#porous concrete

[getadvanceinfo]

Pavement performance is at the heart of urban planning and design. For long, we’ve grappled with traditional materials such as asphalt and regular concrete that, while sturdy, present numerous issues such as poor water absorption and environmental stress.

[bondsofeveryonessouls]

Driveway Driveway

Ideas for a large, traditional front yard with concrete pavers and full sun in the summer.

[nnctales]

Porous Concrete: Exploring the Various Types and Applications

Porous concrete, also known as pervious concrete, is an innovative and sustainable material that has gained significant attention in recent years. Its unique composition allows water to pass through, making it an excellent solution for managing stormwater runoff, reducing flooding, and promoting groundwater recharge. This article delves into the different types of porous concrete and their…

[leatherbookmark]

yt recced me a short in which some people didn't like the black/dark something hexagon tiles in their bathroom so they. poured concrete over it, and now enjoy their concrete-floored bathroom whose walls they then painted black.

[uss-bigsurprise]

translating something for my beautiful job relating concrete that i love so much and i-

goodbye partner

[reasonsforhope]

As relentless rains pounded LA, the city’s “sponge” infrastructure helped gather 8.6 billion gallons of water—enough to sustain over 100,000 households for a year.

Earlier this month, the future fell on Los Angeles. A long band of moisture in the sky, known as an atmospheric river, dumped 9 inches of rain on the city over three days—over half of what the city typically gets in a year. It’s the kind of extreme rainfall that’ll get ever more extreme as the planet warms.

The city’s water managers, though, were ready and waiting. Like other urban areas around the world, in recent years LA has been transforming into a “sponge city,” replacing impermeable surfaces, like concrete, with permeable ones, like dirt and plants. It has also built out “spreading grounds,” where water accumulates and soaks into the earth.

With traditional dams and all that newfangled spongy infrastructure, between February 4 and 7 the metropolis captured 8.6 billion gallons of stormwater, enough to provide water to 106,000 households for a year. For the rainy season in total, LA has accumulated 14.7 billion gallons.

Long reliant on snowmelt and river water piped in from afar, LA is on a quest to produce as much water as it can locally. “There's going to be a lot more rain and a lot less snow, which is going to alter the way we capture snowmelt and the aqueduct water,” says Art Castro, manager of watershed management at the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. “Dams and spreading grounds are the workhorses of local stormwater capture for either flood protection or water supply.”

Centuries of urban-planning dogma dictates using gutters, sewers, and other infrastructure to funnel rainwater out of a metropolis as quickly as possible to prevent flooding. Given the increasingly catastrophic urban flooding seen around the world, though, that clearly isn’t working anymore, so now planners are finding clever ways to capture stormwater, treating it as an asset instead of a liability. “The problem of urban hydrology is caused by a thousand small cuts,” says Michael Kiparsky, director of the Wheeler Water Institute at UC Berkeley. “No one driveway or roof in and of itself causes massive alteration of the hydrologic cycle. But combine millions of them in one area and it does. Maybe we can solve that problem with a thousand Band-Aids.”

Or in this case, sponges. The trick to making a city more absorbent is to add more gardens and other green spaces that allow water to percolate into underlying aquifers—porous subterranean materials that can hold water—which a city can then draw from in times of need. Engineers are also greening up medians and roadside areas to soak up the water that’d normally rush off streets, into sewers, and eventually out to sea...

To exploit all that free water falling from the sky, the LADWP has carved out big patches of brown in the concrete jungle. Stormwater is piped into these spreading grounds and accumulates in dirt basins. That allows it to slowly soak into the underlying aquifer, which acts as a sort of natural underground tank that can hold 28 billion gallons of water.

During a storm, the city is also gathering water in dams, some of which it diverts into the spreading grounds. “After the storm comes by, and it's a bright sunny day, you’ll still see water being released into a channel and diverted into the spreading grounds,” says Castro. That way, water moves from a reservoir where it’s exposed to sunlight and evaporation, into an aquifer where it’s banked safely underground.

On a smaller scale, LADWP has been experimenting with turning parks into mini spreading grounds, diverting stormwater there to soak into subterranean cisterns or chambers. It’s also deploying green spaces along roadways, which have the additional benefit of mitigating flooding in a neighborhood: The less concrete and the more dirt and plants, the more the built environment can soak up stormwater like the actual environment naturally does.

As an added benefit, deploying more of these green spaces, along with urban gardens, improves the mental health of residents. Plants here also “sweat,” cooling the area and beating back the urban heat island effect—the tendency for concrete to absorb solar energy and slowly release it at night. By reducing summer temperatures, you improve the physical health of residents. “The more trees, the more shade, the less heat island effect,” says Castro. “Sometimes when it’s 90 degrees in the middle of summer, it could get up to 110 underneath a bus stop.”

LA’s far from alone in going spongy. Pittsburgh is also deploying more rain gardens, and where they absolutely must have a hard surface—sidewalks, parking lots, etc.—they’re using special concrete bricks that allow water to seep through. And a growing number of municipalities are scrutinizing properties and charging owners fees if they have excessive impermeable surfaces like pavement, thus incentivizing the switch to permeable surfaces like plots of native plants or urban gardens for producing more food locally.

So the old way of stormwater management isn’t just increasingly dangerous and ineffective as the planet warms and storms get more intense—it stands in the way of a more beautiful, less sweltering, more sustainable urban landscape. LA, of all places, is showing the world there’s a better way.

-via Wired, February 19, 2024

[cera-chem]

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[ghostlysoaps]

What comes a'knocking in the night

[part 1]

Ghost sleeps in rare moments. It had never come easy to him when the act of it invites vulnerability, leaves him open to being taken advantage of, and rarely offers the relief it should. But the safehouse outside of Las Almas is… fine. The core of the one-four-one is there. Mostly familiar faces outside of them. Structures mapped out and vetted. He could, without a shadow of a doubt, disappear in the rafters should the situation call for it.

And still he wakes in lung-crushing terror.

In his disoriented state he thinks, with choked-back laughter bordering on hysterics, that he might have come to awareness with a rusted hook between the ribs again. The pain is acute, sharp, all-consuming; rooted to his heart the way the scent of sunbaked dust clings to his stowed gear. He flings the covers off himself, scrambling to his feet with a wild look around the spartan room.

He’s alone. Safe. Alive against all odds.

Ghost feels over the concrete until its chill bleeds into his palms and the rough texture scrapes his skin in pink swaths.

There’s no blood on them.

