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qlala · 23 days

Note

Whump prompt requests?? :o Pretty please can I request Barry gets kidnapped and Len finds him tied up? (Do want: muzzle/gag, handcuffs. Don't want: pet p!ay, established relationship)

i think this is the only prompt i've ever gotten with a detailed list of wants and don't wants, and you know what? i love clear instructions

the devil you know (coldflash, 5.6k, rated M)*

(*note: this fic makes implied reference to threats of SA/noncon, but none occur)

When Iris West tracked Len down three days into the Flash’s latest disappearance, Len sent her on her way with a shrug. He didn’t know or particularly care where Barry was, and he privately doubted Iris’s insistence that Barry wouldn’t have gone off anywhere without telling his team first.

Still, he made an idle mental note to follow up if another week passed without any sign of him. Making that promise out loud might’ve gone a long way in wiping away some of the bitter disappointment out of Iris’s eyes as she left, but Len had a reputation to protect.

Besides, Barry had a bad habit of popping up in Len’s life at the most inconvenient time possible. Ten days without the Flash interfering in any heists or Len’s attempts to follow the hockey playoffs undisturbed? He wasn’t that lucky.

Four days later, a meta-snatcher tossed someone down onto the ground in front of Len's chair in handcuffs, a black hood, and very little else, and Len's first thought was that being right all the time was exhausting.

Narrow hips and shoulders, a lean and powerful body (although, underfed as he looked at the moment, that balance tipped closer to just lean), long legs folding under him as he settled uncomfortably—if prettily—onto his knees before sitting back on his heels.

The concrete floor couldn’t have been comfortable. Len had put together the de facto throne room they were in precisely for meetings like this. It sat at the heart of a creaking warehouse abandoned at the edge of the docks, largely off the CCPD’s radar given the overwhelming impression that it was going to slide into the river with the slightest gust of wind. (Len encouraged that impression at every opportunity; he liked to post Mardon up on the roof to howl a few well-timed gusts of wind through the corroded metal walls during particularly lucrative negotiations. It made people antsy, and antsy people made worse deals.)

He’d emptied the place of everyone except for himself and Mick for the evening’s entertainment, though. Call it a hunch; meta-snatching had largely dried up in the past couple of years. Most of the meta-humans with both valuable powers and common sense had already aligned themselves with one big player in Central City or the other—never mind that the distinction felt increasingly like choosing sides for a scrimmage. What mattered was that neither the Rogues nor Team Flash took kindly to their allies getting grabbed off the street, and meta-snatchers had learned quickly and painfully that they were better off finding safer professions.

Of course, it helped that most meta-humans had also developed a healthy fear of the few meta-snatchers still bold enough or desperate enough to stay in the game. Len had taken that night’s meeting for the same reason that trophy hunters set traps on the edge of their own camps; the bolder the animal, the bigger the teeth.

When the meta-snatcher pulled the black hood off with a flourish, Barry didn’t even have the good grace to look chagrined.

“My, my,” Len drawled, settling back into his chair with a slow smirk. “What big teeth you have.”

It was too perfect to resist; he’d had the line ready even before he’d seen the muzzle, and he hadn’t landed on the top of Central’s food chain by ignoring chances landing in his lap like that.

It was stark black leather, something Len would’ve expected to find in a very particular kind of club and not a meta-snatchers toolkit. He wondered idly if they’d had to improvise; a week of Barry Allen bitching his ear off, he sure as hell would’ve reached for the nearest gag, too.

And it did seem to be functioning as a gag. It was well made from a single piece of leather, the breathing vents cut into the sides clearly designed not to allow enough give for the wearer to actually open their jaw. It fit snugly over Barry’s mouth and nose, looped securely over his ears, and came together in a heavy buckle on the back of his head. With the way it just skimmed the line of Barry’s high cheekbones, it was nearly a perfect inverse of the Flash’s usual mask.

It was a better look than the cowl. Shame Barry would probably drop him in Iron Heights for suggesting that he take inspiration from the meta-snatcher’s fashion choice.

Based on the flatly unimpressed look Barry was leveling him over the mask, Len was going to have to put that one on the back burner for a while.

A quiet snort from Len’s right pulled his attention momentarily to Mick. Barry was lucky Mick hadn’t boomed a laugh the second the hood had come off; the plausible deniability that he and Len didn’t know who the Flash was under the mask was wearing thin enough as it was.

Mick leaned against the side of Len’s chair and rumbled, too quiet to carry, “And it ain’t even your birthday.”

The meta-snatcher cleared his throat self-importantly and Len flicked him a glare as he pulled his smirk under control. He was some distant relative of the Santinis, which made it all the more idiotic that he’d been poaching metas on turf that Len had chased the rest of his family off of years ago. Len had disregarded his first name as soon as he’d heard it; he didn’t plan on needing it.

“He bite?” Len asked, pushing himself lazily out of the chair.

Santini tucked the hood into his back pocket, clearly sensing a sale, and backed up a few steps in the universal invitation to inspect the wares.

“Nah,” he said, conversational now that Len was showing interest. "I muzzle anything with a meta gene. That’s from experience. I caught one once, she could literally talk someone's ear off. And I mean literally. It would shrivel up and just..." He mimed a splat.

Barry’s dark shock of hair was sticking up wildly around the straps of the muzzle, and Len could see a purple bruise blooming just over the edge of the leather at one temple. However they’d gotten the thing on him, he’d put up a fight.

A hell of a fight, Len corrected himself, as he got close enough to get a proper look at Barry in the dim light. There were more bruises mottling his skin further down, and they weren’t showing any signs of healing. Len couldn’t see what kind of cuffs were holding Barry’s arms behind his back, but he would’ve put money on power dampeners.

"Meta gene, hm?” Len reached out and trailed his fingers through the air a scant inch above Barry’s mussed hair, just to feel the novel lack of static humming around him. "What can it do?"

The glare Barry shot him at the word "it" looked awfully annoyed for someone who was supposed to be in fear for his life, and Len raised an imperious eyebrow back.

“Tests can’t really tell you that,” Santini said, patronizing enough that Len cut him a warning look. He put his hands up, an easy surrender. “...as you know,” he tacked on, mollifying. “I’ll tell you, though. He burnt through the first two pairs of cuffs we put on him. Whatever it is, he’s packing heat.”

Len snorted. There were understatements, and there were understatements. The man had hooked a great white shark and thought he was selling an unusually bitey tuna.

It gave Len exactly the information he’d needed to know, though. He hadn’t really thought Barry’s identity had been compromised, not with the way Santini had shown up alone, unarmed, and without several other bidders in tow.

He expected some kind of cheek from Barry, a tilted head that said “I told you so,” muzzle or not. Maybe even Barry pushing to his feet once Len got close enough, overly confident that Len would uncuff him and the game would be up.

But Barry only tipped his head back to hold Len’s gaze as he sauntered toward him, and he didn’t stir from where he was kneeling.

Len ignored the clear attempt at eye contact and began pacing a wide circle around him, appraising. It left Barry with the option to either twist to follow him or give up, and Len had to tamp down a smirk at the churlish way Barry snorted under the muzzle as he swung his head around to face forward again.

Up close, though, Len’s amusement began to evaporate. Barry didn’t look like he could stand.

Power dampener cuffs were clamped tight around his narrow wrists, as expected. Homemade, but not shoddily so—Santini was an ambitious amateur. Bruises spanned the range from purple-black to fading yellow-green, the Flash’s missing week accounted for.

Even with their more recent, less murder-y history, he expected Barry to have enough of a survival instinct to tense when Len passed behind him, some kind of instinctual response to having his back to someone who had once made it his life’s mission to kill him.

Instead, as soon as Len’s path put him between Barry and Santini, Barry relaxed.

Len’s feet stilled without permission from his brain. He waited for the trick, but none came. The longer he watched, the slower Barry’s too-sharp shoulder blades rose and fell, breath evening out, chin sinking by degrees towards his chest, like he’d finally allowed a week’s worth of exhaustion to catch up to him at once.

Like he finally thought he was safe.

Something dangerously close to alarm spiked through Len’s chest at the thought, and it took everything in him to repress the instinct to rear back a step.

He shoved the panic down instead, held it under until it drowned, and got ahold of himself. The annoyance that bloomed in the aftermath, on the other hand, was welcome.

Barry and his stupid, endless, goddamn faith that Len was a good man. He’d always trusted him too much. But up until now, Len had had the plausible deniability that it was only because Barry was counting on his powers in the event that Len did betray him.

Now, he was faced with the unfortunate reality that things were far worse than he’d let himself believe. It was his fault, really. Barry trusted too easily; it was an immutable part of who he was. Len had watched people wriggle close enough to Barry to sink their knives in his back too many times to count. None of it made a difference, not in the long term.

But usually, Barry seemed to limit himself to second chances, even if he did give them out too freely. There were plenty of people in Iron Heights—hell, in the ground—who had used that second chance to take another stab at him, only to find that Barry’s patience had hard limits.

Len, on the other hand, had let himself become something unacceptable. An exception. From the moment he’d failed to shoot Barry with his father’s thumb on the trigger that could’ve killed Lisa, he’d become a permanent lesser of two evils. Len didn’t even know what chance he was on, but he had passed second long ago.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, people said. That was Len: Barry’s devil of choice, every time. Len had enjoyed it for a while, no sense in lying to himself about that. He liked the snarls of annoyance when he turned the cold gun on Barry’s other problems, let it stroke his ego that Barry had chosen him over them.

But he’d let it go too far. Because Barry, it seemed, had forgotten a crucial part of what that saying meant. He’d forgotten Len didn’t play on the side of the angels.

Lucky for him, Len was going to enjoy reminding him.

Len forced himself to move again. His gaze lingered on the bruises as he finished circling Barry, despite his best efforts. The worst of it was centered on Barry’s left shoulder, where a hazy ring of deep purple suggested a dislocated—and subsequently relocated—shoulder. He also had a nasty bruise ricocheting over several ribs, and Len watched him breathe for a careful moment. A slow, measured inhale, then a slight hitch and quick, almost involuntary exhale; at least one of them was broken.

Len’s carefully curated annoyance was already simmering rapidly and unacceptably toward anger when he caught sight of the marks wrapped around Barry’s upper arm. He’d missed them at first glance, easily lost next to the darker mottling from the dislocated shoulder. But the shape of it was unmistakable: four parallel lines around the strong curve of his bicep—a handprint.

Someone else’s handprint.

Len caught the thought by the throat before it made him round on Santini. He shoved the thought, snapping and hissing, back into the possessive corner of his mind it had escaped from, and barred the door after it.

Barry’s surrender had knocked something off-kilter in Len’s brain, sent boxes he’d kept carefully bolted shut spilling open with the impact. Barry may have been his problem, but that was the only “his” that he was.

And Barry was only his problem because he’d got himself caught by a two-bit amateur with some jerry-rigged tech. A few bruises were the least he deserved; the only reason he was alive was because that two-bit amateur had dumped him at Len’s feet and not someone else’s.

Still, a nasty thought was churning in the back of Len’s mind, and he had to put both hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for the cold gun. He wanted an honest answer out of Santini, not whatever he thought Len wanted to hear. The truth mattered; he needed to know how many pieces the man would be leaving the warehouse in.

