#thick concrete countertop

[le-temps-plus-que-parfait]

Bathroom Powder Room

[love-is-vengeful]

Minneapolis Bathroom Large minimalist ceramic tile sauna photo with open cabinets, an integrated sink and concrete countertops

[epeolatryx]

Farmhouse Kitchen in Dallas

[artyandink]

amoralism | fifteen

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Dean’s the mole, childbirth, Lucifer being a little shit, angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Tattoo - Loreen

chiaroscurism

The air in the warehouse was thick with dust, the stagnant kind that settled over years of disuse. Your boots echoed with every step you took, the concrete floor rough beneath them as you walked deeper into the dimly lit space. It was cold, the chill biting through your coat, but you barely noticed. All your focus, all your energy, was consumed by one thing—one person.

Dean Winchester.

You hadn’t seen him since everything went sideways. The day he disappeared from the FBI, seemingly without a trace, no explanation, no goodbye. No answers. Just gone. It had been months, and in that time, you’d learned the ugly truth—the one you still couldn’t fully believe, the one that twisted your stomach and clawed at your chest every time you thought about it. Dean had betrayed the FBI. He’d betrayed you.

But you had him now. You had the proof, you had the intel, and you had him exactly where you needed him. It hadn’t been easy to track him down, to get the right people to feed him the information that would lead him here. But you had, and now you were standing in the middle of this forsaken warehouse, waiting for the man you’d trusted with your life.

A shadow shifted in the doorway, and there he was.

Dean stepped into the light like a ghost, the years you’d known him weighing heavily on his face, his body. He looked the same, yet entirely different. His leather jacket was more worn, his eyes harder, a shadow of something darker hanging over him. You could see it in the way he moved—like he wasn’t just Dean anymore, like something inside him had broken and reformed into something else. Something colder. Something lethal.

“Figured you’d be the one to show up,” Dean said, his voice low, rough. He stopped a few feet in front of you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, like this was just another day. Like this was normal. “Always were the clever one.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. Every instinct told you to run, to turn around and leave before this confrontation went somewhere you couldn’t come back from. But you couldn’t. You needed answers.

A WEEK PRIOR:

The kitchen was alive with the familiar smells of roasting vegetables and sizzling chicken, the comforting warmth from the oven filling the space. You stood at the counter, chopping carrots while Sam darted around the kitchen with the awkwardness of a man who was both too big for the space and too eager to be helpful. Jess stood next to you, her swollen belly pressing against the edge of the countertop as she kneaded dough for bread, a serene smile on her face that could only come from a woman who was about to bring life into the world.

It was peaceful, domestic, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in the warmth of it. It felt good to be here, in this house, with these people. Sam and Jess had been like family to you for only a week, but the easy camaraderie, the laughter over the clatter of pots and pans, was a welcome escape from the tension that had been gnawing at your insides since Dean disappeared.

But tonight wasn’t about Dean. It was about Sam and Jess, and the new baby they were so eagerly awaiting. Alfie, their three-year-old son, was upstairs, likely lost in a world of toy cars and action figures, his little voice occasionally drifting down from the second floor. It was perfect—almost too perfect.

“Can you believe it?” Jess asked, her voice light with excitement as she shaped the dough into a neat ball. “This little one is almost here.”

You smiled, nodding as you dumped the carrots into a bowl. “Feels like it’s been forever. You’re ready, right?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Sam interjected, pausing long enough to flash you a sheepish grin as he adjusted the oven temperature. His face was a mix of excitement and nerves, that underlying tension in his shoulders betraying how on-edge he really was. “I mean, we’ve done this once before, but…”

“But it’s never the same,” Jess finished for him, laughing softly. She placed a hand on her belly, rubbing it gently, her gaze far away for a moment. “This one’s been kicking like crazy, though. Probably wants out.”

“Any day now,” Sam added, trying to sound calm, though the way his eyes kept darting toward Jess’s stomach betrayed him.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you began slicing a loaf of bread. “You’re gonna do great. Alfie’s a sweet kid, and this one’s gonna be just as perfect. Plus, you’ve got a lot of help this time around.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his voice tinged with a touch of unease. “Speaking of help, thanks again for coming over. I mean, with everything you’ve been dealing with, I know—"

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” you interrupted softly, offering him a reassuring smile. Sam didn’t need to know the weight you carried—the constant ache in your chest from everything you’d learned about Dean. This wasn’t the time or place for that. Tonight, you were just here to be a friend, to support them.

Jess laughed, shaking her head as she swatted at Sam with a flour-covered hand. “Stop stressing, Sam. We’ve got this. Besides, what could go wrong? We’re practically experts at this by now.”

The words barely left her mouth when it happened.

Jess’s face went suddenly rigid, her hands flying to her belly as a sharp gasp escaped her lips. The sound was so abrupt, so out of place, that it startled you, the knife in your hand clattering against the counter as you spun around to look at her.

“Jess?” Sam was at her side in an instant, his large hands hovering over her, unsure of what to do. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

For a second, Jess didn’t respond. Her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth biting down on her lip as she breathed through what was clearly an intense contraction. When her eyes finally fluttered open, there was no mistaking the look on her face—pure, undeniable panic.

“Oh… oh, crap,” she groaned, her voice tight with pain. “Sam, it’s time.”

“Time? Time for wha—oh my God,” Sam blurted, his face going pale as he realized what she meant. “Now? It’s happening now?”

Jess nodded, gripping the counter with white-knuckled fingers as another wave of pain hit her. “Yes, now. I told you the baby’s been kicking—oh, holy crap, Sam!”

You were already moving, the calm facade you’d worn earlier shattered by the sheer chaos that seemed to explode into the kitchen. You rushed to Jess’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to help steady her. “Okay, okay, it’s happening. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Sam was already panicking, his massive frame moving awkwardly around the kitchen as he tried to figure out what to do first. “Uh, okay, okay. Hospital. Where’s the bag? Did we pack the—no, wait, we packed it. Where is it?”

“It’s by the door, Sam,” Jess hissed through gritted teeth, her voice thick with irritation and pain. “But we need to go now!”

The situation escalated quickly from controlled chaos to complete mayhem. Sam scrambled to find the car keys, while you helped Jess navigate the narrow hallway to the front door, her steps slow and labored. Her breaths were coming in short gasps now, her face pinched with pain, and for the first time, you felt a surge of panic rising in your chest.

“Sam, get the keys!” you yelled over your shoulder, trying to keep Jess calm as she gripped your arm.

“I’m trying!” Sam shouted back from the kitchen, the sound of drawers being yanked open and slammed shut filling the house.

Before you could yell at Sam again, a shrill voice pierced the air.

“Mommy?”

You turned to see Alfie standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a stuffed dinosaur in one hand, his face scrunched in confusion. His little voice trembled as he called down again, “Mommy, are you okay?”

Jess’s face softened for a split second, despite the pain she was clearly in, and she tried to offer her son a reassuring smile. “I’m okay, sweetie. Just… just go back to your room. Mommy and Daddy are going to the hospital.”

“Is the baby coming?” Alfie asked, his wide eyes darting between you and his parents.

“Yes, buddy, the baby’s coming,” Sam said, finally appearing in the hallway with the keys in hand, looking disheveled and frantic. “But you need to stay here, okay? Aunt… uh—your aunt’s going to stay with you until Grandma gets here.”

The lie slipped out of Sam’s mouth so easily, and you gave him a quick, understanding nod. Of course, no one had called Grandma yet. There hadn’t been time. You’d figure that out once Jess was safely in the car.

“Okay, Alfie,” you said, your voice gentle but firm as you crouched down to meet his eyes. “You stay right here, and I’ll come check on you in a minute, okay? We’re just going to get Mommy to the hospital.”

Alfie looked unsure but nodded slowly, clutching his dinosaur tighter. “Okay.”

Jess groaned again, clutching your arm as another contraction hit her, this one stronger than before. “We need to go now.”

Sam practically flew out the front door, the hospital bag slung over his shoulder as he ran for the car. You helped Jess out the door, every step slow and measured as she fought through the pain.

“Breathe, Jess, just breathe,” you reminded her, though it felt almost pointless to say. She was already doing everything she could just to keep it together.

Finally, you reached the car. Sam had the back door open, and between the two of you, you managed to ease Jess into the seat. She immediately curled in on herself, her hands pressed to her belly as she tried to find some relief. But there was no relief to be had—not with the baby coming this fast.

Sam jumped into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys before finally managing to get the engine started. You barely had time to slam the door shut before the car peeled out of the driveway, tires squealing against the pavement.

The ride to the hospital was anything but smooth. Sam, usually the calm, collected one, was a mess of nerves. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, and every few seconds, he’d glance in the rearview mirror at Jess, his voice cracking as he asked, “You okay back there?”

“Do I look okay?” Jess snapped, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she fought through another contraction. Her face was flushed, her hair sticking to her forehead, and she was visibly trembling now.

You sat in the backseat beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other gripping the seatbelt for dear life. “You’re doing great, Jess,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though your heart was pounding in your chest. “We’re almost there.”

The hospital was only fifteen minutes away, but every second felt like an eternity. Jess’s contractions were coming faster now, each one stronger than the last, and there was no mistaking the urgency in her voice when she spoke again.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it.”

Sam’s eyes went wide in the rearview mirror, panic written all over his face. “What do you mean, we’re not gonna make it? We’re almost there—just hang on a little longer, okay?”

But Jess’s grip on your hand tightened, and you could see the fear in her eyes. “No, Sam. The baby’s coming now.”

For a brief, horrifying second, you thought she might be right—that this baby was about to make an appearance in the backseat of Sam’s car, whether you were ready or not. But then, through some miracle, the hospital came into view.

Sam screeched to a stop in front of the emergency entrance, leaping out of the car and yelling for help before you even had a chance to unbuckle your seatbelt. Nurses and doctors swarmed the car in seconds, and you barely had time to step aside before they were rushing Jess inside.

As you stood there, breathing hard, your hands trembling from the chaos of it all, you realized you were still holding the bag of carrots from the kitchen.

You dropped it.

The sterile scent of the hospital hit you the moment you walked through the double doors. It wasn’t unfamiliar to you—too many times you’d rushed into places like this on cases, running after answers, running after Dean. But today was different. Today, you were walking toward life, toward something good. And yet, the knot in your stomach wouldn’t loosen.

You hesitated by the nurses’ station, fidgeting with the strap of the baby-blue gift bag you’d brought, the pastel wrapping paper peeking out from the top. Your nerves hummed under your skin, not because you weren’t thrilled for Sam and Jess—you were—but because part of you had no idea how to feel anymore. The weight of Dean’s betrayal lingered like a shadow over everything, and no matter how hard you tried to shake it off, it clung to you.

You exhaled, forcing yourself to focus on the moment at hand. This wasn’t about Dean. Not today. Today was about Sam and Jess and their little girl.

Gathering your courage, you made your way toward Jess’s room, following the directions Sam had texted you earlier. The hallway felt endless, each step echoing in the hollow silence of the hospital wing. When you finally reached the door, you hesitated for a moment, your hand hovering over the handle.

Could you really do this? Be the supportive friend when your own world was unraveling? You’d spent so much time chasing Dean, drowning in the chaos of his decisions, that you didn’t know how to be anything else.

But Sam and Jess needed you right now. You could put on a smile for them, at least for a little while.

You knocked softly, pushing the door open a crack.

"Come in!" Jess's voice was soft but bright, tired yet filled with that unmistakable new-mom glow.

You stepped inside, and immediately the warmth of the room hit you—a stark contrast to the sterile halls outside. The fluorescent lights were dimmed, the room quiet except for the soft beeping of the monitors and the gentle hum of Jess's voice.

Sam was sitting beside the bed, his massive frame somehow dwarfed by the sight of the tiny bundle cradled in his arms. His face was softer than you’d seen in weeks, the stress lines eased as he gazed down at his newborn daughter. He looked peaceful, content, like the world outside didn’t exist right now.

"Hey," you greeted softly, closing the door behind you. The sight before you was enough to make the knot in your stomach loosen, even if just a little.