There’s too much blood to wash out and it partially belongs to his team.

To Johnny.

His next breath punches out of him and he keens. Desperate to rid himself off the image of porous sand swallowing blood like a gaping maw, of laughing eyes dulled, lips stilled, a body unmoving and yet dogging his every step, he pivots from the closed curtains to the entrance of his minuscule quarters – determined to exchange one set of discomfort for another.

The judgement he’ll find reflected in the mirror, the accusatory anger and disgust, means a scalding shower is out of the question. Running isn't in the cards given the situation they’re in. Venting his frustrations out in the small corner dedicated to exercise – until there’s a valid reason for his breaths to come in ragged gasps, mask clinging to his lips with perspiration – now that’s something he can do. Push himself to the edge and beyond in an attempt to regain some sense of equilibrium. It’s not punishment, he reasons, if it’ll help him sleep through the night. Not when he’ll need every ounce of energy in the morning.

Destination in mind, Ghost flees the remnants of memories and glides down the halls the way his namesake suggests.

The door he finds himself at swings open under the loving attention of thin metal. He hesitates for less than a second before he steps inside. It’s a familiar sight. A tiny, concrete box containing a bolted shelf for unused gear and a single bed. The tangled sheets rise and fall with the motion of breaths and Ghost creeps forward to crouch by the headboard, eyes roving over the body within it.

Safe and sound. Mouth lax, drooling into the pillow he’s jammed half his face into, generating heat like a damn furnace. If Ghost had possessed less sense than he does, he’d reach out and brush the over-long strands of hair from his forehead, feel his sleep-warm skin to truly hammer home that Johnny, despite his tendency for recklessness, is alive and well.

Having him close settles the last vestige of panic hammering behind his ribcage.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there before Johnny stirs. All scrunched nose and flicking ears and fluttering lashes as he drowsily blinks his eyes open. A moment of incomprehension passes before he jerks upward. Ghost makes the split-second decision to slap a hand over his mouth, stifling his yell into a muffled thing. Claws bite into his forearm and under his palm Soap’s lips part in a rumbling growl, the bones of his face beginning to shift.

“Settle down.”

Johnny goes rigid at the sound of his voice, eyes narrow, and he spitefully digs his claws in deeper when he wrenches Ghost’s hand off his face.

“Settle doon?!” he hisses through too-large teeth. “Damn near gave me a heart attack ‘n ye want me t’ simmer. Un-fuckin’-believable, sir.”

“Your spacial awareness is shite.”

“I was sleeping!” Soap snaps his teeth in irritation, jerking forward to do so an inch from Ghost's face. But despite the rude awakening, the way he looks as if taking a pound of flesh is still in the cards, he relaxes. The show of trust, subconscious as it is, sinks in Ghost's stomach like lead. There's no time to beat himself up over it because Soap tenses again and casts a weary eye towards the exits. “Are we–?”

“No.”

“Why're ye ‘ear then?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“So ye decided I coudnae either?”

Ghost shrugs.

Soap groans, long and low, flopping down on his back. He scrubs both hands down his face, leaves them there for a moment, then lowers them to blink tiredly at the ceiling. It’s… not great. Guilt threatens to choke him when he realises just how exhausted Soap looks. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the lines slowly etching themselves onto his face, the stark bandaging around his bicep hiding a wound Ghost knows for sure isn’t all the way healed. Stupid of him, to think his needs above that of his sergeant’s.

“Ye cannae keep doing this, Lt.”

“Breaking into your room?”

Soap’s face scrunches together in a rather unattractive manner. His jaw twitches, no doubt chewing on whether or not to ask if he’s done so before, but what he ultimately ends up with is: “This hot ‘n cold act you’ve got goin’. It needs to stop. I cannae–” he breaks off with a huff. “I need to know where I stand wit’ ye before I do something stupid like deciding yer pack.” He turns to look at Ghost again, lips twisted into a bitter smile. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s all strings, tangled together into an unravelable mess, the emotions he can’t put a name to nestled amongst the ones he knows more intimately than the violence his hands are capable of. “I want to carve open your ribcage.”

Perhaps he leaves out the part of wishing to curl up in there, wrap himself around Johnny’s spine and stay until he couldn’t remember what hurting felt like. He wasn’t made for this. To want. Not unless it came alongside gallons of blood and the bite of steel into flesh. Whatever this budding thing between them is, it’s not all thorns, and that scares him to death.

“A’right,” Johnny says, drawing the word out long, sounding a lot less perturbed at the prospect than any sane man should. “What’s stopped you?”

Ghost shrugs again. “I’ve needed you up until now.”

“Nah.” Soap stretches lazily, like he hasn't a care in the world, and tucks himself right into Ghost’s personal space. “Could’ve left me in Las Almas, no questions asked. Instead ye compromised yerself to get me out o’ there in… mostly one piece.”

“Maybe I want to be the one to do it.”

“Again,” Johnny drawls, “what’s stopping ye?”

Ghost says nothing.

“See, this is what I mean.” Soap punctuates his statement with a snort, an insufferable smirk dawning in the wake of it. “You threaten to kill me, but you like me alive. Leave me to fend for myself, though no one fights alone. Shoots my look-alike without a moment's hesitation but sneaks into my room the very same night.” He taps a clawed fingertip to the hardshell of Ghost's mask after every sentence, thawing a tad when the last one causes him to flinch. “Would it be so bad, trusting someone?”

“Yes.”

“Do it anyway.”

No, would be the correct response, contrarian and truthful. Ghost swipes a thumb over Soap’s cheekbone, stares at his hopelessly earnest expression while mulling words and experiences over. Knows he's too far gone already. Tries to make himself believe that Johnny isn't, and if they're lucky, that'll be enough to save him.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs and the grin he’s awarded with nearly makes the terror worth it.

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wakes up. The pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, implied torture, blood, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Okay, so, full disclosure: this is less than half of what was initially supposed to be chapter six. It just kept getting longer, so I made a few small changes to get this posted before the rest of it gains another few thousand words

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.21k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  The echo of water dripping onto concrete is the first thing to worm its way into his consciousness. Next comes the throbbing pain through his skull, the relentless pounding that sends sharp waves of agony through his head. Lockwood lets out an involuntary hiss of discomfort, which in turn brings an unfortunate awareness of how dry his mouth is.  Each breath feels like sandpaper against his throat. His head hangs forward, and the muscles in his neck ache from the strain. It takes an immense effort to gather the strength to lift his head and look around, and when he finally does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

  The room is a grim tableau of grey, its walls, floor, and ceiling a continuous expanse of cold, unyielding concrete. The only breaks in the monotonous shade are the occasional questionable reddish-brown stains that mar the porous material. Hints of past violence are embedded in the very fibre of this space. To his left, a heavy iron door looms.  With its surface pitted and scarred by time, it stands as an ominous sentinel to his dreary prison.

