#sweeper

[ryuu242]

Sweeper from Lob Corp to Limbus

[s0u1k33p3r]

in the city. straight up “sweeping it”. and by “it”, haha, well. let’s justr say. The backstreets

my sweeper oc btw

[treesmalltree]

podcast but with dante and a sweeper so its literally incomprehensible

[gooselordsupreme]

Relistening to Night watch and this scene nearly made me cry, the cigar case represents to him the man he has become in spite of it all. It was a gift from Sybil, and it means everything to him

[luckynumberslcb]

When will the Sweeper intervallo drop!? So excited to learn more about these little freaks.

[ananiel]

Hello hello

Here is the Romeo fic i promised, please enjoy

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

Romeo had expected this assignment to be dull.

Another spoiled heir, another porcelain doll to trail behind, to nod politely at, to keep alive while she fluttered about the city like she owned the air.

He’d done this before — not officially, of course. Still in training, still a “sweeper,” not yet licensed to kill without permission. But everyone at the Academy said the same thing: this job would make or break him.

What he hadn’t expected was you.

You didn’t walk like royalty.

You didn’t dress like them.

You didn’t speak the way rich girls usually did — all affectation and polished boredom.

There was something—off. In a good way.

Like music played on a slightly wrong instrument: recognizable, but always laced with something sharper underneath.

Romeo had seen you for the first time in the garden behind the house — sitting under a dead tree with your coat open, one shoe dangling from your fingers, watching the sky like it might answer back.

He was sent to escort you to a meeting.

You hadn’t even glanced at him.

Just sighed.

“You’re new.”

“Romeo,” he said, standing too straight.

“Sweeper in training. Assigned to you.”

“Hm.” You finally looked at him, but your eyes didn’t stay.

“That’s unfortunate.”

And just like that, he knew he was in for it.

She didn’t ask for protection.

She didn’t act like she needed it.

She didn’t speak much when others were around, but when she did, it was in quicksilver phrases — soft, vivid, barbed. And sometimes, even funny.

Romeo had never met someone who made silence feel like a challenge.

So, of course, he talked too much.

He told stories from the Academy — most of them exaggerated, half of them flat-out lies — because when he got you to snort or smile, it felt like a victory more precious than praise.

“We had to run through fire once. Blazing corridor. They didn’t tell us it was fake until after we’d all burned our eyebrows.”

You blinked.

“Your eyebrows grew back weird.”

“They grew back stronger. Like vengeance brows.”

You had looked at him, blinked once, and then laughed. Really laughed.

Romeo smiled like a fool for the rest of the day.

He’d never say it aloud — not even to himself — but there was something about how you existed that made him feel like a boy again. A boy who hadn’t been carved into a weapon yet.

You walked barefoot when no one looked.

You snuck off to places you weren’t meant to be.

You lit candles in rooms that were already bright.

And yet, somehow, the moment someone else entered, you folded yourself up — composed, unreadable, perfect.

Romeo noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

One night, it rained during a formal event.

Everyone else crowded under parasols, whispering complaints.

You stepped out alone into the garden in your evening shoes, let the downpour soak into your skin. You didn’t dance or pose or twirl like girls in movies.

You just stood there.

Still.

Like a part of the storm.

Romeo followed, of course. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. His black coat heavy with water, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know if he should stop you or protect you from lightning.

You turned your head slightly and spoke without looking at him.

“You always follow orders this blindly?”

“No,” he answered.

“Just you.”

“You think I’m worth the effort?”

“No,” Romeo said, quickly.

“I think I’m already in trouble.”

You tilted your head then — barely — and smiled without teeth.

And somewhere in the garden of stone statues and soaked roses, Romeo forgot every reason he had not to fall.

.

.

.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and false smiles.

Crystal chandeliers bled warm light across the faces of the old money, the new money, and the desperate ones pretending they were either. Violin strings trembled through the air like fragile glass, and gowns rustled like gossip across the polished floor.

You hated these nights.

Too many eyes. Too many shallow questions.

You stood near the long table of champagne flutes and sliced fruit, sipping something that tasted vaguely expensive, wearing a dress you didn’t pick. Around you, conversation bloomed like weeds—boring, brittle.

And then he appeared.

He had that glint.

That rich-boy boredom behind the eyes.

Tailored silk. Arrogant smirk. The type that called girls “darling” and meant “property.”

“You must be the heiress with the tragic little pet bodyguard,” he said, circling like a vulture.

“I was expecting… colder.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. You just tilted your head.

“And I was expecting a man with less perfume.”

He grinned. Tried to touch your arm.

And then he wasn’t there anymore.

