#spin flash dryer

[sparydryer]

https://www.hindustanprocess.com/

[dingli01]

Process flow of potato starch flash dryer

 Potato starch dryer is an air-flow collision vortex flash dryer, which is a new type of energy-saving drying equipment. It uses coal, biomass, etc. as fuel, and the cold air passes through the hot blast stove to become dry hot air, which is mixed with dispersed materials in the equipment to form a suspended state, so that the gas and solid phases flow side by side at a relatively high speed, and at the same time vaporize the water to achieve the purpose of drying the material.

 Potato starch flash dryer features:

 1. High drying strength, low equipment investment, and large evaporation capacity;

 2. The drying time is short, suitable for heat-sensitive materials, the finished product does not contact with the outside world, no pollution, good quality:

 3. The equipment is provided in a complete set, and the heat source can be steam heating or supporting the use of coal-fired, oil-fired, gas-fired hot blast stoves, etc.

 If you are interested in our flash dryer equipment, please contact us.

[puckingeccedentesiast]

Summer Quam's

Description: “It’s like 500 degrees, we are not cuddling!” “But you already threw off all the blankets?!” “I don’t car- STAY ON YOUR FUCKING SIDE!”

Welcome back to thedevilrisen fic's! I am looking forward to writing the more! I think I may be a little rusty, sorry in advance!

Word Count: 1.4k

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Distraught storm clouds rolled over the horizon, their gloomy rumbles accompanied by piercing claps of thunder as blinding flashes of lighting embellishing the cool grey and cinder coloured sky.

With them they brought warm, moist air which was just on the side of uncomfortable, when the summer storm's roll in the humidity dial permanently spins, like a compass without an identifiable magnetic force. The only hope of relief being the rain that would come, days dragged by, elongated as clouds grew larger and larger, dense and weighed down by droplet's begging to be released from their misty prison.

Movement inside the apartment was very little, dehumidifiers hummed in several different rooms, fan's purred as they fought to circulate the hot air. Still nothing changed, the uncomfortably of the night never dulled as the sparkling lights in window's dimmed into a lightless cavity.

However in your apartment, calmness was not achievable not matter what happened. Restlessness was prominent throughout the evening, the constant changing ice packs to keep cool. The refusal to eat hot foods made it very hard for Connor who was trying to make dinner and stick to his meal plan because according to him a pint of Ben and Jerry's was not an appropriate even when you were dying.

Yes. You were told you were being melodramatic and to come and help chop tomato's for the salad Connor was going to make as a compromise to not eat hot food. Thinking that the cold food would be less problematic. He was so wrong.

"Connor." you whined, for most probably the fifteenth time in a span of about five minutes.

"No, Y/N." he stated, slightly irritated, the heat creating a simmering tension that danced like a mirage. Utterly fed up with not only the heat but your complaining Connor was very much now regretting asking for your assistance. "How about you just go and get a shower or something? I'll finish up here."

You frowned slightly at his borderline begging tone, you knew for basically being a polar bear who lived in the cold the heat was not compatible for him. Knowing it would be better than risking a small, meaningless argument you agreed and meandering down the hallway, soft carpet compressing and splaying underfoot as you moved to the bathroom.

Even though it would be sensible to bathe in freezing water, you didn't, finding the cold water jarring and instead opting for a mid-warm shower instead. The water, slid down your body, cooling you off but not dropping your body temperature completely. Taking the edge off the heat but after stepping out of the shower, seeing the steam still curing up towards the fan on the bathroom ceiling which hummed, as the light gently flicked.

Not bothering to wash your hair tonight, knowing that it would be a nightmare to dry with the moisture in the air and running the hair dryer would create more heat which was not needed in the apartment.

Moving back into the hallway and venturing into the kitchen where Connor sat, left leg swinging beneath him on the bar stool. His fork stabbed at the green leaves and cooked meat in the decorative bowl his mother had sent as a gift set when you first moved in to the apartment six months ago.

"Your's is in the fridge, I wanted to keep the smoked salmon cold because I know you don't like it warm." Connor mumbled, looking down, guilt swirling in his stomach at the fact that he had snapped earlier, he didn't want to but the heat did funny things to him.

"Thank you, love." You moved, cautiously across the tiled kitchen, sighing as the grey tiles cooled the bottom of your bare feet. Opening the fridge, squinting slightly as the all-but surgical light shone out, picking the porcelain plate up off of the top of the tupperware containers in which the plate was so precariously balanced on top.

Feet pattering back across the floor as you moved to slide into the vacated chair, that Connor left after he had his food so he could shower before bed. Stabbing into the greens and listening to the crunch as the fork pierced though leaves and you brought them to your mouth. Connor's cooking was always delicious but something about the heat was altering it, or maybe the lingering tension left in the air from the tense exchange previous.

Swallowing the last mouthful food, slipping off the stool and around the counter top. Placing your hand on the corner of the bench that protrudes to stop your hip from bumping it and aiding the already blooming bruise from when you hit it previously that day, you placed the plate into the sink, gently on top of Connor's.

Almost tip-toeing down the hallway to your bedroom, you stepped inside, hand holding the door, opening it slightly before shutting it behind you. Glancing around to see Connor pulling on a pair of sleep shorts, hair still damp from his shower.

Shuffling along the carpet into the bathroom as you picked up your toothbrush, off of the charger. Uncapping the toothpaste and squeezing a blob onto your brush. Coming to life with a purr you brushed your teeth while straining to listen to what Connor was doing.

Spitting out the foamy liquid when the electric brush pulsated to signal you were done. Pulling a folded hand towel out from underneath the sink, cleaning the corner's of your mouth from the foamy remnants before hanging it to dry over the faucet.

Moving with purpose back out into the bedroom where Connor had dimmed the lights and drawn the curtains before clearly settling into bed himself. His large frame, draped in the sheets fidgeting around trying to get comfortable amidst the heat.

Walking around to your side of the bed, picking a loose fitting sleep shirt off of the floor, that you are pretty sure belonged to Connor six months ago but was somehow commandeered during a visit to his apartment in Chicago and gently pulling it over your head. Opting for just the shirt instead of sleep shorts and a shirt.

Pulling the cotton covers back from the mattress and plunking down into the gap made, swinging your feet onto the bed and tucking them under the sheets, before dragging them up your body and shuffling into a laying position, in the same place you normally lay. Close to Connor so you can feel his body heat, and more often than not. End up cuddling.

Tonight though, you hesitated as Connor could potentially be personified as a windmill. Writhing in the sheets as though they were gripping him and trying to force him somewhere against his will. Rolling over away from his flailing limbs as he flug half the sheets to the foot of the bed, in what seemed like a mad ditch attempt at getting comfortable.

Finally after a few more seconds of tossing and turning, whatever vice that was supposedly gripping him and refusing the respite of sleep let go. Settling onto his side you saw this as your perfect opportunity to snuggle in, tucking yourself under his arm allowing the weight to lull you into a floating state.

That was until he snapped, an angry and guttural sound of irritation projected towards you, "It's like five-hundred degrees, we, are not cuddling."

This made you giggle slightly, even in his anger clouded state you knew he would never mean that. Like a defensive child he pushed you across the sheets, clothes gripping as he did so.

"But Con! You already threw off all the blankets?!" You whined back, thinking that once he'd done that would have been enough, but it was not, beginning to wriggle back towards him.

"I don't car-" he cut himself off, feeling your warm skin brush against him again. "STAY ON YOUR FUCKING SIDE!"

You erupted with giggles, rolling around on your side of the bed, finding his defensiveness hilarious, accepting the fact you weren't going to get cuddles tonight and hoping the heat would die off by tomorrow.

-

Later into the night, when the clouds rolled over and the droplets fell, chasing each other down windows and dispersing the heat from the air. In the slumber that was once restless but now no more, Connor dragged you into his arms where you laid, tangled till the morning sun rose.

[takenbypeter]

Laundry Day

Tangerine x reader

Words: 637

Based on the prompt: “you don’t have to waste your day doing this with me.” “Nothing is a waste as long as you’re there.” From @deity-prompts I may have tweaked it a bit.

Laundry day. Such a mundane thing. Boring but necessary, is what you told yourself as you forced yourself to get up and finally wash that pile of dirty laundry you’ve been meaning to get to for the last two weeks. 

Did you love doing laundry? No, nobody loves doing laundry but you figured with Tangerine gone on a mission for the past three days, what better time to do it then while he’s still out. 

But of course, just like with every plan you make, something else always gets mixed in. 

You had just begun folding the first load, while the second one continued to spin in the drying machine and the third in the washer.

Folding just about the third piece of fabric that you’d picked out, you heard keys jangling on the other side of the front door. Peeking out from the nearby window you recognized Tangerine’s car as the door unlocked and in he came. 

He looked…messy, to say the least. His hair was all over the place, he had blood splattered over his shirt, his tie was thrown about across his shoulders. 