  The throbbing between his ears intensifies, making it difficult to piece together the events leading up to this moment. How did he end up here, bound and trapped in a room straight out of a horror film? Lockwood’s memories slowly rise to the surface through the fog of his headache, and with them comes a growing awareness of his predicament. His wrists are bound tightly to the arms of a metal chair, the cold steel biting into his skin. 

  Something important is still begging to be remembered, some crucial detail just barely out of reach. He struggles to focus, his mind a chaotic swirl of fragmented memories and disjointed thoughts. They should be on a job right now, shouldn't they?

  It all comes back to him in a rush.

  ‘Hughes’, the alley, the fight. The memories crash over him like a wave, and he feels as if he’s finally awake. Where is she? His heart pounds as he wonders about the fate of his companion. Is she somewhere nearby, tied up like him? Or has she met a worse fate? She’s never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially with arrogant men like these. Her sharp tongue often gets her into trouble. Before he can fully lose himself in the depths of his fears, the large metal door swings open with an ominous creak. The echo reverberates through the cold, concrete room, and in walks their would-be client.

  Lockwood immediately schools his features, burying his rage and fear for his companion behind a mask of aloof and casual amusement. He takes a deep breath, pushing the worst-case scenarios from his mind.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Lockwood?” asks the man, his voice dripping with false politeness. He pulls a chair Anthony had previously missed away from the wall, dragging it with a harsh screech across the floor, and sits down directly in front of the bound agent.

  “Oh, like a baby,” Lockwood quips, shooting him a crooked smirk. He leans back in his chair, straining against his bindings to maintain a facade of nonchalance. “Woke up every couple of hours crying. You should consider marketing this place as a spa retreat. The concrete walls and the ambiance of dripping water are just so... soothing.”

  ‘Hughes’ barks a laugh at that, a glimmer of admiration for the young man dancing in his eyes. Lockwood’s heart races, but he doesn’t let it show. He needs to stay sharp, keep this man talking, and find out where he is– and, more importantly, where she is.

  “If we’d met under different circumstances, I think I could grow to like you, Mr. Lockwood. I’ve never met a man capable of looking so unbothered whilst bound to a chair.  Shame it had to be this way, what a waste of potential.” The heavy implication that Anthony won’t be leaving alive hangs in the air as the man props his elbow on the arm of his metal chair, resting his chin on his hand. He inspects Anthony as if he’s nothing more than a rat caught in a trap.

  “It hardly seems fair that you know my name, but I haven’t a clue what yours is.” Anthony risks the challenge, watching his captor’s face closely.

  “My man must have a heavier hand than I thought. If he’s addled your brain enough that you’ve forgotten already, maybe I should give him a raise.” The man laughs, waving his hand dismissively.

  There just now; the tiniest twitch of a vein on his left temple.

  “Surely a man of your intelligence wouldn’t be so foolish as to use his real name to hire a pair of Agents he has no intention of allowing to live. I’d hoped by now you’d have enough respect for me not to assume I’d be thick enough to believe you would.” Of all the reactions Anthony was prepared for, laughter wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. ‘Hughes’ almost doubles over in his chair, clapping his hands together before wiping tears of merriment from the corners of his eyes.

  “Boy, if you didn’t have those bloody morals of yours, I’d recruit you to take over when I retire. Damon Martin, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers Lockwood a hand to shake, then rescinds it with a mock-apologetic shrug as though he’d forgotten he’d bound Anthony’s hands.

  Anthony’s mind races, filing away the name, the mannerisms, the arrogance. This is a man used to getting his way, a man who found joy in toying with his prey. But Anthony knows something he doesn’t. There’s still hope, still a chance. He just has to bide his time and keep Damon talking.

  “If I didn’t have these ‘bloody morals,’ I might be inclined to accept your generous offer. In another life, perhaps,” He pauses for a moment, weighing his options carefully. The chances he’s garnered enough favour to get away with a question are still slimmer than he’d like, but feigning ignorance might tip the scales his way. “Why did you go through all this effort? Surely there are easier ways to kidnap a few agents, at the very least an easier agency to grab them from. I’m assuming you need our Talent for some nefarious reason or another?”

  Damon chuckles at that; it’s an uglier sound than before. It can’t hide the treacherous vein on his brow, oh so eager to betray him.

  “Definitely easier agencies, but none that have pissed off as many Relic Hunters – and other unsavoury folks – as the lovely little lilies at Lockwood & Co.” He shakes his finger in time with every alliteration, the obvious enjoyment glittering in his eyes is almost sickening.

  “So it’s a matter of revenge, then?” If Mr. Martin is so willing to believe him a fool, he might as well use it to his own advantage. “Not unusual in this field, though not precisely expected either. So, what cruel fate do you have in store for us?”

  Damon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Revenge. Justice. Call it what you will. Your little agency has made quite a name for itself. Stepping on toes, disrupting operations, making enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone came to collect.”

  Anthony’s mind races, trying desperately to fit together the final pieces of the puzzle. The throbbing behind his eyes hasn’t eased, and it isn’t making it any easier. “So, you’re just another wronged party in the long list of those seeking retribution. How original.”

  Damon’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Oh, it’s not just about retribution. It’s about sending a message. You and your friends have a habit of poking your noses where they don’t belong. It’s time someone reminded you of the consequences.”

  Lockwood’s jaw tightens, his mind whirling with strategies. “And what consequences would those be? An untimely demise in your charming little dungeon?”

  “I hate to make it too easy on you, so we’ll leave it at ‘you’ll find out soon enough’ and move on. Surely there’s another question itching away at the back of your mind.” The smile on his face sends a chill down Anthony’s spine, a feeling he imagines to be akin to someone walking across his grave.

  “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “Ah, see? I thought we were getting somewhere, but it seems you still have all the subtlety of an ox.” The other man snorts, shaking his head ruefully. “Your companion is alive and, well… not ‘well’, but alive.”

  Anthony is almost certain there are more words following, but he loses the ability to hear through the blood rushing in his ears. If he has harmed her in any way, there will be hell to pay.

