#poor two-bit's switchblade :(

[laswells-ashtray]

Ghost lives next to an old woman. She's a pensioner called Wilma who never had children and her husband passed six years ago.

At first, he had no intention of doing anything but offering his neighbours an awkward but friendly wave and keeping it like that.

Then he comes home one day, lugging around his shopping from Tesco and finds her sitting on her front step. It's baltic outside, a glacial chill running down his spine and twisting around his bones like vines. And this woman is sitting on her front doorstep, housecoat and slippers on with her eyes glued to the entrance of their street.

He's quick to approach her and locate the problem: her lock is broken, she went out for her morning smoke and now she can't get in until her landlord arrives and tries to fix the problem she's been telling him about for months.

He doesn't hesitate to bring her into his house, there's no worry about a stranger occupying his space. He treats it like a mission, get Wilma into his kitchen, make her a cuppa and possibly kill her landlord.

She insists on helping him put away his messages, she isn't prying and trying to get a feel for his home. She's genuinely trying to be helpful because she feels guilty that he had to go out of his way to assist her.

That's the day he decides that Wilma Stewart is his friend because that gives him a reason to help her without her trying to insist on owing him anything.

If something in her house needs to be repaired and he's capable of doing so, he'll mend it. If she needs help with bringing in her shopping or taking out her bins then he'll help when she's there. And eventually, he gives her a spare key, so she can pop in and look over his place while he's away for the job.

If she's baking, she'll leave a plate on his kitchen table. That's how he gains a fondness for Mars Bar traybakes.

When he leaves for any amount of time, he comes back to find a small house plant somewhere in his kitchen. Once he finds a knitted blanket hanging over the back of his couch.

When it's the seventh anniversary of her husband's passing, she invites him in for a drink. She tells him all about her husband Jim. A tender, attentive, gracious man who liked growing tomato plants and crocheting. He tells her about his mum, about Tommy, about Beth and about little Joeseph. His mum and her homemade lentil soup when dad was out, Tommy and their fight over a teal crayon when they were both boys, Beth and the way she brightened up the house with vases of flowers in the colours of a sunset, Joeseph and the way the little bugger peed on him the first time Simon ever tried to change him.

They get a little tipsy and watch Father Ted, he wakes up on his seventy-four-year-old neighbour's couch and ponders what past Simon would think about present Simon's friendship with a pensioner.

One day he invites the other lads over to his place, intent on having a drink with them all and catching up. He lives in a two-bedroom, one of the sergeants could kip in with him, Nik and John could take the other room and the last poor sod could sleep on his couch.

They don't end up making it out for a pint. It's a sunny day and she's a forward woman, Wilma talks them into washing her car under the assurance of baked goods. Then the old bird brings out a camping chair Simon wasn't aware she owned and watches them clean her Mini.

The other men seem to get a kick out of constructive criticism.

"Pretty boy, you missed a bit on the window."

"Oi, stache, get the shirt off."

She wins them over with her switchblade wit and the mismatching mugs she serves them all tea in. Kyle seems particularly fond of the Gromit mug she hands him but Simon's favourite is the cunt mug that uses the handle as the C.

Only when her car is gleaming under the sun's rays does she let them call it quits, herding them inside and tutting disapprovingly when Nikolai pulls his shirt back on.

The array of baked goods that she forces upon them all builds an alliance between the infamous Taskforce 141 and one Wilma Stewart.

By the end of the day, the old-timer has a small army rallied behind her and Simon is almost positive that if her landlord dies within the next four days Nikolai will be responsible for it.

[yanderedrabbles]

pls!!! more yan gangster!! im begging!!!!!!😖

Yandere Ganster - Rainy Days

It's a miserable day to do collections. It's raining cats and dogs and the gutters are spilling onto the sidewalk. Everyone with sense is tucked away inside, except for him.

The butcher is his last stop and then he can finally head back to you. Maybe you'll ask him to sit with you infront of the fireplace or maybe he can bring you some hot coffee and...

It's criminal instinct that makes him duck when the bat comes swinging at his face.

It throws up sparks as the missed swing scrapes against the brick wall. He's already tossing his umbrella and rolling up, fists ready.

Three thugs, sporting a mean assortment of brass knuckles and metal baseball bats.

"Look at that, the bitch's guard dog," one sneers.

"How 'bout you just hand over that fat stack of collection money and we call it a day? What d'you say, pretty boy?" the speaker drags his bat across the sidewalk and the harsh rasp of it is almost louder than the rain.

Three against one and the alley traps him right in the center of them. He grins. Maybe if he comes back with a nasty bruise you'll kiss it better?

Tired of waiting for a reply, the first guy swings. But he's still too slow and Yandere! Gangster ducks under it and punches at his gut. The man falters for a second that's all he needs to grab the bat and yank it out of the guy's hands.

"Well, well..." He twirls the bat and pulls back for a vicious strike that hits the guy right in his throat. He goes down with an ugly gasping sound, clawing at his neck. "I'd call that a home-run."

The other two are more wary of him now and they back away, circling.

Personally, he thought the whole home-run thing was a pretty witty thing to say, if a bit inappropriate. He wonders if you'd have cracked a smile at it.

The thugs try and rush him all at once. One manages to land a punch on his cheekbone but he snaps the bat backwards into the guy's nose and he stumbles away, cursing.

The other guy is ready for him, his own bat braced to guard his face. So Yandere! Gangster pretends to swing and then steps under his guard, his switchblade already in his hand. The cut he leaves behind is deep and nasty.

Three down. Too easy.

His grin is fading now and there's a strange look to him that makes the thugs shiver. "Bitch, was it?"

When he's done, the rainwater runs with ribbons of thick blood that swirl in pinkish eddies down the gutter.

He's totally soaked and his umbrella is ruined too. Well... At least the blood won't stain.

He rubs his cheek as he walks home. Maybe you'll notice it and tell him what a great fighter he is?

.......

You lean your head on your hand and look at him. His shirt is almost transparent and clinging to the muscles of his chest. An angry red bruise is forming on his cheek.

The only sound is the soft plink-plink of water dripping from his clothes onto the marble floors.

"Sorry ma'am." He looks down, sheepish. "Ran into some trouble."

"Taken care of?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good boy." You stand, bringing your brandy with you. "Come here."

You stand infront of the fireplace and point at your feet. He sits down carefully, aware of the small puddles left in his wake.

The fire warms him almost instantly. Cold, wet clothes are the most miserable thing in the world, he thinks. He's never going to take -

He jumps, his hands instinctively grabbing the towel you drape around his shoulders.

It's warm and he pulls it tighter around himself.

"Look at you..." you drawl, "You poor, soaked thing."

You gently work another towel through his hair. Your nails occasionally scrape his scalp and send shivers racing down his spine.

It takes a while before you're finally satisfied but when you stop, he can't help feeling an awful sense of disappointment.

You put a single finger under his chin and tilt his head up. His eyes are dazed and half-lidded. His skin is still cool to the touch and you click your tongue in irritation.

"You should know to take better care of yourself."

"Sorry ma'am."

You rest your brandy glass against his lips. There's a lipstick stain on the rim and he can taste the faint tang of cherries. He grins a little. Doesn't this practically count as a kiss?

The brandy touches his tongue and spreads a comforting fire down his throat. Is this what you taste like? Sharp and woody and under it all, just a little sweet?

You lean forward and slip your hand down his chest. He's sure you can feel the way his heart is pounding - do you realise what your touch does to him? Your lips are just a hair's breadth from his. For a second, he actually thinks you might kiss him.

Instead, you grab the envelope of collection money from his inner jacket pocket and pull it out.

He almost reaches out to stop you. Your touch is so warm, so perfect. Why are you taking it away after giving him such a small taste?

Thankfully, his brain kicks in and reminds him exactly how dangerous you are.

You tap the envelope against his cheek.

"You did good today, cucciolo."

Dimly, he realises that you called him puppy. And when you dismiss him with a casual wave, he jumps to obey just like a loyal dog should.

[mayonnaise2004]

Meeting & Dating Patrick Hockstetter Headcannons

(This is one of my darker works, so I apologize in advance for letting my creative mind go.)

(TW for mentions of suicide, Patrick just being fucked up, masochism, intentions of a dog dying :((, slut shaming, manipulation, carving of the skin and let me know if I missed any.)

- The two of you met when you were Henry’s s/o. He wasn’t at all a fan of that.

- the mere thought of someone like you with someone like Henry made him want to rip his hair out. So he took it upon himself to save you.

- It took a lot of paying people, rumours being spread and innocent acts to get Henry to break up with you on the note you had ‘cheated on him with a freshman.’

- He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him a little bit aroused when you came sobbing to him, tears running down your face as you tried to understand who would do something like this.

- Rubbed your back as you cried into his chest, his innocent facade was.. somewhat comforting, you couldn’t go to any other kids. They’d just call you a ‘slut/whore’ and walk away.

- He knew you would be easy to manipulate like this. He could be your goddamn knight in shining armour! :)

- Came to your house every day after school to make sure ‘you were okay’ (and eyed up your dog.)

- He was there for you when Henry bullied you when you replaced poor Beverly Marsh on the so-called ‘practice girl’ list, when your dog went missing.

- So of course you said yes to a date! How bad could he be? He seems to have calmed down! (Stupid you.)

- Don’t expect to ever be in another relationship in Derry. That person will go through hell on earth and back. This goes for him too. He would rather take his own life than be without you.

- Life goes back to normal in the Bowers gang. Patrick freaks Victor and Belch out a bit, and Henry doesn’t care that you're dating his best friend. He still holds a grudge against you of course. So don’t expect to leave hangouts without a few bruises.

