#acid proof bricks

[refractoryinsulation]

What Is Acid-Resistant Flooring And Its Benefits

Have you ever wondered how chemicals that are highly reactive and acidic are safely used? Well, you are not alone in this — many have wondered the same. But what is the solution — well, acid proof cement is one.

[acidproofcement]

Durable Acid Resistant Bricks and Acid Proof Cement for Long-lasting Protection | Acid Proofcement

When it comes to protecting structures from the corrosive effects of acids, durable acid resistant bricks and acid proof cement are essential components. These specialized materials provide long-lasting protection against the damaging effects of various acids, ensuring the integrity and longevity of structures in industries such as chemical processing plants, laboratories, and wastewater treatment facilities.

[kiryoutann]

warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, mental breakdown, ANGST.

Watching Simon hold another woman the same way he used to hold you. Anyone?

Summoning what little courage is left, you stand up and begin retracing their invisible footprints, making your way towards the backdoor. As you pushed it open, you were greeted by the sight of a dark, empty alley, with your ragged breath as the only sound.

But when you reached the other end of the alley, the silence faded away as hushed whispers and soft sounds filled the air. Alarms went off in the back of your head—it only meant one thing—but you ignored it. Instead, you slowed your steps, hiding behind the crumbling brick wall, and peeked around the corner.

There they were. Simon and the woman, locked in a deep, passionate kiss. His body pressed against hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist in a way that made your stomach churn. The hands you knew so well cupped her jaw like he did to you as he dragged his lips down her exposed neck. Just like he did to you.

A strangled sound escaped your mouth; you covered it to prevent another. You felt your eyes burning, yet you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the show. Spare me, your heart begged, yet you let your ears continue to listen to them.

The sound of a zipper being lowered cuts through the air. Simon lifted her dress, and you watched in morbid fascination as he snapped his hips forward. She lets out a loud moan. Your head throbbed, the pulsing pain matching the rapid beating of your heart. The burn inside you was almost unbearable, and you felt your breath shortening, vision blurring as you grew lightheaded.

You couldn’t bear to watch anymore. With shaking limbs, you walk away from them. The acid reaches your throat—the next second, you're hunched over, vomiting onto the cold, hard concrete.

And suddenly, everything feels like a fever dream—a repetitive loop that leaves you feeling both light and heavy. You exist, but you don't really exist; you're breathing, but you're not really breathing. The cobblestones stare back at you, their edges thickened, spreading like black blood. Beside them, your hands are shaking, and when you turn them over, you realize they’ve always been this way—open, fingers stretched to their maximum.

Like they're grasping for something out of reach.

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. Yet, the hollowing abyss within you is anything but a stranger. In truth, it's probably all you've truly known throughout your entire life before you dared to believe you could become something beyond this yawning emptiness—the chasm where every ounce of love and all the things you've held dear have been mercilessly flushed away.

When you sob again, you choke. Gravel scrapes your skin as you kneel down,  resembling a devout soul pleading to the heavens. It isn't devotion that drives your supplications, but rather fear—and perhaps that's why your fervid entreaties never find an answer.

“Why did you let that man walk away?”

Change the prophecy, change the prophecy, you beg. Make him love me, let him love me.

(But, is it his love you truly seek, or simply the proof that it brings?

Or is it a bit of both?)

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city, you taste the saltiness of your own tears on your lips. Release me. Release me from this pain—from this curse. Make him love me. Prove me right, prove herwrong. All these demands, and yet, the voracious pain continues to spread like an all-consuming malady.

It gave you an open eye.

How pathetic you must’ve looked—like a crumpled, wretched thing, curled on the dirty sidewalk while Simon was still there in the alley, digging his fingers into the hips of another woman. You could almost feel it—the phantom of his touch, the sounds he used to make. You knew he would kiss her just as he had kissed you—he would make her feel good, the way he had always made you feel.

And you knew—you just knew—that she would fall for him, just as you had.

But this time, he would love her back.

Because she wasn’t you.

[sneak peek of chapter 12 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.". FULL VERSION OUT NOW.]

[cookeybg]

The Colony Possessed - Chapter 4

Title: The Colony Possessed

Main Characters: Gotham, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne

Narrators: Hal Jordan, Barry Allen, OC - Kam, John Constantine, will add others as chapters progress

Honorable Mentions: Wally West, Talia Al Ghul, Damian Al Ghul

No romantic relationships

Stuff to Know: Cryptid Batfamily, maybe a bit spooky, Hopefully a bit amusing, Gotham LOVES Batman and she always will, it's concerning

[The Colony Possessed Table of Contents]

Chapter 4 - It feeds off you, mate

“I know you’re there.” John Constantine called out to the dark, hands buried in the pockets of his beige trench-coat, legs spread shoulder width apart, smoke rising from the lit cigarette he smoked. He knew that Bats would not appreciate his presence in his city, but anything out of the ordinary, anything remotely devilish or cursed was his business so, his old pal could suck it. The alley darkened to the point where he could only see a few feet in front of him. The shadows coalesced and bright green eyes shone, no pupil, no white, just pointy green like upside down half moons. The shadows giggled, they caressed his hair, a shiver ran down his spine. “Hello.” The voice echoed against the brick walls, female sounding, soft. The pair of eyes faded in and out in the dark. “No, no,” John shook a finger at it, “I need all of your attention.” John stomped his foot on the ground and an elaborate circle with sigils lit up, causing the shadows to hiss. All at once the shadows darkened and gathered in one spot on the ground in front of him. It was in the shape of a petite woman, long wavy black hair that moved like smoke draped her back, her body the color of coal and acid eyes green eyes glared at him. “What do you want, friend.” She hissed. “Friend, eh? What’s my new friend’s name?” She tilted her head and simply said, “Gotham.” John whistled in surprised, rocking his body back and forth on his heels, “A sentient city.” He knew it! From the day he met the Bat, something wasn’t right. If he ignored his broody countenance, his sharp words, and his gloomy disposition, he could feel another presence hanging off the Bat. It was subtle and vague, cleverly hidden.