“Looks a little worse for wear,” Len drawled, forcing his tone light and sardonic. “Got a discount for damaged goods?”

“Aw, fuck off,” Santini lobbed back, oblivious and good natured. “So he got a little banged up in transit. I told you, he didn’t like the cuffs. He dislocated his own shoulder trying to get out of ‘em. Not my fault. Hell, I put it back in for you.”

“Not what I was talking about.” Len slid a pointed glance down Barry’s body—miles of freckled skin, very little else—then looked back at Santini. He didn’t lift an eyebrow; he didn’t have to.

“Oh, the underwear?” Santini scoffed. “I deal in weapons, Cold, not skin. Too messy. Kid’s got every stitch of clothing and virtue he had when I found him, swear on my mother. Besides, he’s not my type.”

The generous two-handed gesture Santini made in front of his own chest didn’t impress Len, but it was crude enough that he took him at his word. He’d suspected as much, regarding the clothes. Barry may have been stupid enough to get himself caught by a meta-snatcher, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get caught and stay in the Flash suit. Whatever trap he’d stumbled into, he’d must’ve had time to throw the suit into some dark corner. No wonder his team hadn’t been able to track him down.

That unpleasant matter behind them, Len rolled his shoulders back, settling in for another slow circle around Barry. The business portion of the evening was wrapping up, at least as far as he was concerned. He had the information he needed from Santini, and all that was left was to remind Barry that if the meta-snatcher was the frying pan, he was the fire.

If his first perusal had been business, the second was… well. Call it an advance on the clean-up fee he was going to charge Barry for handling Mr. Virtue over there.

Barry lifted his head as Len started to circle again, tilted it slightly in unspoken question. The muzzle was inspired, Len would give Santini that. Barry had sure as hell never held his tongue for so long in Len’s presence of his own volition.

Len could hear the list of complaints he’d be in for once he took it off: thanks for leaving the cuffs on for so long, those were comfortable—you know, they sell this new technology nowadays, it’s called an area rug—probably with a dig about his age, while he was at it.

Len banished the thoughts and the grin that was threatening. Christ, maybe Barry was right. He was getting soft if he was laughing at just the idea of Barry crabbing at him.

He reached for his earlier determination, instead. He tilted his head with a collector’s eye as he tightened the circle, close enough to touch.

Barry really did have freckles everywhere, more than Leonard had imagined in the occasional privacy of his own thoughts. Constellations of them between the colorful galaxies of bruises painted over his leanly-muscled shoulders, his chest, stomach, carelessly parted thighs. There was even a pair of them right on the dimples of his lower back, where Len’s thumbs would’ve fit like the space had been made for them.

It was a tempting thought. Pressing his own claim into Barry’s body, maybe covering up that hand-shaped bruise with one of his own. He was the one playing big bad wolf now, after all. And with both of them dressed for the part: Len, with the fur collar of the parka brushing his jaw, and Barry in those little red shorts. They left absolutely nothing to Len’s imagination, a delicious payoff to years of idle wonderings about what the Flash wore under that suit.

Something of the thought must’ve shown on Len’s face, because Barry looked decidedly less patient when Len caught his eye again. He glanced pointedly back behind himself, then back up again, as if Len weren’t perfectly aware that he wanted the power dampener off.

Barry wasn’t the only impatient one. Santini clapped once, businesslike, and began walking closer. “You just window shopping today, or—?”

Len cut him off with a look, winning him back silence and space as Santini course-corrected with a gracious “after you” gesture and ceded ground again.

A week in a cage clearly hadn’t been enough to break Barry’s pride, let alone his spirit. The muzzle was probably the only thing that had kept the meta-snatchers from realizing who he was. Barry would’ve snarked their ears off no matter what they did to him; he’d taken too many hits to be afraid of a little pain. And even with how stupid Santini was, the bared teeth and complete contempt would’ve added up to Central’s apex predator eventually.

The thought was a butane lighter to the sparks of arousal in Len’s veins. It was unfortunate that he wouldn’t be able to take the muzzle off while Santini was still breathing down their necks. He would’ve liked to see the fear in his eyes when he realized the enormity of the mistake he’d made. Delivering the Flash bound and gagged to the one man in the city who had something of a gentleman’s agreement with him…

Len hummed, a little wistful, as he reminded himself that said gentleman’s agreement precluded him from hauling Barry up to sit in his chair and slitting Santini’s throat at his feet.

But he let the idea of it linger, knew that it would darken his eyes as he skimmed another lingering look down Barry’s body.

And there, finally—a hint of wariness in Barry’s eyes when Len bothered dragging his gaze up from the dark hair that trailed temptingly down Barry’s lower stomach and disappeared under his waistband. Beginning to remember, maybe, that Len didn’t work for free.

Len pushed his advantage while he had Barry off-balance. He drew his hands from his pockets, slowly, casually, and held them up at Barry’s eye level. He was wearing gloves, as he always did when conducting business. No point in keeping the cold gun strapped to his thigh if he wasn’t going to be ready to use it. The gloves were a helpful and very visible reminder of that.

When he was sure he still had Barry’s attention—and he did, something unreadable passing across Barry’s eyes as they darted between Len’s hands—Len turned one hand toward himself, brought the other to its fingertips, and then slowly, one finger at a time, began teasing the glove off.

Barry tracked the movement with his eyes without prompting, giving Len a quickly-dismissed impulse to reward him. A quizzical furrow formed between his brows, and he stole a single glance up and risked a quick, faint tilt of his head to one side. Confused, yes, but not combative. The difference between “What are you doing?” and “What the hell are you doing?”

It was Len’s turn to feel an annoyed burn of impatience. Barry was on his knees in front of a convicted killer, bound and gagged and stripped to his skin, and Barry still thought this was all part of a plan. Len had killed three men in front of Barry—and counting. The only plan he had now was finding out how far that stupid, blind trust could bend until it broke.

Len finished drawing the glove off slowly, and in the quiet of the room, nothing but the distant sounds of the river rolling past outside, he was certain Barry heard the rasp of leather over skin.

Barry’s attention fractured as Len watched. His gaze flicked up from the glove for a single, distracted glance at Len’s eyes. Just below the line where the muzzle dug into the underside of Barry’s jaw, his throat bobbed on a swallow.

Good, Len thought. Nervous was the first step toward suspicious, and suspicious might just keep Barry alive.

Len looked away with easy disinterest, settling his attention to Barry’s unbruised shoulder. Barry sat up straighter as Len reached out with the glove in his hand, a hitch in his breath visible in the stuttering rise of his bare chest.

When Len laid the glove out on the bare, unmarked skin there, Barry twitched like Len had stuck him with a knife.

Almost getting it, Len mused. Ignoring the urgent, searching flicker of green eyes in his direction, Len reached out with his newly bare hand and rested the tip of one finger just under the corner of Barry’s jaw.

The black leather there was butter soft and warm from Barry’s skin. Just as slowly as he’d pulled off the glove, Len stroked the finger up the line of Barry’s jaw, following the sharp edge of it through the muzzle. Only then did he slide his gaze back to Barry’s to watch the emotions dart through those pale eyes. Confusion, yes, then surprise, with another sharp inhale. And then, with the first flush of healthy color to Barry’s face since he’d been dragged in, understanding.

Yahtzee, Len thought with a smirk.

He didn’t give Barry a chance to pull away. He caught him with two fingers under the edge of the muzzle, hard, knuckles snug against his windpipe, and jerked his chin up.

Barry jolted with the movement, full-body, back arching to accommodate the sudden, demanding angle of his neck, the glove tumbling to the ground. Eyes wide, he made a sound behind the muzzle that might’ve been Len’s name if he’d been able to open his mouth enough to say it.

Somewhere behind Barry, Santini started to object, but he shut himself up before Len had to look his way again. Likely Mick had warned him off, a pointed hand on the heat gun’s handle, or the man had just remembered who he was dealing with.

Len held Barry there at attention, letting him hang off the hook of his fingers. Heady wasn’t a strong enough word for it. It was a level of control he hadn’t imagined even back before Barry became Barry, when the Flash was a problem to be solved and not a single facet of a more fascinating, infuriating whole. The hero of Central City helpless at his feet, stripped of that golden cloak of lightning he wore everywhere like armor…

And still not fighting Len an inch.

Barry’s chest heaved, breath coming quick and shallow, that broken rib apparently the furthest thing from his mind. When Len met Barry’s gaze, his own eyes narrowing in frustration, Barry’s were stunned and breathless. But still, no fear there.

Agitated, Len crooked his fingers tighter, forcing Barry’s chin up another inch. Barry’s lashes fluttered—maybe feeling that rib now, after all—and Len watched the muscles in his thighs flex as he nearly forced him up onto his knees.

Fight back.

Barry didn’t so much as twist in his grip, eyes half shut. With Len’s fingers hooked under the edge of the mask, he could feel the heat of Barry’s breaths, nearly panting now. His face and throat were stained pink, exertion clearly catching up to him, and Len wondered if the mask was starting to cut off air after all.

He loosened his grip and allowed Barry to relax back onto his heels. Barry’s breathing stayed ragged anyway, blush touching the top of his chest as Len frowned at the unreadable expression in his eyes, gone round and almost glassy.

When Len slipped his fingers free of the mask, Barry didn’t move an inch, head tipped back where Len had left it.

Len’s patience snapped, curling his gloved hand into a fist at his side. He could’ve snapped Barry’s neck in less than a second, bared to him like that, all fragile skin and sharp tendons. It would’ve been easy as breathing, and there would’ve been nothing that Barry’s powers or his little team could’ve done about it.

Len took a sharp step forward, closing the rest of the distance between them. It brought the front of his hips nearly flush with the muzzle, his boots between Barry’s knees, which were falling open a little further with every uneven breath.

It was—too much, frustration at the completely unearned trust, frustration that Barry had been reckless enough to get himself caught, both tangling confused with frustration at Barry. That even stripped and submissive on his knees in front of Len, offering him his throat, he was still the one goddamn thing Len wanted and couldn’t have.

Len should have conceded that his self-restraint was clinging on by a thread. He should have taken a step back, drawled something droll and amusing, and ended the night with his sanity intact.

Instead, Len curved a hand around either side of Barry’s neck and stroked them upwards slowly, deliberately.

How many ways could someone kill you just like this, Barry?

Barry’s throat worked under his hands and he shivered, hard, even as he tipped his head back further, giving Len more room to take advantage of. Barry made another, fainter noise behind the muzzle, half-swallowed as his throat bobbed.

One point to Len. Even Barry couldn’t miss the threat of Len’s fingertips pressed against the fragile bones of his neck.

Len lifted them to the edge of Barry’s jaw, followed the line of the straps around his ears, and then reached forward to trace the leather up until his fingers met at the buckle on the back of his head.

The movement brought the parka up on either side of Barry’s head, caging him in, hopefully adding to the claustrophobia of having Len so completely in his space. Len hooked a finger under the loop of leather where it passed through the buckle. He paused there, poised to pull it tighter, and was about to close his hand around the strap and tug when Barry did the one thing he wasn’t counting on.

He gave in.

All of the last remaining fight went out of those narrow shoulders at once, nearly unbalancing Len where he’d been bracing his wrists on the steady line of them.