- Fear is a big factor in your relationship, the hairspray & lighter come out sometimes. But he would never use it on you. Burns are such a waste of time.

- Watching horror movies at his place while his parents are at the bar. He always keeps a hand on your jaw to keep your head to the screen (and caresses your jawline with his thumb.)

- Swimming in the lake at night

- Sometimes he can be somewhat normal when he puts the switchblade and diy flamethrower away and lays in bed with you.

- He probably carved something to do with himself into your flesh where everyone can see. Whether that be ‘P.H’ with a heart, or just ‘P’; “What’s with the tears? Hm? Look at your wrist, my love. Now you can’t run away.”

- Birthdays are overnighters at your place. You’ll either receive a switchblade or a piece of his jewelry everyone has seen that you complimented.

- quite a fan of PDA, loves to hold you close and whisper things into your ear knowing you can’t run away.

- ‘I would just break up with him’ you’ve tried. So many times. He always threatens you in some way, and being on Officer Bower's good terms he can get away with it.

- “You want to end up like all those people? Missing and forgotten by the world? I keep you safe baby. Remember that.”

- Being with someone like that takes a toll on your mental health. Your parents want you to break up with him but you just can’t.

- Mumbles praise into your skin while you cuddle

- Summer break is terrible for you, being forced to drive around with the Bowers gang feels like a punishment from god.

- But despite your attempts to run away, he loves you. Even if you're a bit difficult sometimes!

- The summer of 1989 was like a boulder being lifted off your shoulders. You didn’t know how to feel about Patrick going missing. Should you look for him? Or let him rot where he belongs after everything he did to you.

- his missing posters were eventually covered up with another, and you tried to heal. But those scars don’t heal. And they won’t go away.

[livmightlive]

LU Soul Eater AU: Four

I must admit, Four has a really edgy 2014 lab AU that I spent too much time thinking about. I did have fun though so here’s his backstory and a trigger warning for unethical human experimentation. I don’t think it’s anything more graphic than what would be in Soul Eater.

A small disclaimer: I’m going mostly off of what I remember from the manga for any sense of canon, I haven’t had the privilege of playing the game yet. 😔

I think I mentioned before, but each of Four’s colors are a different type of knife. Together they’re able form the four sword.

Green is a machete. 

I decided on that for him because I think that machetes look really dangerous, showing up in a lot of horror media, and can cause a lot of harm, but that is not what they are meant for. Machetes are meant for clearing bush and foliage away to clear paths through forest or jungle. They can be used to obtain resources. A trailblazer or leader might use this knife. Green grew up with his father who was a captain in the royal guard. Green was being groomed as a weapon for the Princess Dot. Upon manifesting as a machete, a lot of people, especially Green’s own father, were disappointed and believed him to be a poor weapon for a princess looking crude and brutal. Together, Dot and Green proved the masses wrong, with them both proving themselves as leaders before fighters. 

Vio is a throwing knife. 

Vio is a child runaway. I can’t figure out what would be a good reason for him to run or what his family would be like, but I imagine he learned a dangerous secret. I also like to think that despite Vio being very smart, he can be unreasonable and is able to rationalize himself into making bad choices. He’s a throwing knife because it takes a lot of learning and skill to be able to wield a weapon such as that. It also takes something crazy to throw your weapon away from you and be able to rely on it to return. Vio can be recalled by his meister, but it has to be of his own accord. He can also control his flight to some degree. Up until the events I’ll describe in a minute, he had never been wielded before.

Blue is a trench knife.

In the background of the events during my story, there’s a war raging in the background that’s much more prevalent in Warrior’s story. This has caused a lot of children to be orphaned, Blue included. He grows up in a poorly funded orphanage and gets into a lot of fights growing up. I chose a trench knife for Blue because it is a very brutal weapon, something which I think he can be. It’s also a weapon that when you use, you know that you are aiming to really hurt your opponent and that you have to get really close to do so. There are also two main ways to use a trench knife, the blade, ofc, and the brass knuckles which I think kind of show how Blue thinks outside the box, especially in combat. It’s also a weapon that’s mean to be used when your back is against the wall.

Red is a Switchblade.

Red also grew up in an orphanage also due to the war. He and Blue grew up in the same place but weren’t close with each other. He definitely grew up more of a lover having a high level of empathy. Despite being picked on, maybe bullied a bit, Red is the type of person who never wants to hurt somebody else even in self defense. I chose the switchblade for Red because it kind of conceals its nature most of the time hiding in a sheath. A switchblade is a weapon that has to be used in close quarters, but unlike Blue’s trench knife, the opponent might not even recognize it as a weapon until it’s too late. Switchblades are spring loaded and fast, but by pressing a button, the user has a lot of choice before they use it. I think Red would be able to stop himself from being triggered in his weapon form if he tried hard enough.

All of the four were born in the same year, all being roughly the same age. (Yay this means I can choose their zodiacs!) When they were all 11, each of them were kidnapped in the same winter by a witch called Vaati. Vio was first, being a homeless child he was hungry enough to be lured in by the prospect of working for food and board. This later would be something he feels ashamed of thinking himself more clever than that. Next would be Red who thought he was helping an elderly woman carry her groceries home… into a dark alleyway. Blue would be next, probably just being classically kidnapped after he poked around somewhere shady. Green would be the last, going on a personal mission to investigate the rapid disappearance of kids from the city he lived in. 

Vaati is a witch who is trying to make weaker weapons stronger in order to arm the army of the ancient evil (ganon) that he and many other witches are trying to revive.  For his first experiment, he wants to fuse several small/young weapons into one big stronger one. He chose the four because they’re young enough to be malleable but old enough to actually be able to turn into their weapons. They also conveniently have a lot in common, age, gender, and weapon type which Vaati thinks will make it easier to fuse them.

Vaati begins a series of experiments that don’t really seem to make sense to the four. He’ll force them all to work together to complete puzzles only to rip them apart for the next few. Vio, who’s been there the longest, plays along well knowing what to expect. Green, who’s been training already for a long time, doesn't struggle too much with physical or mental challenges. Red and Blue however struggle a lot causing Vaati to use crueler and crueler experiments to get them to obey.

Vaati’s struggle with Red and Blue resides in that Blue fights back the most and is actually quite brawny for a tween and Red won’t fight at all refusing to take his weapon form and even if he does, he won’t unsheath. Blue is something Vaati must subdue and break in. Red is something to trigger. He routinely exposes them to extreme temperatures, Blue the cold and Red the heat, and subjects them to frightening simulations. (I’m basing this off the manga with blue being frozen, red in the burning village, the giant poe)

Most confusingly, he makes the four wield each other which is not natural/impossible for weapons to do. Vaati achieves this with the help of magic.

Vaati works using his own son Shadow as an assistant. Shadow is a similar age as the boys and enjoys the power he gets to lord over them. Secretly, he’s really happy to have so many other kids around. That being said. He hasn’t been properly socialized so his idea of trying to play with them is just by mildly tormenting them. 

Vio is the first to start befriending Shadow. Like in the manga, he does this with the intention of later betraying him, planning on using him as means to escape. He unexpectedly begins to genuinely like Shadow and starts to experience extreme guilt in thinking about what he’s going to do. Nevertheless, Vio begins to start faking Stockholm syndrome. This is really confusing for the rest of the boys. Blue thinks that Vio is bad person and is actually siding with Vaati. This leads to a fight between them that results in Vio being separated from the rest of the boys. (I didn’t mention it but they’re usually locked in the same room between experiments.) Red believes that Vio actually has Stockholm syndrome and feels really bad for him. Green can see through Vios' plan but just thinks that it’s a really bad idea. He doesn’t say anything though because he doesn’t want to ruin it for him just in case it does work. 

Red is the next to befriend Shadow, though it’s unintentional. Despite everything, Red does his best to remain kind, maybe not so much to Vaati, but to Shadow, sure. Red thinks that Shadow is just a brainwashed kid, which he’s kind of right about. Shadow starts to like Red because he’ll go along with any game he wants to play. 

Green falls after Red gets more chill with Shadow. The games they play look fun and Green really didn’t have a lot of chances to play growing up. He starts to take a page from Vio’s book, trying to pry information where he can from Shadow. Somehow he feels less bad about this than Vio does. 

Blue thinks everyone is going crazy in here so he takes to verbally bullying Shadow whenever he swings by. Shadow, being a weirdo, thinks that it’s a form of banter so he just bullies Blue back. Unexpectedly, and to his own horror, Blue finds it really fun to be able to have a witty back and forth with somebody who can match his level.

Shadow for the first month or two is really his dad kidnapped people his age. It’s so FUN having people to play with! He even has a best friend now in Vio. He doesn’t really think about the implications of his dad hurting his new friends, and his role in that, until they start acting different. 

Vio starts having panic attacks (out of nowhere!/s) and can take hours or even days to calm down rendering him unable to even speak. This is the first thing that rattles Shadow. It’s the first time he felt hurt seeing somebody else hurt. His attempts to calm Vio down begin selfishly, wanting him to stop acting weird and to start acting like his best friend again. Eventually it turns into genuine and raw concern. Shadow, for the first time, feels bad because somebody else does. He starts just really wanting Vio to be okay. 

His other playmates start breaking down too. Red is too exhausted now to play. He sleeps most of the day away and when he’s awake he’s too shaky and weak to do anything. Blue becomes dissonant, stuck staring at walls. He won’t respond to even the strongest of Shadow’s remarks. Green is caught between caring for the other two. He becomes too busy to try and pry information out of Shadow.