He hadn’t been sure, thought that maybe it had been something else. He had even gone to the Watch Tower after he heard of the rumors of it possibly being haunted and found nothing. Bats though, exuded something supernatural, no matter if the grump claimed to not believe in the occult. Heck he had felt it in the man’s children, in his cave, but whenever he looked too closely the thing would disappear. Until recently. The presence had gotten stronger. The proof stood in front of him, it had taken a humanoid form, no longer just an essence. Mixed with something else, something vicious. “I know of your type. Calls herself Angela. Good for a fun time but brings me trouble. What do you want with Bats?” Gotham was no longer looking at John, instead she stared at her hands the shape of long pointy fingers shrinking into dull stubs, she wiggled them. “I’m his, my Bat.” She eventually responded. John watched her as she moved her legs, feet forming solidly, toes wiggling on the sodden cobbled stones. This was going to be troublesome. A city who thought it belonged to a human. Gotham touched her face, its shadowy tendrils taking shape into a proper jawline, lips, nose and forehead. Her hands trailed down her body and she jumped up and down, her breasts bouncing. John enjoyed the show. “You’re a city. You don’t belong to anyone.” Gotham flicked her wrists and a flowy black dress appeared to cover her body, she looked up at him, her almond eyes wide. “I’m his. Fixes me. Loves me.” John nodded as if that made sense. Gotham had an innocence to her despite it existing for hundreds of years. Honestly, he had expected her to be twisted and blood thirsty with the way Gothamites lived here. With all the corruption, death and the crazies. He was surprised that it seemed it hadn’t affected her. “Let me go?” she said tilting her head. John hummed. “Not yet, gotta figure out what to do with you. Does Bats know you exist?” “They know.” Gotham pointed up. John’s eyes followed and were met with four pairs of white eyes, narrowed. They perched like the gargoyles that sat sentinel in the city skylines. He flinched at the crack of a bullet being fired. It ricocheted off the floor next to his feet. “Oy!” The circle flickered. Gotham jumped, floating up so that John’s eyes were met with hers. She cupped his face, her smile unnaturally wide, brilliantly white, and stared deeply into his eyes. Blunt fingers turning sharp, digging into his cheeks before relenting, before making him bleed. “Thank you, friend of my Bat.” She dissipated, leaving him with the ominous birds. He looked up at them, he could feel her presence within them. “Get out of Gotham.” Their words bounced off the brick walls around him, he swore he could hear the flutter of wings at their departure. “It feeds off you, mate.” John said, to no one.

Sorry for the not updating, been having a rough few days (weeks, I guess). Been wanting to write but couldn't get myself to move. Anyways, I will be updating a few of my other fics now, I hope you enjoy them! <3

[heartfullofleeches]

I see alien and conspiracy theorist reader who is also hilariously oblivious/ refuses to believe the fact Alien is an alien. Like they're too OBVIOUS about it and it doesn't line up with their theories about what the ACTUAL aliens walking among us are like. Like, it can't be Alien, they don't have crab claws or a lizard tongue or anything. They don't even have a tail rendered invisible by hologram, but Alien doesn't mind when reader grabs their ass to check.

This is exactly where I was going with that-

Alien wouldn't even be in reader's radar for potential suspects. Their frequent insistence they're just a regular human guy is a little suspicious, but no real alien would walk around wearing a mask like his because it'd just draw unwanted attention to them. Writes off their glowy bones as paint. The fact they're more flexible than rubber is just a genetics thing.

Alien thinks it's nice to have some recognize them as human at first - but eventually they start to think how hot cool it would be to be the extraterrestrial reader scraps to a table in their study and grills for hours about their anatomy and the place they originate from.

-

"Did you bring the stuff?"

"Yea, gimme a sec."

Fiddling with the gate to the laboratory, your assistant turns their back to you as they retrieve a small vial from their pocket. Alien pushes the gum they'd been chewing against the wall of their mouth, gathering the saliva collected from their glands on their tongue and filling the bottle with the blackish substance. They grab a bag of white powder from another pocket and dumps it into the small opening. The concoction bubbles, fumes crawling along the cylinders walls as they face you once more. They push you behind them - sealing your body with theirs as they raise their fist.

Hurling the vial, its glass shatters on impact in an explosion of black sludge and white smoke. The slime eats away at padlock holding the gate closed and enough of the wall for you to poke your head through before Alien finally kicks what remains open. They stand off to the side, bowing as they extend their arm forward.

"After you."

Your eyes linger on the smoke wisping into the air. "What... was that?"

"My spit. Mix it with baking soda it becomes corrosive..... or was it acidic?"

"...Right. Well, let's get this over with before anyone arrives. We're lucky this was all this place really has in terms of security." You ease past Alien who skips behind you as you march towards laboratory's doors. Not wasting what little time you have, you pull off your backpack as you walk - removing the test tube brought with you from its protective sleeve. Alien eyes the teal tinted fluid sloshing around in the container curiously - a strange sense of unease hitting their stomach like a brick.

"So.... if I'm allow to ask questions - what uh... what are we doing here again?"

You hold the vial up for then to see - contents fluorescent in the moon light. "I found this strange substance on a tee shirt I left in my bathroom. It's oddly sweet, but left my mouth with a tingle sensation after I tasted it."

Beads of sweat roll from their neck down their shirt. "You... tasted it?"

Alien thinks for a while. They had broken into your house while you were away. They found your shirt in your bathroom. It smelled just like you. Kinda tasted like you too. They thought they cleaned up everything after they were done. They did not.

"Well I had to make sure it wasn't something I ate. This is clearly a sign. Once I get my hands on the microscopes in this lab I'll finally have concrete proof of aliens!"

Alien snatches the vial from you and throws it into the tree-lining. "On second thought let's just go hunting for aliens like normal people."

"What the hell-"

Alien tightly grips your shoulders. "You can have another taste once we're official, but you are not putting my fluids under any lenses until we are engaged!"

[zooterchet]

Kindergarten: Calculate lucky number. #12, flip of Saul Lancaster down a hill, calculation of four man vrykolakas a man extra through mail fraud, and knee wrench of Ku Klux Klan Christian into Judean-Epiphany.

Center School: Writ of Jonathan Frakes as Riker, Xanatos, and Touched by an Angel. Forbidden dress color, red, as histrionic sociopath, especially if worn as panties; own mother, as proof of reference.

Elmwood School: Growth of tadpole, calculation of iodide starch, and pH test of acid or base at middle line of 7, without parent assistance, despite having served detention, for ignorance of history of ocean; textbooks, indicating "ooze", basal salt sea floor, as harmful if polluted.