Instead of using the opportunity to duck away—point made, Snart, let me out of this thing—Barry only swayed deeper into the circle of Len’s arms. Before Len could jerk backwards, half-certain that Barry was finally passing out—Barry brushed closer and rested his forehead against Len’s lower stomach.

For the space of two heartbeats, Len’s mind went perfectly blank. And then he realized, with a level of disbelief so incredulous that he could feel it bleeding against his will into respect, what Barry had just done.

He’d called Len’s bluff.

No suit, no speed, no backup, bound and gagged and as powerless as Len ever could have hoped to have him, and Barry had called his goddamn bluff.

Chips down, cards on the table, there was nothing else to do—Len took a step back.

Cold air rushed back between their bodies. Even with that dampener keeping his powers in check, Barry must’ve been a hundred degrees, and Len’s jaw ached against the loss of his heat instantly.

Barry fell back onto his heels, and Len didn’t wait for him to get his bearings. He hooked a finger through one of the ear loops, forcing the last shreds of anger into the movement, and jerked his head back up.

For the first time all night, Barry didn’t jolt to meet his gaze. Instead, he let three full seconds tick past before he lifted his eyes, as if looking up had been his idea all along. Hair disheveled, pupils nearly swallowing the thin green ring of his irises—

Barry smirked at him.

It was unmistakable, muzzle be damned, eyes narrowing in such viciously smug satisfaction that Len was torn between shoving him away or dragging him into a dark corner.

Len tightened his grip in the edge of the muzzle, on the brink of deciding, when a low whistle cut through the room.

“Well, shit. You really have got a way with ‘em, huh?”

Santini’s voice was an unwelcome reminder of the unfinished business Len had to attend to, and he dragged his gaze away from Barry only after a dark look, promising him that he’d deal with him next.

“Or maybe just with this one in particular,” Santini continued, grinning like he and Len had agreed on something. “Funny thing—he finally stopped burning through those cuffs when he overheard me tell my crew I was considering Cold as a buyer.”

Len slid his gaze back to Barry. Barry, who was looking anywhere but Len, apparently deeply interested in hearing anything Santini had to say for the first time since he’d dragged him through Len’s doors. Barry, who was still breathing hard and blushing to his roots. Barry, who was trying to draw his knees together even with Len still standing in between them.

“Did he, now?” Len asked.

The question wasn’t aimed at Santini, but he answered anyway.

“Mmm-hmm.” He rocked back on his heels, inclined his head to Len in a pantomime of tipping a hat. “You got a reputation for looking after yours, after all. He must’ve thought you’d have some use for him or another.” He flashed a salacious grin; his objections to the ‘skin game’ clearly ended where his sales instincts began. “I figured maybe the feeling was mutual, and you’d appreciate first dibs on the sale.”

Lips pulling into a sharp, predatory smirk, Len lifted the toe of one boot and planted it on the inside of Barry’s thigh. “I’m considering it.”

Len pushed Barry’s legs apart with ease. Barry’s color deepened, and he jerked his head like he had any chance in hell of jarring Len’s hand loose from the strap of the muzzle now. Len clicked his tongue in a light, mocking reprimand, and Barry flashed him a glare for it, even as he stopped twisting under his grip.

He didn’t fight it when Len drew his head to one side, far enough to give him an unimpeded view down the front of his body. The blush stretched halfway down his chest, past nipples that were hard and peaked like Len had just spent an hour teasing them with his tongue. He didn’t need to nudge Barry’s thighs wider to see the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining at the front of the red shorts, but he did it anyway, and was rewarded when it twitched at the demanding press of his boot.

“I’ll take him,” Len drawled, and Barry’s hips hitched forward as Len guided his legs apart another inch, pulling the thin material taut over his groin.

Across the room, Santini laughed. “I haven’t even told you how much.”

“Not paying.” Len didn’t bother looking up; Barry had lifted his gaze to him again, and Len was going to need a more compelling reason than a low level Santini to look away from the impatient heat in his eyes. “Mick?”

Mick strode past them without a glance. Santini took one stumbling step backwards, then did the first smart thing he’d done all day: turned heel and ran.

Something in Len’s smirk made Barry blink, brow furrowing. He said something behind the muzzle, chin lifting in a way he probably thought was authoritative, and came across entirely the opposite on his knees.

Len had heard the words “No killing” come out of that mouth enough times to recognize it from cadence alone, but he tugged Barry up by the muzzle instead, until he got the message and stumbled to his feet.

“Didn’t catch that,” Len drawled.

Barry looked ready to argue, as if he weren’t half-wrecked already, skin flushed, hair wild. But he did a distracted double-take when Len shrugged out of his coat, and his gaze went dark and intent as it slid down the dark clothes he was wearing underneath, shouts behind him forgotten.

“You can fill me in later,” Len said, turning away. He shucked his belt as he sauntered toward his chair, let the buckle ring when he dropped it to the concrete.

Barry was still standing indecisively in the middle of the room when Len settled into the chair with a comfortable sprawl, legs spread, boots wide. His gaze caught on the thick press of Len’s cock, hard against his jeans, and Len flashed his teeth at him in something too sharp to be a smile.

“Got somewhere to be, bolt cutters are in the workshop.” Len indicated a door to the side with a tip of his head, even as he moved his hand to the front of his jeans. “If not...”

He rubbed his thumb over the button of his jeans, enjoying the pressure against his cock—one slow circle, another. The third time, he slid the button free.

And Barry came willingly.

#ao3 link up soon <3 #thank you for giving me the challenge of writing barry as both a clever hero and a complete brat without speaking a single line of dialogue #it was genuinely extremely fun #coldflash #my fics #barry allen #leonard snart #please god tell me immediately if this line break stops working i don't want to inflict a 5.6k unskippable post on anyone

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thesiltverses · 4 months

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Hi Trawler crew!! I ofc had a question but want to start with saying that youre making such an amazing work!! Listened to silt verses right after finishing I am in Eskew and loved it immediatly and think your style really fits the work well. Really loving how the story develops and everyone is doing amazing from the sound to writing! As well as its a very good horror

Also was really entertaining considering i myself did find a river god and still am trying to find its ways to them(no humans sacrifices tho dw they dont like those) and appreciate their presence. Faulkner my boy.

But what i really came here for. English is not my first language and im truly learning it for four years tops(my lack of punctuation is like that in all languages i hardly get it) and i always enjoyed translating texts especually for friends who dont know english well. And i wondered if you could recommend some books/poems/whatevertexts that i could look into!! Besides i do trust your taste and would personally love to read them as well! Either way thanks for reading and hope everything goes well for everyone in the crew! Ur doing great

Hi and thank you so much for listening! Work in English that you could translate - gosh, I don't know. I've been recommending Heaney a lot here recently and I'm happy to go back to that well for this, because the language is often simple and soft and yet every word falls heavy and careful with meaning and portent and so there'll be a lot to consider in how you choose to translate it.

If you want a real challenge, try one of my favourites, Riddley Walker, which is written in devolved post-apocalyptic English and so has endless puns and inversions of language that you'd have to grapple with.

The Grauballe Man

As if he had been poured

in tar, he lies

on a pillow of turf

and seems to weep

the black river of himself.

The grain of his wrists

is like bog oak,

the ball of his heel

like a basalt egg.

His instep has shrunk

cold as a swan's foot

or a wet swamp root.

His hips are the ridge

and purse of a mussel,

his spine an eel arrested

under a glisten of mud.

The head lifts,

the chin is a visor

raised above the vent

of his slashed throat

that has tanned and toughened.

The cured wound

opens inwards to a dark

elderberry place.

Who will say 'corpse'

to his vivid cast?

Who will say 'body'

to his opaque repose?

And his rusted hair,

a mat unlikely

as a foetus's.

I first saw his twisted face

in a photograph,

a head and shoulder

out of the peat,

bruised like a forceps baby,

but now he lies

perfected in my memory,

down to the red horn

of his nails,

hung in the scales

with beauty and atrocity:

with the Dying Gaul

too strictly compassed

on his shield,

with the actual weight

of each hooded victim,

slashed and dumped.

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valoisfulcanellideux · 2 months

Text

The Greatbridge in its heyday

We all know it as this beautiful creation:

But I wanted to write about how it might have been in its heyday, when the Ancient Capital was alive and thronging with people. And so I did...

From These Stones Remember (ch.22) -

The great wooden gates lay up ahead, and beyond them he could see a bustle already arising. Carts rumbled past him, laden with wares, donkeys and llamas similarly packed with goods passed by more noisily. And, as he walked through the gates, the whole of the Greatbridge lay before him. Flanking the whole length of it, as far as he could see, stalls and stands were already set up and in the process of being stocked. Banners and pennants danced in the river breeze that also brought the scents of spices and incense smokes to him. Baskets and crates and sacks, fruits and grains and vegetables, the hot floury smell of flatbread baking in ovens, the mouth-watering sizzle of sides of pork turning over hot coals that nosed down from the far end of the bridge, the chatter and laughter of haggling already underway. To his left, a large balloon that floated in the air, tied down with rope. Occasional bursts of flame upwards into the stiffened cloth sphere made it rise to the limits of the rope, as well as the heavy net slung across the top of the sphere. Below it there hung a large square basket, from which burly men wearing brown leather breeches and white shirts handed down large crates to their colleagues on the ladder below, who cracked them open and set out their contents on tables and boxes. Stacks of books, both plain and with magical sheen, piled between shining ingots of pure iron. To his right, a great chirping, flapping, and squawking as a man and woman took birdcages from a small cart pulled by a third, hanging them beneath a joyously bright statue of a parrot. Two small children stood close by, hand-in-hand, watching and giggling. Beneath bright awnings, cooking oils by the jug and dried fruits by the waxen bag, seeds by the pouch for planting, buttons by the cone and ribbons by the measure of thumb to elbow. Beneath the llama statue, women crowded to haggle for the best and brightest from water-filled buckets of colourful flowers. Moving through the bustling crowd, delights at every turn, Paix gloried in the beauty and heart of humanity that thronged this place. Hawkers cried their wares, flattered and wheedled and flirted with their customers for another sale, jugglers and tumbling acrobats somehow managed to keep both a space about them and an entertained audience distracted before them. Devotees sang and sold wine and sugar beneath a floating quartz cupola that defied both gravity and sensibility. A redstone trickster held a small gaggle of onlookers rapt while his light-fingered accomplice relieved their pockets of coin. Mummers performed a comedic play, drawing roars of laughter from those crowded around their antics. Paix was offered samples of wine by the singing devotees, juicy hunks of roasted pork by odd little squat folk whose cloak hoods flared widely on either side of their heads and who tried to press him for an additional purchase of copper ingots, giggling when he demurred since he had nothing with which to pay them. More wine, followed by a hand thrusting a crescent-shaped meat pie toward him with a broad grin and a bellowed word that was lost amid the general clamour on the Greatbridge.