Then a day comes where Vaati gathers each boy and throws them into the middle of a collection of runes drawn on the ground with a combination of their blood. A flash and they’re all rendered into their weapon states, unwillingly. After a few moments there’s another flash and only a single weapon remains. The Four Sword. When the weapon takes its human form back, only one terrified boy stands sharing features of the four that formed it. 

Despite Vaati’s satisfaction, Shadow feels that something REALLY wrong just happened, and it did. He later visits “Four. Four is shell shocked, barely able to walk, confused, and really, REALLY scared. He looks at Shadow and begs him to let him out. Shadow obliges.

Picking up the newly formed Four sword, Shadow vanquishes his own father and runs with his new friend Four. Shadow was greatly wounded in the fight, his father cursing him to never stand in sunlight. Four is traumatized and so confused. He decides to go to Green’s father, now technically Four’s father, unsure of where else to go. 

The two boys tell the story to Four’s dad and a proper raid is unleashed on Vaati’s lab, leaving out the parts where Shadow was Vaati’s accomplice for most of the time. No body is found. Four’s father tries to defuse him, which just terrifies him. Shadow gets some medical treatment but most people don’t want to treat him, as he was Vaati’s son. 

Four’s father, unsure what to do with two traumatized children, dumps them on his father, Four’s grandfather who lives out of town as a blacksmith. There they all heal and after a few years learn to defuse. They’ve all spent so much time together though that they can’t bare to part. They are literally part of each other now. Green’s father decides to give them all knight training and Shadow learns how to wield each of them and Four properly. They all know how to wield each other too but this is uncanny for a lot of people. Weapons wielding weapons… 

Shadow goes missing at the end of a dangerous mission. All too soon, Four is called to accompany 8 others on a holy quest. He sets out determined to save the world and his best friend. 

And that’s Four 😭 goodness that ended up a lot longer than I expected. 

Please, and I’m begging 🙏🙏🙏, let me know what you think, your own headcanons, critiques, questions, ANYTHING. And who you’d like to see next! 

Thank you 💕

[obsessivelyloved]

No no your fine! (Btw this is the same anon who asked the question), but um could you do something with Tord with this sentence? “stop looking at the door, please”

(Preferably with reader; but you can decide if you’d like to add that)

I haven't written anything this long in like two years

CW: Kidnapping

______________________________________________________

One moment you were walking home, the next, you were tied up in some guy's car, lying in the backseat. He looked giddy at the road as you screamed and begged through the gag in your mouth. He looked pained as he met your eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“Stop tugging against the rope. You’re going to hurt yourself,” he scolded. Like he was really concerned for his victim. “We’ll be home soon.” 

You trembled, unable to stop yourself from tugging frantically at your wrists. The longer this went on, the more you felt as if someone was continuously dumping you into ice water. From your hogtied position on the seats, all you could see was the blue sky steadily dulling. It was hard to tell how long you lay there before the car stopped. 

The man opened the car door, carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder. You couldn’t see any recognizable sights. 

“You poor thing” he crooned, pulling you closer to him. He inspected your wrists, clicking his tongue. He bends down and slings you over his other shoulder. 

Frantically, you darted your head around. Houses went on for all you could see. There were no road signs, and no people outside. No eyes to see you carried inside. The door closed and tears blurred your vision. He set you on a couch, humming. 

“No more tears, love. I’ll take a look at your wrists and get you out of these nasty ropes.” He wiped your face with his red sleeve, much gentler than you would have ever expected. 

Hope bloomed in your chest. Maybe you could punch him? Or just, something! You had to be able to do something. 

He left the room and returned with…. pink fuzzy handcuffs? It was so absurd you almost stopped crying. 

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “It was the only thing I could find on such short notice. I’ve got another pair coming in the mail, you’ll enjoy that color much more.” 

He sets the handcuffs down next to you, reaching down into his black jeans. Out of his pocket, he pulls out a switchblade. He firmly grabs your wrists, pulling them as far as he could from your body. 

You sit as still as you can. With wide eyes, you watch as he cuts through the rope. You barely move your hands an inch out of the ropes before he swiftly closes the cuffs on your wrists.

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

He pats your cheek, smirking. “Doesn’t that feel better?” 

You don’t bother trying to answer. Drool dribbles out of the corners of your mouth, pooling around the gag. 

Your kidnapper stands up straight, rolling his shoulders. “As much as I’d love to get you used to the house, my roommates will be home soon. They’re a bit… much. I don’t want to overwhelm you even more, sweetheart.” 

Nausea rolls through you. Your face felt hot and sticky, a fresh wave of hot tears starting again 

The man’s face softens. He reaches out, cupping your face. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you’re going to be fine. Let’s get you to my room and you can get cozy and start settling in.” 

He gathers you into his arms and over his shoulder again. This time, all you’re interested in is the blurry floor. Down a hall you go and into a bedroom. Laid down on the bed, you stare down at your wrists. From what you could see beneath the cuffs, they were an angry shade of red, rope marks snaking around your wrists. Tugging made it worse, pain shooting up your arms. 

The man moved around his room, singing under his breath. You couldn’t make out the words or what language it was. 

“Up we go now, dearest,” he says as he gently sits you up against his pillows. He has a different gag in his hands. 

As soon as he takes out the one you have, you rush out, “I won’t scream!” Your voice is hoarse and your throat is dry. He paused, eyebrows furrowed and you added shakily, “Please. I-I promise I won’t scream.” 

He sets it on his nightstand beside the bed. 

“A single shout from you and it goes right back into your pretty mouth. Understand?” 

You violently shake your head. “Y-Yes. I, I understand.” 

He smiles at you, sitting down next to you. “Good. It’d be such a shame if your first night home was… unpleasant.” 

You tense, turning your head away from him. Your heart races as you look around his room. Against his wall was a bookshelf, with both books and robotic parts. A TV was raised flat against his wall. On his dresser was….. Pictures of you. 

Your hands grow clammy as your mind struggles to process what you are seeing. Pictures of you. Are on. His dresser. 

What the fuck. What the fuck. 

His eyes follow your line of sight and he cheeses at you. 

“They’re my favorite ones,” He chuckles. “It took me a while to get them. You’re hardly ever outside your house without work clothes.” 

You sitting in a nook, curled up against a wall reading a book with a mug of coffee steaming on the table in front of you. You planting flowers. You excitedly looking at something, clearly beyond a camera. 

You in a cafe. In front of your house. At the mall. You don’t recall a single memory of the man beside you. Of ever seeing him in these places, much less someone pointing a camera at you.

“How long have you been…” your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. “How long have you been watching me?” 

The man leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Too long,” he mumbles against your skin. He kisses you again, not minding the tears. 

“Tord!!” 

You jerk your head to the bedroom door. Hope rises against your better judgment but you have the sense not to scream. 

The bedroom door opens to reveal a brown-haired man in a green hoodie. “Tord, we found the- Oh, hello!” He smiles at you, eyes warm and face nonchalant. Like this was normal. “You’re here much earlier than expected.” 

You say nothing, staring wide-eyed. 

He turns to the man -Tord you’re assuming- and scolds him. 

“You were supposed to wait until we had dinner ready!” 

Tord sheepishly shrugs. “They were walking home! It was perfect timing!” 

The brown-haired man rolls his eyes and sighs. “I’m truly sorry,” he tells you. “But I suppose it’s good to let you get settled in first. I’ll be back with a hot drink.” 

He closes the door and like clockwork, you burst into sobs. You try to stifle them as best you can. It would be best not to test how loud it would take for you to be gagged again. 

You stare at the door as Tord pulls you close. “Oh honey,” he murmurs. “It’s going to be alright.” 

Tord grabs his remote on his nightstand and turns the TV on. You don’t need to look to know you’re hearing your favorite show. All you can do is helplessly stare at the door and strain your ears to hear how many other people are in the house. 

“Tom, move your damn vodka out of the fridge! You don’t need the whole pack cold at once!” 

One. 

“Oh so you can have all your soda cold but I can’t have my smirnoff in there?”

Two. 

“Not all of it’s mine! Some of it’s for Tord’s partner.” 

“Oh! They’re here?! I want to see them!” 

Three. 

“Wait until dinner. I’m sure the commie’s got his pants down by now.”

“Oh that’s just gross! Don’t talk like that Tom, it’s very rude. They in fact both had their pants on and clothing intact when I popped in.”

You don’t hear more than three voices bicker and move around. But still, it’s…. a lot. Four people total are keeping you in this house for god knows what reason. You refuse to think about the clothes comment. You wouldn’t you wouldn’t you wouldn’t or you were going to puke. 

“Stop looking at the door, please.” 

You nearly jump out of your damn skin hearing Tord’s voice. It snaps you out of your thoughts. You sniffle, taking deep breaths. You turn your attention to the tv and desperately try not to think about what fucked up situation you’re in.

[stewdoesthings]

Dally giving Johnny his switchblade: TW for violence

There had been five of them. They were older, bigger, stronger. They circled him like sharks and in a second he was on the ground. It didn't matter to them that the sun was still out, that they were in the lot, that anyone could pass by and see them. Their beer bottles rolled on the grass.

Then, he was surrounded by another group of teenaged boys. He tried to flinch away but he didn't have the strength to anymore. Soda craddled him, crying. Dally swore that no one would ever hurt any of them like that and stormed off. Ace ran to get bandages. Pony and Darry had the same dark face. They both became aware in that moment of what the socs were capable of. Pony's look was of fear, while Darry's was of hatred.

Johnny stayed at Two-bit's house for the next few days. He was scared to death to go outside. He knew the socs would wanna finish what they started.

"Johnnycakes, you can't stay inside all your life." Dally said, sitting on the porch as he shared a smoke with Johnny. The poor boy was still all bruised up. He had a nasty cut on his cheek, from one of the rings those guys wore. Dally had fought with rings before, but only with people that deserved it. Johnny never deserved any of this.