  “Anything else you’d like to know while you’re still inclined to speak with me?” The delight in Martin’s voice is sickening, but it is essential Anthony maintains his composure. No matter how desperately he wants to hurl insults and threats at this monster, he can’t.

  “You say that like you’re certain our time is coming to an end. I do like to consider myself quite tolerant, in the grand scheme. What do you have planned?”

  Damon checks his watch, grinning a Cheshire cat smile before looking back at the lad in the chair. “I’m afraid our time is up, Mr. Lockwood. For what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed this little game of wits.”

  Anthony’s mind races as Damon’s words sink in. He has to think quickly, to find some way to delay whatever is coming next. “Well, I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual, Damon. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed your hospitality.”

  Damon laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I didn’t expect you to. But, alas, our paths cross for a reason, and I have my own agenda to follow.”  He watches Anthony with a predatory glint in his eyes.

  Lockwood strains against his bindings, his eyes darting around the room for anything he might be able to use to his advantage. “This isn’t over. You think you have the upper hand, but you don’t know us. You don’t know what we’re capable of.”

  Damon’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Oh, I’m well aware of what you’re capable of, Mr. Lockwood. That’s why I’ve taken every precaution to ensure you won’t get the chance to show it.”

  Anthony’s mind races, formulating plans upon contingency plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose hope. Not now. Not when so much is at stake. The tension in the room is palpable as the two men stare each other down, the silent battle of wills raging on. Anthony knows he has to stay sharp, stay focused. They will find a way out of this.

  The scream erupts through the air, sudden and unrelenting, slicing through the stillness like a blade. The sound is raw, visceral, and it sends a jolt of icy terror racing through Anthony’s veins. All the steely resolve he’s been clinging to shatters in an instant, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest as he struggles against the metal bindings that confine him. The chair groans and creaks ominously under his frantic movements, the metal biting into his skin as he throws himself forward in a desperate bid for freedom.

  “I swear to God, if you don’t let her go I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. There will not be a rock you can hide under that will save you from me,” he vows, his voice a low, dangerous growl filled with a venomous intensity. He spits in Damon’s direction, a tangible manifestation of his fury.

  Martin’s only reaction is a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of any real fear or concern. He lounges back in his chair with a nonchalant ease, his smile wide and untroubled. “Bold words from a man strapped to a chair in my basement,” he says with an almost lazy disdain. The words are dripping with mockery as he stands up, pushing himself to his feet. “Do try to keep your strength; it would be a shame to cut the entertainment short this evening.”

  With a final smirk, Damon pushes himself from his chair, and strides toward the metal door. His footsteps echo in the cold, sterile room. The door slams shut behind him with a resonating clang, sealing Anthony in darkness. The only sound that remains is the tortured, muffled sobs and anguished cries echoing faintly through the corridors.

  Lockwood closes his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sound that haunts him. His teeth are clenched so hard they ache, and he fights the overpowering urge to rage against his restraints. The sound of his own name falling from her lips had never made him feel sick before.

  He whispers silent apologies into the void, each one a fragment of his broken heart as he hears her cries fade to wrecked sobbing in the distance. Tears stream uncontrollably down his cheeks, each one a testament to his helplessness. He forces himself to remember that if he exhausts his strength now, he will have no energy left to save her when the time comes. His mind is a whirlwind of anguish and determination, driven by the urgent need to endure for her sake.  If he exhausts himself now, he’ll have no way to help her through the next part of this.

  He knows what’s happening here. At the very least, he has some very well founded theories. 

  He’d begun to piece the clues together on his way back from running errands, the headline of a fresh edition of the paper catching his attention.

  ‘Missing Bunchurch operatives found ghost-touched three miles from job location.’

  George had mentioned something about these disappearances a few days ago. Lockwood had dismissed him without putting much thought into it, infuriating his researcher to the point of him storming out after curfew.  Lucy had scolded him senseless about it, and even he’d been forced to admit he’d handled it poorly. George’s Talent might have faded, but his mind is sharp as ever.  In the spirit of ‘making an effort’, as Lucy would say, Lockwood paused to buy a copy from the paperboy and stepped under an awning to avoid foot traffic as he leafed through the pages to find the article.

  ‘“A man approached them when the agency was nearly vacant for the evening, requesting their assistance for a high-profile case that required their immediate attention and discretion. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any details about the suspect before the disappearance of our operatives,”’ a supervisor explained when questioned. The story bore an uncanny resemblance to those reported by other agencies. ‘Who is this mystery man, and why does he seem to be targeting agents?’

  Lockwood’s gut twists as he absorbs the implications. Agents go missing or die on jobs more often than anyone is willing to admit. The constant flow of cases had prevented the authorities from connecting the dots until recently. Agents, typically in pairs of two, would leave on last-minute assignments and simply vanish without a trace. When their bodies were discovered – if they were found at all – it was often days later, in locations far removed from where they were supposed to be. The details are vague, but the true intrigue lies in the spaces between the lines, the picture painted by the gaps in the written words.

  He ponders the logistics. For a small-scale agency like Bunchurch or his own, it would be easy for one man to watch for an opening. But Fittes or Rotwell... catching a large-scale agency with few occupants requires more than luck. It demands extensive reconnaissance, meticulous notes on routines and schedules, and perfect timing.

   This isn't the work of a lone psychopath. This is organised crime, a network with resources and coordination.

  Lockwood’s mind races. If the person staking out their targets was consistent, someone in the neighbourhood must have noticed them, even if they didn’t realise it. DEPRAC and Scotland Yard had surely canvassed the area, asking questions. But had they inquired about the weeks leading up to the kidnappings? About any oddities that initially seemed out of place but became so routine they were almost invisible?  Inspector Barnes would surely have asked those questions, but Lockwood has his doubts about the competency of the other men under his command. The picture is becoming clearer: a network of criminals, a methodical approach, agents watched and taken with precision. Lockwood folds the newspaper, now fully alert. 

  Everything in this report suggests a calculated effort to target and eliminate agents under the guise of urgent and confidential assignments. These abductions are not random misfortunes or isolated incidents; they are part of a cruel and systematic scheme to exploit the talents of the agents and dispose of them in the most horrific ways imaginable. Lockwood’s thoughts churn with grim realisation. If one were to calculate the number of missing agents, and compare it to the number of bodies found… The numbers simply don’t add up. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and with each one, the urgency to act becomes more pressing. This is not just a matter of solving a mystery, or bringing justice to the fallen; it’s a race against time to save those who might still be trapped in this nightmarish scenario.