Jess beamed at you, looking tired but radiant, her hair a little disheveled from hours of labor but her eyes sparkling with joy. "You made it."

"Of course I did," you said, stepping closer, unable to keep the smile from spreading across your face. "I wouldn’t miss this for anything."

Sam looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. "We wanted you to be one of the first."

Your heart swelled at the words, and for a moment, you forgot about all the darkness you’d been carrying. It was just the three of you—four now—in this small, quiet world.

"Can I…?" You motioned toward the baby in Sam’s arms, unsure if it was too soon to ask. But before you could even finish the question, Sam was already standing, gently transferring the tiny bundle into your arms.

As soon as the baby girl was in your arms, the world outside the room seemed to disappear. She was so small, impossibly small, with delicate little features and a head full of soft brown hair. Her eyes were closed, her tiny mouth making little sucking motions in her sleep.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you gazed down at her, the weight of her settling against you like something sacred. The innocence, the purity—it was overwhelming, like this tiny little person had the power to heal all the cracks in your heart.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t a lie. She was perfect, a fragile little miracle in a world that had felt so broken to you lately.

“Thank you,” Jess said, her voice soft, but you could hear the pride in it. “Her name’s Claire. Claire Mary Winchester.”

You looked up, meeting Jess’s eyes, and you saw the meaning behind the name. “Mary,” you repeated, your throat tightening. Sam’s mother—Dean’s mother. You weren’t sure why, but it hit you harder than you expected. It was a name full of love, full of history, full of meaning.

Sam cleared his throat, a smile tugging at his lips as he leaned back against the hospital bed. “Jess and I talked about it a lot, and… well, there’s something we wanted to ask you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your gaze darting between the two of them. “Ask me?”

Jess nodded, her hand resting on Sam’s arm. “We’ve been through a lot together, and you’ve always been there for us—for Sam, for me, for Alfie. And we know how much you’ve been carrying lately. How hard it’s been.”

You swallowed hard, trying to fight back the surge of emotion that threatened to spill over. They knew. Of course they knew. Sam had seen the toll it had taken on you, how Dean’s betrayal had fractured something inside you.

“But we also know how much you mean to us,” Sam continued, his voice steady and full of warmth. “And we wanted to give you something good, something to hold on to. Something that we trust you with completely.”

Jess smiled softly, her eyes bright as she added, “We want you to be Claire’s godmother.”

The words hit you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your mind raced, struggling to process what they were offering you, what they were trusting you with. You blinked, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as you looked down at Claire, still fast asleep in your arms, blissfully unaware of the storm of emotions swirling around her.

“Me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “You want me to be her godmother?”

Sam nodded, his expression serious but full of affection. “Dean trusted you. I trust you. And Jess…” He glanced at his wife, his love for her written in every line of his face. “She trusts you too.”

Jess reached out, her hand finding yours as you clutched Claire a little tighter. “We couldn’t think of anyone better,” she said gently. “You’re family to us. You always have been.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat was too big, the emotions too overwhelming. All you could do was stare at them, at this family that had welcomed you into their lives, that had seen you at your worst and still wanted you to be a part of their world.

“I don’t know what to say,” you finally managed, your voice thick with unshed tears. “I… I don’t deserve this.”

Sam’s face softened, his eyes kind as he stepped closer. “You deserve more than you know,” he said quietly. “And you need this. You need something good right now. We all do.”

You looked back down at Claire, her tiny hand resting against your chest, her little fingers curling and uncurling in her sleep. She was so small, so fragile, and yet she was so full of life, full of promise.

The tears slipped free then, but you didn’t wipe them away. You just let them fall, let them cleanse you of some of the weight you’d been carrying for so long. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe this was exactly what you needed—a reminder that there was still good in the world, still love, still family.

“I’ll do it,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain. “I’ll be her godmother.”

Jess let out a small, relieved laugh, her eyes shimmering with tears of her own. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It means the world to us.”

Sam smiled, reaching out to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re family,” he repeated, and the weight of those words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, comforting and steadying you in a way you hadn’t expected.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the ache in your chest eased just a little. The wound Dean had left wasn’t gone—it might never be—but here, in this room, with this tiny little baby in your arms and the people who had become your family surrounding you, the pain didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

You gazed down at Claire, your heart swelling with a love you hadn’t even known you were capable of. “I’ll protect her,” you promised, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll always be there for her.”

Jess and Sam exchanged a look, their smiles soft, filled with gratitude and affection. They didn’t say anything, but they didn’t need to. The moment spoke for itself.

You stayed like that for a while longer, the three of you talking softly as Claire slept peacefully in your arms. Eventually, a nurse came in to check on Jess and the baby, and you reluctantly handed Claire back to her mother. But even as you left the room, the weight on your shoulders felt lighter than it had in weeks.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you had something good to hold on to.

And as you walked out of the hospital and into the crisp evening air, you knew—deep down—that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay after all.

A FEW HOURS PRIOR:

The air inside the abandoned factory was thick with the mingling scents of rust and decay, the long-forgotten machinery casting twisted shadows in the dim light. It was the perfect place for a covert exchange—secluded, out of sight, and just the right amount of grim. Dean Winchester stood at the far end of the cavernous space, his eyes scanning the shadows, his muscles coiled with a tension that came from more than just the impending deal.

Lucifer, the crime boss who had woven his web of influence over the criminal underworld, was late. This wasn’t surprising—Lucifer was never punctual, always fashionably late, as if his time were more valuable than anyone else's.

Dean’s mind was elsewhere, though. Ever since the lead had come through, the stakes had shifted. Tonight wasn’t just about the drop—it was about you. The fact that you were part of this world again, that you were closing in on him, made every moment fraught with a personal edge.

Footsteps echoed through the factory, drawing Dean’s attention. He turned to see Lucifer sauntering in, a smirk dancing on his lips. The man was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his appearance in stark contrast to the grim surroundings. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he approached, and there was something almost theatrical in the way he carried himself.

“Dean, my boy,” Lucifer greeted, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a mocking tone. “How’s the night treating you?”

Dean’s gaze was steely, but he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Cut the crap, Lucifer. Let’s get this done.”

Lucifer chuckled, a sound that was equal parts charming and unsettling. “Always straight to the point with you, isn’t it? No room for a little small talk, no time for pleasantries?”

Dean didn’t respond, his silence urging Lucifer to get to the matter at hand. But Lucifer was nothing if not theatrical, and he had a penchant for dragging things out.

“So,” Lucifer continued, strolling around the space with a casual grace. “I heard a little rumor. Apparently, you’ve been rather… preoccupied with someone from your past. A certain someone who used to be quite close to you.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

Lucifer’s grin widened. “Oh, come now. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I hear she’s been causing quite the stir. They say she’s got a knack for showing up just when you least want her to.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for your games.”

“Games?” Lucifer’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I’m just trying to understand how someone like you, so deeply entrenched in this lovely little crime syndicate of ours, deals with old flames. Especially when those flames seem to have a tendency to make everything complicated.”

The way Lucifer said “complicated” was loaded, as if the word itself was a taunt. Dean’s hand twitched at his side, a sign of his growing frustration.

“You’re not exactly known for your subtlety, Lucifer,” Dean said tersely. “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

Lucifer leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though the amusement in his tone was still palpable. “Oh, I’m just curious. I’ve heard tales about your little escapades. The kind of stories that make one’s eyebrows raise in surprise. And I’m wondering—will your little lady be a problem tonight?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lucifer’s grin grew even more malicious. “Really? I thought we were friends, Dean. Surely you remember the stories? The way you used to get all tangled up with her, the way she had you wrapped around her little finger.”

Dean’s fists clenched. “What the hell are you playing at?”

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he started to pace, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Oh, come on, Dean. Don’t be coy. Everyone talks, you know. And the things they say about you and her… let’s just say they paint quite the picture.”

He stopped, facing Dean with an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. “I mean, really. What was it like? All those nights spent together, her body pressed against yours, the way you used to whisper those sweet nothings in her ear. Did you have any idea what you were getting into?”

Dean’s face was a mask of frustration and fury. “Enough.”

Lucifer’s laughter was light and mocking, a sound that grated on Dean’s nerves. “I’m just trying to picture it. What was it like to have her so close, to feel her against you, to know that in those moments, she was yours and yours alone?”

Dean’s mind was reeling, the memories of you crashing over him in a wave. He could see you lying beside him, could hear your laughter, your whispered words of affection. The warmth of your body, the softness of your touch—things he hadn’t thought about in weeks, things that now felt like a sharp pain in his chest.

Lucifer continued, oblivious to the storm raging within Dean. “Did she drive you wild? Was it the kind of passion that had you both wrapped up in each other, unable to think of anything else? Or was it more than that? Was it… meaningful? Did you think it was going to last forever?”

The taunting was relentless, and Dean’s anger flared. “This is a waste of time. Either we do this deal or we don’t.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from amusement to something more calculating. “I’m just trying to figure out how much of a threat she’ll be to me. She’s got a habit of showing up at the worst possible moments, doesn’t she? And you—well, you’ve never been particularly good at keeping your personal life separate from your professional one.”

Dean’s temper was barely in check. “I said, enough. If you’re done playing games, let’s get on with it.”

Lucifer’s gaze was cold, but there was still a trace of the earlier mockery in his voice. “Fine, fine. I just wanted to have a little fun. But remember this, Dean—your past has a way of catching up with you. And if she’s going to be a problem, you might want to deal with it sooner rather than later.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

Lucifer shrugged, the motion nonchalant. “I know enough. And I know that you’re not exactly the best at handling things when they get personal. But that’s your problem, not mine.”

Dean was about to snap back when a low rumble echoed through the factory—the unmistakable sound of a truck approaching. Both men fell silent, the tension in the air crackling as the vehicle came to a stop outside.

Lucifer straightened, his demeanor shifting from playful to professional. “Well, it looks like our little meeting is about to get underway.”

Dean’s eyes followed the movement, his mind still reeling from the taunts and insinuations. He had a job to do, and he couldn’t afford to let Lucifer’s games get in the way.

As the vehicle’s doors creaked open and the first figures began to emerge, Dean took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. But the echoes of Lucifer’s words lingered, a painful reminder of what had once been, and what could never be again.

Lucifer clapped Dean on the shoulder with a grin that was both mocking and somehow sympathetic. “Let’s see how this all plays out. And remember, Dean—things are never as simple as they seem. Especially when old flames are involved.”

With that, Lucifer turned and walked toward the incoming figures, leaving Dean standing alone in the shadows, the weight of the past pressing heavily on him as the present loomed ever closer.

You lay on the couch, eyes half-closed, the soft hum of the ceiling fan filling the quiet of your apartment. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window, a steady, rhythmic sound that pulled at the edges of your memory. The day had been long—too long—and you’d come home exhausted, your body aching with the kind of weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

As your head sunk deeper into the pillows, you let your mind wander, let it slip away from the present and into the past—a time when things were simpler.

It was late at night, and you and Dean were lying in bed together, limbs tangled beneath the heavy comforter. The room was dim, only the faint glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the space. Dean was on his back, one arm draped casually around your shoulders, his other hand resting on his stomach. You could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

“You know,” Dean had said, his voice low and a little rough with exhaustion, “we should just stay here. Screw the rest of the world.”

You’d chuckled softly, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You’d get bored after a day.”

“Maybe.” His lips curved into that half-smile you loved so much. “But it’d be one hell of a day.”

You’d shifted then, tilting your head up to look at him. The soft light of the lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looked peaceful in that moment, the usual tension that clung to him like a second skin noticeably absent.

“Dean Winchester, homebody extraordinaire,” you teased, and he snorted, the sound warm and comforting in the stillness of the room.

“Hey, I can do domestic,” he argued, but there was no bite in his voice. Just the soft warmth of someone who, for once, didn’t have to be anywhere else.

You’d kissed him then, slow and easy, your lips barely brushing his. It wasn’t about passion, not that night. It was about comfort, about the quiet moments that you both clung to between the chaos. His hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you there for a moment longer, and you could feel his breath mix with yours, the familiar scent of leather and soap grounding you.

