are currently hiring. Here are some of the companies with the most job openings:

Martin-Harris Construction

McCarthy Building Companies

The PENTA Building Group

Granite Construction

Whiting-Turner Contracting Company

These companies offer a wide range of job opportunities, from entry-level positions to management roles.

Construction Jobs in Nevada FAQs

What is the average salary for construction jobs in Nevada?

The average salary for construction jobs in Nevada varies based on job position, but the median hourly wage is $22.69.

What are some common construction job titles in Nevada?

Some common job titles in the construction industry in Nevada include carpenter, electrician, plumber, heavy equipment operator, construction manager, project manager, surveyor, estimator, welder.

What are the requirements for construction jobs in Nevada?

The requirements for construction jobs in Nevada may include a high school diploma or GED, apprenticeship or vocational training, certification or license, relevant experience, and good physical condition.

What are some top companies hiring for construction jobs in Nevada?

Some top companies hiring for construction jobs in Nevada include Martin-Harris Construction, McCarthy Building Companies, The PENTA Building Group, Granite Construction, and Whiting-Turner Contracting Company.

How can I find job openings in Nevada's construction industry?

You can search for job openings in Nevada's construction industry through online job boards, such as Indeed or Monster, or by visiting the websites of construction companies based in Nevada.

What skills are required for construction jobs in Nevada?

The skills required for construction jobs in Nevada vary depending on the job position. However, some general skills include communication, problem-solving, teamwork, attention to detail, and knowledge of tools and materials.

Conclusion

Construction jobs in Nevada offer many opportunities for skilled workers in the industry. With the state's growing economy and population, the demand for construction workers is expected to continue to rise. From entry-level positions to management roles, Nevada's construction industry offers a variety of job titles and competitive salaries.

If you are interested in pursuing a career in construction, Nevada is a great place to start. With the right training, certification, and experience, you can land a fulfilling and rewarding job in the industry. Keep an eye out for job openings at top construction companies in Nevada, and be sure to meet the requirements for the job you want.

#construction jobs in nevada #remote jobs in nevada #local truck driving jobs in las vegas nevada #cna jobs in nevada

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dionisiagreco · 2 years ago

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Rebirth of the Eighty's Favourite Little Wife--Meticulously

Teacher Xie, I have finished speaking. I'm leaving. Xu Jiaren jumped down from the stool and turned his head to go out. Tao Meijuan, the head of the kindergarten, had already said hello to Xie Yun, and it was up to her whether Xu Jiaren would stay or not in the kindergarten, so there was no need to ask. Seeing Xu Jiaren's willful departure, Xie Yun held back and said nothing. She turned to the rest of the children and shouted, "All right, you put the stool away. We're ready to eat!" But Soho ran out with him. Xu Jiaren! Behind him came a tender voice, Xu Jiaren turned helplessly: "Su Hao, I have gone, what else do you want?" Kids are so much trouble! Su Hao clenched his fist and his little face turned red. It took him a long time to squeeze out a sentence: "Can you stay?"? I I apologize to you. Apologize Stay?! Xu Jiaren thinks the little male God is very funny. What kind of apology is that? He's not wrong. As for her, kindergarten is just a shield for parents to feel at ease, how can she stay and waste time? Originally intended to turn around and walk away, but looking at the little male God's pleading face, Xu Jiaren still went over and said one more word. Did you ask me why I didn't go to your house during the Spring Festival? Su Hao nodded. Many people go to your home during the Spring Festival, because your grandfather has something that others want. And he doesn't have what I want in his hands, so I don't have to pretend to pay New Year's greetings. Have something in your hand? Pretend? Su Hao was confused when he heard it. Anyway. Xu Jiaren didn't want the child to feel that the world was too dark. She rubbed Su Hao's little head and said,Slate Wall Panel, "Just remember, I don't go to your house to pay a New Year call because I don't have any special relationship with you!"! I don't need what your master has in his hand. "The special relationship..?" All right, I have something to do, so I'll go first! Bye-bye While Su Hao was in a daze, Xu Jiaren ran out of the kindergarten with her legs tumbling at a high speed. It's too hard to talk to children. Out of the kindergarten, Xu Jiaren wiped the sweat on her forehead and went to the tailor's shop. After school in the evening,Nero Marquina Marble Slab, the first thing Su Hao did when he saw Grandpa was to look at his hands. After looking over and over for a long time, Su Hao's little face became more and more tense. Hou Yuhai felt strange and asked, "and now? This sentence is also what Hou Yuhai wants to say, how can that little girl understand these? "Grandpa, I want to eat two bowls of rice tonight!" Su Hao suddenly said. Uh? Why? "I want to grow up quickly so that I can understand what Xu Jiaren understands!" “…… All right, then Hao Hao, Silver Travertine Slabs ,Marble Granite Price, come on and grow up! Hou Yuhai looked at his grandson with a loving smile and could not help sighing in his heart: I usually think my grandson is intelligent and outstanding, but if compared with that little girl, Su Hao looks too silly. When I was just five years old, I had such an understanding. It would be great if I grew up. Xu Jiaren told Yan Xin that Aishan would pick her up after kindergarten school, so that she could paint in the tailor's shop for a while. Yan Xin a, and.. "And what?" "The membership fee in our store has gone up this year, and everyone's membership fee is 20 yuan." “20…… What are you.. When Jiang Meili heard this, her face turnse he is handsome? Boss Ai, a dress here costs 50 yuan, and if you add 20 yuan of membership fee, it will cost 70 yuan. Do you know how much the average salary is in Qingbei City? Don't you think the price of your clothes is too unreasonable? "I.." Of course,Stone Honeycomb Panel, Aishan knows that the per capita income of Qingbei City is now more than 20 yuan. According to this standard, their clothes are really expensive. But so what? Before the Spring Festival, the business of their shop was very good. The membership is about to break 100. - ".". forustone.com

