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auroravictorium · 1 year

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high infidelity (pt. 3) (k.b.)

you know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love.

Summary: kaz and the crows arrive at a safehouse after rescuing reader, where kaz is confronted by his past. reader wakes up and starts the long trek to recovery. Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship) Word Count: ~3.1k Warnings: brief allusions to SA (inej expressing concerns about reader), mentions of injuries (head injury, severe wound on reader's arm, bruises, scrapes, etc.), mentions of blood, lots of grappling with trauma, mentions of sibling & parent loss/death Genre: angst? a bit of fluff? Author's Note: hello hello!! i'm so sorry about my long absence. college and life happened, BUT i have a birthday in the near future (libras unite!!) so have the final part of high infidelity as a lil birthday celebration :)) pinky promise next part is already in the works and it should be a lot less heavy!! enjoy <33

part one / part two / masterlist

Kaz gently pulled you back into his arms as Jesper navigated the exhausted horses toward a small, two-story farmhouse tucked away in a remote field a few miles from Lij. In the distance, a few farmhouses stood like faint silhouettes against the night sky. Beyond that, nothing for miles. The perfect place to hide, heal, and plot before their return to Ketterdam.

The air was clean, untainted by manufacturing smoke, and stars glittered above Kaz as he carefully stepped out of the carriage with you in his arms. He thought hard about the stars as he approached the porch of his childhood home; he thought about how much you would love them when you awoke and how your eyes might look as they caught their distant glimmer.

It was easier to ignore the stirring ghosts of his past if he thought about his present, the future he hoped to have. That present and future rested in the sleeping woman in his arms, her head against his shoulder and her weight a strangely comforting presence against him. The comfort was foreign to him, a sensation he could distantly remember if he reached far enough through the fog that had plagued his life since Jordie died.

The stars disappeared from view as Kaz stepped under the porch awning and turned to face Inej, silent as ever behind him. "The key is under the board with a split down the middle," he said quietly, jerking his chin to the end of the porch.

"Whose house is this?" Nina questioned as she arrived, pale and exhausted from working on you for most of the ride. "And do you think they'll mind if I sleep here for an eternity?"

Kaz shot her a glare and answered neither of those questions. He didn't feel like telling any of them about whose house this was, nor about the phantoms waiting inside. He had enough to worry about without fielding their questions, and his concern rested solely with you, unconscious in his arms. "Jesper, remove the furniture covers. Inej, Nina, help get Y/N settled." His eyes flicked between the Wraith and the Heartrender, a troubled face and an exhausted one. "Then rest. All of you. Jesper, on the couch. Nina and Inej, take the large room upstairs."

He didn't plan to sleep until he was sure you wouldn't die on him. He'd had enough of death in his life.

Inej unlocked the door and pocketed the key, moving inside and holding the door out of the way for everyone to trickle inside.

The room was spotless, remarkably untouched by dust. As Jesper started to remove the cloths over the couch, table, chairs, and small kitchen surfaces, not a single speck of dirt puffed into the air. "I was expecting more... dirt," Jes admitted, wadding up the cloths and tossing them in an empty corner. "For a farmhouse."

Kaz didn't respond, turning on his heel and marching up the stairs toward the small bedroom to the right. He nudged open the door to his and Jordie's old room and held his breath as he carried you in and settled you in the made bed. If he didn't breathe, he couldn't let the past settle in his lungs and choke him.

His gaze remained solely on your face as he carefully unlaced your bloodstained, beaten boots and set them aside. But his thoughts were elsewhere, on a presence he could feel breathing down his neck. The hairs there prickled, and Kaz pursed his lips, fighting the growing tremor in his hands as he tucked the blankets around you.

Jordie was there, in that room. Present, though he'd been dead for years. His father sat on the rickety old seat beneath the window, watching Kaz brush your hair from your face before jerking his hand back. His breathing was coming fast now, and though he longed to stay with you, he had to get out. His lungs burned and ached, unable to pull in the oxygen he needed.

Kaz had to get out of that room, escape the ghosts' eyes on him, their hands reaching toward the exposed skin of his neck, the small gap between his gloves and his sleeves that exposed his wrist. Anywhere there was skin for their cold, bloated, marred, dead hands to grab.