Dean had pulled away just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes dark and serious. “You’re the only thing that makes sense in all this crap, you know that?”

You hadn’t known how to respond to that—not in words, anyway. So you’d kissed him again, your heart swelling with something too big to name, too fragile to hold onto for long.

Those nights had been rare. Too rare. Dean was always running, always chasing something—whether it was a lead, a case, or the ghosts of his own past. But in those stolen moments, in the quiet spaces where it was just the two of you, he was yours. Entirely yours.

Now, in the quiet of your apartment, you could almost feel him again, the warmth of his body beside you, the steady cadence of his breath. You could hear the low rumble of his voice, the way he’d murmur something half-asleep, only for it to trail off into nothing.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed that until now.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you shifted on the couch, your hand unconsciously reaching for the empty space beside you. It wasn’t until your fingers brushed against the cool fabric of the cushions that the illusion shattered, the memory slipping away like water through your fingers.

Dean wasn’t here.

He hadn’t been here for a long time.

And he wasn’t coming back.

The knot in your chest tightened as the reality of it hit you all over again. Dean wasn’t just gone—he was lost to you. He’d made his choice, left the world you’d built behind for something darker, something dangerous. And no matter how many times you tried to understand it, no matter how many nights you spent going over it in your mind, the truth never settled right.

He had betrayed you. Betrayed everything you thought you knew about him.

But you still loved him.

A sharp, shrill ring broke the silence, yanking you out of the depths of your thoughts. You blinked, disoriented for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest as your phone vibrated on the coffee table beside you.

It took a second for your brain to catch up, to realize that the memory was gone, and you were back in your empty apartment. With a sigh, you reached for the phone, your fingers fumbling as you grabbed it off the table.

The screen lit up with a familiar name: Director Singer. Your stomach sank.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, swiping to answer the call before it could go to voicemail. You weren’t in the mood for this—whatever it was.

“Yeah?” Your voice came out rougher than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.

“Where the hell are you?” Bobby Singer’s gruff voice snapped through the speaker, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You rubbed a hand over your face, trying to shake off the remnants of the daydream. “I’m at home. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a situation,” Bobby said, his voice tense, and you could hear the faint sound of someone talking in the background—a clipped, official tone that told you he was still at headquarters. “Something big. We need all hands on deck.”

You closed your eyes, already dreading what was coming next. “What kind of situation?”

There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling, and then Bobby’s voice came back, lower now, more serious. “It’s Dean.”

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The name hung in the air like a loaded gun, and everything inside you went cold.

“What?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

“We’ve got a lead on him,” Bobby continued, his voice steady but laced with something that made your blood run colder. “Intel says he’s gonna be at a drop tonight. Hell’s moving something big, and Dean’s gonna be there.”

You sat up, the exhaustion that had been weighing you down moments ago evaporating as adrenaline flooded your system. “Where?”

“An abandoned factory out by the docks,” Bobby said. “We’ve got a team assembling now, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. Figured you’d want to be there.”

Your mind was racing, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other. Dean. You’d been trying to track him for weeks, following every breadcrumb, every lead, but he was always a step ahead, always out of reach. And now, suddenly, there was a chance—an actual chance to confront him.

But what would you say? What could you say?

You swallowed hard, pushing down the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. There was no time for that now. You had to focus.

“I’ll be there,” you said, your voice stronger than you felt.

Bobby let out a grunt, the kind that said he’d expected nothing less. “Good. We’re rolling out in an hour. Don’t be late.”

He hung up before you could respond, leaving you sitting in the quiet of your apartment, the weight of what was coming crashing down on you.

Dean.

You stood up, your legs unsteady as you paced the small space, your thoughts tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. What were you supposed to do when you saw him? What could you possibly say to the man who had once been everything to you—who had been your partner, your lover, your friend—and who now stood on the opposite side of everything you believed in?

Your chest tightened as the memory of his voice crept back into your mind, soft and warm in the darkness of your bed. The way he’d held you, the way he’d made you feel like, for just a little while, the world wasn’t such a terrible place.

But that was before.

Before everything had changed.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. You couldn’t afford to let emotions cloud your judgment. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.

You grabbed your jacket from the back of the couch, pulling it on as you headed for the door. Your mind was already shifting into work mode, cataloging the details, preparing for the operation ahead.

But no matter how hard you tried to push it away, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, heavy and impossible to ignore.

What if this was your last chance to bring him back?

What if this time, you didn’t just lose him—you lost yourself too?

NOW:

“How long?” Your voice came out stronger than you felt, but that was all you had now. Strength. Determination. The raw ache of betrayal that burned through your veins. “How long have you been with them?”

Dean’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a grim acknowledgment. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me,” you snapped, the words sharper than you intended, but there was no taking them back. “You just—disappeared. Left everything. Everyone. You left me.”

That last part slipped out before you could stop it, but it hung in the air between you, undeniable. A confession, maybe. Or a reminder of what once was.

Dean’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away, didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t entirely gone. Not yet. “I had to leave,” he said, the words clipped, harsh. “Had to do what I had to do.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” you shot back, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You made a choice. You chose them.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Dean’s gaze bored into you, intense and unreadable, and for a moment, you almost thought he’d walk away without another word. But he didn’t. He took a step closer, his presence like gravity, pulling you in even though you tried to resist.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Dean said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Not one that would’ve kept you safe.”

That was the breaking point. The words felt like a slap, stinging and confusing all at once. You laughed, bitter and hollow, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty warehouse. “Kept me safe? Don’t put this on me. Don’t you dare make this about me, Dean.”

But it was already about you. It had always been about you, and you both knew it.

You took a step forward, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to see the tight line of his mouth, the haunted look in his eyes. “If you didn’t want me in your life, you could’ve just said so,” you whispered, the words trembling on the edge of a sob you refused to let out. “You could’ve told me I meant nothing, that I was just a partner, just another face in the crowd. I could’ve moved on.”

Dean’s face twisted in something like pain, and for the first time since he’d walked into the warehouse, his facade cracked. You saw it then—the guilt, the regret, the war he’d been fighting inside himself. But it wasn’t enough.

“Tell me,” you pleaded, your voice breaking despite your best efforts to hold it together. “Just tell me you don’t love me, Dean. Tell me I never mattered to you. Tell me so I can walk away.”

For a moment, Dean didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at you like you were asking him for something impossible, something he couldn’t give. His hand twitched at his side, and you thought maybe, just maybe, he’d do it. He’d tell you the lie you needed to hear so you could finally stop tearing yourself apart over him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward him with a force that took your breath away. His lips crashed against yours, desperate and rough, like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words. You froze for a second, shocked by the suddenness of it, but then your body responded, melting into him, your hands clutching at his jacket like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

It was a kiss filled with every unanswered question, every unspoken emotion, every broken promise. His lips were hot against yours, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that was almost painful, but you didn’t care. It felt like fire, like drowning, like something you couldn’t let go of even if you tried.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours as you tried to catch your breath, tried to make sense of what just happened. His hand still gripped your wrist, tight enough to leave bruises, but you didn’t pull away.

“Dean…” you whispered, your voice shaky, uncertain.

He didn’t let you finish. “Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse, ragged. “Don’t say it. Don’t ask me to lie to you.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the sting of tears that you refused to let fall. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to get closure, supposed to get an answer that would let you move on. But all you got was more confusion, more pain.

Dean let go of your wrist, stepping back, and the distance felt like a physical blow. He shoved his hands into his pockets again, his expression hardening, that coldness slipping back into place like a mask.

“You need to stay away from me,” he said, the words sharp and final, like an order. “This is the last time, okay? Don’t come looking for me again.”

Your throat tightened, your heart screaming at you to say something, to stop him, to make him stay. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You’d seen enough, heard enough. Dean Winchester was gone, and in his place stood a man who belonged to something dark, something you couldn’t save him from.

“Why?” you asked, the single word laced with all the sorrow and disbelief that had been building up inside you. “Why did it have to be this way?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to the floor for just a second before meeting yours again. “Because I’m not the man you think I am anymore,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And I’m sure as hell not the man you deserve.”

You stared at him, waiting for something, anything, that would give you hope. But there was nothing. Just the cold, empty truth hanging between you, an impenetrable wall you couldn’t break through.

Dean took another step back, his shoulders tense, like he was fighting against everything inside him that wanted to stay. “Take care of yourself,” he muttered, his eyes flickering with something too brief to name. “And don’t follow me.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of the warehouse. You stood there, frozen, your heart pounding in your chest as the reality of it all sank in.

Dean Winchester—the man you loved, the man you thought you knew—was gone. Maybe he’d been gone long before you even realized it.

And all you had left was the cold, aching silence of the warehouse.

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[konigsblog]

how about more legal agegap!reader x ghost, konig, or price. like they're def late 30s or early 40s and reader nearly 20 y.o or above 20. they're older pervs sure have a great time using your innocent to their lust.

im into this thing these days damn. they're so good with aftercare. just want their lil sweet girl having a good time, after a dumb—a lil bit rough— fuck.

if you bothered about this, you can skip. thank you! i always read what you're write. its so so good tho🫶🌹

// legal age gap, perverted behaviour..

how about all of them? :( they're all perving on you, seeing you go to the local bar they usually go to whenever they're celebrating successful missions, otherwise on leave. they just can't keep their eyes off you...

fucking you in the bathroom, their huges cock slammed into your little, sopping cunt which struggles around their girth. könig has no idea that you're fucking john and simon, only seeing them when he saw you flirting with both, slipping into the crowded, small bathroom together.

john always takes videos of him fucking you. maybe, he'll take you home with him and fuck you into his mattress. other times, it's a quick fuck in the bathroom or outside against the concrete wall. simon fucks you in his house, yet teases under the table or countertop. his hand wandering up, fingers stuffed into your sloppy pussy, getting you all sticky and prepared for him when you both go to his apartment ...

könig will take you somewhere secluded, away from society. maybe in a field or in an alleyway. his thick, fat dick pushed into your dripping cunny, walls squeezing around him, clit sensitive while he rubs it in small circles. his accent is enough to get off, especially when he pushes a vibrator against your nub and pinches your hard nipples, biting your neck and leaving hickeys along your skin. “shh—, mäuschen. relax for me, pretty.”

they always ask about your life, yet you don't tell them anything, barely anything other than you enjoy parties and going out for drinks — even by yourself. but god, they might just have to look your name up on all social medias, finding out what you do and who you know.. jerking off to your photos while snarling at the thought of one another fucking your wet, addictive pussy :(

[animereaderinsertwriter]

Pairing: Hawks x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags/Warnings: smut with a sprinkle of angst for flavor, plot only if you squint, implications of mating cycles

Final Word Count: 2k

The night was cool against the heat of Keigo's flesh. As he glided purposefully over the city, the lights of alabaster skyscrapers twinkled in and out, creating the illusion that he was soaring through a sky of closer stars. If he could, he would snatch the lights and keep them in his pocket to give to his mate, his lover— but in the absence of that, the ruby necklace he'd picked up on the way would have to do. 

You loved rubies, he knew. Garnets were your very favorite, but rubies were a close second. The precious stones reminded you of his wings, you always said.

… not that you would necessarily appreciate the reminder, now that things were less good between the two of you. 

Keigo put the thought out of his mind. Birds of his kind, he knew, thought nothing of the distance between mates. He didn't have to share a nest  or even a city with you to love you, care for you, protect you— and his body was talking to him, calling out with the desperate cry of springtime. It was time for him to be near you again. 

A thick, heavy droplet of blood dropped onto one of his lashes. Nonplussed, Keigo blinked it away. Unsurprisingly, his forehead still burned from the scrape it had taken; a villain he was fighting had violently slammed his head against the concrete curb, leaving road rash and a splitting headache in his wake. Soon, though, that would no longer matter. 

Soon, he would be with you. 