  He makes a mental note to make time to talk to Barnes, to offer his services as a consultant. Maybe even as bait.

  The thought barely has time to form before the pieces finally click into place, each realisation deepening the pit of dread in his stomach.

  They couldn’t be bait if they were already targets.

  A bolt of ice stabs through his chest as he realises the time. A quick glance at his watch confirms his fear. He is going to be late.  Again. He’s been so slow on the uptake—she could already be in danger.

  He curses himself under his breath, looking around wildly. Despite every instinct screaming at him to blindly run to her aid, he knows he has to find a way to pass a message to their team. It’s their only hope of surviving the trap he’s unwittingly led them into. His gaze flicks side to side as he forces himself to breathe in, hold, and breathe out for equal counts of four. Combat breathing helps regulate his body’s response to stress. He needs to think clearly and appear calm to pull this off. The faces around him blur together as he moves with purpose in the direction of their rendezvous spot, buying time for himself to come up with a reasonable plan. He knows the enemy could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. The seconds tick by, each one a reminder of how close he might be to losing everything. 

  He turns a corner and catches sight of the river, the water glinting in the afternoon light. Amid the crowd, a distinctive outline catches his eye. He can’t help but grin, thanking his lucky stars for the first time in his life that he lives so close to the Thames.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[voxofthevoid]

Aaaand this is now officially my longest WIP Wednesday series, with Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #14. I think this will reach and cross #20 actually. I'm currently writing Chapter 18, and the fic is 130k.

There are 10 chapters left to write 💀

The chapter count climbed from 23 to 28 between my initial full estimate and the current one. Since the whole thing is now plotted out, it shouldn't increase further, but the chapters are often hefty, ranging from 8 to 12k. This is definitely following me into 2025. Plus, in around 6k, this will also become my longest JJK story.

The WIP Wednesday snippets from this point will likely be sex scenes that can be...enjoyed for their own sake. Any of the plottier bits or conversations won't make any sense without context.

This week, ass is on the menu! The scene is goyuu, but there's referenced sukuita.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh! Happy birthday!” It’s bubbly and bright, with an expression to match the voice—and then Yuuji frowns, though it’s more like a pout this time. “Man, you should’ve said that earlier. I’d have got you something. Or maybe—”

“No need,” Satoru cuts in, pushing off the door to close the distance between them. “I have my gift right here.”

Yuuji blinks in confusion one single time. Then realization cascades down his face in shades of porous pink.

“Satoru,” he whines, not quite protest.

Satoru slots himself between Yuuji’s spread legs, grinning down at him. Yuuji’s staring up with an expression that seems like it’s trying for exasperation, except it’s too soft and fond to pull it off.

“May I?” Satoru murmurs.

“Huh?”

“Unwrap my gift,” he clarifies, placing his hands delicately on Yuuji’s shoulders before skimming them down his arms, then sliding sideways to the chest. It swells under his palms, deflating in rush. There’s no warmth seeping through the thick hoodie, but Satoru can feel the unyielding thickness of the muscles underneath. “Can I touch you, Yuuji?”

Yuuji shudders all over with a violence that thrums in Satoru’s own veins.

“Yes,” he gasps out.

Satoru tugs Yuuji to his feet, dropping to his knees almost the second Yuuji’s upright, and there’s a low moan in response, choked back down in a way that only makes it dirtier. There’s still something uniquely flattering about pulling a noise like that out of a boy like this, all while barely even touching him, and no soul in the world would argue that Satoru’s ego needs further stroking, but he swallows it greedily all the same.

Then he works Yuuji’s jeans off to give himself something else he can swallow greedily.

Yuuji’s mostly soft when Satoru gets his mouth on him, but that changes fast, heavy heat weighing down his tongue and plugging his throat, and Yuuji pants and heaves but stays so very still, like he’s letting Satoru help himself to his gift at his own pace.

Such a sweet boy, this Yuuji.

Satoru pulls off sooner than he’d strictly prefer; his throat isn’t even sore, though his mouth is already flooded with Yuuji’s taste. And Yuuji makes a tight little noise when Satoru abandons his cock and rises to his feet, but the disappointment doesn’t resolve into any real protest, and he lets Satoru strip off the rest of his clothes, pliant from his arms to his hips.

The torso that’s revealed is a motley mess.

It takes every ounce of control Satoru’s ever possessed to keep his expression from changing. None of these marks are new. Not a single one. Satoru could perfectly recount which ones were left on which day. He even knows the ones littering the rest of Yuuji, from the handprints on his hips to the claw marks at his back. The former were somehow easy to ignore when he was on his knees with Yuuji’s desire a concrete heat on his tongue, but now he finds himself acutely aware of every single blemish.

“Satoru…?” Yuuji asks, his voice soft and uncertain.

It’d be easier if the writhing mass in Satoru’s chest was only guilt. Not kinder. But certainly simpler.

He wonders what expression he’s wearing for Yuuji to look so wary.

“Ran into an animal?” Satoru places his hand on one of the marks on Yuuji’s hips, slotting his fingers along the distinct shapes there; they don’t match, of course.

Yuuji’s stonelike under the touch. “Something like that.”

“That’s dangerous, you know.”

The noise Yuuji makes is a little to the left of laughter. “I know. Satoru, are you—”

He cuts off with a gasp as Satoru shoves him down onto the bed, with enough force that Yuuji lands smack in the middle of it. It’s a pretty big bed. Even with Yuuji lying breadthwise like this, no part of him dangles off the edges. Satoru wouldn’t have that luxury, but he’s got a better mattress in mind this moment.

Some of the tension and caution both drain out of Yuuji when Satoru strips quickly and climbs on him, and the arms that come up to grab him don’t hesitate for more than a fraction of a second before settling warmly on his thighs, the palms spreading open to cover as much skin as they can.

Satoru straddles Yuuji’s stomach, his ass just low enough that Yuuji’s dick is poking it. And he’s only taken it once, but his body remembers it faithfully, parts deep inside clenching like they’re already expecting the violation.

He leans forward, splaying his hands along Yuuji’s ribs. Firm flesh presses up against his hands each time Yuuji breathes in, and when Satoru bears down harder in response, he can feel the individual bones of Yuuji’s ribcage.

And the bruises only feel like skin, as smooth and only as warm as the rest of Yuuji’s skin, but Satoru still feels them like stains.

“Should I still be gentle, Yuuji,” he asks softly, “or would you like some redecoration?”

Yuuji makes a noise like Satoru struck him.