Although his appearance gave off an exhausted look, his expression was just the opposite as he came in animatedly. 

“You would not believe the dumbest—most boring f——g mission I just had, wait till you hear this,” he leaned close and you pucker your lips slightly, as he connected to them almost magnetically before trailing off.

He told his tale of events as he walked around the kitchen munching on a quick snack and pouring himself a small drink. You listened, continuing to fold your clothes (and some of his), adding some hums and surprised noises of your own as you got swept in to some of the details. 

Then after telling you the whirlwind of the story that he claimed was the lamest mission he’s ever been on, he went to take a shower, once again leaving you with the same load.

You folded and folded and when you were just about finished with that pile, the second load in the dryer dinged, ready for you to work on it next. 

You took the warm fabric out pressing it to your face for a moment enjoying the feeling before setting it on the couch for you to begin.

About ten minutes had passed when you heard some steps nearing before a pair of arms snaked its way around your waist. 

“I missed you,” Tangerine hummed, pressing his lips to your cheek, then to your neck, his mustache tickling you as he did so before resting his chin in the crook of your neck. 

“I missed you too,” and of course you had a smile on your lips as your hands continued working. 

“I wish I could just take you everywhere with me.”

“While the thought is nice, I’d rather sit your blood baths out.”

You felt his shoulders lift and then drop against your body as a sigh escaped, while he once again left a single kiss to your skin before letting go. 

You half expected him to leave, being that he’s been out for a few days and typically he was tired after completing missions, but surprisingly he grabbed a clean shirt that was on the couch and he folded it, setting it right down on the neat stack. 

You shook your head at his action, “you don’t have to waste your day doing this with me. Go rest.”

“Nothing is a waste as long as I’m doing it with you,” he flashed you that proper smile of his. 

Although the sentiment was sweet, you knew he was only helping you so he could steal all your attention away for himself. 

“You’re quite cheeky, aren’t you?” 

You already knew the answer to that question. But he feigned innocence. 

“Me? Never.”

[ghibli-love-s]

Elephant on my Forehead

Overview: simply your boyfriend Damon taking care of you when you come down with a migraine

Character(s): Damon Salvatore

Category: Fluff

Tags: sick fic, fluff, soft Damon Salvatore, forehead kisses

Warnings: n/a

Words: 904

You're doing laundry in your apartment, the low thrum of the dryer filling the room when the dizziness hits.

Your vision tilts for a moment as you brace yourself against the wall, dropping the basket in your hands with a loud thud. Closing your eyes against the onslaught of nausea that accompanies the spinning, you press your hand against your eyes as a flash of pain bursts out behind them.

Great. Just what you needed. A migraine in the middle of a productive day.

Swallowing you open your eyes, only managing one wobbly step before you call it quits, sliding down the wall and burying your face in your knees. Tears spring to your eyes as the pain slowly grows, the sound of the dryer and the light in the room definitely not helping, though you’re in too much pain to do much about it.

You don't know how long you're curled up on the floor before the sound of a familiar voice calls your name from the front of your apartment.

You weakly answer back, your voice just loud enough for Damon’s vamp hearing to make out over the dryer before he's entering the room, eyes landing on your figure.

He's kneeling in front of you in an instant, eyes scanning for any injuries, one hand gripping yours while the other runs through your hair in a soothing motion.

Only when he calls your name a bit too loud for your head to handle in the small room does he understand. His hands leave you for a moment, almost leaving you whining in your compromised state for him to come back.

When darkness descends on the now silent room, you lift your head gratefully, hand immediately finding his own as he kneels back down in front of you.

“Can you make it to the bedroom or do you need help this time, sweetheart?” His voice is quiet, careful not to cause you any pain as he studies you, thumb running across your knuckles.

You bite your lip, glancing at him before closing your eyes in defeat and resting your head back on your knees.

“Can you help me…please…?” Your voice is weak and riddled with pain, a sound that makes Damon’s guarded heart twist uncomfortably.

He nods, moving to your side as he drops your hand, slowly slipping his arms behind your back and under your knees, careful of any quick movements to not cause you more pain.

Damon’s movements through the house are slow and easy, your head tucked against his chest to block out the light streaming through the open windows. Curse your productivity today.

Finally, finally, you reach your room, Damon laying you on the bed and using his speed to turn off the lights and close the blinds, bathing you in comforting darkness. He returns after a moment, a cold compress in his hands as he pulls the covers over you. Moving your hair out of your hair as he puts the compress over your eyes, drawing a relieved sigh from your lips. The coolness against your eyes and forehead has the tension in your head and shoulders starting to release already.

He rounds the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers after kicking off his boots, coming to rest against the headboard. You find him blindly, letting him guide your head to his lap, gripping one of his hands while the other runs through your hair.

Just before you drift off you feel Damon press a kiss to your head.

~

It's a few hours later when you wake up, the compress resting on the bedside table, and the sharp pain now a dull throb. You're curled into Damon’s chest, head resting under his. One hand is still running through your hair, the other is resting on your waist, your legs tangled together comfortably as he holds you closely.

You pull away just a little, long enough to stretch before you retreat back into Damon’s arms, clinging to him like a koala.

The hand in your hair comes to rest on your cheek, gently tilting your face until you're looking at him, his eyes taking in your current state.

“Any better, sweetheart? Or do I need to grab your emergency medicine?” His voice is soft, sleep clinging to it as if he had just woken up himself not long ago.

You shake your head gently. “Not today. Just a dull throb now. Could probably finish my laundry in a bit if I'm lucky.”

Damon rolls his eyes, tutting at you. “You aren't going to do anything for the rest of the evening. Besides, I already took care of it,” he says, his signature smug smile on his face.

You blink at him owlishly, “what? Damon, you didn't have to do that.”

“I didn't have to. But you were in pain. And I can't have Stephen being the only Salvatore brother who takes care of his damsel in distress.” He winks, playfulness dancing in his eyes.

You huff out a small laugh, pushing his chest playfully. “You are something else, Damon Salvatore.”

“Oh trust me, I know.”

“And I love you for it.” You smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Love you too sweetheart.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead as you close your eyes and rest your head back against his chest, content on staying there for as long as the universe will allow you.

[leiawritesstories]

Sweater

for @throneofglassmicrofics prompt: "sweater," Elide x Lorcan

word count: 623

warnings: minor swearing

oopsies, it definitely isn't March yet, but this basically wrote itself while i was TRYING to read stuff for my capstone. so...enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Li, where's my socks?" Lorcan's yell echoed down the hallway.

Elide rolled her eyes as she pulled on her short boots. "In the dryer where your laundry still is, babe!"

"Dammit!" With a bout of muffled cursing and a series of thumps and grunts--her boyfriend was many things, but graceful was not one of them--Lorcan jogged down the hall and through the living room, stopping to openly admire his girlfriend's outfit before he ducked into the laundry room.

"You look amazing, shortcake."

"Don't call me that, you giraffe," she laughed, but the complaint was teasing. "Hurry up and get a shirt on, and we can go."

He nodded and went into the laundry room. The dryer door clanged open, he ruffled around for a moment, and there was a moment of quiet before he cracked open the door, scowling.

"Babe?" Elide went over to the laundry room. "Everything okay?"

"Fuck no," Lorcan grumbled.

She raised a brow. "You gonna tell me what's wrong, or are you gonna keep sulking like a kid?"

Slowly--very slowly--he pushed open the door. The scowl etched into his face would have made anyone else pee themself, but Elide knew her grumpy boyfriend too well to be dissuaded. She glanced over at him.

Then she looked for a good long minute, using all of her self-control not to burst out cackling.

"That's 100% wool, isn't it?" she managed to ask.

"Yeah." Lorcan's dark-gray sweater, which Elide loved to steal, clung to his wide shoulders and muscled arms, the fabric stretched nearly to its limit, and stopped just barely past his ribs, exposing the tattoos inked onto his side. "It is."

"Babe...you know you can ask me if you're not sure what to do with your clothes..."

"I didn't want to sound like an idiot," he admitted, his words muffled from him hiding his face in his hands. "And you can laugh, Li. I know you want to."

Elide wrapped her arms around Lorcan's firm, bare stomach and dissolved into laughter, her petite frame shaking against his much larger one. "I was trying not to, but oh my god."

He let loose a dry chuckle. "I know."

"If I had my phone on me, you'd never hear the end of this." She flashed him a wicked little smirk.

"God, no," he groaned. "Aelin is not fuckin' allowed to know about this."

"Don't worry, babe." Elide ran her fingers up her boyfriend's chest. "She won't." She grabbed the hem of Lorcan's horribly shrunken sweater. "C'mon, you still have to change."

Lorcan pulled off the sweater, tossing it to the floor, and pulled a thankfully still normal-sized shirt over his head. "You might as well take it," he said, "it's your size now, shortcake."