It was a quiet flight to your penthouse apartment— well, technically his penthouse apartment that he paid for with ridiculous amounts of money from his overtime hours. Or, he used to pay for it until he bought the building just to gift it to you last year when he had to make the move from your city to his next assignment. He hadn't wanted you to worry about a nest. You should always have one, a place to call home, and this way you could have one that you liked, one that was familiar to you. Keigo hadn't understood why you were so reluctant to accept the gift. He hadn't bought it for himself. He'd bought it for you. 

It's too much, Keigo, you'd told him, worry in your eyes. It's— it's just too much.

At first, it felt like you had rejected him instead of the building— like you had looked at him and found him to be too much. The rejection had hurt like a gaping wound until he realized what you meant. You'd thought he was trying to establish some kind of control over you, creating some false sense of obligation. Keigo had never wanted that. He had only ever wanted you. 

Your apartment was dark as he entered it, replacing your spare key beneath your doormat. He'd tried to tell you to move it— really, it was for your own safety, anyone could find it there— but you stood firm on your stance that if someone wanted into your home badly enough, they'd find a way in with or without a key, and Keigo found himself unable to argue with that logic. Although, he supposed as he passed by the pristine granite countertops of your kitchen, he shouldn't complain when it benefited him in this way. 

The carpet of your living room was soft beneath the weight of his boots. Keigo moved silently through it, stepping around the odds and ends that made their way into your floor during your busy work week. For a moment, he was tempted to snag something from the floor to keep with him— a pen, or a small hair tie—but only just managed to refrain, knowing there were more important things to be done first.

Finally, he reached your room. Your bedroom door was left open just a crack; moonlight from the hallway window fell over it, giving the white of the doorframe a luminescent glow. Slowly, quietly, Keigo pushed inside, and was greeted with the greatest reward he could fathom. 

You were sleeping peacefully, your lashes kissing your cheeks. You must have fallen asleep unintentionally— your phone was still in your hand, playing something soft and sweet. Keigo smiled. You were as beautiful now as you ever had been, and the love that lived always just beneath the surface of his skin rose to his cheeks in the form of a flush. 

Here, watching you, surrounded by your scent, Keigo was in heaven. 

Keigo didn't want to wake you. You looked tired, worn; it would be selfish to disturb your rest. Even so, the pull of your even breathing was too much for him to resist. With shaking hands and slow motions, he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. When you did not stir, he moved closer, shifting to his hands and knees, crawling towards you, head low, heart penitent. Using his wings for balance, he moved one knee over your hips, straddling you. Shaded under the umbrage of his wings, he could barely make out your features— dissatisfied with this, he moved them, and your hair fluttered in the draft the motion made.

At last, you woke. 

In your sleep, your shirt had wrinkled and risen enough to show a sliver of skin. That sliver broadened as you stretched, unwary— but then your eyes were blinking open, and you nearly screamed when you realized you were not alone. 

"Sh," Keigo shushed, placing a gloved hand over your mouth. "It's just me, dove. Just me."

Your body relaxed with recognition, but your eyes were worried. 

"Keigo…" you tilted your head, eyeing him. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Fine," he said, stroking the soft skin of your cheek. "Just fine."

A single crimson drop of blood rolled off of his nose, dripping onto your cheek. Immediately, he wiped it away, but it left a reddish stain, marring your flesh. 

"You're hurt."

It wasn't a question, and Keigo had no answer. He pulled at his collar, allowing cool air to reach his heated skin, and a groan escaped him unbidden. 

"Hang on." You squinted up at him, then glanced to the calendar you kept on your nightstand. "What's the date?"

Keigo barely heard you. A hunger in his belly was speaking to him, urgent, insistent. Tentatively, he rolled his hips, then groaned low in his chest at the sensation of pressing against warm, yielding flesh. He tried the motion once more, felt the relief it gave him, then decided his pants were hindering the experience. He went to unbutton them, intent on chasing the feeling he desperately needed, but a smaller hand on his own stopped him. 

"Keigo," you said, looking up at him. "It's early, but— you're— you're having your cycle, aren't you?"

Something about that phrase was deeply familiar. He knew it in his bones. Even so, his body could not catch his mind; he made no reply other than to whine, desperate to be allowed to resume his task. 

"Oh, baby." You stroked his hands with your thumbs, watching him with a mix of uncertainty and concern. "We— we really shouldn't, you know. Not when— not when things are— when you're so—"

Keigo didn't process your words so much as your tone, but he gathered your meaning anyway. Hurt, he whined once more, but kept himself still aside from the tremors that wracked his body. 

"I don't want you to be in pain, I just— if— if you want you can— I mean, maybe it's better if you go to someone else."

Those words hit Keigo like a punch to the face. You didn't seem to notice, lost in your own world as you continued to babble. 

"I mean, really, I don't mind. I don't want you to have to feel obligated to come to me for this, especially when we have all these issues—"

Desperate, incapable of handlong much more rejection, Keigo managed to respond. 

"Don't… want someone… else. Only you."

You looked up at him once more. The uncertainty in your eyes faded as your gaze softened, and you said,

"Okay. Okay. Whatever you need, then, baby. I'll give you whatever you need."

So saying, you released his hands, and with panicked elation, he nearly tore his pants in an effort to get them off. Desperate, stumbling, he pulled them all the way off, the heat that flared under his skin proving to be too much as he struggled— and then your hands were there besides his own, helping him, and suddenly his pants and shirt were both gone, leaving him only in his boxers. 

"Easy," you soothed him. "Easy Keigo." 

Your hands— soft and warm against him— nudged against his belly, raking through the fine blond hair there. Your touch was a balm; everywhere your skin pressed against his, the heat receded. Keening, he rocked his hips against you, maneuvering you onto your back. With your legs wrapped around him, almost all of you was touching almost all of him, and as he kissed you deeply, he thought he had never wanted anyone more. 

"Breathe," you reminded him between kisses, your hands tangled in the waves of his hair. "Breathe for me, baby."

Your voice was too calm, too even. Keigo needed you to be as desperate for him as he was for you. Eager, he pressed kisses to your jaw, down your throat; his hands played with your nipples through your shirt, the pads of his fingers coaxing them to hardness as he left bruising from your neck to your collarbone. 

"Don't worry about me," you told him as he moved one hand to rest on your stomach, feeling the softness of your flesh against his touch. "Find relief for yourself first."

If he'd have had the words, he'd have told you that touching you, feeling you, pulling pleasure from your body was his relief— but words escaped him as he tasted the salt of your skin, grinding his cock against you. 

"Please," he murmured against you, not quite knowing why. "Please, I need—"

Without waiting for him to finish, you responded. Your hands grabbed the hem of your sleep shirt, pulling it over your head. Your body now bare save for your panties, he kissed from your clavicle down to the soft curve of your breast. Arching into his touch, you let out a sigh, and Keigo knew that this was the beginning of what would make you cry out into the darkness of midnight. 

"Keigo." Your voice was tremulous, needy as your hands tightened in his hair. "Keigo— oh."

His wandering hands had finally found purpose between your thighs, pushing into the familiar dampness of your cotton underwear. Your scent was strongest here; if he had been less desperate, he might have moved lower, placed his nose between your folds and lost himself there. As it was, though, his body had an altogether different need, which beckoned all the louder as he pushed your panties aside, dragging the pad of a large, calloused finger through your sex. 

"Yes," you encouraged him, moving your hips to meet the strokes of his fingers. "You feel so good. I want you inside me, Keigo."

He shuddered, cock twitching as you pushed his boxers down over the curve of his ass, freeing his erection to the open air. As your hand wrapped around him, he pulled your panties down, then accidentally ripped them as he tried to wiggle them from beneath your hips. Never one to leave a job half-done, he ripped them the rest of the way, tossing them aside as you let your legs fall open for him, your sex wet and ready. 

"Nngh," Keigo grunted, burying his face in your neck as his cockhead breached your entrance. "F-fuck."

Wet heat enveloped him. In mindless ecstacy, he rutted into you, inhaling the scent at your neck; in response, you keened, back arching into him as your hands caressed his back. A few moments later, and your hands were in his feathers, stroking them with gentle fingers, and Keigo lost himself entirely to the feeling of being of one body, one soul with you. 

The bedroom filled with the sounds of coupling. The slap of his balls and the low, rumbling sound that came unbidden from deep within in his chest commingled with your sharp breaths, soft moans, and satin swears, blending and balancing into a sweet euphony that no symphony could ever capture. 

"I love you," he heard himself saying above the sound of them. "I love you."

You didn't reply. You didn't have to. The trembling of your body, the transcending of your soul into something more than yourself, more than him, more than this bedroom and more than anything was answer enough for the love in his heart. You arched against him, and with a great cry, you fell away, having reached the pinnacle of your pleasure. 

"Come in me, Keigo," you told him, voice wrecked as you stroked his wings. "I'm on the pill. I want it. Come for me."

His body, unwilling to deny you anything, jerked forward. His orgasm came sudden and swift, like a bolt of lightning striking an open field. He came and came and came, gasping and groaning, fighting for air in the aftermath of incomparable intensity. 

"That's it," you soothed him, hands twisting in his hair as he collapsed against you. "Rest, now. We can talk in the morning."

Keigo tried to fight it. There was so much that needed to be said, so much that he couldn't think to do or say— but his body made the decision for him. Like a stone through glass, he fell from consciousness, thinking of glittering rubies and the softness of your flesh, willing, wanting. 

In the morning, he knew, it would be the same as it ever had. He would love you, and you would love him. Whatever else existed was outside of that, and could wait forever if it had to. 

[snailor-bee]

Stew in my Love

My second piece for the secret santa event! @onepiece-blorboexchange I was super not required to do this but I felt INSPIRED. I love Jinbei and I was happy to finally write an xReader for him! I'm just realizing now I didn't describe the stew I meant too lkdsjfsd I imagined it was a fish stew but I guess the fun of xReader is it gets to be your favorite stew, made to perfection. >:D For @mirkaaaluv hope you like!

JinbeixGN!Reader / SFW  / 1k

Summary: The two of you decided to cook for one another. Warnings: None!

The air around you was thick with the smells of cooking and you took in a deep breath, pleasure fizzling through you. 

It was almost time then. 

You tried to peek around Jinbei's large frame so you could take a look at the pot steaming merrily away on the stovetop. He noticed your attempts and easily stepped aside with a low chuckle, a long spoon still dipped inside. 

"It's almost done, dear." 

You leaned in further trying to take a look but instead your glasses fogged over making you frown with annoyance. Stepping back you went for your frames but gentle webbed hands stopped you. 

"May I?" he asked and although the perspiration had all but gone away, the frames were still a little wet making his face blurry. Throat suddenly dry, you nodded and he easily grasped the sides and pulled them off your face before busying himself with cleaning them on the sleeves of his kimono. 

"I could have done that," you said at last struggling to find your voice. Jinbei smiled at you. 

"I know, but I like taking care of you," he said simply, handing you back your glasses. 

Dumbstruck you took them before quickly putting them on, hoping your hands hid some of your blush. By the sound of another deep chuckle, you weren't hopeful for your chances. 

The two of you had just recently started dating. All those newfound emotions that constantly bubbled to the surface were all too easily overwhelming. 

Jinbei was just so... so... everything. Wise, kind, funny, attractive... 

He can even cook!! 

You found out only recently and had been begging to eat his cooking. He'd only agreed after making you promise to make something as well. 

Sanji had to be dragged out of the kitchen after he frantically tried to give the two of you 'ground rules' after first giving a thorough tour of every single cabinet and drawer. Even as he was taken away, Sanji had kept pleading to just be allowed to watch or help or—

It would have been amusing if you weren't so annoyed by how long it had taken the rest of the Strawhats to bully him out. This was supposed to be your date. One of the few the two of you could even have on the Sunny. 

Oh sure there was spending time together, fishing, swimming, reading, etc, etc. But this felt different, felt more concrete. 

You were making something together. And for some reason, that simple difference made something twist inside you. 

A timer went off and you surged with excitement as you hurried to grab some oven mutts. 

"Now don't get too excited," you warned as you opened the oven door and a blast of heat hit you. "I've never made bread before." 