"I'm sorry," he breathed to you, the words barely audible. Kaz stumbled back and then fled like the coward he was. His lungs struggled to expand in his chest, his breathing shallow as he moved down the stairs and back into the living room. He walked past Jesper's unconscious, snoring form on the couch and grabbed a metal bucket from beside the back door with a trembling hand.

Coward, he thought, opening the door and stepping out into the cold winter air. It nipped at his cheeks and neck, but he didn't bother grabbing a coat. He deserved to brave the cold, to have to break the thick layer of ice in the well with his bare hands. He should be brave enough to stay with you until you woke, to hold your hand and think about everything he wanted to say.

He could kill a man, but he couldn't stay with the woman he loved. It was a cruel trick of the universe, a flaw in the new person the harbor made. Brekker, where there should be Rietveld, two clashing sides of himself with the wrong half winning.

Broken, twisted coward.

You deserved better than this, than him.

Kaz slammed the door shut, his breath clouding in front of him, and he limped off toward the edge of the Rietveld property to collect water.

The door rattled in the frame behind him, but Kaz paid it no mind. Inside, Jesper's snores seized for a moment before continuing, droning on alongside the eerie, anxious silence of the farmhouse and the cold, windy beginnings of snow.

Once Kaz was back from the well, his gloves soaked and cheeks flushed from the cold, Inej took a bowl of water from the bucket and a clean rag and slipped into the room you were asleep in.

She quietly pulled the seat from under the window to the edge of the bed and got to work, carefully wiping away the blood she could see without moving your clothing. As she ran the rag down your forearm, mindful of the deep gash cutting your tattoo in half, the concern that had been heavy on her heart came bubbling to the surface. She blinked away the unexpected tears in her eyes, turning her head toward the window and staring out toward the sky as she tried to collect herself again.

Inej hoped and prayed that this was the worst of what you'd been through. She didn't want to consider the alternative where you'd experienced the same pain and horrors she had. Unwelcome hands, permanent scars on the skin and beneath it, and memories of touches that didn't belong.

She did what she could to get as much grime from your skin without scrubbing too hard or moving your clothing, and when she was done, she watched the flakes of blood and dirt melt and turn the water reddish brown. Inej shuddered and stood, taking the bowl and leaving your room as silently and quickly as she arrived. She wordlessly moved past Kaz on the steps and through the living room and stepped outside to dump the water into a patch of brown grass.

Inej stood there long after the reddened water ran over the dead blades of grass, a glass bowl dangling from her hand and her face turned toward the night sky. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and two tears slipped down her cheeks.

Please, she thought, her lips silently forming the word. Don't let her suffer what I have.

You woke up as the sun started rising, a loud thud and quiet bickering startling you into consciousness. You peeled open your eyes, fighting against the weight of your eyelids, and you blinked to clear your vision. Shivering, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows and then upright.

The room was freezing, your nose and ears numb from the temperature, and you pulled your covers tightly around you. A coat laid over you, smelling of smoke and city. Kaz. As you pulled it around your shoulders, ignoring the bloodstains on the front, you turned up the collar to inhale his scent again.

As you turned your head to investigate the room around you, the world twisted, and you squeezed your eyes shut to steady yourself, your fingers curling into the silky lining of Kaz's coat. Once your head stopped spinning, you opened your eyes again.

The room was small, sparsely furnished with only the bed, a rickety chair beside it, and a chest in the corner with a thick layer of dust on top. The wallpaper was yellowed from age, and there were rectangular outlines on the walls where paintings had once been. Once, this had been someone's home, and the thought made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle with the sense that you were intruding. Distantly, you heard a quiet conversation from below, and the voices were too soft, the background too quiet for you to be in the city somewhere.

Where the hell am I?

You slowly swung your legs over the edge of the bed, determined to poke around further and determine where you were. Standing and pulling Kaz's coat tighter around your shoulders, you managed one step. And another. Your legs trembled and threatened to go out from under you, but you took another step. The door was almost within reach, and you stepped forward to place your hand on the doorknob.

A board creaked beneath your weight, and the voices you'd heard below went quiet.

Footsteps thundered against wood, and the floorboards creaked. The sound grew louder, and you took shaky steps back, your head already swiveling in search of a weapon. Your hand made contact with a glass of water left behind on the bench beside your bed, and you lifted it, ignoring the liquid sloshing over the rim and onto your hand. Your grip slipped slightly, but you held on.