Middle School: World history as performed through teachers, Preamble and Constitution and Amendments taught by Italian Mafia teacher cohabitating with dominatrix submissives, advanced class on mathematics as having calculated stock market off of newspapers into separate math on sheet.

Highschool: Exempt from sexual education, taking senior year gymnasium at freshman year instead, gym hockey; honors history, advanced placement electives, honors literature, high level French, calculus at senior year, and criminology classes all four years; web design, technical drafting, psychology, and sociology, with out doors prize fight bout, against future Trump banker Jim Duggan, as scheduled.

UMass-Amherst: Entry into honors program, refused to qualify for President, taking History Pre-Law despite qualifying for lobby CIA program in oil, first semester.

MUSH: Print of "Gotham", off of stolen trademark, payment to M3 staff for printing for comic books and publishing, not collected a dime of cent due to argument crisis (Brick framed writer, as a pedophile, a Jungian).

SNHU: Army Reserve, vengeance unit, taking shower rapists to task; Christine Warren, Cassie-Leigh Stock, and Michael Fargnoli; three individuals had claimed to smoke pot, but had not, registered falsely for their jobs in Communications, Nursing, and Economics.

Biden: Offering Trump Campaign, knowledge of Biden, as Ronald Reagan, actually Kamala Harris.

It takes a madman to fly skies like these.

[automatismoateo]

Arguing with a Muslim is like talking to a brick wall via /r/atheism

Arguing with a Muslim is like talking to a brick wall I don't know if this belongs here but I am going to rant about my discussion with a Muslim that didn't believe in the origin of life. First off I was on discord and I saw this guy talking about how Christians were wrong and that Allah made everyone which I don't know if that is true but I guess the Quran says that. I said that I believe that we came from evolution which was a mistake that costed me 1 hour of my life. He said that "we came from air to something" which that's basically what happens in most religions when a figure makes us?? But after he said that I responded "we came from primordial soup and eventually evolved to humans" which he responded "so we went from liquid to flesh? Very logical". At this point I was annoyed at how much he didn't understand so I said "we came from the building blocks of life, amino acids and proteins formed the first cell walls and rna and dna but he still said that I had no proof that we came from evolution after explaining it 3 times. He said that we were made by God and that evolution wasn't real and that's why "we couldn't clone humans or make more" so I stated that lactose tolerance is a sign that humans are still evolving and we can't clone humans because of laws and maybe morals. I also said that we could actually genetic engineer stuff for example we made goats produce proteins that are found in spiderwebs and he still flat out denied it and said I had no proof. He then made the claim saying specifically in some weird broken grammar "you said we come from sperm which goes into egg so humans can't evo" which makes no sense at all and I eventually gave up and I'm sure he thinks he won. That's all I have to say Tldr; muslim denies all my claims of evidence of life and then makes incredibly stupid claims with no backup evidence Submitted June 28, 2024 at 07:48PM by Negative-Respond-382 (From Reddit https://ift.tt/k3LT7ja)

[catchmeifyoucansalvatore]

thousand days monologue.

Versailles, I've been thinking about the last thousand days we've spent together. Sometimes I have the feeling that you have become an extension of my body, my skin and soul connected by the depth of our emotions, my sky and stars inked on the tattoos on your chest.

I am the autumn of my own life, you know? The promise of what the flowers once were and the premise of a winter that will sentence my own break. And you are my spring. Emerging from the birdsong to renew my leaves, my lost fauna. There is no winter when you are around, it never arrives, it never dares to devour my veins and turn them into stone and marble.

I know I'm lost. That my existence won't last that longer, I'm as sure of that as I need air to breathe. But you live on in me and I know that at the end of my days I will live on in you. Yesterday, when the warmth of the blankets was embraced by the acidity of our affection, you said that your whole future will be different because you met me. And that every one of your new steps would be graced by my presence and the things we shared together. I can't die, Versailles, my heart will definitely never stop as long as you remember me.

These days, I had a dream. Maybe I haven't shared it with you because these particular illusions always make me think how romantically stupid my mind can be. But anyway, we were somewhere in Europe, something like Bordeaux or Bâle. I was wearing that yellow dress, the one from my dreams - which I recently discovered as a symbol of all the incredible creations of my mind. Well, long curly hair and a satin choker. You were you, but in a Count Vronsky or Robbie Turner way. I think about that, about those details, because it was us and at the same time it wasn't us. I thought for a while, remembering these differences, that probably my mind was replaying all the romantic characters we'd seen together - but in our bodies, you know what I mean? You'd hold my hand or press my waist, at certain moments I'd feel your fingers running through my hair, holding the line of my jaw to lock your lips to mine. And I felt all the butterflies of spring floating around in my stomach, burning my blood and making me fade away in your arms like the times when my body gives up on staying awake.

Anyway, we were walking and walking and walking. And for some reason, I never got tired. Me, who can't walk a few meters without feeling exhausted, without holding your arm for fear of collapsing. Me, broken and definitely with long-standing vitamin deficiencies, walking... Walking... Walking next to you and, not even for a second, did I feel that I needed a place to sit or a shadow to regain my energy. You were right next to me, smelling of vanilla, smoke and french liqueur. I could perfectly feel the texture of your skin and at the same time the bricks, the moist summer of the european streets, the never-ending walk.

It was you who made us stop. Next to a bridge, a privileged view of the sea and the canyons, one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen in my life. I remember looking into your eyes and thinking that my agnostic nature is not neutral when it comes to you; you are a irrefutable proof that there is a superior entity and that His creations are beautiful and perfect. I kissed you. That specific kiss when we were silent, breathing each other's air, feeling each other's hearts, daring the other one to pull away first. I remember hugging you with all my force, as if I could hide in your skin, sew our bodies together so that we would never be apart - not even for a second. I don't know if God really exists and I have no connection to any religion. But sometimes I think that dream was a gift from something beyond my imagination. It was like a vision of the future and the past at the same time, as if it were us, but also Noah and Allie in 1940, surviving with what we were allowed.