"I'm sure it'll be delicious," Jinbei said easily, knocking the spoon on the sides before putting it aside.

You snorted. "You'd say that even if I burned it." Your tongue peeked out between your lips as you carefully withdrew the pan and set it on the countertop. 

"It's made with love, why wouldn't I enjoy it?" he replied, shrugging his shoulders and you closed the oven door a little quicker than you intended, making it slam. 

"Made with love still doesn't mean anything if it doesn't taste good," you argued, leaning forward to switch off the oven. When you settled back on your feet his lips found the top of your head, pressing in a soft kiss. 

"Anything you make I'd love," he said with complete sincerity. 

A blush rose to your cheeks and you tucked your head into his front to hide it and his arms wrapped around you. 

"How do you always just say shit like that?" you muttered, muffled by cloth but he still heard you. 

"Because it's true." A large hand ran down your spine, rubbing little circles along the way. "Besides, it's not just about the taste, it's about the journey. I got to spend time with you like this." 

"I'm going to get cavities," you complained and he laughed, the sound rumbling through him and through you, were you pressed against him. 

"Okay, how about we eat now then, hm?" 

"FOOD?" A distant yell was heard and a single look of horror passed between the two of you. Wordlessly both of you started rushing, Jinbei quickly spooning out two bowls while you got to work trying to cut off two large chunks.

A loud thump and the galley door rattled. "OI!" Luffy's voice screamed through it, easily overlapping Nami and several others' voices that tried to get him to stop. "LEMME IN!" 

In the end, the entire Strawhats crew squeezed their way into the kitchens, Sanji immediately going to survey the damage before he started portioning out the stew that Jinbei had made. 

You were slotted in by the large fish man's side, blowing across a spoonful. When you felt his eyes on you, you looked up and tilted your head in silent question. 

Jinbei smiled, his fangs flashing. "I just see how you like it." 

Immediately you understood and you turned back to your spoon and clamped your mouth over it. 

Your eyes widened and you couldn't resist a groan. It was delicious! Flavorful and yummy, it seemed to burst over your tongue. 

Chewing, you barely were able to swallow it before you beamed at Jinbei, who was still watching with careful eyes. "I love it!" 

His shoulders relaxed all at once, betraying a tension you hadn't noticed before. "I'm glad you like it," Jinbei said softly, almost covered by the chatter of the crew who surrounded the two of you. "Shall we try the bread?" 

You only had eyes for Jinbei, the rest of the noise drowning out to a distant hum. When you nodded he reached out to butter your slice and handed it to you before doing the same for his own. 

Watching each other you both bit in at the same time. 

It was soft, gloriously warm and your mouth filled with warm butter, perfectly melted. 

No words needed to be spoken, you saw how much he enjoyed it and your turned to your bowl with a bashful smile, feeling his hand reach out to land on your thigh. 

It was so big, it spanned the entire thing, his palm so warm and when he squeezed, you felt your heart squeeze in return. 

[whumpspicelatte]

Nobody Left To Listen - Part 3 - Patience 

Cole introduces us to Layla, takes on a hunt, and leaves his captive to stew. More introspection than expected. 

TW: Mentions of ableism, mentions of violence, whumper’s POV, dehumanization, mentions of future long-term starvation and isolation, please tell me if anything else should go here. 

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

So the first visit did not accomplish much. Cole had gone down those steps with the goal of taking a look at how his vampire was adjusting to his new situation and setting down basic rules and expectations, and had walked back up not even ten minutes later with undead gunk dripping down his hand. 

It was disappointing. Not his vampire’s predictable activity, but his own instinctive reactions. Cole had killed at least over a hundred vampires over his career by way of careful planning, research, strategy and a cool temper. And all it took was a little mouthing off for Cole to leave his bloodsucker writhing about on the concrete. Disgraceful. He was not some novice apprentice flailing about for the sake of survival. At this rate, Abelard would provoke him into turning it into nothing more than a punching bag, and the whole experiment would be ruined. Letting four measly sentences destroy his composure. Honestly. He knew better. He had learned better. Had been subjected to far worse by both humans and  vampires than some cocky snark from a prisoner, and he had managed to keep his temper then!  

Ten. Minutes. 

As Cole’s bare soles crossed over from polished cork to smooth timber, air hissed out between his bared teeth. Padding down the dimly lit hallway, he turned to the right and pulled out the silver key around his neck, slotting it into the lock and opening the way to the rest of the house. He took care to lock the door behind him. Only when natural late afternoon sunlight hit his kneecaps, the key cool against his sternum, did he let his spine relax. 

Clearly, a new approach needed to be taken. For both their sakes. 

But what? 

His smartwatch vibrated underneath his sleeve. Its surface, unveiled from beneath the soft, thick wool, blinked up at him. 6:30 PM. Right on cue, a familiar soft little body brushed firm against his ankles, twining between his legs and blinking up at him with big blue eyes. Her purr traveled through the fabric of his pants alongside her warmth. 

Pondering the question of how to proceed with his vampire could wait. Cole dipped down and scooped up his cat before taking them both over to the kitchen. Layla’s purr grew as she snuzzled against his neck, claws daintily hooked into the weave of his sweater, her ears tickling his cheek. Unlike any vampire, she did not struggle or claw or bite. Unlike most humans, she never tried to take away his gloves or hold his hands still or mind his silence. She certainly never tried to trip him. Why couldn’t more people be like her? 

Sunlight danced upon the laminate countertops upon which he lowered Layla. She stepped daintily out of his arms and turned around to face him, tail curled around her body. He couldn’t help his grin when he indulged in a brief pet of her fluff before heading over to the refrigerator. It hummed beneath his hands, its light holding the potential to be dizzying in the right time of night, but not now. Now, he just grabbed a can of her favourite pet food and spooned her meal into her little white dish, then set it before her. 

Even the way she ate was polite. 

Though he supposed that the almost dainty manner in which the vampire was going to feed off that girl could be considered ‘polite’, too. In its own way. 

Cole’s elbows landed on the counter, on either side of Layla, hard enough to bruise. Only knitted wool softened the impact. Layla continued her meal, unperturbed by her human’s internal strife. What was he supposed to do with the vampire in the basement? He had a basic outline for what might break down a vampire, but if he went down tonight or tomorrow, then he had a sinking suspicion that he would, once again, lose his temper far too quickly. And then need to leave to let the vampire heal. And then return, get provoked, lash out, leave, and so the cycle repeats. 

That was not a pattern he wished to weave. 

His watch vibrated again. This time, it was the notification connected to his smartphone. Daniel had sent him a text. 

He left Layla to her meal, venturing out to the living room. Beside the coffee table, his smartphone screen cast a dull haloed haze along the shoulder of the long couch atop which it perched. The light blinked out into snooze mode as soon as his fingertips grazed the thin side. Of course, it blinked back to life as soon as he picked it up. In the evening glow of sunset’s slow descent, the screen was now too dark to properly read. His eyes narrowed as he flicked up the brightness to a proper level. 

Henrikson: You there? 

Cole: Where else? 

Henrikson: Smart mouth. Look, I know you’re probably busy with your leech. 

Cole: But? 

Henrikson: The brass have another leech they need down stat. 

Cole: Properties? 

Henrikson: Another category S, this time grade A+, level 7. Going on a feeding spree. Placid before it went nuts.  Brass don’t want me walking in there alone. 

Cole: Because you would get yourself killed

Henrikson: Hey! That’s no way to talk to your elders! 

Cole: Sure, old man

Henrikson: Brat 

Cole: Hello kettle

Henrikson: Hey! 

Cole: Time estimates? 

Henrikson: Anywhere from two days to two months. Pacification if possible; extermination if necessary. 

Cole: Not immediate extermination? 

Henrikson: Used to be a hunter; went double agent for us after turning. No clue what set it off like this. You in? 

He stared down at the screen. Before now, he would not hesitate to leave Layla with her usual catsitter and take off for the hunt, but now he had his vampire. An angry, cornered, dangerous vampire who was only being held back by silver and Cole’s own inability to be enthralled by way of sound. Could he risk it? 

If Cole wasn’t here, that would be at least two weeks in total isolation. No blood, no light, not even a blanket to hide under or a person to taunt on the other side of silver bars. It took ten years before starvation killed a vampire, but the hunger would reach its peak at two months for even the most well-fed vampire used to operating on little blood. A bloodsucker like Abelard, used to draining a whole human body’s worth of blood from unsuspecting victims nearly every night, who was already injured and likely wasting energy trying to escape? It’d be getting hungry by tomorrow, and positively feral in a week. By a month, its body would have gotten used to starvation, though it still would go insane at the smell of spilt blood. 

By his best estimate, that neck wound the hunter had left would heal to full functionality by tomorrow, but the scarring would only disappear in three weeks on starvation mode. 

Should he? 

Had Abelard ever granted its victims any mercy but those which would leave them easier prey? 

Cole would never dream of leaving a fellow person to rot alone in the cold and the dark to starve and drive themself mad for even a single week of isolation. He doubted any human could last so long without even a glass of water to wet their tongue, much less as long as a proper hunt would take. 

But Abelard was not human, was it? 

Cole: I’m in

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

First / Last / Next

Cole and Daniel texting each other is turning out very convenient when I’m stumped on what Cole’s going to do next, or how to prompt him to get from point A to point B. Gotta keep that from becoming a crutch. 

Sorry it’s been so long to get this out, school’s been getting in the way. Busy busy busy. 

Tag List: 

@whimpity-whumpity 

@blackrosesandwhump

@thatfruitymonster

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@skittles-the-whumpee

@dulled-ivories

@kixngiggles

@ivycloak

@whumpwillow

@tragedyinblue 

[scamuel-likely]

Week 1 of @bettsfic @books writing workshop:

Show & Tell:

The jacket hung loose on its hook like a slab of pork, ribs and all, in the back of a butcher’s shop freezer. It’s leather had breathed but now only became animate when a slender arm slipped inside it. A dormant marionette. Scars of life crisscrossed it’s sleeves, where it had cracked on a countertop or stopped singing steel from slicing its occupant. But that was all in its illustrious and sordid past.

Now, and forever, it is a simple leather jacket on a bronze china-topped hook, strung up amongst a horde of fellow coats. The antique coatrack it hangs on dates back to the Victorian era and it whispers to the various coats about the smoke and stench of the city then. The others listen with rapt attention but the leather jacket pays it no mind, not wishing to dwell in the past. It gleams with a ruddy glow, leather well used and bleached by wind and sun. In its two pockets, ringed by rusted teeth, it holds naught but mothballs and stagnant air. Once they held finer things, like hands; the beat of life and blood would echo through the jacket as it cradled its cargo. Usually they held a battered red wallet and a heavy ring of keys. Once or twice they held a knife. The back of the jacket was emblazoned with block white lettering, roughly painted onto it’s peeling skin. BANNED FROM CBGB. A useless statement, of course, cause this jacket had never even been to CBGB’s. It had never even left the UK. Underneath this modified Crass lyric was a symbol, three horizontal white lines with one red vertical one slicing through them. A long-forgotten symbol to some punk band that never got big.

Maybe the jacket’s owner was a member. A guitarist who could barely play but had great ideas and so much rage he could explode any minute. A bassist who was actually pretty good, till heroin nipped his talent in the bud. A drummer with a chill and distant disposition. A singer who screamed every word with an insane fanatical passion. Or maybe the jacket’s owner was the band’s only fan. Scuffing their thick, rubber-soled boots on a concrete venue dance floor. A lone solider, a fanatic to a cult of four who screamed into the mic and shredded their instruments and the skin of their hands. Blood on guitar and bass strings. Blood on drumsticks. Blood on the microphone.