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pkjobs · 2 years ago

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Sales Representative (Marble & Granite) Latest Job In Qatar

JOB CATEGORY Sales POSITION Sales Representative YEARS OF EXPERIENCE 5-6 Years GENDER Male SALARY RANGE QAR 15,001 – QAR 25,000 APPLICANT LOCATION International مطلوب مندوبين مبيعات خبرة في مجال الرخام للعمل في المملكة العربية السعودية في إحدى الشركات الكبرى – الراتب حسب الخبرة المقابلة في دولة قطر يوم الثلاثاء والأربعاء 20-2022/12/21 يرجى إرسال اليرة الذاتية على الإيميل :…

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runawaymarbles · 2 years ago

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My guess? They're not building housing that anyone who doesn't have a tech salary can afford. We passed a law a few years ago that says that developers have to make a certain number of affordable units for every expensive one, but the fine for not complying is-- shocker-- less than the cost of building said housing, and keeps the lots clear for houses and townhouses with unnecessary granite countertops, and so forth. (Remember when they were planning to demolish the showbox to build "badly needed housing" in the form of million-dollar apartments? Yeah.)

That count is also from 2020 and things have been going steadily downhill since.

I just don't really understand the modern discourse on homelessness. I mean the conservative position is pretty well staked out at this point (send the police to harass, arrest, and occasionally kill them) but what's the liberal messaging here? Affordable housing, sure, but seriously, what's the plan for people who can't work or otherwise make money?

#with the tech bubble bursting I'm wondering if rents are going to go down #but who knows

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flange5 · 6 years ago

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Oh my god real estate tv is a hilarious way to hate people.

#Person buying house that costs 14x my salary #what a dump #at least it's under my budget #I WANT A HOUSE THAT IS 150 YEARS OLD AND LOOKS IT #but is also open plan with granite #with updated wiring sockets and idk fiber optics and shit #can my house shoot lasers now?#then what use IS IT #throw the trash away so I can buy another house #I guess I'll move the budget up to a cool million

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neonovember · 2 years ago

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Loved loved loved the steve headcanon. If you’re in the mood, I would an expansion on the “steve is the type of man to never let you go to bed angry, even if you’ve both had a fight and he end up on the coach” because I absolutely agreed and I especially enjoyed reading that! Thank you for sharing this husband!Steve HC.

oh yes most definitely! His mind wouldn't rest until he knows you're at peace. Ask and you shall receive (i must say I did get quite carried away). I wrote this at 1 am so be aware of spelling :)

The Steve headcanon

My soul cannot sleep without you

The rumble of the car engine comes to a stop as Steve pulls into the garage of your shared home, the living room light is still on and if you weren't already irritated, you'd mentally smack yourself for being so forgetful. Bills weren't cheap, even on an avenger's salary.

Collecting the ends of your dress you shoulder your way through the car door, slamming it with an oomf for good measure. Steve, of course, shuts his door gently, and it leaves you even more annoyed with him.

Why is he not angry?

You don't dare look behind you as Steve begins to jog towards you, you fear the confusion that has been plastered on his face for the last 20 minutes would make you explode.

You're about to open the door until you remember, he has the keys, Steve is already one step ahead of you, fingers brushing past your elbow as he twists the golden metal into the door nob. You can feel his stare burning into the side of your face but you will yourself not to look his way, to see that look on his face that would have you conceding.