It can’t be that simple. I don’t believe it. Twice my destiny to live near you was broken, until we met in the future, surrounded by drama, alcohol and recent discoveries. It is not possible that fate has so many coincidences. Our first kiss, the day we saw the moon together, the first time I went to your house to watch a movie. It’s not possible, I don’t believe that.. I feel like we had to meet. I feel like this dream has happened before and it might happen again. I believe we are more than just this coincidental wave of events. I cannot love you only in this life. We cannot be gathered a few thousand days. Not when it seems my heart will slip out of my chest whenever I see you, not when I dream of Bordeux and the way you hold me.

I don’t believe we’ll die. I believe art is preserved by time. With songs, books, poems, and particular stars. I believe that you will be eternal in me and I will be eternal in you and that we will never really leave the world; our arts never die. So I know, I’m sure of that... That even if our hearts stop beating one day, I will still be the autumn that hurts and you will be the spring that heals. I believe that we will continue to exist and remain alive in the arts. So for each of these details, I will continue writing about you until I turn to ashes.

I will keep writing about you until we become eternal. On the sands of the beach of our coastal city, or on the bricks of Bâle.

As ethereal as the thousand days that have passed.

[refractoryinsulation]

Acid Proof Bricks: The Best Defense Against Corrosive Chemicals

Are you looking for acid-resistant bricks? Then Refmon Industries offers you these amazing acid-proof bricks, which are acid-resistant and give fabulous durability. So visit our website now to know more.

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[restoreworks]

Masonry Cleaners Archives

Each month, the journal features thrilling and informative articles covering a vast array of industry-related subjects. Abrasive cleaning is the most aggressive cleaning method, as the objective is to not wash away floor contaminants, however to take away the outer portion of the masonry by which the stain is deposited. For this cause, it shouldn't be used on floor faced models, the place the surface is easy and polished. Although abrasive cleaning includes methods similar to grinding wheels, sanding discs and sanding belts, it sometimes refers to grit blasting, additionally known as sandblasting.

Enquiries for a contract cleaner for model spanking new masonry will normally come from building corporations, development firms, or property managers. Cleaner Times is a month-to-month technical journal completely serving the needs of the stress cleaning/water blasting trade. All Cleaner Times readers are linked ultimately to the pressure washing or water blasting industry, both as manufacturers, distributors, suppliers, or contractors.

Be positive you rent a masonry company that prioritizes your happiness and safety, and guarantees that they may clean up earlier than leaving your personal home. However, finding an expert masonry contractor could be a problem. The effectiveness of this cleaner permits cleaning to happen in an expedited method.

Get ideas from the professionals on how to remove graffiti without damaging the floor. Understanding your gear is an important side of successfully operating your small business. Find suggestions and other options to offer medical health insurance to you and your staff to maintain you and your workers healthy and in business cleaning masonry contractor. Whether you're a newbie or an expert towing a trailer, it's best to apply correct maintenance and to remember primary knowledge for a safety driving. This article illustrates tips on how to care for your tools and staff in harsh, frigid conditions. Learn the procedures and the means to get the condo maintenance jobs.

Are you looking for a dependable brick-pointing service in Glenshaw, Shaler, & Allison Park, Pennsylvania? We are a number one brick-pointing service with over 23 years of extensive expertise in the field. Our skilled group is dedicated to offering you with unparalleled results... We are a reliable chimney pointing service in Glenshaw, Shaler, & Allison Park, Pennsylvania, with over 23 years of comprehensive expertise and a educated staff.

The correct cleaning technique includes stress washing and particular chemical compounds. Pressure washing new masonry is a crucial step in the constructing course of that shouldn’t be overlooked. Not solely does cleaning the brick, block or stone remove extra mortar or different binding supplies however it will convey out the pure great thing about the constructing product.

Cleaning strategies might alter the looks of the finished masonry; typically, at least some cement paste is faraway from the floor of the items. When this occurs, extra aggregate is exposed to view, which can alter the color. In basic, the extra aggressive the cleaning methodology, the more paste is removed and the higher the potential for altering the wall’s look. For instance, sandblasting may be expected to change the appearance to a higher degree than cleaning by hand with detergent and water. Note also that the same cleaning method could have completely different outcomes primarily based on the specific procedures used.

A full-coverage chimney cap keeps out the rainwater that erodes the chimney structure and elements. These chimney caps carry a restricted lifetime guarantee and are made from a 24 gauge flat sheet of metallic and every features an animal-proofed screen. Full coverage implies that these chimney caps cowl the complete chimney top and the first row of brick. Brush the stains on the brick with a wire brush to remove any unfastened mortar. Leave the acid in contact with the masonry for 30 seconds or so. Whether it seeps up from the bottom or rains down, water can damage your home’s masonry.

A good job means that the eye can't see that a repair was made on a chimney. Oftentimes, tuckpointing the complete chimney is critical to stop a chimney from leaking. Masonry contractors like Masters Services, provide protection, repairs, and rebuilds. Regular upkeep of your chimney is critical to stop main injury, deterioration, and repairs that might historic masonry cleaning be very expensive. Essentially granite or marble cleaning, poulticing is used in restoration projects to bring back the unique brilliance of a stone. When restoring historically significant structures, it's critical to choose a contractor that has expertise in this space.

[teddy06writes]

Of Stolen Bread And Broken Glass

Requested by Outsiders Anon: "HmMmMmm what about uhhh the well known Jean Valjean from Les Miserables of whom I am a very big fan of his character arc of "stealing bread then becoming a businessman". Get this, what if Jean stole Y/N's bread?! 🥺🥺 - les mis anon 😩. (If I accidentally said something offensive or I'm supporting a dodgy character I'm going to cry I swear 👀💔)

{please note that I will still be calling your outsiders anon cause thats how my brain works, but thank you very much for going to look at my other interests thats honsetly just so <3333333 you really didn't have to}

{okay so, the only slightly dodgy thing about this is that in the Brick Jvj is like 40 be the time we meet him, cause he spends twenty years in jail and was jailed at 20, but I firmly believe in Young Hugh Jackman in Oklahoma as young jvj, so we're going with that}

prejail!Jean ValJean x reader (sort of? its not like overly out there)

trigger warnings: some swearing, mentions of violence, me silently schreeching acab, angst

premise: you, the village baker, have done your best to keep the prices of your goods low, so low in fact, that you are even finding it hard to put food on the table, and yet someone still finds himself so desperate as to steal from your display case. Much to your suprise how ever, it just so happens to be the one person you'd never expected

{is this high concept? am I reaching here? I really don't even know anymore, this week feels like a bad acid trip}

{Also, anon if you want more ideas/ideas for ideas, if your going to keep with this, which i would again like to say ITS OKAY TO STICK TO THE OUTSIDERS, check the les mis tags on tumblr, or les amis}

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

You'd been asleep, as most of the people of the village would have, at such a late time, and with such a storm threatening to spill over the mountains.