"Don't call me that," Elide retorted, her nose crinkling.

"Why not? You're tiny and cute, like a shortcake."

"And you're a big old softie." She winked at him as she reached down, picked up his sweater, and changed into it right in front of him. "It fits perfectly!" she exclaimed, doing a little spin.

"On second thought..." Lorcan's appreciative gaze lingered on the sight of Elide in his clothes.

"Oh no." She shook her finger in his face, trying to be as menacing as possible while pushing aside the way she wanted to climb into that look in his eyes. "We are not putting off this lunch; we haven't seen our whole friend group in months."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just don't say anything about my sweater, Li."

"I would never," she promised, rising onto her tiptoes and tugging his head down to steal a kiss. "Love you, grouchy."

"Love you too, shortcake." He linked his fingers through hers as they walked out the door. "Especially in my clothes."

~~~ TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added or removed!

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

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@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[mysteriesmuse]

Kirishima and the Washing Machines

You lived in a pretty large apartment complex about 150 residents in all. And yet, somehow, you always found yourself using the washer and dryer after this one individual. Every. Time. 

And you now what, they never remember to clean out the lint tray after they’re done.  

You sigh through your nose, inching out the door of the lint tray and seeing a very full cage. Reaching in and deftly scooping it all up in one hand and dropping it into the trash can without second thought. 

Whoever this person was they had the most ridiculously long and lacking hair care routine ever. Seriously, 5-6 inch long firetruck red hairs that were coarse and fried to hell littered your clothes now. Probably because said person never emptied the lint tray after their laundry so now their hair littered your own wardrobe. And this would naturally urge anyone to choose a different washer and dryer out of the apartment laundromat. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t tried, it just seemed that whoever this person was seemed to read you mind — move laundry machines with you, so you’d given up.  

Subjected to a life of dyed red hair in all your clothing. A lifetime supply of lint rollers in hand at all times.  

And in Kirishima’s defense he was a busy prohero — but you’d never seen him in the apartment complex, much less seen him patrolling the neighborhood in order to make the connection.  

Although he’d seen you — only a handful of times though — over the past few months of living here. He thought you were pretty — the kind where you have to mentally acknowledge a strangers beauty just because they are so attractive.

Except for today. 

And You were having a good day.  

You’d hit massive stroke of luck to this week to find that this red-haired person and your secret domestic enemy hadn’t been to the laundromat before you. You couldn’t be more pleased as you sat down on one of the lobbies padded chairs. Content with sitting and reading your book as you waited for the little chiming song of the washer and dryer to alert you that this batch of clothes was free of a strangers weird hairstyle. 

And you were ready, sliding back in the chair, tittering your hips, slipping your finger between the fresh crisp pages and into the sweet spot where your little impromptu receipt bookmark lay nestled next to the spine — a perfect morning.  

you’d gotten through that euphoric breath part of the process before the awkward spinning doors to the complex blew open and you’d dropped the book into your lap — staggering in was a beefcake of a man.  

It was the first thing you noticed, and how could you not? The stranger was shirtless and only clad in a pair of worn joggers that bear the emblem of the most famous hero producing highschool — hung snuggly around his hips, but just low enough that you could see the elastic of his boxers peaking out. And up from there was the defined muscles of his abdomen, not full on bread rolls, but a smoother definition and one that fit him nicely. The slight healthy layer of fat smoothing over the man’s defined and sturdy trunk — which lead to a completely hairless chest — a conscious decision. And then his arms were huge like the rest of him, but had a very strange reverse farmers tan to them. Another conscious decision?  

You didn’t even make it to his face before he was already in the room — and he took up space.   

somehow you found the conscious effort to close your mouth when he turned in your direction flaming locks of hair reaching his broad shoulders. 

Beefcake had noticed you as soon as he had walked in. The gorgeous h/c woman. And he could see the whites of your eyes and the pink of your tongue from the door. 

He flashed you an award winning smile full of sharp canines before awkwardly tugging on a few small strands near his face. The book in your lap now open to a random page, a receipt lay fluttered close to your feet.  

Kirishima chuckled, deep and low, bending down on one knee to hand you the receipt that’d been flung out on the ground from your shocked stare — yeah, that was a perfectly normal reaction he got often as a pro.

 “Sorry to startle you, beautiful. Here’s your bookmark,” he said, holding it out to you. You blinked back surprised before taking it back from his outstretched hand rather stiffly. He could see a crinkle between your brows as you seemingly took in every single detail about his face — tongue prodding the corners of your mouth as you did so.  

You were not, in fact, openly checking him out as much as Kirishima was secretly kind of hoping — a reaction he would naturally have gotten fairly often since you presumed he was a hero of sorts with his build and those flashy alum joggers.  

No — you were busy studying his hair: eyebrows, eyelashes, stubble, the whole lot. All of it thick and black — unlike the hair on top of his head, but similarly matching with the sometimes atrocious roots on those long hairs from the laundry machine.  

“Aha—“ you thrust out the hand with the reciept and waved it in front of Kirishimas face. “It’s you! My laundromat enemy — you’re the guy that always forgets to empty the lint drawer!”

Kirishima blinked back at you crossed eyed. A vague recognition of what you were taking about slipping past his eyes like a montage. He couldn’t remember a single time where he emptied that lint drawer, now that you mentioned it. He swallowed thickly

“I — I, how? How do you know it’s me?” He garbled. 

You shoot him a pointed look that reminded him of his best friend, “You really think there’s that many other people around here with hair like yours?” You hummed, gesturing to his still damp locks. You answered for him, “yeah, me neither.”   

Kirishima was shocked at your certainty, but he was also pretty certain that you were absolutely right. He gulped nervously, adams apple bobbing in that thick neck of his. 

of course he had luck like this, upsetting the beautiful woman in the apartment complex before he’d even meet her. You called him an enemy. A domestic enemy — he was supposed to be a hero! 

He started, “Look . . .”

“Y/N” you supplied. 

“Look Y/N,” he said, noticing the way you perked up more at his use of your name. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you by forgetting to clean out the lint in the dryer. There’s no excuse for me forgetting, or actively ignoring, that in a communal space. That’s really un-neighborly of me and I promise to actually take the time to do it from now on.”  He finished, hand strapped across his heart like a knight of old making a pledge to you.  

he watched as you slowly uncrossed your arms and tapped at the cover of your book. Your eyes of some beautiful color — that he would commit to memory if you looked up at him, stared down in your lap.  

He put placed his hands on the side of the armrests, pleading with the best puppy dog eyes he could give, “anything I can do to make it up to you?” Practically begging. 

you looked up, ahh so they were e/c then.  

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, nose wrinkling. 

He seemed genuine, and charming and polite, but he was large and intimidating — and in your personal space, “you do owe me quite a handful of change in lint roller money.”  

Kirishima grinned, that he could do. 

“How about I take you out — this time, next week. There’s a really cool bookshop cafe on my patrol route. I’ll come by and pick you up.” He noticed your hesitation, a worrying shimmy closer to the back of the seat and away from him. He removed his hands from the armrests and reached for the wallet in his pocket, “— we could just walk then, if that’s not comfortable for you. Or you could meet me there. Here see, Kirishima Eijirou prohero alias Red Riot.”  

That caused you to relax and lean forward, as you examined his hero license.  

He really was a hero. You were already pretty sure with those UA joggers, but it felt good to know you were right. One that wore an oddly terrifying dog-muzzle? You glanced back up at his strong jaw littered with a stiff 5 o’clock shadow. And surely enough there were faint lines of pale skin surrounding his mouth and just under his eyes that confirmed the weird existence of this accessory. Again, what is with the fashion choices here??

You raised a brow, “Ever think this is a little unusual for a hero?” You asked pointing at his ID.  

Red Riot glowed like his namesake. “I thought it was cool back in highschool — now it’s part of my image.” He chuckled, a hand touching at the place where it would be.  

you wondered what that would feel like having that cage against your skin all the time — surely uncomfortable.

Kirishima wondered if you’d consider yanking him by those bars to bring him into a kiss. Metal clanking on metal as the pretty ring on your finger gripped around the edges of its frame. If you’d be a woman he could come home to after a long mission and be fall into lovingly seering embrace like some of his pals. . . 

Clearly two very different trains of thought going on here, but Eijirou was always a hopeless romantic at heart and nothing but a gentlemen. 

He heart leapt into his throat when you placed a cool hand against his forearm with a little conformational pat, “I’ve got work next week, but I’ll go ahead and meet you there.”  