The smell of peppercorn and maple engulfs your senses as you enter your hallway, the soft air of familiarity fails to calm your tense shoulders however, as you pass the framed pictures of you and Steve over the years without so much as a glance.

Reaching your kitchen you notice the bouquet of orchids Steve had bought you earlier today left on the counter, in the rush to get to the compound's charity ball on time you had forgotten to find them a vase.

What flowers would she like?

You search through the kitchen cabinets before you grasp the clear glass, shufflingly through appliances and setting it on the granite counter. You unwrap the orchids, cutting the stems down to fit into the glass vase and filling them generously with water. Steve looks at you incredulously, arms folded as his eyes follow your movements.

"Are you going to say something?" Steve says, his melodic voice travelling through the house, bouncing off the glass vase yet failing to penetrate you.

You begin to clean the stems and spilt water from the counter, ignoring Steve’s attempt at conversation. Did he seriously not realise the brunette practically hanging onto his every word?

Steves's hand grasp your own, stopping you from wiping down the rest of the kitchen, he lifts your chin but your eyes remain downcast, fiddling with the string of the washcloth.

"Can you at least look at me?" Steve says, scanning your face that remained emotionless. His fingers glide across your arms to rest on your cheeks, and the feeling of his hands on you, after she'd touched them has you ripping them off of you. Scoffing, you throw the washcloth into the sink, before turning towards Steve.

"I don't understand, why are you upset? Did I do something?" Steve furrows his brows, his hands gripping his pants as if he's stopping himself from reaching for you.

You scoff at that, "You can't be serious Steve, you are one of the smartest people I know and you can't notice something happening right in front of you?"

He shakes his head, eyes squeezing as he opens them, you notice him scanning over the events prior, but it comes up empty and it has Steve looking more confused than before.

“What's her name, huh Steve? At least tell me her name” You whisper, arms folded as the shimmers of the dress begin to irritate you.

“What? Who?” Steve replies, stepping closer to you

“Who? The brunette who was hanging off of you the entire night Steven” You groan, you hated facing your insecurities, much less voicing them.

There is a momentary pause in Steve as his mind backtracks to the evening, sifting through the hundreds of faces he’d seen tonight, he finally realises who you're talking about.

Tony’s accountant

“Marianna?” Steve scoffs

“Yes, Marianna” You spit her name like poison, but you can’t seem to get her face out of your mind, she’s taken homage next to the laundry you hadn't gotten the time to do. The way her pantsuit fitted her elegantly, sophisticated and modern, she was the woman of the future. And you were just, well, you.

She could pull off a red lip, something that never quite looked good on you, and the very way she spoke told you she said very few words that didn't ilicitate constant adoration. She didn't need to fill the space with empty jargon, every word had meaning.

The constant comparison had followed you the entire evening, and the past insecurities that you had thought you'd overcome seemed to weigh you down like an anchor, pulling you into the deprecation you knew all too well.

It was fine, you’d get over it until she began to talk to Steve, your husband. you didn't miss the look on her face as they conversed, utter, pure amazement. You knew it because you wore it every day, Steve had a way with people, it's what attracted you to him in the first place.

You felt out of place as they spoke about diplomacy and business, and at that moment you had wished you actually listened when Tony pulled you into one of the many long rants you'd gotten used to.

She wasn't even mean to you as if the playground tactics were beneath her, but it didn't take her calling you a bitch to know the animosity that radiated from her every time Steve had tried to pull you into their conversation. You knew where you weren't wanted and you weren't about to make a fool of yourself. So you left them to it as you sat next to Natasha, who offered you a much-needed drink.

She had noticed your annoyance at Marianna the second she came over, as she always did, and for a second, you wish Steve would too. He was too pure too good, to take notice of the way Marianna got closer and closer to him or the way she bit her lip and laughed a little too hard at one of his lame jokes. The poor man thought she was being friendly, he was oblivious to her true motives.

Natasha held her grin behind an empty champagne glass, snickering when Marianna threw her head back for good measure. You had vented to her there, and she reminded you of the man Steve was. How he was absolutely enamoured by you and you only, how you had him wrapped around your finger so tight he wouldn't even think about looking at another woman that way. It was all things you knew deep down, but that didn't stop your brain from imagining the worst, that he was deep in an affair with his co-worker, and you were the dumb clueless wife who waited for him at home.

You wouldn't let that happen again, not after all those years of betrayal from an ex, you wouldn't let yourself be made a fool. Pride had a way of getting in between reality, and you let it stew you in anger until you were mad at Steve instead of her.