"No, I will, because if I go out they'll-"

"Hey, you shut up." Dally snapped. He couldn't tolerate seeing him like that, all shaken up and worried, especially not saying stuff like that. "That's never gonna happen, okay? They're not gonna lay a hand on you or anyone else. I promise."

His gaze turned to the street in front of them as he fished knside of his jeans pocket. He pulled out a switchblade, black and silver, with his own name engraved on it.

"Here." He said, his hand extended out.

Johnny didn't reach his hand out, so Dally grabbed his arm and placed the knife in his hand.

"You keep that with you, always."

The warmed up metal seemed to burn through Johnny's skin as he held it. Everyone in the gang as had a knife at some point, except for Johnny. And he knew Dally. He knew what that knife might've been used for.

"And don't be dumb with it. Don't let them know you have it."

Their eyes were glued onto each others. Dally might've been just a year older but he had the eyes of someone who's lived 30 years. Cold eyes that knew the look of blood.

"It's you or them."

Their hands were still touching each other's, the switchblade in between like the glue that held them.

"And I can't lose you, Johnny."

[azacat-alias-lost]

Okay so artblock is being a bitch rn but i just had a BRAINBLAST of a crossover au idea

@sinisterspoon you're gonna lose your shit about this

So picture this. The TF2 Red mercs are getting back from yet another fight with Blu, and yknow its the typical banter n stuff. Then, out of NOWHERE, two people crash through their ceiling. One is a large, freckled man with whitening hair and a horribly stained blue sweater, knocked out cold. The other is a thin, dark-skinned man with salt and pepper hair and oh my god thats a lot of eyes. Holy shit. And they're all open. Dazed, unconscious, but open. He also has a stab wound that is healing unnaturally fast.

Medic is like "Well we should probably make sure they don't die" And so he does. He takes them into his clinic and is going to heal them, and maayyybe do a few experiments along the way. But before he can even make the first incision (he chose the smaller guy), the man's hand shoots up and grabs his wrist. In a voice tinged with the static of a tape recorder, he whispers..

"Where am I? I Know for a fact this isn't London"

Eventually, they both wake up, recover, etc. The Mercs are very intrigued as to where they came from, y'know with falling out of the sky and all. As they hang around each other more, it becomes exceedingly clear that they are Not Human. Fog, Knowing, the way the cameras move to watch them... Heavy is the first to point it out, and Engie is the first to confront them directly.

The Magnus Institute, London. The Fears. The Apocalypse.

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood are sitting at the table with 9 unrealized avatars of the Slaughter.

What do they do? Well naturally, they ask the two to help in the Gravel Wars. They give them gear, test their abilities, and train them in combat. They connect them to the respawn machine, and familiarize them with the proceedings. The first (and only) time Medic tries to experiment on Jon, he nearly bites his arm off. Yeah, the end of the world kinda made him feral.

And so two new Mercs are created.

JONATHAN SIMS: THE INTEL - The Intel can certainly fight, although their damage is very weak. Mostly specializing in overseeing the battlefield, they give information and locations to members of their team. They have a spot on the map that they can go to view cameras, picking off Spies and warning of Snipers and Engineer's turrets. In this zone, they cannot be harmed, but no one else is able to get in range to be harmed by them. They also have the ability, (once per game) to pick one person on the enemy team and just absolutely obliterate them. Smite them, if you will.

MARTIN BLACKWOOD: THE WISP - A master of stealth, the Wisp has the ability to float around the battlefield like a cloud of mist. Just barely visible, they can hide in almost any place. The moment they materialize to fight, however, they become vulnerable. Extremely vulnerable. Their damage hits like a tank, but their defense is very poor. After materializing, they have a cooldown before they can turn to mist again. Their weapon of choice is a damage-heavy knife, much sturdier and more jagged than Spy's switchblade.

This is NOT what they thought their Somewhere Else would be like. But hell, it beats being stuck at the Supernatural Horror Collecting Factory.

"Where you go, I go."

"Always."

Anyway, please let me know what you think!! This has been rotating in my mind for a little bit and might be the best crossover I've ever come up with

[emwheezie]

Do you have some fun facts about Enzo to share? Just wanna to know the guy a bit better.

This is Enzo Vincenzo! I've gotten a TON of asks about him, but was waiting to finish some art and work his story/character a bit more before answering! He's a character we thought up in 2014-15ish, but only recently worked in depth on his development. Pre apologies here, I'm longwinded when talking about my characters! (also it is 3:13am and I'm feeling silly)

Enzo is a secondary character in the comic, friend of the main character kind of deal. My cowriter and I love Enzo and are very happy that everyone else seems to like him too! We are making sure to develop all our characters as much as the two main characters so that we can create as rich of a story/universe as possible. (like we have so much content you could pick any random minor character and be like "them. make a spinoff about them" and we could just do that immediately we have so much content my brain is going to explode)

Enzo and Lennon are high school buddies who met sophomore year, shortly before Lennon dropped out. (peep the bottom art of them from their HS years)

Him and Lennon are big into movies. They binge watch them over the weekends or when he's convinced by Lennon to skip classes for the day.

Enzo loves to draw, especially dragons and horror related stuff. He posts his drawings on DeviantArt where he met xXHexiLexi328Xx and fell in love with her. She's also an artist who loves to draw super kawaii anime chibis magical girls and pokemon stuff.

No one thinks Hexi Lexi is a real person. Everyone's like "awh poor Enzo, still single...you'll find someone, buddy." But she's real and from Arkansas. (like that state even exists?)

Enzo loves knives. His favorite one is a switchblade engraved with the name "Colleen." He found Colleen at a Goodwill while he and Lennon were looking for parts to build a "Saw trap." (you know, from the Saw franchise) Enzo thinks he's Billy The Puppet from Saw...I mean, high school Enzo kind of had the same poofy hair and I'm not gonna be the one to tell him he didn't look like that puppet.

Somewhere along the way, early in their friendship, Lennon is convinced Enzo killed his parents. Lennon's never seen Enzo with his parents so I guess that's the only solution, right? It becomes a longstanding rumor/joke... and Lennon's like wow Enzo that's so cool I'm friends with a literal murderer. (Lennon is dumb).

Enzo once wanted to become a priest but then he remembered he was evil.

Enzo is Albanian-Italian and grew up in Cambridge, MA living with his parents and grandparents. His parents are super religious people who work at the restaurant his grandparents own, located in the North End of Boston.

It's a joke that Enzo's like never heard a music once in his life before meeting Lennon who introduced him to guitar. (He's rhythm guitar in Lennon and Tony's band Poison Boy Club)

I feel like I've said a lot of words and stuff. I feel like there's more but it's now 3:40am and my brain is mush. OH later on, Enzo really hones in on his art skills and gets into tattooing, earning himself an internship at a local studio.

Overall, Enzo's a cool, confident dude who's a little scary in a "big guard dog" type of way, but he's a loyal friend and does his own thing and he's with that.

[neon-kazoo]

Honk Honk (The briefcase-pt. 2) as requested o7

Choo Choo (part 1)

He had led them all the way back to the depot, weaving through discarded train cars and criss-crossing tracks like it was his second home. They had stopped at a forest green two-door Chevy in a gravel—Hero was really starting to hate gravel—backlot. The truck was old enough that Villain had to twist the key in the lock and rattle the handle to pry the door open. He had shoved Hero past the steering wheel and climbed in after them and the vehicle roared to life after two tries aggressively turning the key in the ignition. Twisted ankle screaming from the uneven terrain, Hero had all but collapsed onto the fabric bench seat, endlessly thankful to not be tossed in the back in a body bag or an equally-claustrophobia-inducing enclosure.

Hero assumed it was his car, given the fact that he knew the key would be left in the rear wheel well and the heavy aroma of tobacco. Hero swore they were getting lung cancer just smelling it.

Wrinkled nose aside, Hero sat obediently in the passenger seat of the truck, busying themselves with a roll of gauze Villain had fished out of the back and thrown at them carelessly. Since he had such great care for their well-being, he even mentioned he hoped the switchblade was clean—which thankfully it was.

He did, however, refuse to offer assistance in the wrapping of Hero’s inconveniently-located gashes, which led Hero to sport several loose and stray loops of gauze around their arms before they shrugged their jacket back on. Clearly, he was still mad they interrupted his smoke break.

They were just glad he had not actually pushed the blade into their thigh, because there was no way Hero would be removing their pants to care for a leg wound next to Villain in this tiny cab.

They were able to wrap their rib wound with a little difficultly, tucking their shirt up and holding one end of gauze with their chin and praying Villain wouldn’t take the next curve too hard. Hero didn’t know how much good just dressing the stab and slices would do healing-wise, but it was their only option, and at the very least it might staunch the bleeding.

The belt across their lap did little to help hold them in place as they worked, and they found that most of their muscles protested their continued usage. Finally good enough to hold, Hero tore the wrap with their teeth and shoved the tail between the layers above their stomach. Only then could they relax.

Well, relax was a bit of a strong word.

Exactly how mad was Villain, and what did that mean for Hero? He certainly didn’t seem too shy about dealing fatal blows a few hours ago. They realized tiredly that they should probably be trying to figure out a way out of this before he made good on his previous threats.

Hero eyed the door handle beside them. Before they could commit to any less-than-stellar ideas, Villain cleared his throat. That was when Hero finally spotted the gun resting in his lap.

“I think you’ve had enough abrupt departures from moving vehicles for the day, don’t you?”

Hero tried to slump, but quickly shot back up at the pain in their ribs. They threw Villain a sideways glare.