Satoru settles back, shifting his weight from Yuuji’s chest to his own knees, and it’s still not only guilt that lashes inside him, but there’s enough of it that Satoru smothers everything else, shaping his mouth into something softer and laughing it off, and Yuuji—

The hands on Satoru’s thighs snap to his hips, gripping tight and yanking.

Satoru’s dragged along the bed, up Yuuji’s body, with a force and a fury that turns him weightless, and Satoru doesn’t stop it, but he’s also not really allowing it, briefly a mere passenger in his flesh.

Yuuji shoves his face into Satoru’s ass.

“Ah,” Satoru rasps, a gunshot noise. “That’s how it is then.”

Yuuji answers by spreading Satoru’s cheeks wide to make more room for his face, and there’s nothing tentative or testing about the tongue that strikes his hole, licking over it all slick and sloppy once, then twice, before pushing right in.

Satoru tightens helplessly around that prying intrusion, and Yuuji grunts and shoves up with his face, his tongue, until Satoru feels slightly skewered, his flesh aching like it’s been split around something thicker and sharper than one hungry tongue. It flexes inside him like Yuuji’s planning to pry him apart by force, and hot puffs of breath land on Satoru’s hole like they’re softening him up for the slaughter.

Satoru doesn’t feel softened so much as tenderized, and this is only the appetizer.

Or he’s the appetizer, with the way Yuuji’s acting.

The angle is so different from the first and last time Yuuji did this, but his mouth isn’t any less clever for it. It’s more tongue than anything, broad strokes melting into stabbing thrusts easing into gentle circles along the rim, and then he’s straining up with his whole face in a way Satoru can feel all through his body, and it doesn’t get him any deeper, it can’t, but god, does he try, that greedy tongue plunging into Satoru over and over and over around a hot, open maw, the air there grown blistering, and when the tongue pulls out, the lips press in—parted but puckered, sealing themselves to Satoru’s hole.

A kiss, sweet and dirty both.

Yuuji sucks.

Satoru yells, almost toppling forward, and Yuuji’s hands clench on his ass like he intends to keep it attached to his face even if he has to pry it off Satoru, and Satoru stays, of course he stays, but not before grasping at empty air, tempted beyond belief to turn it into a handhold. It’s a horrible idea considering Yuuji’s unbalanced mix of awareness and unawareness about the darker realities of this world, but what really stops Satoru is a blend of pride and the sense he’d be cheating.

So he kneels there and trembles, one fist shoved against his mouth to keep himself from wailing like a whore. A part of him wants to, but he wants even more to hear the noises spilling from where Yuuji’s mouth is married to his flesh. Wet, hungry things—thin little noises that burst open against Satoru’s hole and slicker sounds that shudder out with every moment of sloppy suction. Every exquisite second of it sinks into Satoru, heating the rim and clawing in deep and then deeper, carving a path into places Yuuji can’t touch even with his cock but manage to peel open and fill up anyway.

When the lips let up, it’s just for the tongue to return, sliding easily into the loosened hole and digging hungrily into muscles that clench and burn, aching to pull Yuuji in deeper even as what he’s getting makes Satoru’s eyes and mind grow hazy at the edges.

But in between, whenever the fury of his flesh subsides enough to allow flashes of painful clarity, Satoru thinks of the look on Yuuji’s face in that single, spearing moment before he hauled Satoru onto his mouth—that delicate blend of pain and yearning.

Desire will never be sacred again, not for this boy.

[beautifulqueerexistence]

One Week Post-Op (DI Top Surgery update, TW MENTION: Surgical procedure, surgical complications, medical transition, top surgery drains, Hematoma)

Wow, holy crap, my surgery was a week ago already!

I met with my surgeon yesterday for my first follow up! It was really nice to be able to talk about the small hematoma (a blot clot, more or less!) in my left side, and have her concretely tell me that it’s breaking down the way it’s supposed to, that the neon color drainage IS normal (for a person with a hematoma)… And I got my right side drain out!!! The left will continue to stay in until (at least) my follow up a week from today. The hematoma needs to reliquify slowly and drain, either via my drain or by spreading to the surrounding porous tissue by converting to bruising. That being said, my bruising is gonna WORSEN before it’ll get better, but bruising is a good sign that my hematoma is healing. Swelling is pretty consistent on the left, and she said that everything looks amazing, all things considered!

I realized yesterday that I will never again have to deal with underboob sweat, that weird “tuck your shirt under them so your skin doesn’t stick and get all sweaty gross,” or having to “rest them” while leaning on a table. That was a trippy realization, that at some point I did that for the last time, and now I’m just free of it. I was able to soooorta tilt to my right while sleeping last night, and as a side sleeper, I’m ecstatic about that. I looked at my pre-op photos for the first time since surgery this morning and I’m gonna be honest… I’m already forgetting what they felt like. It feels so dissociated bc my brain just so easily clicked into “Yep, this is what my chest is supposed to look like.” Even with the incisions and bruising it still feels like MY (flat) chest just had some surgery. And that’s a super fucking cool feeling, having my chest feel like MINE, finally feel familiar.

My mom thanked my surgeon yesterday for “that (my) smile” and said “it was an overnight difference with him. I can just see him glowing with relief.” I think that’s a pretty accurate anecdote to leave this update off on. More to come as things progress.

Side note- If anyone has any questions about top surgery, drains, hematomas, or anything adjacent, I’m happy to talk! My DMs are always open. I’m by no means an expert or qualified doctor, but I’m always happy to share my experience in the hope that it helps someone else.

[screenmobile]

How to Stop Water from Pooling on a Patio?

So, you've got a patio—your little slice of the outdoors where you sip coffee in the morning, grill burgers on the weekends, or just stretch out and soak up the fresh air. But then it rains, and suddenly, you’re dealing with puddles, mud, and maybe even some slippery spots. Not exactly the relaxing vibe you were going for, right?

Water pooling on a patio isn’t just an eyesore—it can lead to structural damage, mold, and even safety hazards. The good news? You don’t have to live with it. Whether you're dealing with minor puddles or a full-on mini lake, there are plenty of ways to fix the issue.

Let’s break down why this happens and, more importantly, how you can stop it.

First, Why Does Water Pool on Your Patio?

Before you grab a shovel or call in the pros, it helps to understand what’s causing the problem. Here are the usual culprits:

Poor Drainage – If your patio isn’t built with a slight slope, water has nowhere to go.