The door screeched open, and you raised the glass as if you might throw it. Your heart raced in your ears as you took in the faces of your friends in the doorway, and it took you a moment to process that you were safe and they would not harm you. Your team. Your friends. Your family.

"Y/N," Jesper said, already stepping into the room, and you set the glass back onto the bench as he came toward you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight, bone-crushing hug.

You let out a quiet sob as unexpected tears sprung to your eyes, and you wrapped your arms around him, too, despite the spasms of pain running up your bandaged arm and throughout your body. You hid your face in Jesper's chest, breathing in his smell of gunpowder and metal, and he held you tightly against him, swaying back and forth a bit.

Jes pressed a teary kiss to your sweaty, bloodied hair. "Saints, Y/N," he whispered, and he didn't have to say anything else. You understood. I thought you would die, he was thinking.

You couldn't blame him. For a while, you thought you would too.

You pulled back and looked up at him, brushing away his tears. "Stop crying," you told him, your voice raspy from emotion and disuse. "You'll make me cry too."

Jesper laughed shakily and squeezed you in a hug one more time, and then a small hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back. Inej was there, her warm, brown eyes alight with concern. There were a million questions, a million worries there, and you knew she was terrified for you. It wasn't hard to guess what she was thinking.

"I'm okay," you said. "They didn't."

Inej's fear deflated, and she pulled you into a hug. Her grip was gentler than Jesper's, wary of your injuries, and she pulled back to grip your shoulders. "Thank the Saints," she whispered. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "If they had..."

"They didn't," you repeated, knowing she needed to hear it. You could feel the guilt and worry weighing down on her, and you didn't want her to shoulder that. So you pulled her back into a hug, even as the world tipped under your unsteady legs.

Nina didn't say a word as she joined the embrace, wrapping one arm around Inej and the other around you, pressing her fingertips against the nape of your neck. Her touch eased some of the stiffness and the persistent throbbing there, and you sighed, your head drooping onto her shoulder as you let your friends support you for once.

"I'll pour some hot water and grab some clean clothes," Inej whispered, withdrawing from the embrace before turning to Jesper and nodding, the two of them quietly leaving as Nina started to tend to your wounds without you having to ask.

"How bad is it?" you murmured, letting Nina carefully guide you to sit on the bed. She pulled your injured arm out before you and peered down at the bandages, and you averted your gaze so you didn't have to see the state of your tattoo.

"It'll scar," Nina said after a few beats, gently undoing the bandages and then running her fingers over the marred flesh. The touch would have caused pain, had it not been for the soothing rush of her magic over your skin. "When we found you, you had a bad head injury. I needed to work on that first."

There was an apology in her voice, and you looked up at her, finding her already staring back at you with so much sadness in her gaze that the tears you were barely holding back almost slipped down your face. But instead of focusing on what you'd lost, you took a deep breath and forced the tiniest of smiles.

"Thank you," you said softly.

Nina nodded and smiled back. For once, she didn't press. She didn't say what was undoubtedly on her mind, didn't ask about what had happened to you. Instead, she just silently started to work on repairing what she could of your tattoo, healing scrapes and bruises as she went.

And you let her support you as you did fall apart, her hands still tending to your skin as you turned your head into the black coat draped around your shoulders and let your tears mix with the smokey scent of Kaz and the city that lingered on the fabric.

The air was bitterly cold when you took your first step outside, and you breathed in as much frosty air as possible. Your lungs ached in protest, but you didn't mind. You couldn't after everything you'd been through.

Wrapping the long black coat tighter around yourself, you took slow steps toward the tall silhouette standing near the tree line. He must have heard you coming, and he turned to face you when you stopped a few feet away.

"Hi," you said, your breath clouding before you before dissipating into the dusk. You took another step toward him, then another, then another, until you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Tucking your hands into the too-big pockets in the coat, you looked up at him. He was still watching you, his expression frustratingly yet understandably unreadable. "How long have you been out here?"

"I don't mind the cold," Kaz answered, his voice even raspier than usual. A typical nonanswer for Kaz, but the redness of his nose and around his eyes was anything but typical. The sight made your heart sink, and you longed to reach out to him and give him some reassurance that you were alright.

"Come inside. There's tea," you said, trying again to get him to thaw toward you. If he would say more than one sentence, you might have a better chance at finally talking with him.

"I'm alright," he said, turning back toward the tree line. His icy gaze flickered over the trees as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world, even as muddled shapes. Maybe they were when he wasn't busy looking everywhere but at you.