Knife-happy bastard.

Hero just hoped he wasn’t going to be so liberal with the use of his bullets.

“Are you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

Are you going to kill me?

Villain answered only with silence, so Hero closed their increasingly-heavy eyelids and tried to work through the situation in their head.

A strange meeting, a black briefcase, an angry Villain.

It didn’t make sense.

Despite the uneven rocking of a poor-suspension system and the rumbling of a questionable engine, Hero eventually drifted off with their head rolling like a rag doll and filled with unanswered questions.

They awoke to almost smashing their head open like a watermelon on the dash as Villain pulled aggressively into a spot at a rest stop. Hero saw poorly-lit vending machines and restroom signs between heavy blinks they tried to use to clear the sleep from their head. Lagging back into reality, Hero turned to squint at Villain…who was somehow now wearing jeans and a hoodie?

They blinked a few more times just to be sure, and the figure in the driver’s seat didn’t change. It was still him—and Hero had not hallucinated their failed mission because they could still see the remnants of gel in his hair—but clearly Hero had been out long enough for Villain to do a quick change or something. Hero cursed themselves for falling unconscious when they should have been worrying about an escape or finding the case. Not to mention, they didn’t trust Villain as far as they could throw them, and they would much rather be awake in his presence.

Hero assessed themselves, and found they remained exactly as disheveled as they were before they left the waking world. The hastily-wrapped gauze was even still poking out of their sleeve.

“Sleep well?” He mocked.

Judging by the massive crick in their neck, the answer was yes.

“Right up until you almost gave me a traumatic brain injury,” Hero replied, slightly mumbling as they rubbed at their eyes and dragged their hands down their face dramatically.

“Had to wake you up somehow,” he replied with a trace of mischief as he exited the car and started walking around the hood towards their side.

Hero froze in confusion when their door was opened.

Villain leveled them with a look that screamed ‘where-are-your-brain-cells?’ and threw his head back towards the scary looking building and rolled his eyes.

“Bathroom? You know, bodily functions?”

Hero did not feel very intelligent as they unbuckled the flimsy lap belt and walked under the flickering street lights.

Left to their own devices in the poorly-maintained family bathroom, Hero silently thanked Congress for the hand rails that helped them limp around the room. Outside, Villain could be heard talking on what Hero presumed was a phone, considering how deserted this stop was.

Hero, of course, eavesdropped. Blah blah, fifty miles north, blah blah, should have known, blah blah blah—Something about a blue cab?

Briefly, they considered locking the door and trying to wait Villain out, but they decided the chances of him having a lock picking set or just plain being able to bust the door down himself were too great to risk losing their privileges. Plus, if they were being honest, the bugs attacking the light in the corner scared them more than going back outside. They were unnaturally large. Giving the infested corner a wide berth, Hero hobbled back out and was led back to the truck.

“Great news,” Villain began after they were settled, “I’ve got a lead for you.”

It took Hero a second to realize he was talking about the briefcase. So he was serious about sending them after it, but to already have a lead? How long had they been out?

“Good morning to you too,” Hero spoke, even though it was clearly the beginning of the night. Crickets chirped outside the window, removing any doubt. They weren’t even sure what day of the week it was anymore, and they definitely weren’t about to ask.

In response, Hero was pelted with..something. They flinched back before they realized whatever had been launched in their direction hadn’t done any damage, and they found the mystery object resting in the floorboard. A bottle of Advil rattled in their hand as they feveredly twisted it open and downed two pills dry.

“I had water, you know?”

Hero said nothing, simply grabbing the offered bottle and chugging it all in one go.

Villain, looking rather horrified, slowly handed over a bag of chips that were immediately ripped open.

Hero crunched as loud as humanly possible as Villain drove until he finally broke and turned the radio on to some random pop station.

Hero, satisfied with their win, remained silent after balling up the empty bag and tossing it in the floorboard with the empty plastic bottle. Villain refrained from reacting until Hero made a show of licking their thumb clean, then wiping the rest of their fingers on the seat beside them.

“You do remember the gun, don’t you?”

“Shooting someone over Cheeto dust seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

They seriously wondered how Villain managed to remain impassive after all this time. He certainly hadn’t slept, and Hero wasn’t even sure if he had eaten anything. There was no way he stayed that fit with just the half-empty coke can beside him.

In classic Villain fashion, he ignored them once again until they pulled into a second rest stop, this one more populated than the last.

From the spot Villain parked, the area containing semi-trucks was clearly visible. Long, slanted lines marked the separate spaces, with several being occupied by trucks and trailers. From what Hero could see, two were blue, one black, and a couple red with all white trailers. Villain’s eyes were glued towards the two farthest trucks, parked away from the rest.

“You see the one on the right?” Villain asked, pointing towards the semis he had been watching.

“Yes…” Hero answered suspiciously.

He wasn’t planning to get them run over, was he?

“Congratulations, you’re gonna steal from it.”

“You want me to steal?”

Hero whipped their head in disbelief.

“This is what happens when you lose things that aren’t yours. Considering you stole it in the first place, I assumed you’d be thrilled.”

Hero was not thrilled. At least, what Villain had planned was not to dangle Hero by the ankles and have them fish a waterlogged briefcase out of the river—as Hero may or may not have been imagining on the long trek through the countryside—but it honestly might as well have been. Instead, Villain informed them that he was sending them over to a parked semi-truck to break in and locate the case that may or may not be in there.

He didn’t say anything about how he knew it would be in there or who was driving, but if it was any indication he handed back the switchblade before shooing them out of the car.

They considered arguing about their injuries and how he would be a far better candidate for a stealth mission, but that would involve admitting he was in better shape than them.

They couldn’t satisfy the bastard like that.

Besides, they had resolved to keep the briefcase out of everyone’s hands, and that included his.

With no other choice, Hero circled the back of the trailer lot, taking the long route through the grass and hiding behind a trailer when any truckers came too close. They tugged at the annoying watch Villain had insisted—threatened—them to wear.

Reaching the farthest trailer, Hero walked past the sparkling blue cab and came to a stop behind the access doors to the container. Oddly enough, there were no numbers or hazard squares pasted on the back, only mud flaps and a dirty license plate hanging low under the latches and chains.

“Iowa? What in this case is worth taking to Iowa. Am I risking my life for corn seeds right now?” They spoke into the watch incredulously.

Their annoying lookout responded, “Less talking, more thieving.”

Hero rolled their eyes, then—realizing Villain couldn’t see them—groaned audibly.

Regardless, they lifted up the latch and cringed at the sound the metal made when it creaked open.

“Are you sure this is a good-“

“Get in.”

The man did have a gun.

Planting their foot on the red and white striped rebar strip, they threw themselves unceremoniously into the dark container. They fumbled around in the shadows, running their hands across plastic-wrapped pallets. They tripped a few times on the wood, and they cursed.

“You couldn’t have given me a flashlight,” they whisper-yelled into their wrist.

“You’ll live,” came the drawled reply.

“I’m not the one that wants this stupid- ah hah!”

Hero lifted up a smooth leather briefcase, hidden behind a shipment of soft drinks—maybe. It was really dark.

“Grab it and get out,” ordered Villain.

“Yeah yeah, I’m going.”

Hero, for some reason, struggled to keep their balance as they back tracked towards the doors. When they stepped down backwards, red lights illuminated right in their face, and they froze with one foot out the door.

“YOU DIDNT TELL ME IT WAS MOVING?!” Hero screeched in realization.

“What are you talking about?”

Hero didn’t bother to keep verbally reprimanding Villain for his inattentiveness, instead preparing to practice their new signature move—the tuck-and-roll as they searched desperately for a patch of grass to aim for. They slammed the doors shut as quietly as they could, crossing their arms awkwardly to try and hold onto the door and the case at the same time.

Just when the shoulder turned from concrete to dirt, Hero made to let go of the door, only, something pulled them back. They looked back to find the loose gauze in their sleeve had been closed in the door, and—to make matters worse—the case was stuck on the handle. Truly a comedy of errors, not that Hero could appreciate the humor in their situation as the semi picked up speed and traveled towards the highway. Hero had never seen a large vehicle accelerate so fast.

In a split second, Hero had to decide between freeing themselves or the case.

“Throw the case!” Villain suggested, like the devil on their shoulder.

Hero was not so naive. They unraveled their bandage before lifting the case up and off the lever it was hooked on. When they looked down again, it was now too late for them to drop without breaking a few bones, and the only reason Villain would have to help them was held in their hand. If they let it go, they would be on their own, and there would be no one to stop Villain from doing whatever he planned to do with it.

They were thrown from side to side roughly as they tried to remain attached to the vehicle. If there was a sticker with a number to report this trucker’s driving, Hero would be calling it. Knowing Advil was not all powerful and they wouldn’t last long clinging to the back with this lunatic behind the wheel, Hero set their eyes towards the top.

There were two vertical poles running up each side of the door, and there was just enough room for Hero to shove their fingers behind them and get a good enough grip to start climbing up and away from the asphalt rushing beneath them. Hero was hit with sudden Deja vu for the one handed climbing and moving containers.

They should have asked Villain for some of those stupid shoes, because their nike tennis shoes were not made for ascending the back of an eighteen-wheeler. If they lived through this, they were going to buy a membership to a climbing gym and hire Villain as their personal trainer.

Heavily regretting not wrapping their ankle, Hero heaved up onto the roof and was immediately hit with wind resistance much greater than that on the train. The ground was also moving much faster, and Hero imagined falling now would hurt a lot more. There was nothing up here to hold onto, and stray hairs were flying all around Hero’s face. Trying to stay upright and on top of the truck, Hero surveyed the traffic ahead, or lack there of. The only lights up ahead appeared to belong to a truck pulling a camper, probably belonging to some family making a long drive to some beautiful destination.