Soil Settling – Over time, the ground beneath your patio can shift, creating low spots where water collects.

Clogged Drains or Gutters – If water isn’t flowing away properly, it’s bound to find a new home—on your patio.

Paving Material Issues – Some materials absorb water, while others cause it to pool on the surface.

Surrounding Landscape – If the area around your patio doesn’t allow for proper drainage, water can back up and collect.

Alright, now that you know the why, let’s tackle the how.

Quick Fixes for Small Water Puddles

If you only have minor pooling in certain areas, you might not need a major overhaul. Here are some quick solutions:

Sweep It Away (Temporarily)

If water is just hanging out in small puddles, a broom or squeegee can push it off. Obviously, this isn’t a permanent fix, but it works in a pinch—especially after a light rain.

Drill Drainage Holes (For Concrete Patios)

For concrete patios that hold water in specific spots, a few well-placed drainage holes can help. Use a masonry drill bit to create small holes in low areas so water can escape into the ground below.

Apply a Waterproof Sealer

Some patio surfaces absorb water, worsening the pooling problem. A waterproof sealer helps by repelling water, making it bead up and roll off rather than soak in.

Long-Term Solutions to Stop Water Pooling

If your patio regularly turns into a wading pool, it’s time for more serious solutions. Here’s what you can do:

1. Adjust the Slope

Water needs a path to flow away. Ideally, patios should have a slope of about 1/4 inch per foot leading away from your house. If yours is flat or slopes the wrong way, you might need to:

Resurface with a sloping layer of concrete

Use a self-leveling compound (for minor adjustments)

Rebuild sections of a paver patio to create proper runoff

2. Install a French Drain

A French drain is essentially a gravel-filled trench with a pipe that redirects water away from problem areas. It’s a great option if your yard naturally collects water, and it works well for patios that are set lower than the rest of the yard.

3. Add a Drainage Channel

If water tends to collect at the edge of your patio, a channel drain (also called a trench drain) could be the answer. These are narrow drains set into the patio surface, directing water to a more suitable drainage area.

4. Replace Solid Surfaces with Permeable Pavers

Solid concrete or stone patios don’t let water pass through, leading to runoff and pooling. Permeable pavers (like gravel-filled grids, porous bricks, or spaced-out pavers with drainage gaps) allow water to soak into the ground instead.

5. Improve Gutter and Downspout Placement

Sometimes, the problem isn’t the patio—it’s the water coming from your roof. Check if your gutters and downspouts are directing rainwater straight onto your patio. If they are, adding downspout extenders or rerouting them can help.

6. Landscape for Better Drainage

If your patio is surrounded by heavy, compacted soil, water won’t drain properly. Consider:

Adding gravel or river rock around the edges for better absorption

Planting water-loving plants (like ferns, hostas, or native grasses) to help absorb excess moisture

Creating a rain garden—a landscaped area designed to collect and slowly absorb runoff

What If You’re Building a New Patio?

If you’re in the planning stages of adding a patio, designing for proper drainage from the start will save you a ton of headaches later. Here’s what to keep in mind:

Pick the right material – Permeable pavers or concrete with drainage gaps are best.

Ensure a proper slope – Even a small incline (1-2%) makes a big difference.

Plan for drainage – French drains, gravel beds, and downspout placement all matter.

When to Call in the Pros

Some drainage issues can be tackled with a bit of DIY effort, but if your patio is sinking, constantly flooding, or affecting your home’s foundation, it’s time to bring in a professional. A contractor can help with:

Regrading your patio or yard

Installing a full drainage system

Lifting or replacing sunken pavers

Addressing major erosion issues

Final Thoughts

Water pooling on a patio isn’t just annoying—it can lead to bigger problems like mold, cracks, and foundation damage. Whether it’s a simple fix like sealing the surface or a bigger project like installing drains, there’s always a way to get rid of those puddles for good.

Need expert help? If you're in South Bend or the surrounding areas, Screenmobile of South Bend can help with custom patio solutions, including enclosures, screens, and upgrades that enhance your outdoor space—without the water mess.

Don't let rain ruin your patio—get the right fix today!

[foundationsolution1]

Understanding Concrete Flaking And Its Similarities With Spalling

Concrete, which forms the integral structure of many modern buildings, is renowned for its durability and strength. However, despite its robust nature, it is susceptible to natural wear and tear, harsh environmental conditions, and poor construction techniques, all of which can result in damage over time. Two of the most common problems that afflict concrete structures are flaking and spalling. While they may seem similar, it’s crucial to delve deeper into these conditions to understand their nuances. In this article, we will primarily focus on flaking, but oddly enough, you’ll discover that it has a striking resemblance to spalling.

FLAKING: A CLOSER LOOK

Also known as scaling, flaking is a predominant issue affecting concrete surfaces. When concrete begins to flake, it means that its top layer is peeling away from the hardened, integral part of the material, exposing the underlying aggregate. This is not just an eyesore; it also compromises the integrity of the structure and can lead to broader issues if not promptly addressed.

UNDERSTANDING CONCRETE FLAKING

Flaking is a common occurrence in freeze-thaw settings. In such climates, water penetrates the porous nature of the concrete and freezes. When water freezes, it expands, exerting pressure on the surrounding concrete. As the thaw returns, the water dissipates, leaving a void. This continuous cycle of freezing, expansion, and thawing causes the surface of the concrete to weaken, leading to peeling off, or as it’s more commonly known, flaking.

Another common cause of flaking is the use of chemicals like deicers. Often, these chemicals can induce a similar freeze-thaw cycle, intensifying the process even more and leading to flaking. Inadequate concrete mix or improper application techniques can also be to blame for flaking.

FLAKING VS. SPALLING: A COMPARISON

Flaking and spalling often get confused, and reasonably so, given that these conditions portray similar symptoms. Much like flaking, spalling involves the degradation of concrete, causing it to chip or break off in fragments. The primary difference between the two stems from the degree of damage and the size of the affected area.

While flaking typically affects the thin top layer of the concrete, spalling extends deeper into the surface and affects larger areas. The surface degradation from spalling can reveal the aggregate and sometimes the reinforcing steel within the concrete, leading to severe structural deficiencies.

However, regardless of whether it’s flaking or spalling, these issues need proper and immediate attention. They indicate an unresolved issue with water ingress or a potential structural problem that could escalate if left untreated.

CONCLUSION

The longevity of a concrete structure primarily depends on the quality of the pour, the climatic conditions of the area, and long-term maintenance. It is crucial to consider environmental factors and utilize durable building materials to minimize the risk of flaking and spalling, thereby ensuring the longevity of the structure.