You were silent for a few long moments, then let out a slow sigh. "Kaz," you said softly. "Don't do that." The words tasted familiar on your tongue, like a memory shared long ago. You hoped Kaz would recognize them, would recognize what you were trying to say. He was shutting you out; at any other time, you would understand, and wouldn't push him to open up to you.

But you needed him. Don't pull away from me, you silently pleaded, looking up at him as you waited for him to react to your words, to understand what you were asking of him.

Kaz turned to you, and you saw something sparkling in his eyes. It was the first indication of emotion he'd given you, and it was precisely what you needed: a sign that he would open up to you eventually about what was running through his mind. "Do what?" he said, the words fighting to come up past the lump in his throat, the blockage formed by everything he wanted to say to you.

"The distance." The words were breathless, and you didn't follow them up with anything. You didn't need to, because Kaz let out a shaky exhale of his own and then dropped his hand from the top of his cane to his side. Your throat felt tight with emotion as you freed your hand from your coat pocket and then slipped your hand into his, lacing your fingers with his gloved ones. The leather was cool against your skin, but Kaz's touch alone warmed you up plenty.

Kaz gave your hand the gentlest of squeezes, and you felt his gaze burning into your face. It was heavy with the weight of words unspoken, and you decided that talking could wait until it was easier for both of you to bear.

Instead, you turned your head up toward the sky, taking a futile glance around for stars just as the first snowflakes began to flutter down around you and the earth continued its unaffected rotation on its axis.

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presidentofthelipglossclub · 9 months

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rescue bots headcanons !!!

chase has very strong opinions on pretty much everything. anything from the best multiple of 12 to how ants work (his opinions on these two are 60 and "they are very civilized creatures when they are not stealing food")

heatwave needs the most fuel out of everyone because he's a quadruple changer, and because synthesizing water from the air is surprisingly exhausting

blades watches the most mature television out of all of the original four. he's the only one who's watched anything rated higher than pg-13

boulder does volunteer work at soup kitchens and homeless shelters on his off days

none of the og's speak neocybex because of the whole stasis thing

blades' medical knowledge is super outdated (again, stasis--most of the major medical breakthroughs came after they left)

the first time heatwave met wheeljack he tried to deck him. they did not get along (this surprised optimus bc he thought they were very similar and would therefore get along)

quickshadow is jazz and prowl's kid

hightide and optimus used to on and off date (both ratchet and megatronus hated hightide)

boulder reads such a wide variety of books that he sometimes forgets what a normal frame of mind is. like, he reads books for toddlers to classic literature to those books of facts about ancient history. there are a lot of books in the bunker.

salvage dropped out of engineering school and then got a job loading up transport ships. always sort of regretted it, but kept his loader job up until stasis

blurr and heatwave were both trained as professional pilots. blurr had the transport ship he and salvage worked on, and heatwave was/is the main pilot of the sigma

quickshadow was one of elita-one's team members until the squad was disbanded

hightide is a cityspeaker and his suit was a gift from a titan

boulder has minor claustrophobia. it normally isn't too bad, but part of the reason he loves nature and the outdoors is because he feels free/not restricted

all the original four rescue bots were dorm mates during their academy years

heatwave didn't even want to be team leader it just kinda happened because of his natural talent for leadership. the others elected him as their leader and he just went with it.

chase is a night owl and usually does most of his tasks at night. he likes the quiet and also that means during the day he can focus completely on rescues

blades gets "grounded" ridiculously often by dani. like, "no tv for a week" type grounding not "no flying." blades thought it was the second one and was thrilled, and then devastated when he learned what she actually meant.

boulder is a clean freak. not a germaphobe, but he needs everything to be tidy

blades bet heatwave that he wouldn't make a "deez nuts" joke to optimus. he lost that bet but it was so worth it for the pained look on optimus' face when heatwave did it

hightide REEKS of salt. it's constant and everyone hates it.

blurr and salvage were both neutrals before they became rescue bots, which is why they've never done combat

all the official rescue bots (everyone but blurr and salvage since they were trained later and never went to the academy) have an outlier because forged rescue bots are built that way

also all the official rescue bots can easily bench press optimus. like, one handed. they're all ridiculously strong (again, rescue bots are just built that way. super strength is very important)

heatwave is ultra magnus's and hot rod's/rodimus's kid (he was raised by them)

rescue bots (official ones, not blurr and salvage) are exclusively cold constructs. they have to be manufactured to achieve the abilities necessary for their line of work (super strength+speed, outliers, olfactory sensors, different optic types, ability to scan extra alt modes, etc.)