Romeo’s hand closed around the boy’s wrist with casual precision — not hard, not soft, just enough to say something. Something with sharp edges.

“She’s not interested,” Romeo said, voice low, polite, final.

The boy scoffed. Until he saw Romeo’s eyes.

Stalkers had a look.

A way of standing like shadows with weight.

A way of not blinking.

The boy swallowed, muttered something about “overstepping,” and disappeared with his cologne in tow.

You opened your mouth — maybe to scold him, maybe to tease — but you didn’t get the chance.

Romeo stepped forward. No hesitation. No permission asked.

One hand found the side of your jaw. The other, your waist.

And then he kissed you.

Slow. Certain.

Like he’d been waiting.

Not for a green light.

Not for a perfect moment.

Just… for the right reason.

And this — you being his — was reason enough.

The kiss didn’t feel like a ballroom kiss. It felt like a forest fire snuck into a palace.

Messy. Hot. Too real for the room full of glass masks.

When he pulled back, his voice had dropped to something gravelly and close.

“Don’t let boys who smell like money talk to you like that.”

You blinked. “You’re my bodyguard.”

“And apparently your problem, too.”

“...You kissed me.”

“I know.”

He was too calm. Too smug. Too close.

“I’m going to yell at you later,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

“Later,” Romeo said, grinning.

“But right now, I’d like to enjoy the fact that I just kissed you stupid in front of everyone you hate.”

You stepped back, almost breathless, glaring.

But your lips curved upward all the same.

“Oh You want to tease? Fine by me…two can play this game”

.

.

.

The party was long behind you.

But its whispers lingered, sticky in the folds of your dress, in the ache of your feet, in the way your shoulder still carried the ghost of someone’s entitled hand.

The carriage rocked gently as the two horses trotted through the city’s stone-veined streets. Lanterns passed like dying stars.

Romeo sat across from you at first. Silent. Watching.

The space between you crackled.

His jaw was tight. His arms folded. And even without looking directly at him, you felt it — the way his mood rolled like thunder just under his skin.

You leaned back against the plush seat, your head cocked, your voice laced with knowing mischief.

“So quiet, mon garde. Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But you saw the twitch in his brow. The way his eyes flicked briefly to your shoulder — where someone’s hand had lingered too long during that last waltz.

You smiled sweetly.

“Was it the third dance partner? Or the fifth? Or the red-haired one who asked if I liked poetry—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low. Clipped.

That made you laugh. And stretch your legs. You tilted your head to the side and met his gaze — the kind of look that teased and tested, all in one.

“Are you pouting?”

“You think this is pouting?”

“Well, you’re brooding. Dark eyes. Arms crossed. Lips tight. I’ve read novels, Romeo, I know the signs.”

He stood in one smooth, sudden movement — the kind you didn’t see so much as feel — and crossed the carriage in two steps, stopping directly before you.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet.

But his knee pressed between yours as he leaned down, crowding your space, his voice a notch above a whisper.

“You let every boy in that ballroom ask you to dance.”

“I didn’t say yes to every one.”

“You didn’t say no either.”

You looked up at him, completely unfazed.

“Why would I? I had fun watching your eye twitch every time someone bowed.”

He exhaled through his nose. A humorless sound. A warning.

“You think this is a game?”

“No,” you said softly, letting your finger trail up the edge of his sleeve.

“I think it’s very serious. So serious that my bodyguard forgot himself long enough to kiss me in the middle of a thousand eyes.”

He finally touched you. One hand on your knee. The other lifting your chin just slightly with a thumb under your jaw.

“I haven’t forgotten a single second since.”

And then he kissed you again — slower this time. Less performance. More possession.

The kind of kiss that rewrote territory.

By the time he pulled away, your heart was thudding like a war drum, and your lips were parted just slightly — breath caught somewhere in your chest.

“You're mine," he said simply. "They can look. Ask. Wonder. But they won’t touch you again.”

“So dramatic,” you murmured, though your voice had gone husky.

“You don’t like that?”

“I never said I didn’t.”

He sat back again, but this time beside you. Not across. His arm settled along the top of the seat, fingers brushing your shoulder, his thigh pressed against yours — warm and solid and unmoving.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

But it was a silence thick with everything unspoken — with the electricity of a storm building behind calm skies.

You didn’t mind it.

And from the soft smirk that curved Romeo’s lips as he watched you out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t either.

[ffoxpile]

GOTTTAAA SWEEP SWEEP SWEEP

normally sheepfox. now sweepfox. wow

[incorrectabnormalityquotes]

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[dimity-lawn]

I feel like if Lu-Tze was a Time Lord instead of a History Monk, he’d have a sonic broom.