God, Hero could really use a vacation.

Now with a second to think, Hero realized the smart plan would have been to try and get back inside the truck while they were still by the latch. Unfortunately, it was too late now. Hero was stuck.

Mind racing, Hero scrambled for a realistic idea. Maybe if they could get to the cab-

They heard the faintest call of “fuck” and they wondered what late-night trucker was cursing so loud at cars on the road. The chorus of swearing continued before Hero realized it was coming from the com on their wrist, and Villain wasn’t yelling expletives.

“Duck!”

Hero whipped their head around, searching for any waterfowl they were supposed to look out for. Just in the nic of time, they noticed the real danger—the low overpass hurtling towards them.

They flattened as best they could and promised to make good on all the promises they had made the last time they were in mortal danger.

Concrete brushed the back of their hood as they tried their best to channel the energy of a pancake, and by some miracle the semi had enough extra clearance for Hero to get by unscathed.

Physically that is. Mentally they were very much scathed.

Hero screamed about how there better be a nuclear weapon or something of equal importance in this briefcase, but it was swallowed by the air.

Hero stayed down for longer than necessary before looking ahead to ensure there were no more surprises coming up.

Path clear as far as they could tell, they army crawled towards the front of the truck, hoping the friction of their clothes would be enough to keep them from flying off. They swore the container was growing because of how long it was taking them to move across it. When the edge was finally in reach, they grabbed it with two hands and pulled, sliding the rest of the way before dropping into the space where the wiring was strung between the cab to the trailer. By the grace of someone, they didn’t trip and face plant after getting tangled in the connections.

Turning to the left, Hero spotted a dark colored shape driving alongside the truck with its lights off.

Hero had never been so glad to see Villain in their life.

Trying their best not to think about the image of them going splat on the road, Hero moved into a lunging stance. All they had to do was wait for the bed of the pickup truck to line up with the gap they were standing on.

They took a deep breath. Almost…

A loud sound sent their ears ringing and them stumbling back on the aluminum grating.

A gunshot.

Apparently, someone had other ideas.

Two more shots later, and Hero was positive they were going to have hearing damage. Judging by the hole in Villain’s windshield, the safest place for them to be right now seemed to be right where they were. They clutched the convenient handle beside them and prepared to wait out the gunfight. That was, until the driver of the semi-truck seemed to abruptly floor it. Hero could see they were pulling away from the Chevy, and they had no plans to stay on this semi-death machine any longer.

Locking all their doubt away, Hero leapt for the truck bed. They hit the rusted metal with a slam and the briefcase attempted to lodge itself in their abdomen beneath them. Gasping, Hero ducked down in case any more bullets decided to fly.

They flipped onto their back, catching a view of the night sky. The stars were bright out here with no light pollution to cloud them.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Hero’s breathing returned to a normal rhythm and the car rolled gradually to a slower pace.

Well, it was now or never.

Hero sat up and threw themselves out of the back and onto solid ground. Clutching the case, they made to run the opposite direction the car was facing. Adrenaline reserves reset, they figured they had a small window to get out and find a place to hide. They followed the pavement while simultaneously scanning the tree line for any thickened foliage they could use to obscure themselves. Realizing they’d need a lot more cover than the sparse forest could provide, Hero started scanning the highway. It stretched past a bend, with freshly painted lines and impressed rumble strips on the shoulder. It appeared not a soul was traveling it aside from Hero and Villain.

Hero cursed their flimsy plan, hoping for a trucker, a convenient cop, or even just a Good Samaritan out for a midnight drive.

The road was so quiet, Villain’s voice boomed when he yelled, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Hero, once again, had no idea.

Making the curve with their feet pounding beneath them, Hero looked back to see if Villain had managed to make a U-turn yet. What they saw were reverse lights and the growing silhouette of his truck, which unfortunately distracted them from what was ahead of them.

By the time they saw the headlights coming from the other direction and heard the loud honking of a horn, they had only a second to dive away.

Once again spared road rash by their clothes, Hero groaned through a mouthful of grass. The other car and its lights continued to barrel around the corner, leaving Hero alone with the forest green truck that was now upon them.

Under the light of his headlights, a hand grabbed and pulled the leather bag up and away from the hero and held it above them.

Only then did they realize the briefcase was brown.

(I hope this part was equally enjoyable <3

Shout out to the semi-trucks I stared at for a few hours and to my beta reader, who puts up with me for some reason)

[iheartfinalgirls]

My Wrecking Crew (Fnaf movie) oc ‼️‼️‼️

-Her name is Stephanie but she’s usually called Steph and she’s Jeff and Maxine’s younger sister :D

-During the events of the FNAF movie, I see Jeff as 27 y/o, Maxine is 19 y/o, and Steph is 13 y/o. Their parents were having babies really far apart for. some reason.

-Yes, her name is purposefully shortened to rhyme with “Jeff”. This kid idolizes her older brother, which really isn’t a good thing because he’s. not the best role model. “My brother is the coolest guy ever!!! XD” He has a criminal record.

-Maxine used to babysit her. Poor 12 year old Maxine. This kid was HYPERACTIVE. She was one of those kids that was constantly getting herself in danger for kicks. Poor Max could not catch a break. She experienced culture shock when she started babysitting Abby.

-And yeah she went with them to wreck Freddy Fazbear’s. She tore shit up with a switchblade. Her switchblade btw is named Two-Bit. Like Two-Bit Mathews from The Outsiders. And lil bro did NOT survive 🙏.

-Her death is kind of a wip at the moment, but she gets springlocked. But the idea of her possessing Mangle is invading my mind. I love it. Maybe that’s because Mangle has been my fav since I was like 7.

Anyways, that’s abt it. Rip Steph you would’ve loved Chapell Roan 😞. I’ll post more about her soon.

[multi-lefaiye]

SALVATORE INKTOBER 11-12. STRANGER TO VIOLENCE, GUARDIAN ANGEL

content warnings: non-graphic descriptions of violence and death

In April of 1963, Seamus O'Neal was attacked while walking home from a drop for Clarence. Joseph McCartney (1916-1963), a dock worker and long-time associate of the Emerald Devils, had heard the boy arguing with his boss regarding payment for the most recent shipment. Most of the conversation didn't matter to Joseph, but one thing became clear: the brat had at least $150 on him, maybe more. It didn't take long for Joseph, drunk and angry after being talked down to by that uppity teen, to decide to relieve him of the cash burning a hole in his pocket. A few hours later, just as the sun was setting, he cornered Seamus in an alleyway and pounced, slamming the boy against the wall and pulling a switchblade on him. Drunk as he was, however, he was swaying on his feet and struggling to hold Seamus in place. He lost his grip on the boy after only a few blows, and the fight was over within seconds. Panicked and thrashing about, Seamus stabbed Joseph in the throat with his own switchblade. For a few moments, Joseph continued to struggle as blood spilled onto Seamus and the pavement below, before he slumped to the ground. He died moments later. Seamus, covered in the blood of the man who tried to kill him, sat there, shaking as he processed what had just happened. It wasn't long before he began to cry, covering his mouth with one bloodstained hand as he scrambled away from his attacker's corpse. He was injured, but he hardly registered the pain as he began to stumble away from the scene, running in a random direction to try and escape what he had just done. The boy was so delirious with fear and pain, he hardly knew where he was going, up until he ran headfirst into a broad chest. A pair of warm hands closed around his shoulders, and a gentle voice said, Whoa, whoa, hold on, kid. In his haste to escape, he'd run face-first into a man he'd never met before, a tow truck driver named Donovan Graves (born 1921). Donovan was alarmed by the sight of the young teen covered in blood and tears, and he immediately stopped to see what he could do to help. He was the one to comfort Seamus, holding him until the sobbing subsided as he tearfully explained the night's events. And afterwards, he helped clean the boy up, patching up his wounds with a first-aid kit he kept in his truck. Once Seamus was calm and his wounds tended to, Donovan gave him a ride home, not wanting the poor kid to wander the streets after the night he'd had. When they arrived, Donovan put a hand on Seamus's shoulder and said, You take care of yourself, alright? Though Seamus never saw Donovan again after that night, he never forgot the man's kindness, nor the warm, gentle hands that held him.

this inktober isn't as polished as the other ones, but honestly i don't think i have it in me to finish them all like i've been doing them, haha! ah well. but i do really like this sketch i made, so i wanted to make sure to get it done and out there :> i once again combined two prompts that work well thematically, since they're centered around the same event: the first time salvatore killed someone.

as a bit of a refresher, at this point, sal was using the name seamus, so that's what i called him here.

anyway, i don't think i'm gonna try and actually draw the remaining prompts, but i do want to share the blurbs for them! so.... if any of y'all think you'd be interested in seeing those, lmk and i'll gladly tag you as i post them! :> thanks to everyone who's shown interest in this!!

art taglist (ask to be + or - ): @skitzo-kero @anexor @jezifster @albatris @transmasc-wizard @lychniscitrus @abysslll @whonsper @presidentquinn @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @approximately20eggs @astral-runic @invaderskoodge @rosesandartss @moonflowerrss @chaieyestea

[lackofwhimsy]

The Cost of Chivalry

The walk home was always depressing. Randall was tired, having been on his feet eight hours stocking shelves - stocking shelves at a grocery store at his age. Fuck. The closer he got to home, the more decrepit the buildings became. They had been large stately homes in their prime. Over the years they had been divided into apartments. Badly maintained if they were maintained at all. Home to people poor enough they were probably going to live in similar places until they died.