after rid2015 the bee team was trained by the rescue bots to become rescuers (this is canon)

at some point before rba heatwave sorta became everyone's boss. pretty much every cybertronian of significant influence listens to him or works for him. this happened in a similar way as how he became his team's leader (on accident and because he just naturally takes charge)

the original four rescue bots are ambassadors to earth and technically all have government jobs but they just also do other stuff (teachers at the academy, rescuers, god knows what else)

game night, movie night and karaoke night are sacred traditions to the team and are taken extremely seriously. hightide refused to look at salvage for a month over a game of scrabble. optimus and bumblebee have both been forced to join in multiple times.

way more but that's where imma stop this post for now

#tfrb #rescue bots #transformers rescue bots #transformers aligned #rid2015 #tfp #transformers #tfrb heatwave #tfrb boulder #tfrb chase #tfrb blades #tfrb blurr #tfrb salvage #tfrb quickshadow #tfrb hightide #tfrb bumblebee #tfrb optimus

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lewkwoodnco · 1 year

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Hello! I would like to request Lockwood x Fem!Reader best friends to lovers based on gold rush <3

Gold Rush - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: I’ve always looked at gold rush as an enemies to lovers song so this was rlly interesting!!! Will update wc once I wake up 😴😴 (2.8k!)

It was the morning after one of the most tiring cases Lockwood & Co. had had in a while. Beyond the sheer size of the mansion, there seemed to be a new kind of Type Two waiting for them in every room. It was the type of case that left you too tired to complain at the end, but for whom the frustration carried over to the next morning.

“I’m charging them double at least. It’s one thing to bend the truth - they used it as a skipping rope!”

The four of them were in the kitchen, having breakfast. When she had come down, there was only George sipping his tea in the one lit corner of the kitchen. Lockwood was usually the first one up, so his absence was testament to his exhaustion. She had sighed, not realising that she had buttered some toast for him until she was done. George looked suspiciously invested in the newspaper. “And- oh, you’re too sweet, Y/N.”

Lockwood had found the plate of toast, which she had hoped would disappear. He shifted behind her, making some tea, absent-mindedly grazing her head with his fingers as he walked past. Her grip on the cereal box tightened, and she raised it, reading the ingredients with newfound interest. She swallowed, feeling her cheeks burn behind the cereal box, hoping no one would notice. Lockwood certainly didn’t, because he had moved on to that night’s Fittes gala, but Lucy’s gaze lingered on her a bit too long for her to be fully in the clear.

When she felt that she had calmed down enough, she lowered the cereal box, her eye instantly drawn to Lockwood’s limp yet perfectly neat hair, each strand naturally settled in place. Even when most relaxed, there was something artificially manufactured in every wave in his hair, every crease of his face, but in a way that didn’t aggravate but enticed: ambrosia incarnate.

George made some intimation about heading tor the Archives to finish up the research on their next job, and purpose rushed back into Lockwood, broken out of his early-morning sluggishness. Lucy left for more rapier practice as well, but George hung back before leaving. He stared at her, which was normal George behaviour, yet a part of her felt compelled to justify her earlier preoccupation with the cereal box. It was so redundant - it wasn’t like he could read her thoughts (though sometimes she would suddenly remember how smart he truly was and how piercing his gaze could be, at which she would decide to try to not take any chances; it was only a matter of time), and even if he could, there was nothing noteworthy. Just…perfectly normal thoughts about her perfectly normal boss.

“Did you know…that Froot Loops don’t actually have different flavours?”

“Do you know that you’re eating pure sugar?”

“…you’re no fun.”

————————————————————————

Every year, they were always invited to the same gala hosted by the same Fittes agency, yet the preceding afternoon was almost always as stressful as any ghost-hunting job. Scarves hung on every surface by Lucy, who never wore any of them, shirts thrown down the stairwell as Lockwood dramatically proclaimed that none of his shirts would do, and George yelling at everyone to quit making so much noise until Lucy grew sentient enough to wrestle him into something semi-formal.