But the crashing of glass, had been so loud, you bolted straight out of bed.

It took you a long moment to fumble for a match to light a candle, but as soon as it was lit you hurried from your room, and down the stairs, already hearing the shouts of neighbors.

Downstairs, you found the front room of the bakery a mess of shattered glass, torn paper, and varying pieces of bread or pastries.

"(y/n)? (y/n) dear are you alright?" Someone called from outside.

You looked around at the mess frantically shouting, "A thief! Toulouse send for the police!"

It didn't take long for the officers to swarm the bakery, asking you questions before filing out, promising to find who had done it, and leaving you to clean the mess you'd been left with.

~~

Daylight was shining, and people were about on the streets by the time you'd finished sweeping up shards of glass and trying to figure out how much you'd lost.

There were still a few loaves in the back, plus the dough you'd left out to proof, but it couldn't possibly be enough for the demanding hands that always appeared on Sundays, not to mention enough to keep for yourself.

"Oh lord, how am I meant to get back from this?" You mumbled staring up at the ceiling.

A knock at the side door pulled you out of your thoughts, and you hurried to open it, finding the police chief standing there, "How may I help you monsieur?"

"We have caught the thief. He's currently being held whilst the council decides his fate." The man reported, "A man by the name of Jean Valjean."

Your eyes widened, no, that couldn't be, he was your best friend- hell you were only a step and half away from courting for gods sake! He wouldn't do that. He couldn't. Just a few days ago you'd gone for a walk together around the village- he'd brought you flowers-

"I need to see him." You decided quickly.

"Are you sure about that? He did in fact steal from you-"

You shook your head, cutting him off, "I wish to see him."

~~

Reluctantly, the man had taken you along to the courthouse, and down through a maze of rooms until you got to where Jean was being held.

He was sat up against a wall, hunched over, looking defeated, and as soon as you stepped through the door, his head whipped up, "(y/n)!"

You took in a shaky breath, "Jean..."

He stood up quickly, "(y/n) you've got to understand- I had- Jeanne's children- my niece- the little one- god (y/n) they were all going to starve!"

"You didn't have to steal it!" You yelled, "There could've been other ways that didn't involve jailing!"

"Like how? Lord knows neither she nor I had the money! There was no other choice!"

"You could had asked! You know I would have given you all you needed and more Jean! I wouldn't have charged you! You knew this!" You snapped.

Valjean's shoulders drooped as he realized the gravity of your words, "(y/n)- I-"

You shook your head, "I'd've done everything I could to help. You could've said something. I thought- I thought we were close enough for that."

He remained quiet, staring down at the dirty floor.

"Apparently not. I- Your going to go to jail, and its- it might not end up well- it could be just the same as a death sentence. Good luck," You sighed, blinking back tears, as you turned to the door, "Oh and, if you would've asked me- for courtship I mean- I would've said yes."

"(y/n)-"

But you were walking through the door, away from him.

"If you get out okay-" You called back brokenly, "Try to find me. I might be long gone, but I'd like it if you tried."

[arcoyindustries-blog]

The most common industries use carbon bricks made by acid proof bricks manufacturers are chemical plants, fertilizer plants, refineries, pharmaceuticals, etc. These types of bricks have a high resistance to corrosion by high temperature. Acid proof bricks are installed in two ways:

1. Direct bond lining 2. Membrane or stone lining

Source: Acid Proof Bricks and their Installation

[scary-lasagna]

Trust || Part VI

"  Finally meeting the eyes of your soon-to-be murderer, you realized he was crying again. Fuck him, he deserves to cry, wail, scream, after what he's done to you.

You can't rip a flower out of the ground and expect it to grow in acid.

With a final reassuring squeeze, Hoodie let go."

Yandere!Hoodie/Brian x Reader

* * *

A month later and things haven't gotten any better than when you first arrived. Hoodie just keeps growing more violent and possessive my the minute. You really don't know how much longer you'll survive here from either dying from Hoodie's leather-gloved hand or by your own.

Hoodie leaves on most nights, which would be delightful in planning a route of escape. But it's hard to do so when you're locked in the windowless bedroom.

All you're left to do for the night is look at your picture of your previous life, contemplate your situation, plan his murder, and scan over a few books Hoodie found for you.

This could all change if you only said, "I love you." To him.

Which you weren't, but you were thankful to know that's an option in case you were nearing death by his hand.

It was late night, and thunder rumbled over the depths of the cellar. It must be going to rain soon. Hoodie was still gone, he didn't know when he'd be back. But you know he'll get caught in the rain if he doesn't get home before morning.

And you'll be charged with the task of drying his hair.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the magazine down and pushing yourself off of the bed. Hoodie got you a more qualified mattress to sleep on, along with a bedspread and blankets that kept the damp air off of you. But sometimes you just needed an open window or a fan.

Neither of which Hoodie has provided. A window means a chance of escape, not that he could just give you one anyways, it was a brick-lined basement. And a fan deems a possible weapon to hit him over the head with.

Oh, how you longed to do that. Even if he killed you, it would be so satisfying to watch him stumble with a yelp, clutching the back of his dirty blonde locks.

You shuffled around your room, sifting through drawers and pulling out wrapped clothing. You've been working on making a shank out of a shard of tile you found in the kitchen, and literally anything else you could find. You've only got a rubber band and a few pieces of tape to hold the fabric around the ceramic. It's not much, but it's your only form of protection.

But your plan to craft was cut short by the cellar door rattling. You stuffed the tile inside a few socks before shoving the drawer closed.

"Hoodie?" You called out, pushing yourself off of the ground to stand in front of your door. 

"What? You hungry? You're supposed to be sleeping." Footsteps gradually made their way towards the other side of the door, followed by a series of mechanical clicks.

"I'm not tired." You looked up at the mask when the door open, which you cautiously took off. He was sweaty, and very gross in general. "Can't you find a new mask that doesn't suffocate your pores?"