His aching feet dragged a little, causing him to stumble. As he straightened, he paused. He had heard something unusual over the pops of his protesting spine. Voices. Didn't sound like any language he had ever heard. Coming from the alley that yawned dark beside him.

He heard a woman's voice cry out in pain, those weird foreign voices again.

"Not your problem," he told himself, "You're too old to play the simp."

His feet were already carrying him into the alley. Dammit.

Five goblins were assaulting an elf.

"The fuck?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

No, definitely there. Five little green guys, pointy teeth, scrawny beneath their cheap suits. A couple carried bats that stood nearly as tall as they did. One had brass knuckles. One was currently holding the point of a butterfly knife against the elf's pale throat.

As he watched, she spun on one stiletto heel, pulling away from the knife and snatching a handgun from her little clutch purse that was patently too big to have been in there. All in one fluid move that was done before he could blink. The gun roared, the muzzle flash blinding in the dark.

Two more times the gun spoke and two more goblins went down before Randall's vision cleared, but then the other two had pounced on the elf, tackling her to the ground. Apparently they were stronger than they looked. The gun flew out of her hand into the shadows.

Yelling unintelligibly, the goblins attacked, punching, kneeing, biting. The elf screamed at them in a different language, fighting back as best she could, but her strength was fading.

Randall found himself picking up one of the fallen bats and swinging wildly at a goblin, the sickening crunch of impact nearly shaking the bat from his grip. He swung at the other, but it ducked and pulled a switchblade. He didn't feel the wicked little blade, but rather the impact of the stabs, like he was being punched. Repeatedly. He tried to swing the bat again, but his arms felt like lead. Dazed, he saw the elf's slender hand draw the blade of a gleaming combat knife across the goblin's throat, but then the ground was coming up to meet him. He fought off the encroaching dark, looked up.

The elf was staring down at him, that impossibly beautiful face regarding him with distaste and annoyance. He took a breath to tell her to fuck off then, but there was something wrong with his chest. He felt cold. Then he didn't feel anything at all.

"You'll live," he thought he heard the elf say, before darkness took him, "Asshole."

Had bits and pieces of this story rattling around in my head for a while now. They refuse to fit into anything coherent. Maybe one day I'll manage to find out how they fit together and what it means. In the meantime, enjoy the process along with me.

[gawactose]

Okay, I wrote this a bit ago and its basically a blurb of an AU of my one character, Bjarne (or Sleipnir), and how his normal lore would translate to the universe of Altered Carbon. Fully self-serving as I absolutely adore the show (need to read the books... soon) and I enjoy how the parallel of sleeve wearing fits the original version's stuff. I think, for fun I might write another. Would be great to practice writing characters interacting since it is such a weak point for me :,) Also warning, some violence and quick murder

-*-*-*-

Freezing sleet rapped against the thick glass, barely audible about the electronic hum that constantly droned throughout the entire city. Quiet was for the deaf and the dead, the living had to suffer with the noise their evolution had brought to this alien world. The closest thing to peaceful background noise jarringly broke as the worn lock of this rusted place ground open, followed by the heavy sliding of the door. The peace was further sullied as dim lights turned on, and the muffled screaming of a gagged man now filled the space. With a soaked back and tied-up feet, the man fruitlessly gasped and grabbed the broad shoulder he was so unceremoniously slung over. The leather, cold from the outdoors, gave the well-chewed nails of the man nothing to grab onto. Frigid, unbearing. Even his kicks were still weak and uncoordinated, a fruitless endeavour that only received silence from the man’s captor.

Taking a final drag of the cigarette, the captor roughly crumpled it in his hand, singing flesh with the dying ember before flicking it to the already littered ground of the hotel room. He gripped the man’s tied feet and with a heave he sent the body falling right into the chair prepped by the window. Finally, the captor and captured were face to face for the first time. Unnaturally blue eyes bore into the natural brown, only encouraging the muffled screams to continue. The captor’s lip twitched downwards, into a frown as he finally exhaled, letting his smoke wash over the screaming victim. Wretched, disgusting, even gagged the poor victim choked and sputtered. At least, as he did so the sweaty and now drool-soaked rag was removed from his mouth. Sucking a breath in, he started to spew the filthy begging they all did. “Please, I-I just take my money man. I can even drain my account for you. I can even pretend I never saw your face and we can just part ways right here. What do you say, big guy?” The captor simply turned his back. Cold and uncaring, not a word fell from his lips in acceptance or denial. He didn’t care, the only thing he cared about was that precious sleeve the man had. Be it bought, born, or borrowed, the skin was soft, the eyes a wonderful natural shade and the man didn’t seem to be balding either. Bjarne could already taste the credits this one would make him. The time it would spare him. Calloused hands picked up a well-used switchblade from the kitchenette as the coffee machine whirred to life, dribbling into the stained carafe. The chorus of pleading became the new backdrop as he stepped closer, flicking the blade open, its golden metal flashing just as his large frame moved to straddle the still-conscious sleeve. The talking moved to panicked screams, pleading and begging, and even a prayer or two. All the beautiful words fell on deaf ears though, and all it got was a very soft and disappointing, “shhh” from Bjarne. Shushing the poor man like a fussy child. Even caressing his hair like one as his face was forced against leather. The victim gnashed his teeth and bit where he could, but cold calloused hands stayed true and strong, keeping him in place. Holding him still as the golden blade of Gabriel found the nape of his neck.

Tears ran, and sobbing began. “Don’t RD me, please, I swear, I can change. If that is what this is, please, please, I will learn please.” The sobs grew ugly, deranged. While the corners of the cold captor’s lips twitched yet again, falling farther into a scornful frown, just as blood pricked the knife eager to escape as the tip was pushed in on that telltale scar. With an uncomfortable precision, the blade slid in, roughly bumping against the vertebra as Bjarne found the sweet spot. The man’s pleas grew in crescendo, falling ill to the pain before finally nothing. The body hung limp against Bjarne’s chest. The silver-haired man let out a soft sigh, twisting his knife against the man’s spinal cord until the object of his desires popped free. Dropping the knife to the ground, blood splattering over his already stained boots, he drove his fingers into the wound. Flesh squelched uncomfortably, but the little metal piece was easy enough to find. He gave it a flick as he stood up, pushing the once a man, now just a sleeve, back into the chair. Holding the glowing blue object up to the light, simply inspected it with an appraising eye, even giving it a wipe against his shirt before tossing it into a bowl where a few others resided. Far away from that hotel, and a few bodies lighter, Bjarne flicked and tossed his knife, over and over again. Sheltered by the taller buildings, the rain only came down in certain areas and was easy to avoid. Yet it created puddles and portals to another world. Reflecting the hundreds of neon lights that dance, desperately trying to grab the attention of the small-minded individual. Like moths to a flame, a crowd surrounded the establishment that Bjarne had been looking for. Slipping his blade away, he tucked his palms into his pockets, shouldering his way through without a word. No apologies or even the acknowledgement of those he barreled through. They didn’t matter, they were nothing to him. He only had one goal and wanted it over with as quickly as possible. With a steeled gaze he looked up towards the neon pink sign, the strange symbols of a name rolling right past his mind. Still, after all these years, he hadn’t bothered to learn to read the local tongue.

A rough hand grabbed his jacket, yanking back on the young man. Causing his tunnel vision to break as he came face to face with a bouncer. “Buddy, back of the line.” Giving the strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes a puff of air, he stared the bouncer down, trying to recognize the face. Grabbing a hold of the still stained and bloodied shirt he wore, he tugged down the neckline, giving the man just the corner of a tattoo that swirled along his chest. Just with the sight of the tail, the bouncer was understanding, and let Bjarne go with a rough push. “Don’t fuckin’ start anythin’, I don’t care who you are, fucker.” Someone who didn’t care wouldn’t have crumpled so easily. For a brief moment, the young man let himself revel in the fantasy that he was respected for his own name, his reputation. He moves past the winding hallways of flashing and neon lights, tuning out the faux moans of organic and synthetic workers alike along with the cheers of the greasy folk who frequented this upstanding establishment. Though, just as fake as the paid-for whimpers of pleasure, he knew that fantasy was synthetic, made up just to buffer the blow against his ego. He was no man of his own making, just a boy forced to the coattails of the man he worked for. Passing by more security, this time unhindered, he shouldered the heavy metal door. As soon as the seal was broken, a wash of smoke blew over his face, swirling and burning his nostrils with its toxicity. Fucking terrible. With a final breath of relatively fresh air, he stepped in, as confident as his legs would allow. Bathed in low and pink light, the source of the haze that filled the luxurious room sat the uncomfortably familiar face, the golden mirror of his own, aged by years of life, and years of purgatory. Bjarne’s father blew out some more smoke, and a grin, unlike that of his father, broke across his face, followed by a voice made by Gabriel’s vocal cords, but spoken by that of Svathilfari. “Sleipnir, my boy, you finally join us.” The voice purred, cracked by the smoke-filled lungs. A ringed hand delicately brushed over the shoulder of his Blom, her form wore a new sleeve, yet the boy could see who she was just from the judgmental glare she held for the boy, a glare that only softened when she returned her attention to the most important figure of the room.

Bjarne didn’t offer the man a verbal response. He never did. Instead, he stepped past where they lounged, roughly opening the cabinet where he knew the terminal was, the one he always had to use. “Three hours late. Right on the dot. You know the deal, boy.” He grinned, turning over the cigarette in his hand before sucking down another puff, letting it snake out of his maw after a moment. Pure ecstasy seemed to flood through that stolen sleeve as soon as the chemicals hit. A glance was all the man got before the boy shrugged his shoulders, depositing the credits. All the way down until his account was empty, yet the balance wasn’t set to zero. He squinted towards the screen, turning back to Svadilfari with a soft grunt of confusion.