#pixlriffs #empires smp #empires s2 #esmp #esmp2 #esmpblr #the ancient capital #the greatbridge

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skippyv20 · 2 months

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Angels Wept

Wed AM 2nd try…I sent this in yesterday but understand you are very busy with Ellie recovering etc. Just thought it may have been lost in the wash…LOL

Hi Skippy & Friends-Well well welllllll…It is now being reported that the Paris Olympic organizers actually did title the tacky disrespectful part of the show “La Cene Sur Un Scene Sur La Seine ” The Last Supper on a Stage on the Seine.“ Another said the meaning of that translates to “A holy communion on a stage on the Seine”. Sooo, the Ivory Tower soulless elites can cry a river claiming we are ignorant about Greek history of Gods, but they cannot tap dance fast enough covering their humongous error of judgement, sliming the Olympics on opening night. They cannot say this is acceptable entertainment in the enlightened City of Lights and home of Notre Dame. They cannot shame us into thinking we are not cool enough to enjoy their idea of chic, night life shows. In reality, they could not help themselves from their own perversions on that tempting global stage, putting on a drag fashion show with gyrating “models” in offensive costumes in front of a sick representation of the Last Supper.

As a viewer mildly interested in what the French would produce for their opening extravaganza, which historically are outstanding, I decided to watch the NBC show, on mute most of the time, as I can’t tolerate the hosts talking nonsense. At first, my eyes were trying to keep up with the ever-changing images switching from hundreds of cameras faster than a speeding bullet. I could barely focus on vintage photos from historic Olympics when, like a slide show out of control, bam back to the boats…way out in the Seine, then, bam, zoom in to the players waving their flags frantically so they could be seen…then bam, back to the stage…what is that blue thing…yikes. Why is there a fat lady at the Olympics? I hope we don’t have to wait until she sings. With all this motion I was getting little seasick just like Serena!

As the images were flying by, my building excitement began to fizzle in the drizzle. Out of the gloaming came an ominous, hooded, lone rider on a galloping silver, robotic horse, skimming the water like Pegasus without the wings, carrying the Olympic flag to the grand finale. The sight sent a shiver down my spine as if this was one of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” bearing a dire message instead. The lone flame bearer became a gaggle of elders in white outfits shuffling towards a caldron on their last gasp. As a soaked real white horse clopped along, head down with a skeleton faced rider, this was not the beginning of international celebration of human physical excellence I was expecting. I wanted to give the French organizers who spent an insane amount of money on the show, credit trying to showcase Paris as a stage. I even tried to shrug off their idea of proper entertainment, but as a viewer, I just felt like a cat left out in the rain. Sadly, there was no warmth from a real Olympic flame as the balloon lite by lights, lifted off into the night.

Over and out from Cape Cod. Pilgrim-who does appreciate the efforts of the inspiring athletes.Referring to an article by Leslie Eastman in Legal Insurrection, “Olympics Back-tracks on offensive Drag Queen Opening Ceremonies Mocking Christians.”

Thank you so much. The Olympics have turned into a joke. I am so sorry this happened. All those athletes have worked so hard to get there, and this whole production was disgusting. I have a special place in my heart for Olympians. Christians are getting kicked at these days. This can’t be allowed to continue. God will NOT be mocked! Great post dear Pilgrim! Thank you for sharing…🙏🏻❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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starlightfireflies · 4 months

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long lost

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF254; horizon line warnings: none word count: 994

There is a commotion out by the castle at dawn, unusual at this time of day–and indeed, unusual for this new era of peace after the war.

I throw on my cloak and swing up onto my steed, making for the palace on the well-worn paths. Unlike most noble children, I am close to the royals. I can wander up to them and inquire about events the court would rather keep sealed and silent.

Most of my questions require a tad bit of prying. Today, however, I get my answer at first glance.

There is a small procession of guards walking outside of the palace. They carry the insignia of the royal family, but there are no royals in sight.

Then, two guards pull open the gold studded doors, and I receive my answer.

Prince Griffin, resplendent in robes of deep green, sits astride a shining white horse. A polished sword sits sheathed at his hip. As more guards pour around him, a river to a rock, he looks regal beyond belief.

Despite all the pomp and the privilege, a small frown rests atop his face. I let my mind wonder about it–the unrest.

My mare whinnies nervously, shaking my attention. I pull her away from the gate and into the forest bordering the cobblestones of the path leading away from the gate, knowing her dark coat will hide her from any eyes sweeping the trees.

There’s a singular trumpet call before the procession starts to move out. Twelve sets of guards march around Griffin, perfect in all their movements.

I watch them, silent and still. The frown Griffin had so prominently displayed melts into a pained smile.

Whatever he is forced to do, he clearly doesn’t like it. The grin is more fake than the claims of long lost siblings, false daughters and sons of the runaway king.

My mare backs into the trees some more, but I stop her with a gentle tug on the reins. I want to see this.

Surprisingly, the guards stop only feet from the palace walls. Griffin casts a weary gaze back at them. The sun throws his dark hair into a halo, golden eyes matching the light of the dawn behind him.

He was expecting them to back away, I realize, as he watches the guards, who simply stare.

Then, without warning, he slings his horse around. She snorts, scuffs her hoof. Griffin kicks her flank. She takes off into the dawn.

The last time I ever see the prince, he is melting into the bleeding horizon like the dawn sun itself.

The vanishing of Prince Griffin keeps the gossips entertained for around six months, until they find new, even hotter fuel for the fire.

I have not gone to the castle in many months, since I saw one of my best friends ride to his doom. But when I walk through the forest, collecting leaves for my art, I happen upon a shadowy figure. I am too curious to leave.

Night has fallen long before. The outlines of the mountains cover the stars from view.

The only reason I see the figure is because I am staring intently at the stone path leading to the palace gates. The figure trips, exposing pale, pale skin, and my interest is peaked.

Quick as a flash, I am in front of her.

She tries to run. I stick out a hand and grasp her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

She refuses to respond. Though her eyes are shaded, her face covered in shadow, I know her expression is determined.

“If you are here to assassinate the princesses–”

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes the girl. She lifts her head; my grip loosens. Two spindly hands, long fingers spider-like, pull back her hood.

Striking green eyes meet mine.

I sweep into a bow, heart stuttering with panic and confusion. “Your highness.”

Princess Estelle, eldest of all the royal children–and the one people say is too eccentric for this world–regards me with sorrow. It is an expression often seen on her, but today it feels different.

She reaches out a hand to rest on my forearm. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice just as I remember, featherlike and delicate. “I must do this.”

I step back. My mind is screaming for me to hold her close, but I cannot. She is far above me.

And so I watch as the princess steps into the horizon, blackened by night, coated with regret.

It is the last time I will ever see her.

I stay away from the palace after the princess deserts, leaving behind a kingdom enthralled with tales of curses and kings, princes and princesses.

Still, it seems my position has forsaken me. I am by the town, sitting on the dock, gold wrapped jewelry in my hands, when another remnant of my past sails by.

And she does sail by, albeit with all the grace of one who has never been to sea before.

Her crystal eyes catch on mine. They briefly spark with wariness before they relax into panic.

“Princess!” I say, as the youngest of the three royals, Princess Amryze, attempts to leave the kingdom by boat. I know for a fact she has never sailed on her own before. She must be truly desperate.

Amryze ducks her head. “Don’t tell anyone I was here, okay?”

She does not have her sister’s birthright, her brother’s charm. She only has me, and the faith she has placed in my friendship with her.

She has not misplaced her trust.

I nod. I step away. My eyes are welling with tears; my heart beats with a thousand sorry songs.

I watch as the princess manages to fill the sails with wind, leaving the kingdom–and me–forever. She is swallowed up by the midday sun resting on the horizon, the sparkles spraying my eyes.

I blink.

She is gone, and I never do see her again.

#my stuff #my writing #prompt writing #flash fiction friday #not fandom

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martuzzio · 2 years

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Sorry if this is weird of me, but your mideaval au has me in a chokehold, and I had to write it. I'm realizing now that I don't really want to post this anywhere without your approval, so I'll just send it to you for your sole enjoyment. I guess this is my submission for the longest ask ever, as well, damn.

Feel free to post it or throw it in the trash. Whatever works.

Soap was being followed.

At this stage in the journey it was obvious; there shouldn’t be another human being for miles, and yet his horse is rocking nervously underneath him, and the shifting unease of danger boils in Soap’s gut. More than anything, Soap can just sense it. Being a knight of the king's guard has instilled in him a certain set of skills, and this sort of hyper awareness is one of them.

The snow had started hours ago, and now covers the known earth in a blanket. It dampens sound, so much so, that the only real noise is the clink of metal on metal, and the slow, wet clods of Soap's horse. Soap turns to glance behind himself, again, for the fourth time in as many minutes, freezing wind needling through the cracks in his light armor and making it obvious where the vulnerabilities lie. Nothing tangible appears in the light storm, but Soap’s gut is rarely wrong.

He's passing through a clearing, a relative dip in the landscape, which in warmer months is filled with tall grass and insects. Usually, Soap follows the river towards the next town, but the land that way slopes downward, to Soap’s disadvantage. With this new development, he’ll stick to the treeline farther up the ridge, and look for an opportunity.

The sword hilt at his side is cold to the touch, but the dagger against his thigh is warmer.

There’s a wedge in the landscape that breaks the forest’s edge, forming a small clearing in the trees. Soap abruptly yanks his horse into it and hopefully, with the gusting wind and swirl of snowflakes, it will appear as if he simply vanished.

He ties his horse on a low branch, and quickly doubles back on foot, towards the mouth of the opening. Sword in hand and sweating now, Soap takes cover behind the wide trunk of a spruce and waits.

Whole minutes pass, Soap partially convinces himself he was wrong. It's a pack of wolves, probably, or the result of Soap being cooped up in the castle for too long, with too many people to watch his back. He’s rusty, and perhaps paranoid.

The storm slants strangely around a dark figure on a horse through the snow, and Soap grins despite the situation. Paranoid yes, but right.

Soap is a man of honor, he’s no sneak-thief, like the figure through the snow. So, Soap steps out into the open and sheaths his sword along his side as he calls out.

“If you’re here to kill me, your method of execution better be entertaining.” It’s his court voice, run through with rich tones so that it carries.

There's the soft thump of a man dismounting his horse.

Soap continues in a current of sound. He feels almost drunk with the feeling of being right, and he knows it’s coloring his voice happier and more smug than the situation calls for.

Through the snow, the figure, at first, appears to be a knight, with chainmail softening his silhouette and the butts of weapons branching off of him like spines on a porcupine. But as he stalks closer–and Soap devolves into vague ranting–it becomes clear that the man before him is not a knight.

He is tall, for one, and broad. But his face is covered, both by a black hood and a dark cowl. Soap can’t really see his eyes, only the white shine of them.

The man stops a few paces away, and draws his sword.

Soap has to clamp down on the instinct to draw his, in retaliation, and forces himself to continue to complain and wave his hands in the air. Something about King Price and the types of errands he has the audacity to send Soap on, in the dead of winter, in the middle of a war. Soap isn’t exactly sure what the words coming out of him are.

The man stands in the snow, and doesn’t so much as twitch. He knows who Soap is, that much is certain, and is clearly some sort of assassin. Maybe Soap can still charm him.

After a particularly long string of syllables, Soap takes a deep breath to continue, but the man growls in frustration and takes a purposeful step forward.

“Now hold on!” Soap says, cutting himself off, and puts his hands up in a placating motion. “There’s no need to do something you’ll regret.”

The man halts, almost exasperated, and raises his sword. “I am not surprised someone wants you dead, with your incessant chatter.” His voice is deep and rolls over vowels like butter.