"Yeah, but I like this one though." He gently took it out of our grasp, using the same sense of caution as you used with him. 

Hoodie couldn't hold it in anymore. Everytime he left, he was never guaranteed in seeing your face when he returned. You were smart, too smart. You were bound to find the key he hidden in one of the loose bricks of your room. Just in case one day he doesn't return. He wouldn't want you to be left here and starved, even if the masked man did know about the situation.

He struggled to hold back to tears prickling his bottom lid, and he pulled you towards him into the colder hallway. But your skin was soothed by his warm chest.

"I'm so sorry for what I've done. You know I'd never want to hurt you." His muscles twitched along your back when he squeezed tighter. 

You couldn't do anything but hug back, running your hand up and down the rough fabric of his hoodie. Even without the view of his face, his jerking chest was proof enough that he was holding back sobs and tears. "Prove it, then." You weren't even sure if he heard your voice through the muffle of his clothes. 

"How can I prove my love to you?" He separates your bodies, but kept his large hands on your waist. Tear streaks were travelling down his dirty cheeks.

"Free me." You stared up at him, clutching his forearms. "Please, Hoodie."

He glanced back at the entrance, and for a moment, you had a spark of hope.

"Not now, darling. I'm sorry, really I am." His tone sounded sincere enough, and his eyes were tilted with sadness.

Your face fell and your tense shoulders slumped, "Why?"

He shook his head, his fingers flexing into your skin, "There's too much going on right now. Tim left Jay, and Jay's on his own. And Alex is a good hunter, he'll find you. He's already come around here a few times, actually."

All you heard was a pathetic attempt at an excuse. But in reality, it did make some sense.

"You pinky swear you're not lying?" Your eyebrows twitched as you looked up at him.

He managed a smirk, leaving the cool air to nip at a warm spot on your hip as he held his hand up, "I'd never lie to you." 

You linked your pinky with his and it caught you off guard as Hoodie sealed it with a soft kiss on your knuckle.

Trust.

You craved for his lips sometimes, and it was often hard to remind yourself that this is a different person. Would it be cheating on Brian if it's the same body?

What the hell were you talking about? This dude kidnapped you and you're thinking about whether his lips would feel good against yours.

But you were satisfied as he kisses you on the cheek, "Get back to bed, now." He started to coax you back into your room.

"Can't I stay up with you for a bit?"

He squinted, and you could tell he was growing suspicious but nonetheless, he obliged with a, "Sure." Taking you by the hand, he lead you to the kitchen. "I gotta take a shower first, I'm sure you can make something for yourself while I'm gone."

The bathroom door was closed before you could even answer, "I literally just said that I wasn't hungry earlier." You mumbled, glancing around the cute kitchen.

Out of curiosity, you picked up one of the medicine bottles to see what he was taking and if that somehow made him more aggressive.

Tim Wright.

He had Tim's pills. How and why? Did he steal them or did Tim give them to him? Was it the same way he got the picture?

You set the plastic down and walked over to the humming fridge. There wasn't much in it, just a few packs of meat, two jugs of water, miscellaneous in the drawers, and a bag of chips. And that godforsaken tuna.

Why the hell does he keep chips in the fridge?

You took the box of ham and started making two sandwiches with cheese, lettuce, and mayo. You glanced in the direction of the hissing water in the bathroom before chucking the tuna in the trash, tossing some paper towels on top of it to hide the glint of the metal.

The hiss of the shower stopped, and you listened as Hoodie rustled around with some towels.

Oh fuck, he's gonna try and seduce you. 

You turned away from the door, busing your self with slowly pouring juice into the glass. Wet footsteps pass the kitchen, and you couldn't help but glance though the window as he made his way to his room. 

A guilty part of you wishes that Brian had those type of muscles when you were dating. This dude was really strong just from the look of his back. 

He paused at the padlocks glancing over them, and then quickly locked with your eyes. You turned away, spilling the half-full glass all over the counter with a hissed curse.

You tried to look again, but the door was already closed.

You soaked up the juice, piling all of the towels in the trash until the counter was grape-free. Hoodie walked in, hair still wet and in (thankfully) clean clothes.

You accepted his advancements as he wrapped a pair of strong arms around your waist, nuzzling into your hair.

"You smell better than I do, and I've just taken a shower."

"I smell like damp basement and cheap Irish Sring soap, don't lie to me." You picked up a plate and held it out to your left, letting Hoodie take a hold of it as you grabbed your plate and the two drinks.

You could tell how exhausted Hoodie was by the way he flopped down on the couch, almost looing his dinner in the process.

You set your plate and drink on the coffee table, knowing he's going to want half of your sandwich anyways. 

The air was calm, and rain had started to tap on the floor above you in the broken building. Hoodie was just chilling, watching the late night news and eating the sandwich you made for him.

It felt nice.

It felt normal.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, hugging his elbow as you cuddled up to him. You were touched starved, you craved affection and contact, and Hoodie was the only one around capable of giving it to you.

He set the plate down on the armrest and wrapped an arm around you, allowing the warmth of his chest to engulf you.

You closed your eyes and even dozed off a little bit until you were stirred by Hoodie running his hands through your tangled hair. You whined, aggravated that you were disturbed from your slumber. 

"I love you." 

You rolled your closed eyes. You didn't respond, it was obvious you're faking sleep now, but there was really no other option that would end well.

"[Y/N]."

"Hoodie, I don't love you. Not now."

He stood up, quite abruptly, actually, and you almost fell on the floor.

"Then why are you doing this to me?" His muscles flexed under the black t-shirt he was wearing as he scowled down at you. "Don't you realize this is torture?!"

The man sounded desperate, and his elbows were tucked to his waist insecurely. His eyes...they were truly filled with the pain of the truth.

But as he turned to leave, you managed an apology. "Hoodie, I'm sorry." You clasped your hands together, straightening up on the couch.

"You're not sorry." He hissed, twisting back towards you. "You know what you're doing." The blonde squinted at you, searching your body for something, anything, that looked like remorse.

In his blind state of betrayal, he didn't see any.

"I am sorry!" You stood up defensively, clenching your fists by your side. "How dare you say what I don't feel! I was sorry, but now I'm not! You're just an asshole who expects me to fall in love at first sight of you!"

"You did fall in love with me at first sight o-!"