“Ah, boy. Inflation you see.” The man didn’t even give him the respect of hiding his devilish smirk. “Had to charge more, especially on your regular late fee.”

Quiet anger seethed in the young man, waiting for the inevitable rest of his words. He always offered this, he always wanted it.

The golden mirrored man pushed off from the elegant chair, clasping the pin-striped suit’s buttons neatly as he closed the distance. “Sell your sleeve, Sleipnir.”

There it was, and right as those once kind hands grasped the boy’s shoulders, trapping him in place and under that terrifying gaze. A delusional man would think he was brave, staring down the eyes that threatened to pluck him right from the very skin he wore. Truthfully, the son was always terrified of the father. As a child, as a teen, and even now, as an adult.

Hands balled into fists as he seethed. It took every single ounce of courage the weak boy had to muster it, but he did, just as every time before. Breaking the eye contact, he shook his head no.

“How many times have we been over this.” The false father growled, the grip on the boy’s shoulder with barely restrained rage. They had been over this time and time again, the incoming speech that often was delivered with a calm before the storm. False Father’s mouth opened for a mere moment before he drew a knife of air through his teeth, snapping the brittle tension with a deranged smile.

The shift caught the boy off guard, and where his eyes had found themselves digging holes in the wall behind his tormentor readying himself to withstand a beating, they snapped to his face in stark confusion. That mask must have broken, for the change in the boy’s demeanour brought nothing but illicit joy from Svadilfari.

“I have a far better offer for you, especially now that you consider yourself a man.”

*-*-*

[two-bits-smile]

sorry for not posting but forever in love with how dallas joined the rumble anyway like thats such a fucking dallas thing to do i wouldve been so mad if he stayed put in that damn hospital even after taking two-bit's beloved switchblade while shit went down

[some-of-us-watch-the-sunset-too]

hi!! i understand if you don’t feel comfortable writing this but could you maybe do a lil thing where someone from the gang realizes reader tried to like. die. and the gang kinda comforts them? again u don’t need to lol

Mental health with the boys

A/N: i’ve got these two asks that are kinda similar so i’m gonna write a bit of a combination of the two. i’ll also say i’m not very yk- all knowing when it comes to this stuff so i’m only taking from my own experiences.

Tags: angsty fluff maybe?

if you told him you were struggling with your mental health Darry would most likely be the most sensible of the boys in the sense that he’d help you find a therapist over just helping you deal with stuff himself. he’d always be there for you when you needed him and he’d help you come up with coping mechanisms. if it was an ED he might make a meal plan with you and you could come over to the curtis’ every evening for dinner if that helped you to eat. he wouldn’t put pressure to eat though of course.

Soda would be like darry in some ways but also he wouldn’t be in other ways. If he found out you were struggling he would be the most caring and supportive person ever in your healing journey. i honestly doubt that a therapist would be his first thought process but it might come a little later. i think he’d try to keep things lighthearted for the most part to try and help you maybe to forget your problems for a little while when you’re together.

Ponyboy, oh poor pony. he really wouldn’t know what to do, especially since he’s so young. he’d try to comfort you hand help as much as he can but he would most likely go to darry for advice on what to do. the one thing i think he’d do well is noticing when you’re getting anxious or something. maybe you tap your foot or bounce your knee, maybe you fiddle with your pen or switchblade or something. whatever it is he’d notice and when he does notice these things, he probably won’t say anything but he’d put his hand on your arm and then if he knew that you didn’t mind hugs when you were anxious he’d hug you.

Dally..as much as i wanna say “he’d be so supportive and always there for you blah blah blah” he wouldn’t really. i mean he’d try to understand but since he’s spent his whole life burying his emotions and ignoring his problems that he wouldn’t know where to begin when trying to help someone else. because of that he’d go to darry for help, so then like i said in darry’s section he’d help you find a councillor or a therapist or something. one thing that i like to think is that when you come home from your therapy sessions that you talk about stuff like coping mechanisms that you can use and then dal would start trying to use them. in some way, you’d be learning how to heal together.

Two-Bit ml, he’d be very different than you might think he would. i mean in the film specifically (in my opinion) he’s presented as always joking and quite frankly- dumb. in the book he is presented similarly but he has a few moments where he can get very philosophical even (dk if that’s the right word or not) when he talks about what life is like for the greasers. given these i think that Two would be very helpful, i honestly think that he secretly has his own stuff going on so he might be able to relate to how you feel and he would 100% help as much as possible. same as pony he’d notice what you do when you get anxious so he’d be first to help you when you do.

I love Steve but if you started crying in front of him he’d be so awkward. he doesn’t really- get sad. he gets angry instead. so he has no clue what to do when someone cries in front of him. he’d go to soda for help on what to do. then soda would go to darry and basically what he does it what darry would do. just like dally over time he’d start to adopt the coping mechanisms you learned and he’d start dealing with his own things too. he’d start journaling. don’t ask why, he just would.

Johnny…well as always with johnny im kinda stumped so ignore how bad this is ok? johnnys sweet, but he’s dealing with so much he just finds it hard to help you yk? you two would lay in the lot and vent to each other but i don’t know if either of you would help each other too much? i say maybe you would convince each other to get professional help n stuff though. in school you two would sneak off together if one of you needed to get away from everything for a bit. again like some of the others, you’d learn to heal together, only this time you’re both aware of it. unlike dal and steve who would try to hide it.

[d20owlbear]

A scuffle of shoes were muffled on cold, brick pavement; it was damp, and lights reflected at the end of a dirty alleyway from the street. They didn’t reach far past the initial grime.

The rustle of clothing accompanied a low grunt as a man was pushed forcefully against an equally cold brick wall, nearly as grimy as the ground if not for the occasional rain leaving rusty stains from fire escapes above. A solid wall of muscle behind him pinned him just as surely as the brick before him did, with his right arm twisted around against the small of his back and the left instinctively thrown out in front of him to cushion the fall.

It hadn’t been much of a fall, not with the way the person behind him had controlled every part of it. The whole thing had been poetry in motion, if he’d anything to say about it. The grab, the twist upon the fulcrum, the power and control and economy of movement! There was not a single bit of effort wasted–

“I have a knife.” The voice behind him was low, pleasantly so. A sharp point pressed against his back, just barely, just enough to feel it through the wool of his three-piece suit, and oh that took a good bit of knowledge and practice, didn’t it? Presuming he only wanted to frighten some poor sod, rather than actually harm them, and there was no indication this would-be-thief was in any way violently inclined at this time...

He hid his smile with a curl of his hand on the wall, and twisted his neck just enough to look back at the towering man behind him, eyes widening so that the whites showed enough he might even look a bit frightened while he was at it.

The man had a hat on, and a hoodie over that, both of them black, which was cliché enough to almost be cute. But it obscured his face well enough to work, so perhaps it was classic for a reason, he mused silently to himself. But the man had a surprisingly delicate jaw, which threw him for a bit, he’d been expecting something a bit more rugged or defined to go along with that voice, but this man seemed to have a more naturally rounded face, more rounded shoulders too instead of squared, now that his eyes wandered...

“Don’t move, and I won’t have to use it,” the man continued, “where is your wallet? Tell me.”

Pausing for a moment, he couldn’t help but tremble as he bit back a laugh. What a wonderful delivery! Well done!

The man behind him sighed, and the grip on his arm loosened, just a tad, almost unnoticeable really, though the pressure keeping him otherwise pinned to the wall hadn’t changed, and he said, almost comfortingly, “I won’t hurt you, just hand over your wallet, or maybe a watch instead if it’s valuable, and you can be on your way back home, unharmed.”

“Oh no, that’s not–” and at that point he couldn’t keep it in anymore and snorted a laugh that was entirely out of place. The man behind him paused, he couldn’t say the man quite froze—as he didn’t stiffen up or anything like that, it would have been easier to pull off the next move if he had, actually—and pushed off the bricks in front of him with his left hand while pivoting towards his right to face the taller man. From there it was simple enough to catch him off guard, loop a heel behind him to pull a foot out from under him, and then happily kneel down on one of the few drier spots in the alley to give the man a winning smile as he groaned.

“Oh, pardon me,” he said jovially, leaning over to tenderly pluck the switchblade out from the man’s hands, “I’ll just hold on to this for a moment. I’ll give it back in due time. Now, if you like, my watch is on my wrist, and I’m happy to give that to you. As for my wallet, it’s in my suit pant’s left, back pocket, but I daresay you’ll have to fetch that one yourself if you want it.” He tilted his head to the side and his eyes narrowed to crescents with the force of his, if he did say so himself, utterly charming smile.

The man on the ground blinked up at him slowly for a moment or two before groaning again and letting his head thunk down to the brick pavement.

“S’alright. Can’t say I want it much anymore.” The man shrugged, and threw his arms up to fold behind his head as a cushion, making himself comfortable, even going so far as to raise a knee up and then cross his leg over it, as if to say he was fine down there and wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, he wasn’t bothered by this turn of events.

“Well.” It was hard to keep the delight from his voice. And despite what he’d said about his wallet, he dug it out of his pocket anyway, and pulled a card from it, a business card to be exact. “My name is Savin Reep, please do give me a call. I’ll be waiting.”

Savin stood with another smile, and pushed his hair back out of his face from where it’d fallen free from its previously slicked-back appearance, and casually walked back out of the alley and merged into the after-work commute back home as if he were any other office worker on any other Tuesday night.

And he would be, waiting, that is. Even if that’s not all he would be doing, he’d be waiting too.

The man would have to come find him to get his wallet back, after all...