He grinned standing up to his full height and pocketing his wallet, face morphing as a realization dawned on him. He quickly scrambled for his phone, “I — wait you don’t have my number and I haven’t even told you where it is. And it’s pretty far, so I don’t think you’d know it — because it’s all the way in Fatgums district and —“  

and now you were laughing at him. Kirishima tucked a thick strand of hair behind his ear as he looked down at you — washing machine songs lighting up the atmosphere.  

“Actually I do have your number. We — apparently — live on the same floor, Kirishima.” You snorted holding out your phone with the familiar floor group text that he was apart of. A ridiculous dorky contact photo of himself as Crimson Riot as the contact photo he send in the chat.  

Plus Ultra! Forget red, crimson — he was scarlet right about now.  

“Ah right . . .”  

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you waved, “you’re much cuter in person. Ya know, for a laundromat menace.”  

Kirishima scratched awkwardly at his chest which was hardening there randomly — oh wait nope, it’s because he heart was thumping a mile a minute and he was on a mad adrenaline rush right now in the middle of the apartment complex lobby bc was talking to the beautiful stranger of his complex. 

You rose from your chair and stood in front of him, book clutched to your chest. 

the only thought running through his head was don’t move. And you watched as this handsome young pro hero stood stock still — every muscular plain of his body becoming rock hard and just towering over you.  

the chimes started up again. 

“Uh excuse me, you’re kinda blocking the entire door?” You giggled. 

In a flash this Kirishima was hardening even more and now you could clearly see a set of abs in the early morning dim lobby light as he stepped further into the elevator so he wouldn’t be crushed — although with that quirk you think the elevator might take most of the damage. 

Now he was too cute.  

And as he backpedaled into the elevator you could hear him audibly sigh with relief as the sound of your book pages started flicking. 

“Kirishima—“  

he looked down, the apples of your cheeks light and bouncy — such a pretty little smile on your face, “you should really invest in some conditioner.”  

And the last you saw was a sliver of a grin and framing tan lines from that muzzle/cage looking mask of his. He beamed staring at the space you were in before the doors closed, a blissful whisper as he realized he was replying to an empty elevator, “yeah I do.”  

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Hmmm

Wrote an idea out for the brotherhood gambit au

"Who are you?”

Someone asks. Remy turns, wiping his hands on a towel. He faces the gaggle of teens in the entrance to the kitchen.

“Bonjour. I'm Remy. I made dinner. Should be good in a few minutes. I just gotta get the bread done. Think you'll be ready to eat then?”

He tilts his head and the one squating on the floor jumps up on the counter. He tries to sample the food with a finger and Remy pops him in the nose with a ladle.

“Youwch! What was that for man??!!”

Remy rolls his eyes.

“Don't be stinkin’ fingers in my food petit. Remy give you a taste if you just ask. Ask.”

Remy demands. The kid tries to shoot out his tongue and grab the lid of the pot. Remy spins, flicking out his staff and pinning the tongue. He sparks his staff in warning.

“One more chance. Ask petit. I'm happy to feed you.”

He releases the tongue and stares the kid in the eyes.

“Can… I have a taste?”

The kid chokes out, looking like it is killing him.”

“Why sure petit! Here, lemme getchu a fresh spoon.”

He pulls out a spoon and scoops out some. The teen snatches it and shoves it in his mouth. And then pauses.

“Mm! Good!!”

The kid lights up.

“High praise. Now shoo. Put your stuff up and wash your hands and I'll getchu a bowl, oui?”

The teen is out of the kitchen in a flash. The other teens stand around eyes wide. Remy wipes down the counter and drops the lid and the spoon into the sink to be washed.

“Watchu standin’ round gawking at? I'm half a mind to feed him all o’ it if y'all don't skiddaddle and put your stuff up.”

The larger boy nods and moves off. The one with a mullet crosses his arms.

“You movin’ in?”

“Oui. Got permission from ‘Neto. And Mystique.”

He finishes putting butter and garlic on the bread and pops it in the oven.

“And… you decided to start cooking?”

“Beats sitting on the dryer waiting for it to get done.”

Remy snarks back.

“Guess you're right. Lance. Your bike out there?”

“Sure is. She's my baby. Maybe we go and look at her later, oui?”

“Sure.”

And Lance goes. The last kid stays, arms crossed.

[sentientgolfball]

Ghoulette Appreciation: Week 2

For this week I went with stealing clothes!

Read here or on Ao3

Word Count: 893

Pairing: Mistshine

Summary: Mist reflects on the things she felt during the last Ghoulette Night

Possession.

Jealousy.

Want.

What changed? What made me see her like this? 

Mist narrowed their eyes, lost deep in thought. 

Surely it was the wine or Mountain’s herbs. 

Images of Sunshine’s smile flashed in her mind. Echoes of her laugh and snorts followed. Mist’s stomach churned. 

Definitely not. 

Curious. Perhaps it’s just a desire to be closer. 

The loud buzzer broke them from their contemplation. They grab their basket from the small table and lay it on the floor in front of the dryer and begin to put their clothes away. This was one of her personal little rituals. After every Ghoulette Night Mist would wake and immediately scamper to the laundry room, needing to wash everything that was in that room. The scent of weed always irritated her sensitive water ghoul nose. She hated the way it clung to her clothes. 

They always stayed there, watching their clothes spin in the washer and dryer. It was like a little meditation to help them come back into themselves, that and it gave her something else to think about besides the hangover. 

Though this morning's quiet didn’t exist. Didn’t come to her. All she could think about is these sudden feelings for Sunshine that decided to make themselves known last night. She knew she was feeling something, but what exactly that something was was eluding her. Was it friendship? A desire for a companion? A mate? Love? Mist couldn’t place it. 

It frustrated them. It frustrated them like nothing else to not have a grasp on what they were feeling. They were smart. They were rational and realistic. They didn’t get hung up on emotions. Mist was going to figure this out as soon as possible so she can stop feeling like this. She doesn’t like the churning in her stomach or prickle in her head when she thinks of Sunny. She doesn’t understand it and she doesn’t like it. 

It was simple really. Just figure out exactly what she was feeling and then act accordingly. If Mist wanted a companion then she would just make it a point to incorporate a Sunshine visit into her day. If it was the desire for a mate then Mist would tell her so they can be rejected and move on with their life. 

It was simple. 

So why didn’t it feel simple? 

The more Mist thought about it, the stranger she felt. 

Perhaps a visit to Ifrit is in order. It has been very long since it was just him and I alone. He may have insight. 

Mist may not be able to gather the answers to the riddle her heart is whispering, but Ifrit will. Ifrit always did. His very nature confused and intrigued her all the same. Mist loved him. He was the first ghoul they ever said those words to. He was the ghoul that made them finally feel like they belonged in a pack. He gave Mist light when all she had known was darkness. 

If Ifrit couldn’t help her then she was doomed. She briefly considered speaking about it with Omega, but quickly decided that was a bad idea on account of how he skirted around his feelings for Terzo. She may not know what these feelings are but she does know trying to ignore them won’t help a damn thing. 

She sighs, shakes her head, and lifts her basket, closing the dryer with a swipe of her tail. She starts to leave with a plan brewing in her mind, a way to approach Ifrit with these things without him getting so excited he burns a hole in the rug. As she goes another buzzer sounds. The other dryer. It had already been going when they arrived in the laundry room, so they had no idea who it belonged to but they got an itch in their fins when the door didn’t immediately open revealing the ghoul. She set her stuff and walked over to the machine. It was still early in the morning, but she knew how annoying it was to come to do laundry and not have an available space. 

They open the dryer and pull the clothes out. She begins to carefully fold and sort them for the ghoul when that damned water ghoul nose picks up on a scent. She stops in her tracks, staring down at the shirt in her hands. Their ears twitch for a moment, listening. After a beat of silence they bring the shirt up to their face and inhale deeply. Even though the detergent and fabric soften, Mist can smell Sunshine. It’s faint but that orange and vanilla is there. Unmistakable. 

Her stomach swoops and she can feel a blush pricking her cheeks. She quickly folds the rest of the clothing. She had to leave before Sunny showed up to collect her things. They didn’t want to see her until they had a chance to speak with Ifrit. 

She picks up her basket and moves for the door, scrunching her nose to get the scent of Sunshine out. Though, when their hand touches the handle they hesitate. 

This is ludicrous. Are you a teenage kit? 

They squeeze the handle so hard their knuckles turn white. With a huff, she turns back around and grabs the shirt from Sunshine’s pile, stuffing it into her basket. Surely she won’t notice just one missing shirt.

[superblysubpar]

Ooh I have to ask about Wave!

Love you, have the best day! 💕

Ask Me About My WIPs

Have the best day too, my love!

Hmm, "Wave" she's had quite a few different names. This is a one shot I started back in April, and I just haven't quite ever finished it or gotten the exact vibe I want down? It's a 90's -ish kind of AU? One where Steve is cut-off from his parents finally. So here's a bunch of info on it, cause I have no set date, and inspiration is far and fleeting lately 💛

summary: He's just a sad, rich boy, who doesn't know how to do his laundry - but he certainly knows what he's doing with his tongue.

the tune: Waves by Miguel, feat. Kacey Musgraves