The interior lining of the jacket was one to behold. A crisscross of shredded fabric with one inside pocket. Bits of exposed leather, the soft underbelly exposed. A patch here and there, a vain attempt to fix the shattered inner chamber. The inside pocket was zipped, guarded against the elements. It cradled precious cargo. Gold dust. Rarer then that. A tiny rectangle of folded paper, soaked when rain somehow made its way into this scared sanctum. Barely holding itself together, fraying at the edges. A curled, curdled outline of yellow paper mush around a barely legible bit of printed pink text:

THE SEX PISTOLS - MANCHESTER’S LESSER FREE TRADE HALL - 4TH JUNE - SOLSTICE SUPPORTING

The famed Manchester Trade Hall gig, that everyone in rock has claimed to be present at. The Smiths, The Buzzcocks, Joy Division. And probably every single spotty faced punk fan since 1976. And this jacket held a ticket from that famed gig, locked away till one day a hand would dip into the pocket, take it out and say aloud “who the fuck are Solstice?”

———————————————————————————————————————————

“What was that?” came a voice from the front of the shop.

“Nothing!” I quickly spurted out, red blossoming onto my face.

I was thirteen years old, my hair was cut short and fell choppily in front of my eyes. It was russet brown, same as my eyes, two large globes set into my face. People always complimented my eyes, they still do. But back then I couldn’t walk down the street without someone my dad knew from church or someone my mum chatted to at the school gates stooping down and saying what nice eyes I had. The rest of my face was petite in comparison to those big doe eyes, a tiny button nose smattered with freckles and a unassuming mouth that contained a shy but sweet smile. I dressed how my parents wanted me to, so there was an element of formality to the whole attire. Floral skirts and block colour tops. I steered them towards a more dull colour palette but that was the extend of my clothing rebellion.

Until today.

I’d found myself gazing at this leather jacket on a coatrack, tucked away at the back of this little vintage shop in Brighton. We had come on a weekend holiday, a little getaway, just me and my dad. The stress of my sister’s condition had been building on him and so my mum suggested the two of us go to the coast. Sea air would be good for us and she’d hold down the fort. Putting all the work on herself, again. She was a lot like my sister in that regard. If Ann had her way there’d be no family visits and flower deliveries. She’d just battle the cancer alone, and not stress the rest of us out.

My dad had been distracted by a bookshop. While I was an avid reader, this was the sort of shop that, while lovely to be in, was full of nothing but dreadfully boring tomes about Ancient Egyptian housing construction and the forest laws. A wonderful cavern of dull encyclopaedias and histories. The smell of old musty books was the only reason why I wandered into the shop and the boredom was why I wandered out and into the vintage shop next door.

The shop was a crowded maze of antique stuff, ranging from a large metal Shell Oil sign propped up in one corner to a tiny collection of a dozen glass ballerina figurines, perched upon a mahogany ivory-handled chest of drawers. A bobsled tied to the celling, five or six chairs of varying styles crowded round a poker table, a poster for The Witness, a collection of old Elmore Leonard dime novels, a battered red umbrella, a unicycle, eight identical bowling balls and a coat rack, at the back, stuffed to the brim with different outfits. Waiting, amongst the moth-eaten and threadbare overcoats and varsity jackets, was a leather jacket that breathed through cracked skin and held within it a fragile paper piece of music history.

I found the jacket and instantly fell in love with it. For a few years now I’d been infatuated by rock legends and I’d loved the more alternative side of music and life. My sister had gotten me into it all, starting with The Stones and then The Beatles, and through to Blur, Oasis, the Stone Roses, The Arctics, Amy Winehouse, Alanis Morissette, Nirvana, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Strokes. It wasn’t just the music I was fond of though. I spent a lot of my early preteens staring at pictures of girls in leather jackets and doc martens, faded band tees and ripped jeans. And so this jacket not only looked like it came from the wardrobe of my musical heroes, but also from the closets of my countless (then unrealised) crushes.

Glancing around the shop to see if my dad or the old guy at the counter could see me, I slipped my skinny little arms through the sleeves. It dwarfed me. When I moved, it’s cuffs whipped around like one of those inflatable tube guys at car dealerships and fairs. The pockets were almost at my knees. Self-consciousness almost forced me to shrug it off but in trying to get one arm out of its cavernous folds my elbow brushed against something sharp and metal. A zip. An inside pocket. I quickly grasped at it but my fingers just slipped off. It was tough, held fast by years of rust and neglect. But I was a determined thirteen year old.

The zip finally came loose after I’d wrapped my hand in a nearby handkerchief and pulled with all my might, the strength bulging my muscles to a strain. My skull constricted around my brain in a tense and uncomfortable moment of sheer exertion. And then, with a wrenching pop, it was free. The zip slid all the way and I dug my hand in there, ignoring the bite of metal against wrist. My fingers searched and searched until I found a tiny little bit of sodden paper. The first words from my mouth after discovering such a find:

“Who the fuck are Solstice?”

I wasn’t a sweary person, my mouth was soap and water and pleases and thank yous. The occasional ‘damn’ or, to my parents utter dismay, ‘Jesus’. It was something about the moment that made me drop an f-bomb, and so I was naturally mortified when it was heard from across the shop.

A moment after my blush had subsided I heard a creaking and before I could take the jacket all the way off, there he stood. The shop owner. A skinny but short man, in his late 50s, with a bald head and startling blue eyes. He had a little scratch of white stubble and a black, blotchy neck tattoo of a cross. His ears were pierced and mismatched gold jewellery hung from their cauliflower-like lobes. His nose was broken twice over and he had the kindest smile I’d ever seen.

“They were a punk band that spiralled into obscurity after that gig. The Pistols hogged all the fame. Good music but god they could be cunts.”

I was utterly shocked. One, he was a grown-up and yet wasn’t reprimanding me for swearing. And two, he’d said ‘cunt’.

“You know something about that gig, lass?”

I shook my head, in awe.

“It was a transcendent experience. I was there and all. Loved every minute.”

I was utterly speechless. He brought over two stools and motioned for me to sit. I clambered up onto it like the fires of hell were at my heels.

“What’s your name?” He asked, softly and kindly.

“Jane.” I managed to stutter.

“Jonny. It’s a pleasure.” He shook my hand, his grip strong but warm, like a bear hug.

I pointed at the billing on the concert ticket, to the name ‘Johnny Rotten’.

“No, that ain’t me, lass, my name doesn’t have a H. Besides, if I was Johnny Rotten I wouldn’t be here,” he chuckled to himself, “I’m glad I’m not him, to be fair to you Jane, cause he’s a bit of an alt right asshole.”

I blurted out a laugh at that and he smiled. “What, was it something I said? Hey, you wanna know the story of that jacket you’re pulling off so dashingly well?”

I let loose an energetic and frantic nod.

He lent back on his stool. “Well it was the late seventies. I was living in London, migrated there from Edinburgh cause my parents hated me. Wasn’t okay to be gay then, you see. I was working in an abattoir, mopping up blood. Not the best gig in world, but it got me a roof and it got me pork scratchings for dinner every night. Anyway so there was this shop, called,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Sex.”

I suppressed a shocked giggle.

“Yeah, it was scandalous then too. And they sold all these weird clothes, spikes and see-through shirts and pictures of the queen with pins in her. And there was a new music genre on the screen, spearheaded by The Sex Pistols, that wore all their stuff. It was all designed by Vivian Westwood, maybe your mum knows her?”

I shook my head, my mum’s fashion consisted of knitted cardigans and plaid skirts.

“Anyway, I fell head over heels with the clothes. And that led me to the music. Before you know it I was a punk. And there was a guy at the abattoir, a beefy guy with a big bushy beard who was an ex-con and used to be a biker. He wore this big leather jacket, that leather jacket, and he sold it to me. Bear in mind, although neither of us would of admitted it then, we were like father and son. He bloody raised me, that man. I consider him more a dad then I do my flesh and blood pa. And he still charged me for it. Fifteen quid. Which wasn’t cheap either, not when you get paid nothing a week and spend it all on keeping the lights on. That and drugs. I was into drugs. Don’t do drugs, please. Never leads to a good life.”

I nodded, sort of already knowing that from my Dad’s sermons and such.

“Oh weed is alright though. A joint doesn’t kill ya like other things do.” He added, with a pointed look.

Now that was new information that exploded my tiny brain, let me tell you.

“If you really want that jacket it’s yours. But, and you have to promise me this, go home and listen to some punk music. Here, I’ll write you a list.”

And so he did, scratching out a list of bands and albums of the back of a receipt. His handwriting was abysmal, but that added to the mythology.

I took the list and thanked him profusely, then shook the jacket off and lovingly laid it on the countertop before running out and into the bookstore to beg my dad for fifty quid. He relented, probably due to my sister’s life hanging in the balance back at St Peter’s hospital, and so I dragged him by his shirtsleeve into the vintage shop.

“I’ve just been talking to your daughter here. She’s a lovely person.” Jonny said, smiling at my dad.

“I’d like to think she is, yes,” was my dad’s curt reply, as he placed a bill on the counter.

Jonny looked at it quizzically and slid it back over to my dad, gesturing at the price tag with a smile.

£50 was crossed out, and in scratchy handwriting was written “15 quid”.

My dad forked up the cash and I ran behind the counter and hugged Jonny, much to my father’s chagrin.

I left the shop shrouded in an oversized leather jacket, my head heavy with dusty bar rooms, the static of amp feedback, safety pins, crazy outfits and punk music.

[cyanicus-journal]

I miss Atlas...

I miss playing with him. I miss cuddling and petting him. I even miss the times when I had to try getting him to stop biting my charger cables. I miss movie nights, glancing over at my mom to see Atlas laying in her lap- sometimes he would even be watching the screen with us.

I miss the times when he would jump up on the counter where my dad was painting, trying to get his attention, or repeatedly dipping his paw in dad's paint water to lick it off like Winnie the Pooh eating fistfuls of honey from a jar- for whatever reason, he preferred drinking that paint water over the clean water from his dish. Dad always had to reassure me that the paint he was using was non-toxic.

I miss all the time Atlas spent in my room with me, all the naps we took together, all the times he tried to get me to stop working so that I'd give him pets and belly rubs- I liked to think that it was him reminding me to take breaks every once in awhile. I miss the feeling of his soft little body plopping down against my legs at night while I was falling asleep, keeping me warm and making me feel secure. I loved watching him collapse on the bed like he was totally exhausted from sleeping there all day.

I miss his soft meow (which wasn't so soft when he wanted to be let outside). I miss the way he chirped and trilled to get attention. I miss watching him take care of his twin brother Ari, and how they loved to cuddle together.

I miss watching him jump up to the highest places in the house, and how he'd jumpscare all of us when we didn't know he was there, landing in front of us with a loud THUD! that could be heard from the other room.

I miss his big round eyes, which sometimes looked silver and sometimes looked pale green. I miss his purplish-black toe beans and brick red nose. I miss his kinked tail, which only bent at the very tip. I miss his silver fur, his fluffy yellow belly, his white muzzle, his black stripes; I especially loved the thick black stripe that ran along his spine, and how a series of stripes on his front legs looked like they formed one giant stripe across both legs when he put them together, and that the bottom halves of his feet were solid black. I miss how he showed off to everyone, he knew just how cute and beautiful he was.

I miss the loud purr he made whenever he was happy. I miss how excited he got whenever someone walked near the back door, hoping that someone would open it and let him outside- he'd look expectantly at the doorknob, and sometimes he'd even try to reach for it himself. I miss how much he loved the outdoors, I'm always reminded of him whenever I'm out in our backyard. I miss the way he rolled around on the concrete patio, the way we always had to stop him from trying to catch birds or voles living in the garden. I miss seeing him run as fast as he could down our hill whenever I called him to come back inside.

I miss that he didn't mind being pet on his belly or paws, unlike most cats- in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. I miss how he used to climb up my leg to reach my hand for pets. I miss that he could get comfortable on any surface, whether it was a hard wooden floor or a cardboard box or on top of someone laying on their side, he had no trouble making himself at home.

I miss his picky eating habits, he wouldn't touch most brands of cat food but for some reason he loved corn bread- we discovered this the hard way when we forgot to put away the corn bread leftover from chili night. I miss how much he loved catnip flavored hairball remedies- there are still teethmarks on the bag, he had apparently tried to rip into it when we weren't looking.