"No, I didn't! I feel in love with Brian Thomas, your ass had to ruin a perfect fucking relationship for your own selfish needs!"

Hoodie stayed silent, he was holding back. His fists were clenched so tight, his knuckles were turning white, and his eyes were full of burning hatred.

"I'm never going to love you, Hoodie. Not truly. Not if you always act like an entitled brat."

"Don't fucking lead me on then." His shoulders slumped and his fingers loosened. "Don't give false hope."

You blinked, watching as he calmed down into sadness, "Hoodie, I didn't want to do that...I want to make you happy, I want you to feel comfortable instead of tense and awkward which gets you on edge. Maybe even a little dangerous.."

He looked up from the ground and into your sympathetic eyes. He stepped forward and grabbed your waist, pulling you towards him.

"Then you will not get rid of me until you love me."

"That wasn't our deal you sai-"

"Said that I'd free you in due time, yes,” He finished for you, “I keep my promises. Just like how I promised to make your life a living hell if you didn't learn to love me. It's a shared deal, sweetheart." His voice was eerily calm.

You didn't reply, you couldn't. You knew if you opened your mouth you would start sobbing for mercy, for freedom. But you knew that wouldn't happen on his account.

"Now, go to your room." He jerked his head into the direction behind him, staring through your eyes instead of into them.

"This will not make me love you." You whispered, looking closer into his eyes. You wished he could see the hurt in your eyes, the hatred. 

But he kept his eyes trained on the plate sitting on the coffee table.

You sniffed, shoving past him towards your damp and dark room.

As you jumped into bed, you heard the sound of a plate crashing. Then another one. Right into the television.

You didn't care. You turned over and stared at the wall until sleep consumed your tense nerves.

___

The door to [Y/N]'s room clicked and creaked quietly open. Hoodie stared at them, hoping the metallic sound of the gun didn't wake them.

You could only see the shadow on the wall, and the clicking disturbance of the gun being handled. You couldn't quite see his position, but he might be aiming at you. You don't where else he'd point the gun at.

You dared not to move. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. You were frozen in fear of the idea of being shot.

The rustling of fabric and shrinking shadow signaled that he put the gun away but was advancing towards you. What if he decided on a knife instead?

Instead, a rough hand brushed your hair out of your face, and placed a soft kiss on your temple.

You know he's not going to let up. You have to plan an escape.

[jenniferroland]

[starter for @loverot​]

"If you can look at what's there and not eat yourself hollow with shame, you are not human anymore."

Transferring out of Mount Massive to play brain scrambler in the middle of the Arizona desert was hardly a step up. She’d put in a request for leave numerous times and been denied on the grounds that her research skills and capability as a pathologist made her “too valuable an asset” to allow her to be off the asylum campus for any extended period of time. But when a handful of her female coworkers began experiencing hysterical pregnancies from proximity to the Engine, she was suddenly a liability instead. Never mind that she experienced precisely no negative effects from it; if anything, her mind felt sharper when working on location than it ever did in remote labs, like popping a handful of Adderall. 

The segregation came without warning. Experiments and treatments went unfinished; communications went dark; theories withered and died without the proper environment in which to nurture them. Uprooted and shipped away to some toxic waste dump, Jennifer Roland never felt more useless. 

Day in and day out, she sat behind a monitor, watching religious fanatics of varying degrees of insanity fight and fuck and feast and absolutely slaughter one another. The scheduled bursts from the Towers would resound, the crew inside the lead-insulated concrete shelters would shield their eyes, and shortly thereafter, an all-out shitfest would ensue on the screens in front of them. Recovery teams were dispatched to covertly collect any bodies they could, which were promptly tossed onto the slab in the operating theatre or iced in the morgue. Occasionally, they’d get a few on the table who just refused to fucking die, and in more than one instance, Roland would return to her quarters with a black eye or finger-shaped bruises branded into her throat. 

“That’s why you get hazard pay,” she can recall Jeremy Blaire assuring her over drinks. “Relax, Jen. The building is radiation-proof. The radio waves can’t hurt you in there.”

Once rare, those desperately clinging to existence (it could hardly be called life by the time they’d arrived at the lab) were showing up in higher and higher numbers. Their presence always fucked with the medical equipment — due to the high levels of radiation they were exposed to, she was assured by Dr. Ewen Cameron — but more than that, it was affecting people: relief nurses, research assistants, those who had the least contact with them. It was Cameron himself who paged her into the telemetry lab to show her the increase in radio wave blips on the radar, seemingly organic hotspots of radiation cropping up out of nowhere. The “feedback loop,” he’d called it: such prolonged exposure to such vulnerable individuals mutated them from receivers to projectors. 

These unholy fucks were walking nuclear reactors, and they were bleeding it inside the lab.

Between autopsies of lunatics and treatment of her infected staff, Roland accumulated the most exposure to these residual waves, which is perhaps why she held out the longest. While others were rushing to the bathrooms to puke their guts out or sobbing into their workstations, Roland kept the Towers from collapsing under its own weight. Just like she had at Mount Massive, at least in her own mind. Such responsibility, of course, takes its pound of flesh, resulting in a sharp uptick of headaches and irritability in the doctor.

In fact, she kept an iron grip on the facility, even as employee numbers began to drop. Some transferred; some just dropped dead. All were required to vacate the operating sector by 22:00 hours so that it could be “defunked” for the next day. Roland, of course, oversaw this expedition, which usually consisted of hanging out in a hazmat suit and surfing what little internet they were allowed access to while the facility was cleansed. The longer she sat at the computer, the more severe her migraines would become, which she chalked up to blue light exposure. 

But when the urgent email alert – MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM STAFF EVACUATION – popped up in her notifications, the pain in her skull went from throbbing to blinding. The computer mouse flew from her hand and shattered on the floor as she dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, desperate to relieve the pressure behind them. Searing white heat tears at her retinas and she’s utterly convinced that her brain is hemorrhaging. 

Through that glaring light appear misty shadows of men in lab coats, blurred as if through a foggy camera lens: men with clipboards and scalpels and blue latex gloves. A scrawny lad in his early twenties wriggles futilely on the table, strapped to the gurney by too-tight leather restraints around his limbs and forehead. He’s fully conscious but barely cognizant of anything but fear. She can hear the low timbre of male voices floating around her, murmuring words she cannot or perhaps will not comprehend. Her focus is on the young man before her and the muffled syllables he attempts to utter from beneath his oxygen mask. Cutting through the underwater noise is the sound of her own name, sharp and deliberate, and her gaze falls to the laryngoscope clutched tightly in her left hand. 