and here, what the heck, have the beginning of the fic haha:

The familiar clink and ting of zippers and buttons against the metal spinning drum harmonize with the rush of water as machines start their rinse cycles. The buzz of the flickering, overhead fluorescents on their last legs strain to be a part of the melody too. Shouts of joy, flashing lights accompanied by obnoxious buzzers and the clicking wheel of The Price Is Right drift out of the TV in the corner. All of it almost in tune with the rhythmic blink of the red neon sign announcing the hours of Surfin' Suds.

The noises of your every day routine fade in and out, and if someone gets close enough they'll hear soft lyrics spilling from your cheap headphones. Britney sings of being afraid of love as you fold your laundry, your brain a happy blank canvas as your hands move through the motions without thought.

Despite the stinging of your nose from the owner's new 'not-quite-lemon' lemon floor cleaner, Saturday night shifts are your favorite. Usually, you get the entire place to yourself, allowing you to catch up on your own laundry needs. Everyone else is always too busy having a life on a weekend evening.

That is, everyone except for Mr. Clueless it seems.

This is the third Saturday in a row he's ventured to your little oasis. The neon reds and blues on the glass windows highlight the lines of his jaw and sharp nose. They add a warmth to his caramel hair that has to be as soft as it looks - though it seems to get more disheveled each time he comes in.

The first time Mr. Clueless arrived, he was empty handed and looked very lost and confused. When you glanced up from your magazine, and asked if he needed help, he gave a quiet and curt, "Nope, thanks," turned on his heel and left.

The second, you weren't quite sure if it even counted, because he never actually made it inside. He had a bag this time, and as you watched through the glass windows, he walked up to the door and turned around three times, before he got in his car and left.

Today, the annoying chime of the door rattles, and you look up to find him dragging a bulging, black garbage bag and a bottle of what appeared to be fabric softener. He has a plain white shirt on that reflects the neon softly, rumpled, though still nice light blue Levi's that you glance away from as he bends at the waist.

His Nike blazers that have seen far better days squeak against the linoleum floor, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the dryers. The heat on your cheeks receding as you bite your cheek, holding back a smile. When you glance up, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further, before he meets your eye. His head dips in a small nod, hand raising in a short wave, before he places both on his hips. He stares at the dryer in front of him like it was the hardest puzzle he's ever encountered.

His mouth moves and you slip a head phone off in curiosity, catching the end of his annoyed and frustrated, "...what the fuck is permanent press?"

Your mouth opens, ready to explain that, number one, that's a dryer and he should probably start with a washing machine, and number two permanent press is-

"Oh, jesus, Harrington. Wash your clothes first before drying them." He spins, dragging his bag across to the washers.

Mr. Clueless taps the top of the machine with two fingers, eyes narrowing as he takes in the dials and buttons. His face starts to twist, hand reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck, fingers catching a silver chain and hair that's just a tad too long.

"Quarters? Fuck."

Your snort has his head whipping up to face you. His eyes narrow but his cheeks turn pink and you slide your headphones down to your neck as you clear your throat.

"Sorry, I..." you wrack your brain for a polite way to tell him his cluelessness was actually more endearing rather than pathetic.

"I'm laughing with you, not at you?" Your shoulders raise in a wince, shaking your head, "I mean...I...first time?"

His shoulders fall, but he laughs, dragging his hands down his face as he mumbles behind them, "That obvious?"

[farmergirlimagines]

 Chapter 12 : A Storm of Worry and Disbelief

Masterlist ~ Through Static and Shock

>>>Thank you for reading! Please comment and let me know if you want to be tagged in future updates of this story. I post a new chapter each Monday, Wednesday and Friday!

 See you all next update!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The storm raged outside the Wheeler house, thunder booming and lightning flashing in sharp bursts that illuminated the basement in quick, fleeting streaks. The three boys stood breathless, their hearts still pounding from the night’s events, as the girl with the buzzed hair sat trembling on the couch. Her clothes, soaked through from the rain, left damp patches on the worn cushions. The only sign of warmth was Mike’s jacket, draped around her small frame, clinging to her like a fragile shield.

Mike broke the tense silence first. “Is there a number we can call? Your parents, maybe?” His voice was soft but unsure.

Dustin leaned closer, squinting at her. “Where’s your hair? Do you have… cancer?”

The girl’s wide eyes flicked between them but she said nothing.

“Did you run away?” Lucas asked, his tone more accusatory than concerned.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Mike followed up quickly, glancing at the smudges of dirt and blood streaked across her pale skin.

Lucas pointed toward her. “Wait—is that blood?” He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering near her arm.

Mike swatted it away. “Stop it! You’re freaking her out!”

“Well, she’s freaking me out!” Lucas shot back.

“Guys, quit it,” Dustin interrupted, stepping forward with a curious look. “I bet she’s deaf.” He clapped his hands loudly in front of her face.

The girl flinched hard, shrinking back into the couch.

“Not deaf,” Dustin concluded matter-of-factly, glancing at Mike and Lucas as if he’d just solved a mystery.

“Enough, Dustin!” Mike hissed, waving him off. He turned back to her, softening his tone. “Look, she’s just scared. And cold.”

Another crack of thunder shook the house, followed by the flash of lightning that lit up the small basement windows. The girl flinched again, her hands clutching the hem of her shirt. Mike moved toward the dryer, rummaging through a blue plastic laundry basket.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He approached her cautiously, holding them out like a peace offering. “These are clean, okay? You can change into them.”

The girl reached for the clothes hesitantly, running her fingers over the fabric as though it were the first soft thing she’d touched in ages. She began to shrug off Mike’s jacket, and her hands moved to the hem of her soaked yellow shirt.

“Whoa! No! No, no, no!” all three boys yelled in unison, throwing their hands up to stop her.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” Dustin squeaked, spinning around to face the wall. Lucas followed suit, groaning in exasperation.

Mike, flustered, grabbed her hands to halt her. “Okay, see over there?” He pointed toward a small door on the far side of the basement. “That’s the bathroom. You can… um, change in there. Privacy. You get it?”

The girl blinked at him, then looked toward the door. After a beat, she clutched the clothes close to her chest and shuffled toward it, her bare feet padding softly on the floor.

Mike followed to close the door behind her, but before it could shut completely, her hand shot out, gripping the edge to stop him.

“You…You don’t want it closed?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

Her wide, wary eyes locked with his. After a moment’s hesitation, she whispered, “No.”

Mike froze for a second, surprised by the sound of her voice. “Oh… so you can speak.” His tone was encouraging, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. How about this?” He left the door slightly ajar, cracked just enough for her to feel safe but still have some semblance of privacy. “Better?”

“Yes,” she murmured, barely audible.

Mike nodded, stepping back carefully. “Take your time,” he added softly.

As he returned to Lucas and Dustin, they turned to him, their faces a mix of curiosity and unease. The storm continued to rumble outside, the rain drumming against the basement windows, but for the moment, the girl was left in peace to change.

"This is mental," Dustin muttered, still trying to wrap his head around the bizarre situation they’d stumbled into.

"At least she can talk," Mike said, his voice tinged with cautious optimism.

Lucas rolled his eyes, the tension in his shoulders still evident despite his snappish demeanor. "She said two words—‘no’ and ‘yes.’ Your three-year-old sister says more."

"She tried to get naked," Dustin pointed out, raising his eyebrows as if that sealed the argument.

"There’s something seriously wrong with her," Lucas insisted, gesturing toward the bathroom door. "Like, wrong in the head."

Dustin mimicked the way El had started pulling off her shirt earlier, his exaggerated movements causing his hat to fall off. "She went like this—"

"I bet she escaped from Pennhurst," Lucas cut in, ignoring Dustin’s antics.

"From where?" Mike asked, frowning.

"The nuthouse in Kerley County," Lucas explained.

Dustin smirked as he bent down to grab his hat. "You got a lot of family there?"

"Bite me," Lucas shot back, flatly. "Seriously, though—think about it. It explains the shaved head, the crazy behavior—"

"And why she went like this!" Dustin interrupted, repeating his imitation with unnecessary flair.

Lucas swatted at him, annoyed but undeterred. "She’s an escapee. Probably a psycho."

"Like Michael Myers," Dustin suggested, his eyes widening.

"Exactly!" Lucas exclaimed, glad someone finally agreed with him.

Mike groaned, glancing toward the bathroom. "So what, you just wanted to leave her out there? In the storm?"

"Yes!" Lucas barked. "We went out to find Will, not pick up another problem!"

"I think we should tell your mom," Dustin suggested, looking at Mike.

"I second that," Lucas added, crossing his arms.

Mike scoffed, his disbelief palpable. "Who's crazy now?"

"Why is that crazy?!" Lucas demanded.

"Because!" Mike threw up his hands. "We weren’t even supposed to be out tonight, remember?"

"So?" Lucas asked flatly.

"So… if I tell my mom, and she tells your mom, and then your mom—" Mike trailed off ominously.

Dustin’s face paled as the image of his mom's inevitable meltdown flashed in his mind. "Oh, man."