Soap laughs. “Not everyone can be as charming as I am, but there’s no reason to be jealous.” He smiles sincerely, then gestures with his open hands. “Besides, a man like you wouldn’t kill someone unarmed and unawares. Don’t sell yourself short, there’s plenty of charm in that.”

The assassin huffs and Soap gets the distinct feeling that he would kill someone unarmed, but it’s only a passing thought.

“Draw your weapon.” The assassin says, and swirls his longsword in a neat arc.

Soap's feet shift in the snow, but he makes no motion towards his belt. “You’ve got to be joking,” he says, “In this weather? The frostbite will get my balls before you’ll draw any blood.”

“Let us see.” He says and shifts to advance.

“You’d run me through? Without any ceremony?” Soap is offended. But doesn’t yet break his stance, even with the closer proximity.

“There is no ceremony in death.”

“Right, obviously. Well, alright then, give me a go.” Soap spreads his arms out, christlike.

“You’re just going to let me kill you?”

“Well, I’m cold, and tired, so yes.”

Soap thinks that the lines of the assassin's body look shocked, but it may be wishful thinking.

The assassin hesitates, then without much warning, sheaths his sword. “Very well,” he says, then lunges for Soap bare-handed.

Soap is barely able to evade in time, and he grunts in surprise. He kicks low, trying to sweep out the assassin’s center of gravity, but instead of knocking him off his feet, Soap meets more resistance than anticipated–its like sweeping a fucking tree–and only succeeds in hooking his leg around a knee.

Arms come down in his peripheral and Soap reacts instinctively, going low and putting most of his weight into a grapple on the assassin's torso. Then they both twist violently, and go down.

The wrestling match continues for a while. Soap discovers quickly that they are not, in fact, evenly matched, and the only thing keeping him up, and not pinned to the snow, is his lighter build and even quicker feet.

Soap arches, last minute, out of a deadly hold and laughs. “You are fantastic.”

The assassin grunts, and feints right. Soap falls for it, and finds himself pinned against a chest and face down in the snow, arms around his neck and a leg pressing between his. He tries to laugh, but chokes, silently, and almost panics.

Soap taps his hands three times on the assassin's bicep, a universal concession, and immediately, he releases him.

Soap sucks in a lungful of damp air, and slumps sideways into the snow, breathing heavy. He watches his assassin lean back on his knees and breathe too, and they make eye-contact.

“Well played, that was great.” Soap breathes.

His assassin only stares at him.

“I mean it’s not every day you meet someone who could kill you with their bare hands, but it's always a pleasant surprise.”

There’s an uneasy silence. Soap prepares himself to draw a dagger if and when his assassin makes a move, but he only cocks his head. It’s an infinitesimally small movement and it reminds Soap suddenly of a wolf spotting a bird in a tree.

“You have horrible survival instincts.” His assassin finally says, and he sounds…defeated.

“Thank you.”

His assassin nods, absently, then stands, keeping his movements slow and predictable. He offers his hand to Soap, who takes it and is practically lifted off the ground.

Soap brushes the snow off his armor, and smiles winningly. “I’m knackered. If you’re looking for a good fight, we’ll do a rematch tomorrow. You should see me with a short sword, I’m a beauty.”

His assassin nods again, slower, and adjusts his hood. “May as well.”

LMAO this was HILARIOUS. The characterization was so on point that I felt like I was reading straight from my own brain :D Thank you so much for writing it!! You made my day <3

(I will say this scene turns out a little different in the... other thing that's currently in the works, but that doesn't detract from how lovely this piece was <3)

#asks and answers #medieval 141 stories #call of duty soap #call of duty ghost

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diarioredhoodgirl · 17 days

Text

Charlotte Elizabeth Rivers

Full Name: Charlotte Elizabeth Rivers

Nickname: Charlie, Oracle (By Bruce Wayne), Shadow (By Dick Grayson), Cipher (By Tim Drake), Sparrow (By Barbara Gordon) and Rookie (By Jason Hood)

Age: 22 years old

Date of Birth: March 15th, 2004

Time of Birth: 11:58 PM

Place of Birth: Gotham City, Gotham General Hospital

Gender/Pronouns: Female, she/her

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Relationship: Single

Species: Human

Blood Type: O-negative

Likes:

Reading

Learning new things

Helping others

Spending time with her friends and family

Exploring Gotham City

Fighting for justice

Dislikes:

Corruption

Seeing people suffer

Being underestimated

General Appearance:

Physical features: Charlotte is of average height and build. She has long, dark brown hair that she usually wears in a ponytail or braid. Her eyes are a piercing blue, and she has a few freckles scattered across her nose.

Style: Charlotte's style is practical and comfortable. She often wears jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. When she's fighting crime, she wears a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and combat boots.

Hobbies:

Reading

Writing

Playing the piano

Hiking

Learning self-defense

Family: Charlotte grew up in an orphanage and doesn't have any living family members.

Friends: Charlotte's closest friends are Barbara Gordon, Dick Grayson, and Tim Drake.

Enemies: Charlotte's main enemies are the criminals and villains who terrorize Gotham City.

Abilities

Fighting Style: Charlotte is a skilled martial artist, trained in various styles including Muay Thai and Krav Maga.

Skills: Charlotte is a skilled hacker and computer programmer. She is also fluent in several languages, including English, Spanish, and French.

Entertainment: Charlotte enjoys reading comic books, watching movies, and playing video games.

Comfort Food: Charlotte's comfort food is pizza.

Other Favorites:

Favorite food: Pizza

Favorite drink: Coffee

Favorite place: The Gotham City Public Library

Favorite animal: Cats

Favorite color: Blue

Favorite song: “Enter Sandman” by Metallica

Favorite band: Deftones

Favorite weather: Sunny and warm

Favorite season: Spring

Favorite holiday: Christmas

Backstory:

Childhood:

Charlotte Rivers was born in Gotham City to unknown parents. She was abandoned at an orphanage when she was a baby and grew up without knowing her biological family.

At the orphanage, Charlotte was a lonely and introverted child. She did not have many friends and spent most of her time reading books in the library.

Despite her shyness, Charlotte was a bright and talented student. She had a natural talent for computers and learned to program at a young age.

Adolescence:

When Charlotte was 15, she ran away from the orphanage. She was tired of institutional life and wanted to make it on her own.

On the streets of Gotham, Charlotte learned to survive. She worked several low-paying jobs and learned to fight to protect herself.

One day, Charlotte witnessed an armed robbery. She intervened to help the victim and ended up being shot by the robber.

Charlotte was taken to the hospital in serious condition. She underwent emergency surgery and survived, but the experience changed her forever.

Transformation:

After the incident, Charlotte decided that she wanted to make a difference in the world. She wanted to use her skills to help others and protect the innocent.

Charlotte began training in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. She also learned how to use firearms and other combat equipment.

At the same time, Charlotte continued to hone her hacking skills. She became a skilled hacker and used her skills to obtain information about criminals and corrupt individuals in Gotham City.

Encounter with Batman:

One day, Charlotte was hacking into the security system of a drug gang when she was intercepted by Batman.

Batman was impressed by Charlotte's skills and invited her to join his team. Charlotte was initially hesitant, but eventually accepted the offer.

Gotham Hero:

Charlotte became a Gotham City hero, fighting alongside Batman and other heroes to protect the city from crime and corruption.

She adopted the codename "Oracle" in honor of her intelligence and hacking skills.

Charlotte has become an important figure in Gotham City's hero community. She is respected for her intelligence, courage, and determination.

#dc comics #dc oc #oc: charlotte “oracle” rivers #my new oc in dc #original character #dc original character

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clownwrites · 10 months

Text

Rain/MascReader

He/him R pronouns used/fluff/cliffhanger?/slowburn/ send asks for more hcs about this story's development if you want. I likely won't be finishing it.

You're a loyal painter for Sindel's court, company and family; and have made Rain a muse over the years you've worked for them.

Dinner was dimly lit, you admired each champion from a distance; the sound of your brush smoothing across one of hundreds of canvases you'd primed and had delivered to you from palace storage. Your work was very shortly unnoticed, those who fought too busy trying to maintain their head in the ring of Sindel's home. You'd the pleasure of painting Raiden an earth champion who shared a brief, confused appreciation of your work.

"I don't think I could ever understand the need but it's beautiful." He admitted to you, seeing the ways in which you stilled his movement onto a single canvas.

" You don't have to understand the need," you assured "you just have to enjoy it, that's the best part."

Raiden asks "enjoying the art?"

And you specify "enjoying the results, much like your fighting."

You could've dedicated a canvas to the shape of his smile in that moment, the brief and beautiful understanding of your passion before he walked away.

As of now, however, you're dedicating the canvas to an array of people, washed in a light of blue and gold. Horns decorated in beautiful metals and heads blanketed with stunning robes. You watched carefully how the shadow played on their features from a distance while they sat at dinner, heads bobbing amongst each other as they spoke; struggling to match the colors suddenly on a single person. His robes of purple reacted to the light like camouflage, had it not been for the gold detailing, perhaps you wouldn't have noticed him. How you wished you wouldn't have noticed him, of course. In your eyes, he became plain, you've studied this man and his features from afar for so long, painting them had become second nature.

"Purple bastard" you'd seethe, feeling as though his presence made it easy to see who was centered in your work, his visage was the smoothest and most natural feeling in the dinner piece, at least to your eyes, the details of his robes glowed compared to those around it and it didn't help that the entire painting started with his silhouette.

You always felt rather naked in a room with him, he stared through people, as if they were made of a sheer tulle but something always felt quite strange when he stared in your direction. remembering once, how his deep brown eyes scanned the final details of his portrait, you'd reflected the color of his robes in his skin, and the golden hour of the sun in his eyes. When you first began painting, Rain reminded you the joys of painting the valleys of the kingdom with the shape of his nose; the way his skin sparkled like the sand by sea, and how his hair flowed like a river just under his hood. Despite the obvious effort made in the painting, that you felt would pale the portrait of even the queen, Rain noticed your hands first. How they held the brush, how your nails slightly warped from over working and your fingers just the same.

"You've the hands of a working man" Zefeero wondered out loud "the scars that luxury leaves behind…"

These words shook you, so accustomed to the praise your work received, to hear what might have been concern for your well-being confused you, haunted you and soon, reflected that haunting in the ways you painted and repainted him.

As the brush strokes through the memories of your yearning, you hardly noticed what new attention you'd drawn. Shao, had his dramatics before being dismissed, and so guests were made to entertain themselves amongst each other once again. The very same robes of royal purple that haunted your heart ghosted across marble floors to find their way toward you with a small gathering, curious of your work.

You could feel a familiar set of eyes on your hands again.

—--

It stands on a third floor, an empty attic with glassless windows. A space where many beautiful pieces came to rest as they hung dry, strung up by their handles and dripping onto the window pain.