Steve shakes his head, moving closer to you,

“She's just Tony’s accountant, we chatted for a few, that's all doll” Steve replied, carding a hand through his blonde locks. Reasoning, however, doesn't seem to be on your mind tonight as you remember all the lies you've been told starting with she.

She’s just a friend, she’s just an assistant, she’s just...

“Well, she seemed to have taken your attention for the whole night, while I was left drinking champagne of all fucking things with Natasha. She was meant to go find her date for that night, but instead, she was with me” You replied looking towards him in anger.

“Well, I tried to include you in the conversation, but every time I asked for your opinion your mind seemed as if it was a thousand miles away!” Steve replied swiftly hands gesturing around.

“Yeah, because she was laughing every single goddamn time I opened my mouth, god Steve, can't you see what she’s doing?” You replied even faster, swallowing down the brick that began to form in your throat.

“What, what is she doing, I thought I was having a conversation with a colleague, but you seem to know better” Steve quipped, his jaw tensing and his shoulders seized.

“She wants you, and you’re either too blind to see it or already fucking know it” You replied, muttering under your breath.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head, eyes scanning your face as he remains silent.

“Is your silence meant to mean I was right?” You yell, tears beginning to gather on your waterline and you have to pinch yourself to get force them to remain there.

Steve’s eyes never leave your face, the cerulean orbs darting left and right, and up and down as if trying to understand your benevolence. His arm twitches as if he wants to gather you into his embrace and forget this entire evening.

“How can you say that” Steve replies, after a short while, “I was courteous, polite for god's sake, you know I would never do that to you” Steve moves until his hands grasp your own. They’re warm to the touch like he always is, and they begin to soothe the coldness that has begun to take over your body.

It doesn't help though, instead, it reminds you of the times you've been told that your insecurities were imaginary, that the unfaithfulness in your relationship wasn't real. That you, instead were harbouring a secret, the anger you felt then turned to guilt at your own self for even accusing him of cheating. If you were told enough times that your reality wasn't yours, you’d start to believe it.

“Yeah well, the only person I can ever trust is myself” You whisper, spitting the words out and unlatching yourself from Steve's grasp. Steve looks down at you in shock, betrayal and hurt falling over his features, whilst yours turn to stone.

He closes his eyes before opening them again, nodding as if he accepted your anger.

“Fine, I’m taking the couch,” Steve scoffs, ripping off his tie and placing it on the counter, before walking into the living room the loud stomp of his shoes vibrating through the quiet house.

You turn to the discarded tie, grasping it into your palm, the texture of the material felt velvet against your fingers. It was a plain tie, one you'd find anywhere, but it was the first tie you'd ever gotten him. You'd gifted him many over the years, all of them more expensive and chic than this one but he'd told you you'd have to pry it out of his cold dead hands before he would give it up.

It was his lucky tie because you were his lucky girl.

Where you still now?

The satin pillow dampened with your tears, you hadn't waited to even close the door before you were muffling a sob that broke out of your throat. Since then, the tears never ceased, you had to shove your face into the covers to make sure Steve wouldn't hear you.

Sleep was fruitless, you had tried everything, but you lay there, like clothes on a washing line, wrung out and left to dry. Your mind wouldn't let the image leave, her fingers grabbing his bicep as she laughed, the way he grinned as his humour got praised.

Was that it, had she given him more attention? More than you?

A billion reasons clamoured your mind as you pushed your fingertips to your eyelids, wishing that you hadn't even gone to the charity ball at all, save the humiliation just for your mind only.

Deep down you knew, you knew that this was all the insecurities of your past coming forth from their hiding places. Steve was the best person in your entire life, he would never, his stupidly good heart wouldn't allow it. But that was just it, he was too kind and nice and good that people like Marianna were able to sink their claws and have their way with him however they wanted.

He thought they were being friendly, but they knew they weren't.

Hours seem to pass before you find the room illuminated with the light of your phone in your palm, your chest feels tight and uncomfortable and you don't know how much more of this you could take.

Tapping onto the folder named “him”, you are met with hundreds of photos of you and Steve throughout the years, starting from the very few dates you had before he claimed you as his, till the wedding night when you both had stayed up to take out the millions of pins in your intricate hair.

In all of them, every single one, Steve displays the same adored, content look of utter satisfaction and love, his eyes sparkled with it, like the sun glittering against the gentle waves and folds of the sea. An endless pool of longing that seemed to have depth only for you, to crash and fight and turn inside and out for you.