"Our houses become Alcatraz," Lucas realized, the weight of Mike's argument sinking in.

"Exactly," Mike said, his voice firm. "We’ll never find Will. Here’s the plan—she sleeps here tonight."

Dustin gasped, clutching his hat. "You’re letting a girl—"

"Just listen!" Mike interrupted, cutting him off. "In the morning, she sneaks around the house, rings the doorbell, and my mom handles it from there. She’ll figure it out—probably send her back to Pennhurst or wherever she’s from. We’ll be totally in the clear. And tomorrow night, we go back out and find Will. Simple."

Before the boys could argue further, the basement door creaked open. Lucas instinctively darted beneath the stairs, vanishing into the shadows.

"Dustin! Your sister is here!" Karen Wheeler’s voice called down.

The door shut again, and all three boys exhaled in unison.

"I think we should at least tell Donna," Lucas said, reemerging from his hiding spot. His tone was uncertain, his eyes flicking toward Mike.

Dustin nodded quickly. "I second that. She said earlier if we found anything, we should tell her first."

Mike shook his head, adamant. "There’s nothing to tell. If we involve Donna, it just increases the chances of us getting caught. Trust me—this is the best plan."

Lucas and Dustin exchanged uneasy glances but reluctantly nodded their agreement.

For now, they were in this together—whether they liked it or not.

Dustin and Lucas reached the base of the stairs, their voices hushed but loud enough to carry across the quiet basement.

"You really think she’s psycho?" Dustin asked, pausing to glance back over the beam toward the girl sitting on the couch.

Lucas crossed his arms, his expression set. "Wouldn’t want her in my house." He didn’t wait for a response before continuing up the stairs, his footsteps heavy with lingering frustration.

Dustin lingered, stealing another look at the girl and Mike, who was now rifling through a storage bin near the couch. He sighed, shaking his head. "Mental," he muttered under his breath, then trudged up the stairs after Lucas.

Once the basement door clicked shut, the atmosphere felt quieter, heavier. Mike approached the girl, holding out a neatly folded blanket. "Here," he said softly, setting it down beside her on the couch. She didn’t react, her wide eyes still darting around the room like a cornered animal.

Mike hesitated, then gestured toward the small makeshift fort in the corner of the basement, constructed with mismatched sheets and held up by stacks of books and duct-taped broomsticks. "That’s, uh, my fort," he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "You can sleep there if you want. It’s pretty cool. I mean, it’s no real house or anything, but it’s...safe."

The girl looked at the fort, her head tilting slightly as if assessing it.

"Hey, um," Mike began again, his voice gentle, "I never asked your name."

She didn’t reply. Instead, her gaze dropped to her forearm. Slowly, she pulled back the oversized sleeve of the sweatshirt Mike had given her earlier. The dim light caught the faint ink on her pale skin—a small tattoo reading 011.

Mike’s eyes widened, his curiosity overcoming his hesitance. "Whoa… Is that real?"

The girl’s hand shot back, covering the tattoo protectively as she pulled her arm away from him.

"Sorry!" Mike stammered, raising his hands in surrender. "I didn’t mean to freak you out. It’s just... I’ve never seen a kid with a tattoo before."

She studied him, her wary eyes scanning his face as if searching for any sign of threat. After a tense moment, her shoulders loosened slightly, and she let her arm drop to her side.

Mike hesitated, then asked softly, "What’s it mean? Eleven?"

Her eyes darted to the tattoo, and then she raised a hand, pointing to herself.

"That’s your name?" Mike’s voice softened further, his curiosity now tinged with something gentler, almost protective.

She nodded, a small, hesitant motion.

"Eleven," he repeated thoughtfully, testing the name like it was something fragile. A faint, reassuring smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That’s... different. Cool, though. Well, my name’s Mike. Short for Michael. Maybe we can call you El. Short for Eleven."

Her face remained unreadable, but something shifted in her expression—just a flicker, a subtle crack in the wall of caution she had built around herself. She nodded again, the movement a little firmer this time.

Mike took a step back, sensing her need for space. "Okay. Um… I’ll let you get some rest, then. Night, El." He gestured awkwardly toward the blanket-covered fort he’d set up for her.

Eleven’s eyes followed his hand to the fort, lingering on it for a moment before flicking back to him. Slowly, she bent down to pick up the blanket he’d given her, clutching it close.

“Night, Mike,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

Mike blinked in surprise. It was the first time she’d spoken, and though her tone was quiet, it held a gravity that made him pause.

"Yeah... goodnight," he replied, his voice almost a whisper.

Turning away, Mike carefully pulled the makeshift sheet “door” of the fort into place. He clicked off the basement light and began climbing the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the carpet.

As he ascended, his mind buzzed with a thousand questions. Who was she? What had happened to her? Why was she so scared? But something in his gut told him not to push, not yet.

For now, she was safe.

And for now, that was enough.

As Mike closed the basement door behind him, the muffled hum of the storm outside became louder, the rain hammering against the house in relentless waves. The faint rumble of thunder echoed through the stillness of the Wheeler home, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Mike’s mind.

Outside, the same storm raged against the windows of Joanna Byers’ car.

She sat in the driver’s seat, her fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel as she stared through the rain-streaked windshield. The rhythmic patter of the rain mingled with the low hum of the car’s engine, filling the silence as she waited for Donna and Dustin to emerge from the Wheelers’ house.

Joanna glanced at the dashboard clock, her frustration mounting. "Come on, guys," she muttered under her breath, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. She hadn’t wanted to leave the house, not with everything happening, but after Donna had come through for her family tonight, She  insisted on picking up Dustin, despite Donna’s worries of burdening the grieving family, Joanna refused to let her friend go alone—not tonight and certainly not in this storm.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the suburban street for a brief moment. Joanna squinted through the downpour, her eyes catching movement near the Wheeler house.

At first, she thought it might be Donna and Dustin. But no, the figure wasn’t coming from the front door—it was higher up.

Her brows furrowed as she focused on the dark silhouette perched precariously on the slanted roof beneath an upstairs window.

“What the—” Joanna started, leaning forward.

Another flash of lightning revealed more detail: a teenage boy in a leather jacket and jeans, awkwardly balancing on the slick shingles.

“Steve Harrington?” she muttered incredulously, recognizing the infamous head of hair even through the rain.

Before she could fully process the absurdity of the situation, Steve lost his footing. His arms flailed as his shoes slipped on the wet roof, and for a heart-stopping moment, he teetered on the edge.

Joanna’s hand shot to the horn instinctively, but she stopped herself just in time, biting her lip. The last thing she wanted was to wake the whole neighborhood.

Instead, she rolled down her window, rain immediately spraying into the car as she stuck her head out.

“Harrington!” she hissed, her voice barely cutting through the storm. “What the hell are you doing?”

Steve froze mid-wobble, his head snapping toward her like a deer caught in headlights.

“Uh… nothing! Just... uh...” he stammered, trying to regain his balance.

“Get down before you kill yourself!” Joanna snapped, her tone sharp enough to make Steve wince.

“I’m trying!” he shot back, clinging to the gutter like his life depended on it.

Joanna groaned, slumping back into her seat. ��Unbelievable.”

As she watched Steve awkwardly shimmy toward the edge of the roof, she shook her head, muttering to herself. “Donna’s not gonna believe this.”

Her annoyed muttering was interrupted when movement from the side of the Wheeler house caught her eye. Through the sheets of rain, she spotted Lucas Sinclair slipping out of the basement door, gripping his bike as he tried to mount it in stealth.

“Oh, hell no.” Joanna rolled down her window and leaned out, her voice sharp and commanding. “Lucas Sinclair! Are you kidding me right now?”

Lucas froze, his head snapping up, rain dripping off his hood. “Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh, you bet your ass, goddammit!” Joanna shot back, already stepping out of the car and striding toward the trunk.

Lucas sighed in defeat, trudging toward her with his bike. “I was just gonna go—”

“Stop right there, Sinclair,” Joanna cut him off, pulling open the trunk. “Put it in.”

Lucas reluctantly hefted his bike into the trunk, the clatter muffled by the storm. He climbed into the back seat, dripping and silent, as Joanna slammed the trunk shut. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she twisted around to face him. “I hope you have a damn good explanation for A.) being out in this storm and B.) breaking the town-wide curfew.”

Before Lucas could respond, Joanna’s attention was drawn to the Wheelers’ front door swinging open. Donna and Dustin bolted out, huddling against the rain as they dashed to the car. Joanna leaned over, unlocking the passenger door while keeping a wary eye on Lucas in the rearview mirror.

Donna slid into the front seat, her jacket soaked through. “Thanks for waiting—Lucas?” She blinked, staring at him. “What are you—”

“Hold that thought,” Joanna interrupted, nodding toward the lawn.

Dustin climbed into the back seat beside Lucas, his curls plastered to his head as he shut the door. “What’s going on?”

Donna followed Joanna’s gaze, her eyes widening at the sight of Steve Harrington dangling from the gutter. “Oh my god,” she breathed, her tone a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “What is he doing?”