I miss the way he always stole my dad's paintbrushes and pens, and how we'd catch him in the act carrying them in his mouth or swatting them off the countertop. We'd find them later under the rug, or behind places like the stereo cabinet or the washing machine. I miss the paw prints and nose prints he left on our windows- some of which are still there, we didn't have the heart to wash them off.

I miss trying to teach people the difference between Atlas and Ari, it wasn't easy for everyone to tell.

*If you guessed the one on the right, you are correct~

I miss the big smile that Atlas always wore. I miss him making biscuits on people's bellies. I miss his stout build and his athletic nature. I miss playing the laser pointer game with him, how he would chase it in circles until he got dizzy. I miss how he sometimes left his tongue sticking out after cleaning himself. I miss how he thought he was the one chasing the deer away when we yelled at them for eating out of the bird feeders.

I miss that he'd put his mouse toys in his water dish for some reason- we always joked that he was trying to drown his prey. I miss that he would spend a few hours with each person at night, starting out sleeping in my room, then in my parents' room, then downstairs if anyone couldn't sleep and had decided to watch TV instead. I miss the way he always hung out with my brother and I while we played video games. I miss how gentle he was, that he never once bit or scratched anyone even when he was unhappy or scared.

I miss the way he hugged people's legs when he laid in their laps. I miss how he always brushed himself against my socks when I wore them, likely enjoying the feeling of the scratchy cotton. I miss how he used to drink water trickling from the sink faucet, how sometimes he'd sit there waiting for someone to turn it on for him.

I miss all those times when he was there for us- the pandemic, the loss of our other pets Tiger and Katie, the drama with family and friends, and everything in between. Whenever things were hard, Atlas was there, loving us unconditionally.

I miss Atlas...

[epoxyflooringexpert]

A Guide To Choose The Right Concrete Sealers For Home

Maintaining the efficiency of the commercial property is extremely important especially the concrete that makes the floor pitch perfect. In fact, not just maintaining but preventing the damage to concrete is equally essential. Concrete is one of the crucial construction elements owing to its strength and longevity. However, because concrete is porous, it can absorb soluble salts and water, which can be harmful. Furthermore, the absorption of salts by the concrete, especially chlorides, can eventually lead to corrosion problems when steel reinforcement is inserted in the concrete to strengthen it. 

As a result, opting for the right type of concrete sealers is of utmost necessity. It ensures protection by shielding surfaces from a wide range of water-related issues caused by the cycles of thawing and freezing, stains from dirt, oil, and other impurities. In addition, it also prevents an individual from investing unnecessarily.  

Understanding The Role Of Concrete Sealers

The sealers for concrete are intended to provide protection for the concrete's surface against degradation, rust, and discolouration over time. Most concrete surface degradation is usually caused by surface moisture penetration. It's essential to safeguard and preserve the concrete surfaces while doing regular maintenance to increase their lifespan. Concrete sealers function by covering your concrete's surface or by penetrating into its pores and attaching to its inherent attributes. There are several types of sealers and choosing the right one can be the game changer. 

How To Choose The Right Concrete Sealers?

In order to choose the right kind of sealers for a concrete surface, one must be aware of the different types of concrete sealers in the market and their benefits. 

Waterproof Concrete Sealers 

A sealer should be a product that has the ability to penetrate deep into the surface as well as the substrate in order to seal and act as a protective covering. A waterproof sealer protects the concrete surface from penetrating water deep into the seal on which it turns into a solid form enclosing all alkali and lime in its impenetrable layer.

As a result, the concrete surface coated with waterproof sealers becomes water resistant along with other dirt, grease and acid which extends the overall life of the surface. 

Epoxy Concrete Sealers 

Epoxy concrete sealers are a great option for heavily utilized interior floors. This specific sealer not only offers a durable finish but also deters excessive abrasion. The most popular applications for epoxy coatings are concrete flooring and countertops. As a matter of fact, this type of sealer offers a glossy finish with a thick composition.

Depending on the requirement of an individual, pigments can be added to the sealers for better colours and one can choose either some mid-level sheen or highly glossy one.  

Acrylic Concrete Sealers

If an individual is looking for a cost-effective option, acrylic sealers are the best. Not only is it easy to apply but is also best suited for the interiors and exteriors for sealing the concrete. In addition, this type of sealer is well resistant to UV and therefore doesn’t fade away with time.

If one is looking for sealers for the garage or wants to seal the pool decks and walkways, individuals can opt for acrylic sealers as they offer protection against chlorine water. The paint dries really fast and enhances colours while protecting against damage. 

Final Thoughts 

Choosing the right concrete sealers perth and applying them correctly is extremely crucial. To find the ideal balance of protection, durability, and affordability, consider the specific needs, surface, and location.

Spraypave Pro is a concrete sealer expert in Perth and can help with the process of concrete sealing. 

[beargirlstink]

"Hey, what's your opinion on poly people?"

Shit. Hang on I have this written down. Hang on

[I open a comically large binder labeled "POLITICAL OPINIONS" full of laminated flash cards]

[I leaf through the various bookmarks until I flip over the LGBT+ section and begin my binary search]

[My alphabetized and regularly updated repertoire of socially acceptable takes is missing a POLY card informing me of what to believe]

Shit shit, uh, uh, uh, hang on

[I open a glove compartment hidden under my desk and flip over a brightly colored "NEW OPINION PROTOCOL" leaflet]

["Step 1: Is it in your repertoire?" No it fucking isn't that's why I'm checking]

["Step 2: Have you tried looking it up?"]

[I open up Google and type in "Are poly people good?" And all I find are articles about multiple people kissing]

[Well lots of girls kissing makes me hard but lots of men kissing makes me disgusted. I don't understand why though, must be a complicated subject. Back to the leaflet]

["Step 3: Flip a coin and form an opinion. There's a 50% chance you're correct!" Okay I can do that. Pull out a coin inserted in the back of the leaflet with "BASED" engraved on one side and "CRINGE" on the other]

[Begin writing my post in advance]

"Poly people are"

[Look at the coin, flip it]

[It lands on its edge]

SHIT. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK WHAT DO I DO NOW

[I consult the leaflet again. "Step 4: Try forming your own opinion! It's never too late to start!"]

[Fuck that I didn't go online to form opinioms and to change my mind. I formed all my opinions by the time I was 16 and I got them all from my protestant parents and Leafy-era Youtube]

[Having my own opinions worked out fine with all my neo-nazi friends until half of them all got arrested and the other half kicked me out for having imperfect skull physiology]

[Now people have opinions based on "concrete moral ideals" and "lived experience of oppression" and "a base sense of empathy" and what am i supposed to do without any of those?]

[Come on don't freak out, think. Reach into your mind and pull something out. Pull out an opinion like the funny people online do]

[I duck under my computer table and find a rusted, green-brown hatch labeled "ACTUAL OPINIONS," emanating a miasmatic warm fog between the warped edges of its frame]

[I lift and twist a bulkhead handle to creak and whine the hatch open, baptizing me in a foul and wretched steam to reveal its contents. Don't look, don't think, just find something and go]

[I reach my hand into an inky-black well of bubbling sludge threatening to overtake the hatch, rolling over and staining my vinyl flooring as my arm reaches deep]

[Things writhe around my arm and latch onto my hand. It's warm and thick and deeply upsetting and the stench causes my eyes to sting and tear up]

[I grasp onto something. It feels hateful, disgusted, writhing. Should work fine. I pull it out, holding it in my hand, and before I can think twice I lop it onto the page like dead fish against a metal countertop, spraying salt-water and resonating against cold, solid steel]

"Poly people are..." [SMACK!]

"...Sodomites."

Huh

[Yeah I don't see any problem with that. I bet all the trans people in my mutuals list will love this one.]

[Post]

[metro-b13]

Why the Metro-B13 is a Game-Changer For Stone Industry

Overview of the METRO-B13 Multi Cutter Machine

The METRO-B13 Multi Cutter Machine, manufactured by Shri Bhagwati Machines Pvt. Ltd., is a cutting-edge solution for the stone processing industry. Based in Ajmer, Rajasthan, the company has established itself as a leader in manufacturing high-quality machinery tailored for granite and marble cutting. This weblog will delve into the intricate details of the METRO-B13, exploring its features, specifications, applications, and the company’s commitment to quality and innovation.

Importance of Stone Cutting Machines

Stone cutting machines play a crucial role in the construction and manufacturing sectors. They enhance productivity, ensure precision, and reduce waste, making them indispensable for businesses involved in stone processing. The METRO-B13 stands out in this competitive landscape, offering advanced features that cater to the needs of modern industries.

Technical Specifications

· Model Name/Number: METRO-B13

· Usage/Application: Industrial stone cutting

· Useful Cutting Block Size: 3657 mm x 2134 mm x 1220 mm

· Blade Diameter: Up to 3.0 meters

· Blade Mounting Provision: 5 blades

· Country of Origin: Made in India

Performance Metrics

The METRO-B13 is designed for high-performance cutting, capable of handling large granite blocks with precision. The ability to use multiple blades simultaneously significantly increases throughput, making it an ideal choice for large-scale operations.

Advanced Cutting Technology

The METRO-B13 incorporates several innovative features that enhance its functionality:

· Up-Down Hydraulic Motion System: This system allows for smooth and precise cutting, reducing errors and improving overall efficiency.

· High-Quality LM Bearings: These bearings minimize friction, ensuring longevity and reliability.

· Screw Less Column Design: This design enhances stability and reduces maintenance requirements.

· Accurate Slab Thickness Control: Achieved through an encoder, this feature ensures uniformity in slab thickness.

· Robust Structure: Built with reinforced concrete, the machine provides stability during operation.

Energy Efficiency

The METRO-B13 is designed to be energy-efficient, consuming less power while maximizing output. This not only reduces operational costs but also aligns with sustainable practices in manufacturing.

Automation and Control

The METRO-B13 is equipped with a fully automatic PLC-controlled system, making it easy to operate and maintain. This automation minimizes the need for manual intervention, allowing operators to focus on other critical tasks.

Maintenance Accessibility

The machine features a maintenance balcony that provides easy access to the power pack and other components. This design simplifies routine maintenance, ensuring that the machine remains in optimal working condition.

Industrial Applications

The METRO-B13 is primarily designed for cutting granite and is suitable for various industrial applications, including:

· Construction: Used for producing granite slabs for buildings, countertops, and flooring.

· Monuments: Ideal for creating intricate designs and memorials.

· Interior Design: Utilized for crafting custom stone features in homes and commercial spaces.

Versatility

The machine’s ability to switch between blade configurations (5 blades with a 3.0-meter blade set and 10 blades with a 2.4-meter blade set) allows it to adapt to different project requirements, making it a versatile choice for stone processors.

Shri Bhagwati Machines Pvt. Ltd.

Founded in 1995, Shri Bhagwati Machines Pvt. Ltd. has grown to become a prominent player in the machinery manufacturing sector. The company’s headquarters in Ajmer, Rajasthan, serves as the hub for its innovative designs and production processes.

Commitment to Quality

Shri Bhagwati Machines is dedicated to delivering high-quality products that meet international standards. The company invests in research and development to continuously improve its offerings, ensuring that customers receive the best possible machinery for their needs.

Customer Feedback

Customers have praised the METRO-B13 for its reliability and performance. Testimonials highlight its efficiency in cutting large granite blocks and the ease of operation provided by the automated system. Many users report significant improvements in productivity and reduced downtime due to the machine’s robust design.

Conclusion

The METRO-B13 Multi Cutter Machine by Shri Bhagwati Machines Pvt. Ltd. is a game-changer in the stone processing industry. Its innovative features, combined with the company’s commitment to quality and customer satisfaction, make it an excellent investment for businesses looking to enhance their cutting capabilities. For more information

Click here for detailed video of Metro-B13 Multicutter

https://www.bhagwatimachines.com

[kitchen-bathroom-accessories]

Why is Stainless Steel Kitchen Sink is a Top Choice for Modern Kitchens?