Your relationship was never easy, but Steve has always, always been the anchor that brought you back, he never gave up, even when you pushed him away and left him in the dark. Even when the fear of loss and hurt caused you to scream things you didn't mean and do things you shouldn’t have.

You flick across to a photo of Steve looking towards you, a soft grin lighting up his face as you held Clint’s newborn, you were cuddled up on a seat, your knees tucked into you as you were sucked into the guilty pleasure of red fat cheeks and baby fever.

Sam had captured it without Steve looking, sending it to you a couple of days ago with the words ‘Someone wants to be a daddy’. You’d laughed it off but each day you'd come back to that picture. Back to the moment when Steve looked like he had never loved something harder than you, as if it was his first time ever really feeling it.

He loves you, you know? I knew it the day he met you, he has this look on his face, where his eyes get all glazed over and his fingers are reaching for you. It’s like he can’t breathe until he can hold you, like his body will break in two and his heart will stop.

Natasha had told you that one night on the terrace unprovoked, with a beer in her hand and the moonlight falling over the both of you. She had been there from the start, had found you when you were still a shell of a person, back then you didn't even know what love was. You fear if it wasn't for her you and Steve wouldn't have ever met.

“Steve would never do that”

The sounds of her voice those hours ago ring in your head. It was true, your entire time with Steve told you but what thing, he was not your ex. He was kind, and soft and held you like you were glass and he'd crush you. And then suddenly, as if a switch had been turned in your mind, the light of a dark place turning on you realise how utter fucking foolish you had been.

Steve’s faith in you never faltered, even when it should have he never felt a reason to distrust you, it was foreign, it felt strange to have someone utterly and fully hand their trust and soul to you. And what had you given him in return? Accusations and anger.

Did he think now, that you did not trust him? That he had failed to show you how you should be loved? How he would never hurt you?

Those men from your past would never amount to Steve, and suddenly you felt you would die right in this room if you didn’t move. If you tell Steve he was enough and that you believed him and that the vows he uttered held true. Every hair on your body itched with this need until the covers were thrown across from your body and your phone was discarded on the bed.

You swung open the door, the cold hair hitting your face and you stumbled through the dark, you run down the hardwood stairs, the haunting reality of your actions following you, you had been so so foolish.

Steve is there, his frantic motions walking towards the bedroom freeze as he notices you. His shirt is crumpled and unbuttoned, and his golden hair is ruffled, the strands falling over his face as if he's run his fingers through it too many times.

A look of desperation and longing paint his features as he watched you, hands shaking at his sides as he sinks his canines into his reddend lip. You wanted nothing but to hold him now, and the thought bring you to tears, blurring your vision until you miss a step, your heart dropping into your stomach as you brace yourself, waiting to meet the cold hard ground of the kitchen floor.

It never comes, instead, heated, carded muscle wraps around you, and you the smell of Steve, of earth and pine cones has you crying into his shoulder.

He came to you, even when you had screamed at him to leave,

He came to you.

Fresh tears slide down your cheek and you grip Steve, whose fingers softly rub your back, hands tightening around your waist.

“M’ sorry, so sorry Steve, please” You hiccup, covering your face into his shoulder.

“Ssh, my sweet girl, I know” Steve whispers, never seizing his gentle caress. His hands lift your face from his neck, thumb gathering the tears at your waterline. “I know, it’s okay, it’s okay, just breathe for me, hm?

“In and out, can you do that for me?” Steve breathes out, eyes straining as he watches your shallow breaths ease into semi-normal respiration.

Without a word, Steve collects you in his arms and walks through the house until he enters the bedroom, shutting the door with his foot, eyes never leaving your face as he gently places you onto the now cold bedsheets.

You shudder, reaching for him as he slides in, arms wrap around your sides as he continues his light motions on your back, his fingers come to move your hair behind your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

You turn around swiftly, hands reaching to cup his face before you’re met with his reddened eyes, it's your turn now to brush away the tears before pressing your lips to his,

‘I should never have, Stevie, you, I-, you would never” You whisper against him his chest, the soft rise and fall lulling you into a state of haze and exhaustion. He presses his forehead to yours

“I just want to hold you now, god, I don't know what I will do if I don’t hold you” Steve replies muttering the words painfully. You wrap your arms around him, pressing yourself into his stomach as his biceps surround you. The sound of Steve's heartbeat, the rhythmic badum badum badum, engulfs you with a sense of tranquillity you hadn’t realised you couldn’t live without.

Steve, your sweet boy, was the one thing you couldn’t live without, without Steve, next to you, holding you between his arms, you don't think you would ever quite find sleep. Not anymore, not after him.

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