Shifting behind the boy on the table, she adjusts her grip on the tool and removes the oxygen mask from his face. He’s drooling quite profusely. With the sleeve of her right arm, she gently mops up his mess before prying his mouth open with her fingers. At this moment, his eyes snap up to hers, pupils blown wide with terror, and though his movement is highly restricted, it’s evident he’s trying to shake his head. The raspy frantic whisper of “no, no, no” does nothing to phase her colleagues. She attempts to quiet him with a soft shushing (to absolutely no avail) and inserts the curved blade into his throat. Tears, mucus, and saliva flow together as he struggles to breathe; his eyes plead for mercy, the lightless gaze of a soul all but relinquishing itself to the higher power of Death. As she preps the endotracheal tube for insertion, Jenny tries to swallow her nerves but they catch in her throat, dry and brittle. Guilt won’t save them now. 

“Oh, God, please—”

Roland’s torn out of the vision by the inescapable urge to vomit and she rolls onto her side to wretch away the venom in her memories. With no recollection of how exactly she ended up on the floor ten feet away from the monitors, she pushes herself up and wipes away the acid from her lips. Just like she had in her memory. 

And she feels sick all over again, but not just for the fate of that patient: for all the rampant fuckery shoveled upon her by Murkoff. Psychological manipulation, radiation poisoning, blatant sexism. She enlisted in this army to study genetics, not to torture the cognitively vulnerable to the brink of insanity. 

Fuck Jeremy Blaire. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this Project Bluebird bullshit. 

On the way out the door, she flicks a half-smoked cigarette into the server room trashcan to trigger the emergency sprinkler system. Whoops.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

She never liked the company cars, anyway.

As the frame of the Mercedes rolls into the lake behind her (and with it all traces of her identity), Jennifer Roland makes her way through the Mount Massive Wilderness Reverse to the runoff reservoir. Armed with only an industrial flashlight-stun gun and her unlisted phone, she’s well aware that this mission will more than likely be her last. But when you’ve got nothing to lose and an insatiable hunger for vengeance, death doesn’t seem so bad.

Tucking her hair up under her cap and securing her phone in the zippered pocket of her plastic splash suit, she hoists herself up into the drainage pipe that pours into the lagoon from the sewers. The hospital isn’t even visible from this side of the mountain; according to her map, it’s about ten miles through a sea of blood, shit, and god knows what else to Mount Massive Asylum. If she’d ever wondered how Andy Dufresne felt escaping Shawshank, this is about as close as it gets.

Rats and snakes are her only company for the first several miles but in the last stretch of three, the scent of fresh death hits her like a brick wall. Mutilated corpses litter the pathways, slipping into the murky sewage and compounding the horrific stench. The closer she comes to her destination, the more pungent the odor becomes until she’s stumbling upon half-dead patients and doctors alike, as lifeless and miserable as the Temple Gate victims. The feeling of another impending migraine strikes her but she presses onward. She’s not sure what’s more unsettling: the gut-wrenching screams coming from above her head or the periodic gaps of silence between.

Drenched in blackwater, Jenny navigates her way up into the hospital block, only to be met with the gory sight of her colleagues and former patients strewed about the ward like discarded toys. She stands gravely still listening for anything — a scream, a whisper, a breath — but no sound breaks the stony silence. The only living presence in the block appears to be a few very persistent bees buzzing around her head. The doctor carefully peels away her suit and the clothes underneath, tucking them away in an air vent and replacing them with the least fluid-drench patient uniform she can find. Thank you for your sacrifice, 937. 

Jenny’s exceedingly careful not to cause too much commotion with the beam of her flashlight as she stalks into the hospital security station and logs in under one of her former colleague’s ID. The security footage tapes appear to be highly corrupted, with some of the cameras shorting out completely, but through the hazy grey static, she can just make out a man’s shadow: impossibly tall, grainy, almost translucent, as though it were comprised solely of smoke. Shredding through its victims like razors through tissue paper. Clearly, this storm of fuck is just beginning.

“Ain’t a perdy sight, is it?” 

Hot, humid breath hits the back of her neck before she can react and a spindly hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“Not as perdy as them nails, brudder.”

“Don’t talk ‘im t’death. Get the goat and go.”

“Awful s-sorry ‘bout this, boy, but I gotsta.”

Jenny’s not keen to stick around to find out what exactly it is this dissociative man “gotsta” do. Firing up the switch on the stun gun, she jabs the pointed prongs into his throat and digs in. His grip on her tightens before it releases, the perp collapsing to the ground and clutching his bleeding neck with a frankly overdramatic gurgle. 

Roland flees through a labyrinth of plastic wrap and broken gurneys, but the heavy slap of bare feet limping on the floor behind her soon catches up. And just as she looks over her shoulder to catch sight of him, her ankle snags against a tripwire, knocking her face-first into the bloodied tile. That fall triggers the release of two sheets of barbed wire that rattle towards her, coiling around her legs and torso; clearly, this trap was meant for a bigger monster than her. The barbs easily rip through the uniform fabric to sink into her thighs, calves, stomach. The more she wriggles, the deeper they sink, and the shards of shattered glass on the floor only amplify the pain.

Her only chance to protect herself is the flashlight that launched no more than a foot away during the fall. If she can just tear her arm free-

The arch of a dirty foot secures its grip on the flashlight handle.

“Just like a coward t’run. That won’t do at-tall, Dennis.”

“You shouldn’ta run, boy. Now you’ll be all bloody fer the weddin’.”

He picks up the flashlight and turns it over in his hand, checking the weight and feel of it; he decides he likes it. 

He likes it even more when it cracks like a Louisville slugger against her temple.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

Her muscles are stiff and achy when she regains consciousness, somehow sore and numb at the same time. The swelling beside her left eye blurs her vision slightly, but she knows she’s in some sort of chop shop, upright in a DIY-patient restraint system that would make even Hannibal Lecter shudder. Her instinct is to attempt another escape, to writhe her way out of these straps if she has to chew her shoulder off to do it. There’s no telling how much time she has before someone-

...Whistling.