It was planned to be a guest room, so Sindel once told you, “It was planned to be a sunroom before father died.” Kitana admitted to you, as was proven by the array of once dusty curtains, when you were first introduced to it. It looked past the valleys of the kingdom and straight onto its beaches, every morning your paintings would meet the glare of the sun while they dried. Despite every wet drop that might color the once, very tediously decorated tiles, you were careful to never color the bench. It laid close by a window and when you had once sat on it, you noticed that it pointed towards the very spot of the beach where the king and queen had wed. you wondered how long She might have sat here after her husband died and even longer, if she had ever waited up here while you finished painting his memorial. It's a strange guilt that plagues you every so often but the queen insisted you let your work stay here to dry, until something is chosen and something is gifted. It's connected to the castle, of course, so two guards stay just outside the doors and wait on the work. It's not uncommon to hear a respectful rapping at its wood for you to finish lamenting your pieces but there was a new, echoed sound, just outside its carved surface from where you stood.

Then, the door creaks open “Portrator?” The Umgadi calls “Rain is interested in seeing your work here, may he enter?” The question caught you by surprise, his connection to Sindel made him your superior, so the consideration to ask never once came to you.

“Of course”

Never seen without his staff, the sorcerer stepped into the room, the fabric of his slipper barely making a sound in the tile. He nodded to the Umgadi to close the door and then looked toward you and smiled. You couldn't help but return it

“Curious that you come up here so late.”

“ I had the privilege of seeing your progress but hardly ever your finished pieces, I suppose I remembered to take the opportunity now” Rain explained, “I always hope to meet you before you leave but my work… it often precedes me”

A specific feeling of joy filled your lungs, as if breathing in the cool air at the cusp of autumn, in silvery voice you welcomed him “Then please, take the opportunity”

Zefeero had turned his back toward you, to look upon the pieces surrounding the very walls of the room. Some leaned against each other on the floor, others somewhat unfinished. Sindel would sometimes scrap the work for you when she found herself unsatisfied with the progress “The Queen makes her tastes known” Rain shushed

“A trait I curse sometimes” you admit, much to your chagrin.

As he circled the windows, passing each piece made tonight and many nights before it, his face scrunched so slightly in thought “is all your work like this?”

you look where he had and shrugged “I have more creative freedom when not on commission” you explain “no, not every piece is made from life”

The sorcerer looked toward you with real interest now “I would like to see that, then.”

Confidence washed over your mind like a strong liquor, words slipping off your tongue sooner than you'd thought of them

“Then you must make a date for it”

Zefeeros eyes brightened at your words as you then began to stutter

“In an accommodating sense, you said your work precedes you and my work never leaves my home”

And there it was again, that small talent of observing everything past your words. You'd dedicated more pages in your sketchbook to that unique glare than you had anything else for sometime, deep brown eyes that seem to strip your resolve naked as you waited on him to bolster your approval with his own.

“I will make it a date then”

You wonder if the musical ringing in your ears was caused by blood rushing to your cheeks or some strange godliness adding a theme to the way your heart beat in that very moment, regardless;The sun room began to feel less like a guilty place.

—

As you stayed in your home again, as you always had, waiting on the next commission call to fulfill your social needs and carve through the creative block; You had wondered what paintings to display to your strange friend. You should bare the very veins of your heart and feel less naked under his gaze, you think to show him those pieces you've made from the plights of your life and hide away the rest until your strength could bear the weight of being known in this way, that you'd promised him; “Not everything I create is from life”

You only hope the dust on these most delicate pieces disguise them.

The letter given to you, written by The Sorcerer's own, surely shaking hands, had scrolled the date that warped itself into the curls of your memory. You wonder how long you could be hosting him, planning the meal or snack you make with some care to impress but you knew better and you'd hope that he did too. There was no amount of sparkling light from your stained glass windows that could shine against the gall of a gold and white palace, eternally decorated in hues of pink and glittering blues. To a kingdom, in the ever changing height of fashion and design, your colors shined like the jester, made to entertain. But even comedy tastes change, if not in one person than in another.

Bread dough rolled across the countertop, the labor toned your arms and powdered your chest. A few pastries were broiled to life in the oven and the other ingredients would lay waiting the day of, for the sake of freshness. If nothing, then at least you have meals for yourself to enjoy later. If anything, then you'd get the joy of learning what else Zefeero may like about you and you could ask for nothing more than the privilege of just knowing.

—--

The sorcerer's hands clasped together to conclude a newly insufferable spell, it was something concocted for show over functionality and he would lie of his new interest to impress you with it. his curiosity first simmered the moment you had painted his portrait for the halls. His skin still burned where you held his jaw carefully to pose him in the sunlight and that feeling arose again as he practiced this ‘party-trick’, Zefeero believes what's stomping his progress, remembering how beautifully you remade him; Wordless compliments struck in oil paint.

He felt that if he were smarter, than Rain would know this wasn't a feat exceptionalizing him, he understood that the details of his portrait were not made to inflate what beauty he had or outshine the other portraits beside it. But a strong sense of knowing overcame him when he'd seen the results and that 'knowing' feeling felt a lot like the joys of being adored.

He began idly playing with the water he’d strung into pearls from thin air, they bounced against each other as they danced between the paths of his fingers and as the moment passed he began to imagine those shaking pearls as the nails of your fingers. The light sparkled through a new waving shape of a hand, whose palm pressed against his and wet it cold before it warmed to his skin. The palm breaking into the warped shape of your fingers, how he remembered them, when he watched them work on the paintings that moved Raiden across the pathways where he fought. These fingers slipped between his own, in the shape Rain remembered, when they painted the skyline of his kingdom and the portrait of their deceased king. The skin of his cheeks became warm as he remembered the shape of your eyes and how he remembered them when they scanned his features to create a visage of himself worth looking at and his lips curled at the corners as his heart began to flutter with his imagination.

“Zefeero?” a soft voice came at his door, “Zefeero, are you busy?”

The sorcerer turned his head quickly, the hand he held splashing into his lap shortly before he could stand and he groaned in annoyance at the interruption. “Yes!” he seethed “What is it that you need, Kitana?”

The princess stepped in to see what the ruckus was and then giggled childishly at her cousins stumbling, Rain groaned once more as he tried to pull the water from the lap of his robes “Seriously?” he asks “was the point to annoy me?”

“Oh no!” she defended through veils of giggles “mother wants to see you.”

Rain swatted at his now soaked robes and groaned, "I'll be there in a moment, let her now I'm... Ugh currently indisposed thanks to you."

But the princess does not leave, she instead closes the door behind her as her cousin begins to change. "Do you need something else?"

"I heard You've made friends with the portraitor" Kitana gossiped "you're seeing him for dinner?"

The sorcerer looked back at her offendedly and demanded with his sputtering embarrassment "and who told you that!?" Kitana gleefully shined her teeth in the sourcerer's direction a shrill sound of excitement came out as she bounced over to take her cousins hands "Zefeero!" She cheered "everyone sees how you look at him, I never thought you would go for it!"

Inspite of his embarrassment the sourcerer scoffs, letting go of her hands and turning to his dresser

"I have no idea what this "it" would even be!" A futile argument against his cousins excitement, he knows "and we're having lunch, I asked to see his personal work." Kitana's excitement dampened, she still held a knowing smile on her face "oh of course!" She teased "nothing but professionalism when looking at an artists most personal work"

Her eyes narrowed mischievously "in his personal home-" Rain looked to his wardrobe desperately to quell his embarrassment

"-where he plans to feed and entertain you with his company-"

"oh that is enough!" Zefeero shouted, throwing his wet robes at his sibling "get out! Get out!"

It was easy for the princess to mock him out the door, she shouts back amidst her terrible giggles "Oh paint me like one of your Edinian Maids, Portraitor!"

Kitana slams the door shut behind her to shield herself from the weapons of Rain's wardrobe, leaving the Sorcerer alone with embarrassment stinging his cheeks and the fast beating of his heart.

He only hoped there were no more knowing eyes in the court he would see Sindel in.

#rain/reader #rain x reader #Mk1 #clown writes #i think its cute and had a whole story arc for the reader but i scrapped it for this section alone #hope u guys like it #zefeero/reader #zefeero x reader #mk1 rain

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odditycircus-2002 · 2 years

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When Jimmy Crystal Proposed to You

We should be about a good junk of the way done with your life story with Jimmy Crystal, at least until I get another stroke of inspiration. For now, I hope you enjoy this set of headcanons!

(I don't own this gif)

You and Jimmy were out for another one of your date nights, which isn't that out of the ordinary even with both of your busy schedules. Jimmy with getting Crystal Enterprises to be known as both the most well-known entertainment agency and the best entertainment agency. You were with your band when it came to writing new songs, recording songs, tours, making music videos, and trying your hand at acting. What made this date extra special for you both? It's the anniversary of when you both started officially dating.

Much to your pleasant surprise, instead of the usual high-class and swanky restaurants and shows; Jimmy instead invited you to the park you both used to frequent for a walk and boat ride. With no immediate work business to attend to, you and Jimmy start to relax and enjoy the mostly quiet ride, save for your ferryman. You leaned against Jimmy, who wrapped an arm around your waist, as you absorb this moment in time to commit every detail from memory.

From the sound of the river's waves gently crashing against the sides of the gondola; the way Redshore city's lights illuminated the night sky so brightly that it almost appears to still be day; down to the warmth of your then boyfriend's hand on your waist and the smell of his cologne mixed with the natural scent that just smelt like him.

You then strike up a conversation with Jimmy, chatting and joking in a way you haven't for a long while.

"I've missed having nights like this, no, I've missed us. I've missed you, Jimmy."

Jimmy then lifts your head with a single finger, careful not to pierce your throat with one of his claws. He gives you a charming and soft smile with hooded eyes fixated on you.

"I know and so do I, Sunshine. I promise, after tonight, we'll be spending a lot more quality time together."

You felt a pang of dejection when you and Jimmy's ride came to an end, as if you both were now leaving behind your own little world. However, you're quick to shake off this feeling when Jimmy leads you back with his arm hooked in yours to his limo and had his driver take you to your next destination for dinner.

You were fully expecting Jimmy to take you to one of the many fancy restaurants under his company's brand name, so imagine your surprise when he pulls up to a 1950s-themed restaurant and not just any 50s-themed restaurant, but the one you like to frequent with the rest of your band every other Wednesday, the Joe Rabbit Trim. Jimmy chuckles when seeing your surprised expression.

"What, you think I'd take you to our usual food joints? C'mon, sweetheart, it's our one-year anniversary; give me a bit of credit here, even if this place looks like a wax museum with a pulse."

You let Jimmy know your appreciation and pleasant surprise by wrapping your arms around your boyfriend and giving him a smooch on the cheeks.

"Thanks, Jimbo"

Jimmy wraps an arm around your waist as he grumbles about "acting lovey-dovey" in public, but the smile on his face tells you otherwise. You are eventually led to a pink Cadillac that was cut in half and recycled as a booth. Similarly, with the boat ride, you chat about everything and anything, including the performances up on stage. Jimmy gives them more scrutiny than necessary.

"How do they even hold auditions here? Is the manager tone deaf or what?"

You placate Jimmy with a paw over his own before replying.

"Jim, you're here on an anniversary date with your girlfriend, not at work."

"I know, I know, sweetheart. Thanks for the reminder."

"Anytime, hun."

You give Jimmy a wink, who gives you a charming smile. Halfway through your dinner, the restaurant manager announces the start of what Joe Rabbit Trim's also well known for, its Twist contest. You immediately volunteer yourself and Jimmy as the first contestants.

"Woah, woah, woah, Sunshine, I don't do no twist. It ain't exactly my style, ya hear?"