Joanna sighed, starting the car. “Apparently, sneaking out of Nancy Wheeler’s room. Let’s go before we get roped into that mess.”

The engine roared to life, and as Joanna backed out of the driveway, Steve dropped to the lawn with a graceless thud. Donna shook her head, half-amused, half-exasperated, as they drove off into the storm. The car bumped along the darkened streets of Hawkins, Joanna gripping the wheel while Donna sat beside her, glancing at the boys in the backseat. Lucas and Dustin exchanged uneasy looks, their usual banter replaced with a heavy, awkward silence.

“So…” Donna turned in her seat to face the two boys, her brow raised. “Am I allowed to ask now why Lucas Sinclair is in the back seat, soaking wet, and looking guilty as hell?”

Joanna looked at them both in the rearview mirror. “Lucas? Dustin? Care to explain?”

The boys exchanged a panicked look.

“Okay,” Joanna said, finally breaking the quiet. Her voice was edged with frustration but softened by concern. “Spit it out. What’s going on?”

Lucas cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “We were, uh… looking for Will.”

Joanna slammed the brakes at a stop sign, her head snapping back to glare at them.“You what?”

“We were just trying to help!” Dustin blurted, his voice rising defensively. “We thought maybe we’d find something—clues, or—or Will, even.”

Donna turned in her seat, her brows furrowed as she stared them down. “You two went out alone? At night? Without telling anyone?”

Lucas leaned forward, his tone defensive but faltering under the girls’ scrutiny. “We’re not little kids, okay? We’re not just gonna sit around doing nothing while he’s still out there!”

“You could’ve gotten yourselves hurt!” Joanna snapped, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Do you even realize how dangerous that was?”

“It’s not like we went into the into building or knocked on peoples door or something!” Dustin protested, though his voice wavered. “We were just—”

“Just what? Wandering around in the dark hoping to run into him?” Donna interrupted. Her voice was stern, but her worry showed through as she shook her head. “Dustin, we know you care, but you’ve got to be smarter than this.”

Lucas crossed his arms and leaned back in the seat, his defensive posture faltering. “We were careful. We stuck together.”

“Careful?” Joanna barked a bitter laugh. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up missing like Will. Or worse.”

Dustin’s face fell, guilt sinking into his expression. “We just wanted to help…”

Joanna sighed, the anger draining from her face as she glanced at Donna. “Look, we get it, okay? We’re all scared, and we’re all trying to figure this out.”

Donna nodded, turning back to the boys. “But you need to promise us you won’t do that again. No sneaking off, no playing hero. We’ll find Will, but we’ll do it together. Got it?”

Lucas and Dustin exchanged glances, their guilt palpable. “Got it,” Lucas mumbled.

“Fine,” Dustin echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Joanna nodded, shifting the car into gear and easing back onto the road. “Good. Because if anything happened to you two, we’d never forgive ourselves.”

“Or you,” Donna added pointedly, shooting them a meaningful look over her shoulder.

For a moment, the car was silent, save for the hum of the engine. Dustin finally spoke, his voice small but sincere. “Sorry.”

“Just don’t make us come looking for you next time,” Joanna muttered, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

Lucas huffed a quiet laugh, and Dustin managed a sheepish grin. The tension in the car eased slightly, but the weight of the situation lingered, hanging over them like a shadow.

Donna leaned back in her seat, her tone careful. “Okay, now that we’re past that…did you guys find anything?”

“Nope!” Lucas said quickly.

“Nothing at all!” Dustin chimed in, a little too enthusiastically.

Joanna narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Very suspicious,” Donna agreed, crossing her arms as she turned back to the boys. “Dustin, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing! We didn’t find anything!” Dustin proclaimed, his voice pitching slightly higher than usual.

Joanna’s grip tightened on the wheel as the rain hammered down harder, the rhythmic drumming on the car roof mirroring the uneasy silence between them. Donna glanced back at Dustin and Lucas, her expression softening as she caught Dustin nervously fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

“Let’s just get you guys home…I’ve gotta get home.” Joanna muttered, her voice cutting through the quiet. She turned the car down Lucas’ narrow street, the headlights slicing through the storm.

Back at the Byers’ house its dim porch light flickering against the downpour. Inside, the warm glow of a single lamp illuminated the living room, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside.

“Jonathan, wow. You took these?” Joyce’s voice was soft, almost reverent, as she shuffled through the pile of family photos spread across the coffee table. They were searching for a good picture of Will to give to the police.

Jonathan nodded but stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the photos.

“These are great,” Joyce continued, her fingers brushing over a candid shot of Will laughing in the backyard. “They really are.”

Jonathan glanced up briefly, but his expression didn’t change.

Joyce hesitated, her voice faltering. “I know I haven’t been there for you.” She swallowed hard, her hand reaching out to rest on his knee. “I’ve been… working so hard, and…” Her voice cracked. “I just feel so bad. I barely know what’s going on with you.” She gripped his leg tighter, her eyes searching his face. “I’m just… I’m so sorry about that.”

Jonathan sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of her words. Joyce leaned closer, her voice tender. “Hey, what is it? What is it, honey?”

His lip quivered, and he shook his head. “Nothing,” he mumbled, sniffing hard.

“Tell me,” Joyce urged, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. “Tell me. Come on. You can talk to me.”

Jonathan’s voice cracked as he finally spoke. “It’s just…” He faltered, the words catching in his throat. “I should’ve been there for him.”

“No,” Joyce said, her voice hoarse with emotion. “Oh, no, honey.” She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. “You can’t do that to yourself. This was not your fault. Do you hear me?” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “He’s close. I know it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I feel it in my heart.” She sniffled, tears welling in her eyes. “You just have to trust me on this, okay?”

Jonathan nodded slowly, his eyes rimmed red. “Yeah.”

Joyce turned her attention back to the photos, lifting one from the pile. A faint smile broke through her tears. “Oh, look at this. Look at this one.”

Jonathan leaned over to see. It was a solo shot of Will from the first day of school, his orange shirt bright against the floral wallpaper in the hallway, his grin wide with excitement. They both laughed softly, remembering how eager he had been to start the new school year.

“I mean, that’s it. Right? That’s the one,” Joyce said, holding the photo up.

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed, a flicker of warmth in his voice.

The moment shattered as the shrill ring of the landline pierced the air. Joyce gasped, her heart leaping into her throat as she scrambled to answer it.

“Hello?” she said, breathless.

A crackle of static met her ear, accompanied by faint, labored breathing. “Hello? Lonnie?” Joyce’s voice rose with urgency.

“Dad?” Jonathan asked, watching her from the couch.

“Hopper?” Joyce tried again, her hand tightening on the phone. “Who is this?”

The breathing grew heavier, frantic, as if whoever was on the other end was struggling. Joyce’s chest tightened. “Will? Will!”

“It’s Will?” Jonathan shot to his feet, his voice sharp with hope and fear.

A garbled voice chittered through the static, distorted and inhuman. Then came the growling—low, guttural, and unnatural. Joyce recoiled, tears streaming down her face.

“Mom, it’s Will?” Jonathan demanded, moving closer as she began to collapse inward, clutching the phone like a lifeline.

“Who is this?!” Joyce screamed into the receiver, her voice breaking. “What have you done to my boy?!”

The growling intensified, vibrating through the phone. Then, with a sudden burst of static, the phone sparked in her hand. Joyce shrieked, dropping it as it shot across the room and slammed against the wall. The blackened handset dangled limply by its cord, swaying like a pendulum.

Jonathan lunged for the phone, pressing it to his ear. “Hello? Who is this?”

Nothing but silence greeted him.

He slammed the phone back onto the receiver and turned to Joyce, who was shaking uncontrollably, her words tumbling out in frantic sobs. “Mom, who was it? Who was it?”

“It was him,” Joyce choked out, her hands clutching her chest.

Jonathan grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at me, Mom. Was it Will?”

“Yes!” Joyce cried, her voice breaking.

“What did he say? What did he say, Mom?” Jonathan pressed, desperation seeping into his words.

Joyce shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He just… He just breathed.”

“And someone else was there?” Jonathan asked, his voice rising.

Joyce grabbed the phone again, her hands trembling. “I…”

“Mom,” Jonathan urged, his voice steady but urgent. “Who was it? Who else was there?”

Her body sagged as she let herself fall into his arms, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. “It was him,” she whispered, clinging to him. “I know it was his breathing. I know it was his breathing.”

Jonathan’s arms wrapped tightly around Joyce, his jaw clenched as if holding back a flood of emotion. The weight of her words filled the air, suffocating in its intensity. The room was silent except for her uneven breaths, each one cutting like glass.

The front door creaked open, and the sound of boots scuffed lightly against the worn floorboards. Joanna stepped inside, shaking off the cold night air. Strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, still flushed from the chill outside. The house felt wrong—too quiet. Only the low hum of the refrigerator dared to break the silence.

“Mom?” Joanna called, her voice soft but edged with unease.

She paused, the stillness pressing in on her. Then she heard it—a muffled sob.

Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. Something twisted in her chest, and she moved toward the sound, her boots creaking with each step.

In the kitchen, she found Joyce. Her mother sat hunched over at the table, the soft glow of the overhead light accentuating her disheveled state. An unlit cigarette trembled in her hand, its ash-stained tip forgotten. A crumpled tissue sat clenched in the other. The rotary phone lay discarded, its cord coiled messily over the edge of the table like a snake ready to strike.

“Mom?” Joanna’s voice cracked as she stepped further into the room.

Joyce’s head jerked up, her wide, red-rimmed eyes locking onto her daughter’s. She looked fragile, a woman pulled to the edge and holding on by the barest thread. Behind her stood Jonathan, hovering like a shadow. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to comfort or retreat. His gaze darted to Joanna, his expression a storm of worry and disbelief.

“He called, Joanna.” Joyce’s voice wavered, each word trembling with desperation. “It was Will.”

Joanna froze mid-step. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to race. “What are you talking about?” she asked cautiously, her words slow and measured, though the fear coiled tightly in her chest. “Will’s…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Joyce lunged forward, clutching the phone with both hands and thrusting it toward Joanna like it was a holy relic. “I swear to God, it was him! I heard his voice—my Will!”

“Mom…” Joanna began, but Jonathan cut in, his voice low and steady, though his shoulders were rigid.

“She heard something,” he said carefully. “Static. A voice. She thinks it’s Will.”

Joyce whipped her head toward him, her face twisted with anguish. “Thinks? It was him! Don’t you dare act like I don’t know my own son’s voice!” Her words came out raw and jagged, cutting through the air like shards of glass.

Joanna flinched at her mother’s intensity, her fingers gripping the back of a chair for support. The kitchen felt unbearably small, the air thick with emotions too sharp to name. She forced herself to sit across from Joyce, her movements deliberate, like approaching a skittish animal.

“Okay,” Joanna said softly, her voice calm despite the storm raging inside her. “Tell me what he said.”

Joyce’s lips quivered as she stared at Joanna, her gaze searching for doubt. When she found none, her face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “He didn’t say much,” she whispered, her words breaking. “I heard him breathing… and he sounded so scared. He said he needed help, and then the line just… went dead.”

Joanna’s chest tightened. She tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but it refused to budge. Her eyes flicked to the phone, then back to her mother. “Okay,” she repeated, though the word felt hollow. She didn’t know what to believe. What she did know was that Joyce was unraveling, and they couldn’t lose her too.

Jonathan stepped closer, his hand finally resting on Joyce’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out,” he said firmly, though his voice was quiet. Joanna noticed the faint tremor in his fingers.

Joyce reached up, clutching his hand like a lifeline. “We have to,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “We have to find him.”

Joanna’s eyes lingered on the tangled phone cord. The hum of the refrigerator seemed louder now, filling the oppressive silence. Her mind raced, flickering between the impossible and the undeniable.

For the first time that night, she allowed herself to imagine that maybe, just maybe, her mother was right. Maybe Will really had called.

>>>Thank you for reading! Please comment and let me know if you want to be tagged in future updates of this story.<<<

[sparydryer]

https://www.hindustanprocess.com/spin-flash-dryer-manufacturers.php

[fuwaprince]

At least there's tomorrow. And the rest of today... Last night was fine but not really.... I'm upset. I'm grateful to have ANYBODY in my corner including online amazing friends who truly are my biggest hope/support. I should have higher standards for who I let in irl... but have you ever been so sad and needed more than a call? Something not even a hotline could be equipped to handle? I didn't want a stranger to talk to. I needed to know the person talking to me loved me and cared. I needed someone who could help me feel seen by physically looking back at me. I've been very unwell and stuck with limited support irl. I'm going to talk about how I go about surviving it under here. Read with caution idk some sensitive topics are mentioned

Last night he couldn't grab my stun gun to take it away. Kept telling me to give it to him so that i don't use it (why would I need to use it? you're probably wondering). I had to remove it from my purse and onto my body to keep it (he still tries to grab it anyways, wtf). I made the totally genius suggestion that if he didn't want to be stunned then he could try keeping hands to himself. I flash it. He gets pouty.

Still, he continues to act in ways that make me feel unsafe, with little things like where he decides to park and how. Like taking up 5 spots sideways for no reason and when I ask why he turns and almost yells to say "because they're all MINE!". And like how he goes over the reflective pavement markers in the middle of the road and asks if he made me scared, then holds his hand out in front of me (you know the one that probably should be on the wheel) saying "here grab it and hold tight and never let go" "ask me to stay and I will".

He always does this thing where if I disagree to physicality then he wants to promote a sense of danger so that I cling to him anyways :) i tell him it makes me uncomfortable again.

I am so desperate for a late night distraction that I overlook this to try and be grateful for his company and time. It isn't as bad as being left alone admittedly. It sucks to say but it's real.

He says he wants to go for a walk by a lake in the middle of the night. I'm freezing as is but okay I guess. He puts it in his gps and starts driving.

Before heading out of the car he drinks my meal replacement then says he doesn't like it. This is after I say of course he can have the rest of it in spite of me not actually eating enough calories to sustain myself as is. I want to thank him and show him appreciation for his company somehow and my conversation isn't enough.

Out by the water I ask if he's cold in his shirt. I'm shivering in my blanket that i wear like armor. It makes me feel untouchable knowing he can't access my bare skin.

He says yes he is cold and then goes on about how his plan was for me to hug him to keep him warm. I said wtf no and had to keep MOVING otherwise he tries to get too close and handsy. I was inventing choreography. Practicing my footwork. Spinning and dancing and frolicking away. He says in an upset way that I'm letting him freeze to death. Asks me again, "so you're just going to let me FREEZE?". I tell him that's really guilt trippy. I ask if we can go back to the car and eventually we do.

He ends up touching my hair at some point while pointing out how sleepy I am. I was so relieved to be back in a warm car that i guess I dozed off. I think he literally removed my clip without my consent to let my hair down for no fucking reason. I tell him my ex took my hair dryer when he complains about my hair still being damp. We don't talk about how he touched me.

He drives to the market to pick one up while I wait in the car. I am in the car under the impression he's picking up a soda or something. I have no idea. When he comes back I'm insisting I shouldn't have this because I didn't earn it, because it's a kind thought but it shouldn't be done by him and mostly because I can't be bought and that's how it feels.

He seems excessively prideful and self satisfied in the fact that whenever he takes me back to my place, he sends me in with bags of stuff. I never ask for this stuff. If I decline it then it gets dropped off anyways, you know? He asks if anybody I live with asks who's the guy who gets me "all this expensive stuff".

He goes on about how it'll be a good idea to meet my housemates so that he can come over, which I'm not even comfortable with. They aren't the reason he isn't coming over and he knows this but I guess denied it.

I make it clear I'm not open to that. I couldn't even let my housemates into my room. My room is sacred.

I know, just go to other people. I have so many online friends who reach out telling me i can talk with them. I just feel like an overwhelming sad cloud coming around my friends who might not even be emotionally available. I feel like a lot of people say it to be polite then show resentment so I'm scared of accepting the hands that reach out. I just run to what's familiar and has no problem driving up to my house in the middle of the night. Who will wait hours for me to stop crying just to take me away. It gives my heart a break in some ways but there's a give and take... Sorry guys. I'm sad. Don't know how to feel. Need support for this pressure. Thank you for the relief so far. I need to do better. I hope I'm cool and normal enough to make friends irl soon. That sounds pathetic but I do mean it. I've isolated for so long and mostly everyone has moved on. I try to reach out more now but it isn't enough to sustain a close friendship for most people. My energy is so low and here I'm trying to lift so much. I need a real friend I don't know how else to say it. A harmless hand to hold. Gentle nudge and a look into my eyes like hey it's going to be okay I see your pain but you're still here and I am here with you. Loneliness is so painful

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

Spin cycle

by Ava1on

There were Jeopardy reruns on the grainy television, subtitles flashing along the bottom of the screen as the sound would have had little chance of being heard over the churn of the lines of washing machines and dryers.

Stede wasn't watching the television. He was watching the stunning man who was guessing every single answer before the contestants could.

Words: 2085, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of The Laundromat au

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: Roleplay, Public Sex, Blow Jobs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, no beta we die like my sanity

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/46110139

[drytechengi]

Exporter of Spin Flash Dryer in Somalia

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