The kitchen sink is a key component that unites practicality and visual appeal in the always-changing world of modern kitchen designs. The steel kitchen sink has become a popular alternative among the many options offered to modern homes. There are several reasons for the popularity of steel kitchen sinks in modern kitchens, including their versatility, adaptability, and ability to match different kitchen sink designs.

Over time, kitchen sink designs have changed significantly. There are several options, ranging from contemporary composite materials to classic porcelain. But because of its streamlined design and long lifespan, the steel kitchen sink, more especially the stainless steel kitchen sink, has become incredibly popular.

Modern kitchen sinks serve both a design and a functional purpose. Many people choose stainless steel because of its resilient nature, sleek appearance, and ease of upkeep. It's a great option for people who want a modern and minimalist look because of its flexibility to mix in with different countertop materials and kitchen decor.

Benefits of Steel Kitchen Sinks

They are Durable

Steel kitchen sinks are extremely durable, which is one of the major reasons many people choose them. Because stainless steel resists rust, stains, and chipping, your kitchen sink will look brand new for many years to come.

They are Hygienic and Easy to Clean

Steel Kitchen sinks are a hygienic choice because of their non-porous surface, which prevents the growth of bacteria and germs. Its smooth surface also makes cleaning an easy task as all it takes is a quick wipe to get rid of smudges and stains.

They are Versatile in Design and Installation

Steel Kitchen sinks come in a variety of designs to fit any kitchen style and propose an easy installation process. Steel kitchen sinks are available in a range of styles and configurations, including integrated sinks that mix in with the countertop and top mount and under-mount sinks.

They are pocket-friendly

Stainless steel sinks are a great choice if you're searching for a long-lasting, pocket-friendly sink that will match your kitchen's theme and accessories without requiring a lot of touch-ups. These sinks do not need as costly maintenance as their competitors, saving you a lot.

They are environmentally friendly

Stainless steel sinks are an excellent choice for environmentally conscious kitchen sinks because they are recyclable. In addition, the sinks' long lifespan reduces the need for regular replacements, which results in significant cost savings.

Stainless Steel Kitchen Sinks with Modern Kitchen Designs

Modern kitchens with their clean, minimalistic forms and slick, gleaming stainless steel surfaces go well together. It enhances the overall visual appeal when used with materials like concrete, granite, and quartz.

A steel kitchen sink blends in perfectly with any style kitchen, be it industrial, modern, or transitional. Its muted colour and smooth finish serve as a blank canvas, letting other design components stand out without detracting from the overall coherent style.

Practicality is just as important in modern kitchen designs as style. Large pots and pans may fit in the deep basins of steel kitchen sinks, which can come with single or double-bowl versions to meet a variety of demands. Because of their durability, they are perfect for crowded kitchens where frequent usage is expected.

Choosing the Right Steel Kitchen Sink

Consider the Gauge 

Choose a steel kitchen sink based on its gauge (thickness). Sinks range from 22 to 15 gauge, with lower numbers indicating thicker metal. High-quality home sinks are 18-16 gauge, while professional sinks are 15-16 gauge. Thicker sinks are more durable, resist dents, and reduce noise for better performance.

Size and Configuration

Assess your needs and space. A compact sink and countertop space in small kitchens, while a double-bowl sink offers more functionality in larger kitchens. The top kitchen sink sizes in inches that completely match the average Indian kitchen are 16x14x6, 18x16x10, 20x17x9, and 24x18x10. These sizes are popular because they are practical and easy to fit into typical kitchen designs.

Finish

An additional consideration for your stainless steel sink is its finish. Although the finish doesn't always indicate quality, certain stainless steel finishes are better at hiding flaws and blemishes than others. 

Insulation

Stainless steel sinks can sound "tinny" if not insulated. Even top sinks can be noisy. Many high-quality sinks have insulation or padding, but it's rare in low-quality ones.

The steel kitchen sink's combination of toughness, hygienic qualities, adaptability, and visual appeal keeps it a popular option for modern kitchens. It is a classic and useful choice for contemporary homes due to its ability to blend in effortlessly with a variety of kitchen sink styles and themes. When remodelling or designing a new kitchen, consider the advantages of a steel kitchen sink to improve the kitchen's appearance and functionality. Visit Ruhe’s website if you want an intensive category for stainless steel kitchen sinks!

[dewiresawing]

Exploring the Efficiency and Versatility of Wire Sawing in Modern Industries

Introduction: In the realm of construction and manufacturing, the pursuit of precision and efficiency is relentless. Among the various techniques employed, wire sawing has emerged as a versatile method offering remarkable advantages. This innovative approach has revolutionized the way we cut through tough materials like concrete, metal, and stone. In this article, we delve into the intricacies of wire sawing, its applications, benefits, and the role it plays in modern industries.

Understanding Wire Sawing: Wire sawing is a cutting method that utilizes a continuous loop of wire coated with industrial-grade diamonds. This wire, often made of high-tensile steel, is threaded through a series of pulleys and driven by a machine to create a cutting action. The diamond coating on the wire enables it to slice through robust materials with precision and minimal waste.

Applications of Wire Sawing:

Construction Industry:

Concrete Cutting: Wire sawing is extensively used in construction for cutting through thick concrete structures such as bridges, dams, and foundations. Its ability to cut through large sections of concrete with ease makes it indispensable in projects where traditional methods fall short.

Demolition: In demolition projects, wire sawing offers a controlled and efficient way to dismantle concrete structures without causing excessive vibrations or collateral damage. This precision is crucial in urban environments where space constraints and safety concerns are paramount.

Manufacturing Sector:

Metal Processing: Wire sawing finds applications in the manufacturing of metal components where traditional cutting tools may not suffice. Its ability to cut through hardened metals with precision makes it ideal for shaping intricate parts used in aerospace, automotive, and machinery industries.

Semiconductor Industry: In the semiconductor sector, wire sawing plays a crucial role in slicing silicon ingots into thin wafers used for manufacturing microchips. The precision and smoothness of the cuts are essential for ensuring the quality and performance of the final products.

Stone Cutting and Quarrying:

Dimensional Stone Extraction: Wire sawing has revolutionized the quarrying of natural stone blocks. Its precise cutting action allows quarry operators to extract large blocks of marble, granite, and other stones with minimal wastage. This efficiency not only reduces costs but also minimizes environmental impact.

Stone Fabrication: In the stone fabrication industry, wire sawing is used to cut slabs of natural stone into precise shapes and sizes for countertops, flooring, and architectural features. Its ability to cut through dense materials like granite and marble with minimal chipping or breakage ensures high-quality finished products.

Benefits of Wire Sawing:

Precision: Wire sawing offers unparalleled precision, allowing for intricate cuts with minimal material loss. This precision is essential in industries where accuracy is paramount, such as aerospace, automotive, and electronics manufacturing.

Efficiency: Compared to traditional cutting methods, wire sawing is highly efficient, reducing both time and labor costs. Its ability to cut through tough materials quickly makes it ideal for large-scale projects and tight deadlines.

Versatility: Wire sawing is versatile and can be adapted to various materials and applications. Whether cutting through concrete, metal, stone, or composites, wire sawing provides a reliable solution for a wide range of cutting challenges.

Minimal Waste: The precise nature of wire sawing results in minimal material wastage, making it an environmentally friendly option compared to other cutting methods. This reduction in waste also translates to cost savings for businesses.

Conclusion: Wire sawing has emerged as a game-changer in modern industries, offering unmatched precision, efficiency, and versatility in cutting through tough materials. From construction and manufacturing to stone quarrying and fabrication, its applications are diverse and far-reaching. As technology continues to advance, wire sawing is poised to remain at the forefront of innovation, driving progress and efficiency in various sectors.

[lovemykitchenbenchtop]

Sintered Stone: All you need to know when choosing your kitchen benchtop

If you have the privilege (or the pain) of designing your dream kitchen you most likely would have come across the names Dekton, Florim and Neolith, Ascale.

These ultra-compact surfaces are sneaking into the radar as the newest craze in kitchen benchtops and are currently considered as the ‘elite’ in countertop and splashback choice.

Although theseabove brands have similar products, they are made by completely separate companies, and each will have their reasons for being the best, they do fall under the same ‘umbrella’.

Like anything with a noticeable price tag, it is wise to be informed on the pros and cons of this relatively new product to the New Zealand Market.

Why all the hype about Dekton, Florim and Neolith, Ascale? Dekton, Florim and Neolith, Ascale are known for their virtually indestructible qualities being scorch-proof, stain-proof, and scratch-proof.

They are created using a recipe of natural stone, glass and porcelain ingredients (each brand having its own unique formula).

These materials are brought together using a process known as Sinterized Particle Technology (SPT) This process involves mixing the raw materials under extreme pressure and heat. We’re talking compressors that squash at 3000 kgs per square centimeter and ovens that reach 1200 degrees Celsius.

This process achieves in a short space of time what takes nature thousands of years.

Dekton, Florim, Neolith, Ascale often fall under the ‘Porcelain’ name. This is not entirely accurate due to the ingredients and methods used in making them. A more accurate description for these products would be ‘ultra compact surface’ or ‘Sintered Stone’. During this article we will refer to them as ‘Sintered Stone’

*The products Dekton, Florim, Neolith, Ascale differ as their ingredients and recipes will be unique to one another.

The Top Advantages of Sintered Stone Benchtops

HEAT RESISTANT Due to the nature of the material and the process in which these products are made, Sintered stone is able to withstand high temperatures without burning or cracking. Hot pots and appliances can be placed directly on the surface leaving no burn marks on the surface.

UV RESISTANT Sintered stone is resistant to ultra violet (UV) light. This means that the surface will not degrade or begin to fade over time which makes it suitable for indoor and outdoor application. It is ideal for shower linings, outdoor cladding and outdoor kitchens to mention only a few of the possibilities.

SCRATCH PROOF Sintered stone is an extremely scratch resistant surface making it a great candidate for kitchen benchtops.

STUNNING DESIGN AND TEXTURE Dekton, Florim, Neolith, Ascale bring unmatched colours and design to the kitchen benchtop. The much desired rusted and concrete textures are unriled and make most interior designers drool over their selection. Colour and textures continue to flow in all directions.

Due to the size and thickness, designers are able to create flawless pieces of cladding, worktops, counter tops, breakfast bars, islands, hotel and shop flooring and steps, internal and external cladding. There is almost no limitation to what you are able to do.

The top disadvantages of sintered stone: Every product on the market comes with these and it’s important to know them:

Printed designs and textures do not extend through the stone. Colour pigments, patterns and texture do not run through the full thickness of the slab. This means that on the cut and polished ends of the stone the same colour and pattern is not shown right through the stone edge. This will not be as noticeable with a plain colour ie, black. Polished ends will not have the same finish and texture as the top surface.

Sintered stone does damage if exposed to impact, particularly on edges The impact of items such as a pot or a plate falling on the surface can result in damage, particularly along edges. This can result in chips or cracks from the point of impact. According to consumer reports other stone benchtop materials did not have these destructive outcomes when the same impact tests were performed.

Sintered stone chips and nicks are difficult to repair Because of the nature and way these slabs are made repairs of chips and nicks can be more difficult and noticeable than granite, marble and quartz.

Sintered stone is on the Expensive side When compared to other stone benchtop products such as quartz (engineered stone). Sintered stone is currently sitting on the expensive end of the scale by approximately 20 – 40% The reason for this is mainly due to the specialised machinery and installation requirements for these products. Your sintered stone benchtop should only be fabricated and installed by certified benchtop fabricators.

Is Dekton, Florim, Neolith and Ascale a good product for a kitchen benchtop? Like any product, they are not indestructible and it is good to be informed about the pros and cons before making your final decision.

As approved fabricators, we can confidently say that they are here to stay. These are exciting new products that really stand out in any space, and we look forward to seeing what possibilities they hold for future home and commercial design.

ORIGINALLY FOUND ON- Source: Love My Kitchen Benchtop(https://www.lovemykitchenbenchtop.nz/blog/post/60057/sintered-stone-all-you-need-to-know-when-choosing-your-kitchen-benchtop/)