If you notice signs of flaking or spalling on your concrete structures, it’s advisable to consult with a professional as soon as possible. Remember, catching these issues early and addressing them promptly can prevent further damage, safeguarding the integrity and lifespan of the structure. Flaking might seem like a minor aesthetic issue, but it can be an indication of more serious underlying problems calling for your immediate attention.

So, understanding the complexities of concrete flaking, identifying its similarities and differences with spalling, and taking timely corrective action will go a long way in maintaining the health of your concrete structures.

Tagged Concrete Flaking, Foundation Repair, Foundation Solutions

[novelmonger]

1, 3, 6, 8-10, 12, 14-17, 20, 21, and 26-28, please?

What song makes you feel better?

Oh, there's lots. One I often find myself turning to in hard times is "Dearly Loved" by Shaylee Simeone.

3. Reading or writing? Why?

I mean, it depends on if the reading or writing is good, doesn't it? ;P Generally, I guess I would say reading, because it's easier to do. But writing is generally more fulfilling, I guess, because I'm creating something.

6. What’s your favorite candle scent?

As I've already answered, lilac is my top favorite. A close second would be fresh linen, though. Or just anything that has a light, clean, soapy sort of smell, really.

8. Whats a fabric/texture that’s nostalgic for you?

What a weird question. I don't normally think of texture as being nostalgic... But you know, now that I think about it.... I don't know if anyone will know what I'm talking about, but there's this particular kind of floor that's...concrete, maybe? But it's speckled, like there's a bunch of rocks mixed in together before it's smoothed out. And it's not just grey; the ones I'm remembering were green or pink. The floor isn't rough, exactly, but it's more porous than a tile floor or something. Anyway, we had that floor in a couple houses growing up, so the feel of that against bare feet is pretty nostalgic.

9. Best childhood moment?

The best? Oof, that's hard to pick. Okay, this is going to be a super nerdy answer, but one of the best was probably the Christmas when my brother and I got a Nintendo 64 ^^' We'd played it at people's houses before, so we knew just how fun it could be, but it was always one of those luxury items we assumed we'd never get. But then my aunt and uncle got us one! And completely changed our lives forever.

10. When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried? (or just felt really good afterwards)

Hmm, trying to think of another one...nothing specific is coming to mind, but it was probably while playing Spider-Man with my sisters. We tend to get very giggly, especially when things start glitching out or Peter dies and flops down in a ridiculous position.

12. What calms you down?

Psalm 121 is my favorite, and reciting that to myself is really good for making me feel better when I'm anxious about something. "The Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night."

14. What's something upcoming that you’re excited for?

Christmas! It's one of my favorite times of the year, and this one is shaping up to be really good. I don't have work, I get to go to my sister's Christmas Eve service and hear her sing in the choir, and my whole immediate family will be together for Christmas for the first time since...I don't even know when! And we get to do it in our new house, which is very exciting.

15. Comfort food?

Gotta throw a shout-out to @bunnyscar's curry with sweet potatoes. Perfectly warming on a cold winter's day.

16. What’s something you want to create soon?

Aw, if I hadn't just finished it, I could have said my next AMV! But I do actually have a YTP idea that I'd really like to make once the holidays are past and I can devote time to it....

17. How do you feel best loved?

As I answered before, Quality Time is my top love language. Gifts comes second, though. A truly thoughtful gift that shows you know me and what I like, or even better, a "just 'cause" gift? Oh, my heart! I've held onto silly little trinkets for years just because someone gave them to me as a gift and that means so much.

20. Tell us about a memory you hold close to your heart.

Hmm...okay, because it's Christmastime, this one popped into my head. One year on Christmas Eve, my brother and I were the only people awake, and we were in that very giggly stage of tiredness. So we took all the presents from under the tree (except for one that was in a big box) and put them in the tree instead, sticking them in all the branches. I don't remember when exactly this was, but we were teenagers, and at that point, most of the presents for my siblings and I were usually books/movies/games, so they were mostly relatively light rectangular packages, so it worked pretty well. It was pointless and silly, but we were very proud of ourselves XD

21. Tea, Coffee, or hot cocoa?

Already answered this - tea! Especially black tea, but I also like certain fruit teas. I hate the taste of coffee, and hot cocoa is usually so sickly sweet, after drinking one cup, I don't feel like drinking another for a loooooong time.

26. If you could live anywhere with anyone you want, where would it be and who would you bring?

I don't really care where it is, but I would love to live at least close by @rainintheevening and @sergeanttomycaptain. Even if we had to build a really weird house with like three wings or three floors with different temperature controls or something, if we could at least have a central area to hang out in together, that would be awesome <3

27. Do you like to garden? Have you ever grown something?

I have two brown thumbs, unfortunately :/ I'm prone to killing any plants under my care, though I'm going to try to actually plant some things in the spring to spruce up my window well. Currently, I have an anthurium(?) plant on my windowsill that seems to be doing okay so far:

It put out some leaves earlier this year that started out red, so I thought they were going to be the flowers, but then they slowly turned green??? But now I've actually got a nice, bright red flower just in time for Christmas!

28. What are you proudest of?

My...stick-to-it-ive-ness? I guess? Like...it will probably take me longer than someone who's actually ambitious, but if I decide I want to get a project of some sort done, it will get done. Eventually.

Soft Asks

[power-chords]

The Inland Steel Building is one of modern architecture’s most epochal structures. The first Chicago high-rise built after the Great Depression, Inland Steel was the paradigm for [Skidmore, Owings, & Merrill]’s principle that high-rise form at its best does, indeed, follow function. Inland Steel changed the way towers are constructed, and helped transform American office culture during the second half of the 20th century.

The building consists of a 19-story office tower and a 25-story service tower. A one-story unit that contains auxiliary facilities is attached to the service tower. The 19 floors of the office tower, each with an area of 10,200 square feet, have no interior columns, and therefore these open floor areas allow maximum flexibility in the arrangement of offices and work rooms.

The framing is structural steel. Girders, 60 feet long, span the whole building and support the beams and decking. Frames and mullions of the curtain wall are stainless steel, glazed with tinted laminated glass and paneled with porous concrete and insulated stainless steel sheets.

[schisto-city]

Fluorescent epoxy can be vacuum-injected into samples to reveal cracks and porous regions. In this case, it is showing a network of cracks in concrete that has been heavily damaged by freeze-thaw processes.