"No, no, no, I do believe it is our anniversary date, and you're the one who decided to take me out to my favorite food joint. Please, Jimmy? Won't you dance with your girl?"

You plead sweetly with one paw over Jimmy's own as you flutter your lashes. Your boyfriend gives a scowl before eventually sighing and giving in. You give joyful shout and drag Jimmy by the paw out of your booth to get up on stage, causing him to more or less stumble behind you to keep up.

Not surprisingly, given you and Jimmy's celebrity couple status and respective careers, the restaurant's patrons cheer when both of you come on stage and announce your names. The crowd's applause didn't die until a song, "You Can Never Tell" by Chuck Berry, started to play, signaling you and Jimmy to start dancing.

For a wolf that claimed that he "don't do no twist," you can confidently say that Jimmy ain't too shabby, especially when he started to loosen up through the song and really get into it. You almost forgot the fact that you were performing in front of a crowd as your attention was on your date, smiling widely for the entire song. Jimmy, for his part, couldn't quite keep his gaze off you, practically hypnotized by how you danced with exuberance with a hint of a provocative motive, causing the necklace he gave you to bounce wildly against your chest. Like earlier during the boat ride, it was as if you and Jimmy were in your little fantasy world. You find yourself wishing that you could stay in this moment forever.

However, like before, this little moment came to an end along with the song. You're pulled out of your stupor by the applause and cheers of the crowd. You and Jimmy both face the crowd with smiles and waves, with you giving an exaggerated courtesy. You'd thought that would be the end of being up on stage that night until Jimmy grabbed the microphone from the manager before he could ask for the next pair of volunteers. Your boyfriend started off as if he were on a talk show or wrapping up another show.

"Heya everybody, how ya doin' tonight? Thank you, thank you all, you're too kind, honestly, too kind. I know you didn't expect us up on this stage tonight to give you a show, but let's be honest, you're glad we did."

The crowd chuckles at the quip. Jimmy then places a paw into his pants pocket and takes on a lax posture.

"But this just ain't any ol' date night for us. No, it's our one-year anniversary tonight!"

As expected, this gets the crowd roused in delight, causing another round of applause from the crowd. They quiet down when Jimmy gestures with the hand holding the mic to settle down.

"And as much as Sunny loves this quirky place, and to be honest, I might buy this joint later, it ain't the only reason why I'm here."

Jimmy then walks over to you and takes out a blue velvet box. You let out a gasp with both of your paws covering your muzzle when Jimmy then gets down on one knee to pop open the box, revealing a sunflower-themed ring with a diamond in the center that sparkles beautifully in the spotlight.

"Y/N L/N aka Sunflower aka Sunny aka, Light of my life, will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Crystal? I can't think of anyone else I'd want to spend the rest of my life with."

Looking back now, you suppose you should've noticed the dozens of pairs of eyes staring intently at you, all of them watching with great intent. All of them practically begging you to say yes because who in their right mind would say no to the Jimmy Crystal? Maybe you should've known from the fact there was a crowd watching you in a public space that's a haven to you and your friends; the way the spotlights were shining on you two and you two alone; maybe you could've noticed the millions of little signs that this was another show of Jimmy's starring you but ran completely by him. Yet, at that moment, you didn't notice any of the dozens of pairs of eyes, the lights, the suffocating silence, nor the thick tension. You were only focused on Jimmy giving you a soft smile with steely blue eyes fixated on you and how your heart felt ready to burst out of your chest.

Of course, you said yes!

Jimmy barely got the ring on you before you grabbed him to smash your lips together. Your new fiance rolls along with it and dips you as the crowd explodes from jubilation at what unfolded before them.

It wasn't long after you called your family and gathered your friends to tell them of your engagement. Of course, all of you celebrated, and they (for the most part) were indeed happy for you! Yet, some of the conversations you had with your bandmates/closest friends weren't ... fully congratulatory. It was more on the cautious side and questioning if you fully thought your marriage through with Mr. Crystal if you're sure he'd make a good husband. You wave them all off and shut them down, not wanting to think of anything they have to say in regard to your relationship with Jimmy. All while not realizing how this sprouted some new unspoken strain between you and your band.

Playlist while writing this:

"A Place with No Name" by Michael Jackson

"For Your Entertainment" by Adam Lambert

"Die Young" by Ke$ha

"Feeling Good" by Michael Buble

"Fly Me to the Moon" by Bart Howard

"Carousel" By Melanie Martinez

"Cry Wolf" by A-ha""Cry Wolf" by A-ha

"Just the Two of Us" by Bill Withers

#sing 2021 #sing 2 #sing jimmy crystal #my writing #jimmy crystal #porsha crystal #sing headcanons #reader insert #reader imagine #Jimmy Crystal x Reader #sing 2 porsha #sing 2016

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doctor-dream313 · 7 months

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I've been visited by the tall figure in the tall black hooded cloak more often than I am superstiously afraid to admit to. So I can avoid the chance of it being taken as bragging and boasting. That I could even fathom the idea I was somehow responsible for the ability to cleverly trick death himself was not something I wanted to entertain, too scared to even be aware of my immediate surroundings, movements near me. Being arrogant was not the best course of action.

All I knew was that it seemed we were stuck in a loop. At the other end of the short path the black hooded figure would be again exiting the boat and walking the short distance of the path to stand before me hood inches away. The ability to see past the inside of the hood was impossible. His scythe catching some unseen source of light momentarily casting a ray of moonish reflected light skirted across my face and the blue coal burn of eyes was visible a fleeting sec. Or maybe it was my mind playing tricks it was so quick as to never happened. At the time I thought about it and concluded it was a mistake, I hadnt seen his eyes.

Justified by the reasoning of never had I heard that he had eyes to begin with. I relied on what I knew, Just that black hooded robe and scythe and sometimes a crow atop his scythe was said to accompany him among the crowd of war, leading him around with his bird calls. Seeing ways to make some path through the mass of battle. Touching only those who were written in the book of of souls that day, Collecting his own army of undead ghost, invisible to all but the most gifted mortal eyes and the damned, Sweeping through collecting his army of the dead and then leading the way to the river styx and the final destination fated the mortal souls of men.

But the third time the loop repeated itself all at the same moment followed by the same exact movements and light disturbances taking place as the other couple times. The collector stopped before exiting the boat and proceeding. He didnt move and I didnt dare let it look like I was breathing so as to avoid any movement he could notice that he would blame me doing somehow purposefuly to be causing the confusing events happening. Then I suddenly went rushing backwards the whole view I had and surrounding colors blended together as my body was whisked away backwards to I fathom my physical body. I have no memory past the rushing back and the receding tunnel from that other place with the reaper and the river. I have since then been at the doorstep but not to start the cross over to the in between as I call it.

I will sometimes see my own body, decrepit and lifeless. Morbid and horrendous revulsion coursing through me from the sight of my own body Is all I remember before coming back. Onetime I was tied with invisible chains by demons to a building till i fight free and return to my body. Not seeing the collector before the return to the living.

That's my first time and last telling the story. It will reside here till it simply doesn't anymore. To be a Easter egg I gues. Leaving behind a message to some people a sense of insight as to what to expect and feel.

#death grips #my writing #literature #my story #journal #writing #river styx #vision #miracle unexplainedevents #Fate #unfinished purpose

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metaphysiical · 2 years

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[ joe keery | cis man | he/him | thirty ] —— welcome to grimrose, plantagenet davenport. it’s cool that you’re here, you know. haven’t you heard of the history of this place… anyway, how’s being a local who has been in town for twenty years, especially since you spend most of your days as a mechanic at grimrose auto repair? also, not that it’s a bad thing, of course, but i’ve heard people say you can be a little destructive more than you are assertive… but that’s just coming from people who are bored here, i promise. to me, you remind me of basket case by green day and run down gas stations with fifty cent soda machines that somehow still work, worn out chuck taylors with a hole where the big toe is, and the constant belief in murphy’s law. hope to see you around, tadge.

pinterest | inspos: ray hall (panic), lip gallagher (shameless), ryan atwood (the oc), conrad fisher (the summer i turned pretty), hunter strawberry (hot summer nights), daemon targaryen (house of the dragon).

full name — plantagenet wayne davenport nickname(s) — tadge name meaning — a gardener, plant, or young tree age — thirty date of birth — may 18th place of birth — hood river, oregon current location — grimrose, new hampshire gender — cis man pronouns — he / him religion — atheist occupation — mechanic at grimrose auto repair education level — high school diploma residence — the leftover davenport legacy, in the paradise cove trailer park family — joseph davenport, grandfather, deceased & wayne davenport, father, imprisoned. travis davenport, younger half-brother & pam wilson, half-brothers mom. finances — as he would say, that’s none of your business spoken languages — english faceclaim / voiceclaim — joe keery

tw: alcoholism, mentions of neglect/abuse, prison

tadge davenport comes from a long line of criminals and trailer trash — and is more than happy to be the public bearer of that proud heritage. having been told his whole life that he is going nowhere, tadge’s strength comes in a nihilistic form — no future means no fear of what’s coming. he believes nothing good will ever happen to him.

his father was cuffed on his tenth birthday and he hasn’t seen him since. being sent off out of state will do that to you. tadge has heard the rumors of what his father may or may not have done to deserve life without parole, but he doesn’t seem to care. tadge grew up with his grandfather as his legal guardian and, right after his father’s arrest, he picked everything up and moved across the usa to a brand new town with cheap land.

tadge’s grandfather, big joe, was a drunk, of course, and not a nice one at that. thankfully, the old man croaked just a few days before tadge turned the legal age of eighteen, and the trailer the two lived at since they moved to town became his.

surprisingly, tadge did graduate high school, but hasn’t gone on any further. instead, he serves as a mechanic at the local auto repair, as well as overseeing some of his late grandfather’s business: davenport junk yard. made during the first few years they lived in grimrose, the junk yard was tadge’s very own playground. in high school, he began his work on his bike using old shit he found in the yard — the same bike he’s working on still to this day.

around 5 years ago, tadge finally decided to make a band with his buddy’s after messing around with his guitar with them. with more of an alternative rock vibe, 'lovers rock’ is enjoyed by a few people, and mostly so by tourists just looking for some extra entertainment. tadge doesn’t much care how popular they are, as long as they stop getting kicked out of the limited venues that grimrose has to offer.

headcanons — tw: prison, smoking

tadge is an older brother — which is still weird for him even after 5 years. and you’d think... how in the fuck does he have a half-brother when his mom is nowhere to be found and his dad is imprisoned ?? somehow, pam wilson ( a woman obsessed with wayne davenport ) found a way during a visit. tadge doesn’t like to think about it.

tadge’s biggest vice is smoking. he’s constantly stopping by any corner store he can find for a new pack.

there truly are no secrets as to why his hair is so big other than saving money by not getting it cut. he once let pam cut his hair after she moved in with infant travis, and tadge nearly made travis into an orphan just like him.