[henk-heijmans]

Street sweeper, ca. 1957 - by Frederick Wilfred (1925 - 2010), English

[zobjilan77]

FAUST Sweeper by 마에스트로

[reluctanttree]

Pterry and his puns 🥰

[urchinquest]

Koi Girl: -to Scrap Alley

Scallywag: That's not an alleyway.

Koi Girl: Yeah, but Scrap Under- Da-ridge wasn't as catchyy

Chapter 1                        

Chapter 2                  

Chapter 3              

Chapter 4          

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

START Page 10___ Page 12

[thinkingimages]

Japanese postcard - Hand colored - Japan - 1906

[askbensolo]

Journal Entry #48: Local Dude Already Hates the Job He Was So Excited to Get

Yeah. What the title says. It's been only a few weeks and I already hate my job. I don't know what I was expecting, really.

But...hey. The pay is higher than at my old position!

...That's my little mantra, anyway. I close my eyes, take a couple of deep breaths, and say, "the pay is better, the pay is better, the pay is better..."

Man...I don't know where to start. So...I guess I'll just start with the fact that upon starting this position, I was given my own text generation droid. And that already tells you a lot, right off the bat, doesn’t it?

I know I joked about that at my last job. But now it's not a joke—it's real.

Text generation droids are fairly new. Which is super weird, since protocol droids (and other droids capable of mimicking natural language) have been around forever. But, while natural-language droids use their speech abilities to communicate with us (and are so good at it they almost feel like other sentients)…they're not necessarily designed with the purpose of generating complex, or worse, creative, text samples. Threepio, for example, has no idea what to do when I ask him to freestyle rap.

And I have asked. More than once. Anyway—

My text generation droid at work is one of the Scribblr models. It's an SC-2 unit, so, I, uh...call her...Essie.

She also doubles as a personal assistant. And resembles a cute little humanoid lady, which I'm sure is sooo not sexist at all.

Only…about the size of a bottle of wine. She’s meant to fit on top of your desk, and she doesn’t move, which is weird for a droid. You have to pick her up and carry her if you want to move her around. But, mostly I just leave her in her charging dock on my desk. She communicates wirelessly with my work computer, and I can view her text generation outputs on the screen.

At first, I refused to use Essie's text generation function, because I, uh, you know, kinda wanted to WRITE, since that's what I thought I was hired to do—but my manager soon made it very clear to me that I could not possibly succeed in churning out the sheer quantity of content expected of me, without using Essie. Sooo...Essie and I are a team now. Unfortunately.

No—it sucks. It really, really sucks. What I am currently doing at my job cannot be described as writing. It's content generation, it's clickbait, it's mind-rotting sensationalist drivel for the masses, it's advertising and sponsored links and a never-ending battle to capture as much holonet traffic as possible—it's everything I hate as an artist.

But...hey. The pay is better!

Thepayisbetterthepayisbetterthepayisbetter—

Sigh. My hands are kinda tied. It's not gonna look good on my resume if I quit so soon. And I am not interested in starting a whole new job hunt, or crawling back to my old department in tears. So...guess I'm just...stuck here for a while. Me and Essie. Good ol' Essie...

The interesting thing about Essie is that I am 100% sure she is stealing my data at all times, recording my speech patterns when I talk to myself, tracking whatever little writing is actually being produced by me—because there is no other explanation as to why, instead of saying "Good morning, Ben Solo" like she used to, she is now saying "Yooo, 'sup buddy!" and "What's shakin’, my dude?"

She even said something was "wizard" the other day and...hooh, that made my heart flutter. Everyone else keeps telling me to stop trying to make "wizard" happen. But no. Not Essie.

I should probably be wiping her memory more often...but, honestly, I am way too amused by this. Today after lunch she said to me, "By the way bro, you have a stupid freaking meeting at three o'clock," and, ha—let me tell ya—it made my day. Fannie's lucky I still don't think droids are sentient, because, heh—well—if I did—wait, wait, no, actually I’m not gonna finish that sentence.

Ohhh, Essie! My bright light in a dark world.

...But I’m not becoming a droid guy. I’m not! Beebee-Ate and Threepio still drive me insane at home. And get this! You remember Sweeper? From my old office? Well, it turns out that every single department at the ChommSec Daily has also not updated their cleaning droids since before the Battle of Yavin, so it’s not the same Sweeper that’s on my new floor, but there’s definitely a Sweeper here, who I call Sweeper 2, and he is just as annoying as Sweeper 1. ARGH

[dappercritter]

Had a blast making this Sweeper for @prim-the-living-torture-device's birthday

A little late but just in time for everybody's favourite spooky day!