#╰ * 𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐆𝐄. : intro. ⧽ sometimes my mind plays tricks on me .#grimrosehqs.intro

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grimescum-2 · 1 year

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all the notes i wrote for winifred under the cut below :o3 um. i was very tired while writing this and running on coffee (still am, minus the coffee) so forgive me if its bad or something. have her current moodboard

winifred, "the fool"

- neurotic, people-pleaser, cowardly, easily confused, creative, energetic, nervous, paranoid, accusatory, puritan

- was a well-loved and respected court jester before she was bitten by a vampire and cast off to the dungeon for the safety of the townsfolk. was spared an execution because the king and queen took pity on her. she broke out to feed one night and was subsequently beheaded, to which she survived and was thrown back into the dungeon, now with tightened security measures in place (guards, chains)

- would stay in that dungeon until she was woken up by the blood of a wounded rat entering her cell. she later pried the bars apart and turned the cell into her home, afraid to go out. she only left once she had grown hungry after the rat had no more blood left to drink

likes & hobbies

- puppetry: has both stolen and made puppets to entertain herself with

- crafts: most of which are hodgepodge sculptures, weapons, or furniture made from random materials she's stolen.

- reading: her only connection to the outside world. will occasionally steal a book to read to catch up on what the outside world is like. doesn't have much of a genre preference

- journaling: may write down positive experiences she'd like to remember. ranges from a positive human interaction to a significant find for her collection.

- storytelling: good at making up stories on the spot. may tell some older ones she remembers and interesting or comedic parts of her day-to-day life

- performing: such as juggling, acrobatics, and magic tricks, albeit she's a little rusty.

dislikes

- loud sounds. very scary

- being berated, belittled or insulted

- overly rude, disagreeable or vulgar people

- feeling as if she isn't good enough

- being reminded of her vampirism

notes

- can play the flute. uses it to lure away potential victims to kill and feast on

- despite her distrust and hatred of humans for what they did to her long ago, she still feels bad for eating them and will try to make one body last for as long as possible. also because she's still afraid of going out

- speaks in old english but can understand some modern english

- steals small trinkets out of curiosity. has tons of artifacts in her collection with a particular interest in anything shiny

- speaks quickly and tends to ramble. a bit of a screamer

- greatly wishes she wasn't a vampire and misses when everyone loved her

- hardly has any clue what the FUCK is going on in the modern world. she knows a fair bit of modern english due to stealing books but that's about it

- very skinny

- refuses to feed upon children, the weak or the elderly, feeling too guilty to do so

- probably dirty. may take a bath in a river if no one's around and if it's far away from civilization but otherwise doesn't go out of her way to. also does so fully clothed

- horrified of modern vehicles

- humor is very dry by today's standards

- great sense of direction

- copes with people who don't like her performances by insulting their taste in humor. she apologizes for this immediately after

combat

- quick thinker and adapts easily

- incredibly quick and light on her feet due to her weight. her skinny frame also makes it easier to dodge attacks, and her long arms are good for reach

- keeps her distance when possible. prefers long-ranged attacks. if in melee combat, she'll continuously strike and flee, making her predictable in that area. her long-ranged attacks are much less so

- head is detachable and kept in place by her hood. can throw her head as a long ranged attack to either headbutt or bite her opponent. relies on them being briefly stunned so she can retrieve her head and run

- has both crafted and stolen a variety of weapons, most notable of which being various daggers she uses as throwing knives

- normally tries to retreat or to convince her opponent to stop fighting, though while fighting someone she dislikes or finds dishonorable, she shows a much more sadistic side, taking pleasure in confusing and humiliating her opponent. this is out of repressed rage rather than genuine sadism though

abilities, skills & weaknesses

- high precision and great aim

- low stamina

- physically weaker than other vampires but still a bit stronger than most humans

- stealth: great at stealth when she's not in her jester outfit. the bells make too much noise otherwise

- craftsmanship: can quickly create makeshift tools and weapons using materials she finds

- charisma (?): disarms the opponent if they are weak to silly little guys

- running away: can flee quickly thanks to her speed

socializing & relationships

- terrible with it.

- she can try to start a conversation, but she'll be forced to fall back on questions or observations rather than actual talking points

- she knows her interests are outdated and thus doesn't really speak about them

- very clingy and touchy-feely. has no concept of personal space

- tries to crack jokes often but they tend to sound more like statements

- inappropriate jokes or vulgar words fluster her. not really in the omg eww!! >//< way but in the "how dare thou utter such obscenities? have thou gone mad??!" way. some go straight over her head though

- is simultaneously excited and frightened by the presence of humans. enjoys the idea of befriending them and entertaining them, but also mistrusts them and fears what they might do

- her body language is usually frantic. points to things and people often

- very good at reading people. when she feels that someone is sad, she'll try to cheer them up in any way she can

possible ideas

- being chained up to a wall for so long could've elongated her body, giving her a lanky appearance

#flea.talks #flea.ocs #oc: winifred

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bedbreakfastoregon · 27 days

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Oregon Bed and Breakfast: Where Comfort Meets Adventure

Oregon, known for its diverse landscapes and outdoor activities, offers a unique blend of tranquility and excitement. Whether you're a seasoned traveler or a first-time visitor, the allure of Oregon's natural beauty is undeniable. Nestled in this breathtaking environment is a haven that perfectly balances comfort with the thrill of adventure: the Oregon Bed and Breakfast. Located in the heart of the state's most scenic areas, this bed and breakfast in Oregon is more than just a place to stay—it's an experience that captures the essence of Oregon's spirit. Visit us at www.sumpterbnb.com to learn more.

A Warm Welcome in the Heart of Nature

Upon arriving at the Oregon Bed and Breakfast, you'll be greeted by the warm, inviting ambiance that defines the experience. The charming architecture of the inn, with its rustic yet refined design, immediately sets the tone for your stay. Each room is thoughtfully decorated to reflect the natural surroundings, featuring cozy furnishings, soft linens, and large windows that frame the stunning views of Oregon's forests, mountains, and rivers.

The innkeepers, passionate about hospitality, ensure that every guest feels at home from the moment they step through the door. Their knowledge of the local area is invaluable, providing personalized recommendations for activities and excursions that suit your interests. Whether you're seeking a relaxing retreat or an action-packed adventure, they are eager to help you craft the perfect itinerary at the best bed and breakfast in Oregon.

The Perfect Base for Adventure

Oregon is a playground for outdoor enthusiasts, and the Oregon Bed and Breakfast is ideally located to take full advantage of the state's natural wonders. From the majestic peaks of the Cascade Range to the rugged coastline of the Pacific Ocean, there is no shortage of adventures waiting to be discovered.

For hiking aficionados, the nearby trails offer a range of options, from easy strolls through old-growth forests to challenging ascents up volcanic peaks. One of the most popular hikes in the area is the trek to the summit of Mount Hood, where you'll be rewarded with panoramic views of the surrounding wilderness. For a more leisurely experience, consider exploring the Columbia River Gorge, where you can walk beneath towering waterfalls and through lush, moss-covered canyons.

Water lovers will find plenty to enjoy as well. The region is home to pristine rivers and lakes, perfect for kayaking, canoeing, or fishing. The Deschutes River, in particular, is renowned for its world-class fly fishing, offering the opportunity to catch trout and steelhead in a serene setting. If you're up for a bit more excitement, try white-water rafting on the Rogue River, where the rapids provide an exhilarating ride through some of Oregon's most remote and beautiful landscapes.

Relaxation and Rejuvenation

After a day of exploration, return to the Oregon Bed and Breakfast to unwind and recharge. The inn's serene setting makes it the perfect place to relax, with plenty of quiet corners to curl up with a good book or simply take in the views. The spacious porch, overlooking the gardens and surrounding woods, is a favorite spot for guests to enjoy a glass of wine as the sun sets behind the mountains.

Indulge in a soothing soak in the outdoor hot tub, where you can soothe your muscles while gazing up at the star-studded sky. The clear, dark skies of Oregon provide some of the best stargazing opportunities in the country, and there's nothing quite like the peacefulness of a quiet evening spent under the stars.

Inside, the common areas are equally inviting. The cozy living room, with its stone fireplace and comfortable seating, is the perfect place to gather with fellow travelers or simply enjoy a quiet evening by the fire. A selection of board games, books, and movies are available for your entertainment, ensuring that even on rainy days, you'll find plenty to do.

Farm-to-Table Dining Experience

One of the highlights of staying at the Oregon Bed and Breakfast is the farm-to-table dining experience. Breakfast is a true delight, featuring a variety of homemade dishes prepared with fresh, local ingredients. From fluffy pancakes topped with Oregon's famous marionberries to savory omelets filled with seasonal vegetables, the menu is designed to showcase the best of the region's produce.

Many of the ingredients used in the kitchen are sourced directly from the inn's own garden, where herbs, vegetables, and fruits are grown organically. The innkeepers take great pride in their garden and are always happy to give guests a tour, sharing tips on sustainable gardening practices and the joys of growing your own food.

In addition to breakfast, the inn offers picnic baskets for guests heading out on a day of adventure. These thoughtfully prepared meals are perfect for enjoying in the great outdoors, whether you're picnicking by a mountain lake or taking a break on a scenic hike. And for those who prefer to dine in, the inn can arrange for a private, candlelit dinner, served in the comfort of your room or in a secluded spot on the property.

Immersing in Local Culture

Beyond the natural beauty and outdoor activities, Oregon is rich in culture and history. The Oregon Bed and Breakfast is a gateway to exploring the local heritage, from the historic towns and villages to the vibrant arts scene.

A short drive from the inn, you'll find charming small towns like Hood River and Bend, where you can stroll through art galleries, browse local boutiques, and sample craft beers at one of the many microbreweries. These towns are also home to numerous festivals and events throughout the year, celebrating everything from music and art to food and wine.

For history buffs, the region offers a fascinating glimpse into Oregon's past. Visit the nearby Oregon Trail Interpretive Center to learn about the pioneers who journeyed westward in search of a better life. The center's exhibits and living history demonstrations bring the story of the Oregon Trail to life, providing a deeper understanding of the challenges and triumphs of the early settlers.

Sustainable Travel

At the Oregon Bed and Breakfast, sustainability is a core value. The inn is committed to minimizing its environmental impact through eco-friendly practices such as energy-efficient lighting, water conservation, and waste reduction. Guests are encouraged to participate in these efforts, with recycling bins provided in each room and information on how to reduce energy use during their stay.

The inn also supports local conservation initiatives, working with organizations dedicated to preserving Oregon's natural landscapes and wildlife. By choosing to stay at the Oregon Bed and Breakfast, you are not only enjoying a memorable vacation but also contributing to the protection of the environment.

A Memorable Experience Awaits

Whether you're seeking a peaceful retreat in nature or an adventure-filled getaway, the Oregon Bed and Breakfast offers the best of both worlds. With its comfortable accommodations, stunning surroundings, and endless opportunities for exploration, it's the perfect destination for travelers who want to experience all that Oregon has to offer.

Looking for places to stay in Sumpter Oregon? Perhaps you're searching for Sumpter Oregon lodging? Or maybe you typed in b&b near me while planning your trip? Look no further! Book your stay today at Sumpter Bed and Breakfast and discover why so many guests return year after year. Whether you're planning a romantic weekend, a family vacation, or a solo journey, you'll find that the Oregon Bed and Breakfast is a place where comfort truly meets adventure, making it one of the best places to stay in Oregon. Whether you're after a vacation rental by owner in Oregon or seeking the charm of a b&b in Oregon, this is your perfect escape.

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