This year was no different. The four of them flitted from room to room like moths, contributing to more than one clumsy collision. Now, she wandered out of the attic into the hallway forlornly, clutching two different shoes. She liked fancy galas as much as the next person, but sometimes it felt overwhelming to get ready for them. “I’m not sure if I should come.”

“No!” That was Lockwood, rifling through a box of multi coloured cloths, somehow still pristine even when half-dressed. “You have to come. Lucy and George are too morally upright to gossip. I’ll be bored to tears without you.” Her heart stupidly fluttered, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself as she watched him drape a bow tie around his neck. But of course, Lockwood wasn’t Lockwood if he didn’t have his signature ability to put his foot in his mouth.

“Besides, all of Fittes will be there, all of Rotwell will be there. We all need to go.”

“Of course.” Her harsh tone made Lockwood pause his flurry of activity, looking as though he wanted to fix what he had said. But he hesitated too long and now Lucy was barreling down the corridor, trying to find her boots, and the two of them awkwardly shifted away. She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter. What did she even have to be bitter about?

Before either of them could give it any more thought, they heard a dramatic gasp from George’s room, where they found Lucy blackmailing him into coming by holding one of his dusty old books hostage. George looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. But the blackmail worked, not that George let Lucy off the hook for the rest of the night, grumbling and bemoaning the (temporary) loss of his beloved friend. Other than that, they reached without much fuss, and Lockwood was quick to get to business.

“How about we do some networking?”

“What, with other agencies?”

“Connections couldn’t hurt.”

George shared a knowing glance with Lucy, but it was so brief that it was quickly forgotten, especially in light of his comment. “That’s just as well. I spy a couple Fittes agents who wouldn’t seem to mind, er, connecting with Lockwood.”

Lockwood frowned, but she didn’t pay attention long enough to see his full reaction. George had nodded towards this cluster (really, only three of them) of Fittes agents who seemed to have a particularly high propensity for giggling. They huddled even closer together when the four of them looked over, and they began furiously whispering into each other ears, eyes still intent on Lockwood. She hadn’t been much different when she had first joined the agency, and it certainly was amusing how oblivious he was to how ridiculously attractive he was, only showing a hint of awareness whenever he turned on the charm for particularly difficult clients. So polished, so shiny, so cool above the hot struggles of the ordinary folk he surrounded himself with, breezing through life. She would have resented him if he weren’t so darling.

Every time he wandered a bit too close to her, she braced herself for his touch. Because that was definitely what she was doing: bracing herself. Not like she wanted him to touch her or anything. And she definitely wasn’t repeatedly dying a slow and painful death as she replayed his brush at breakfast. And of course, Lockwood was too engrossed in his conversation with some stuffy bigwig to notice anything. He was gesturing around them with the air of someone far richer than he already was.

“We operate differently at Lockwood and Co. Glamour and glitz has its place, but personally we might have gone for something more…elegant. More…tasteful, perhaps.”

She snorted into her champagne a little more aggressively that she had intended. For someone so beautiful, Lockwood could be so full of shit sometimes. She smiled apologetically, and Lockwood helped fix things with that smooth laugh of his, but the disconcerted look in his eye told her he wasn’t going to forget about that anytime soon. Eventually, the bigwig needed to talk to another bigwig, so they excused themselves and turned to hunt for their next prey.

“What was that?”

“Oh, please, like I’m just supposed to stand and watch you and lie that blatantly. You’d sell your soul to have a gala as big as this tied to your name. You were so convincing, it’s almost impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“I said ‘almost.’”

He swooped down to the shell of her ear. “Good enough for me.” She frantically stamped out the butterflies in her stomach. Stupid Lockwood and his stupid warm breath tickling her ear and his stupid devastatingly appealing indifference towards morality. She pulled away from his magnetic field, thoughts tangled in her irritation.

“Y/N,” she stopped fuming long enough to realise Lockwood had dragged her to a quieter part of the party, but his words still bounced off her numb mind inconsequentially. “Are you alright? Was it-“ he grimaced uncomfortably. “Was it what I said back home? Because I didn’t-“

She was vaguely aware of her reaching out and holding his hand, trying to find the right words. The warmth of his hand anchored her even as she was drowning in it. It was dangerous, having him so close with a mind so willing to delve into nonsense. She could see herself tiptoeing out of his room, on wooden floors she only knew of through creaks far too late at night, her sweater dangling on the doorknob-

All of a sudden, he was gold under her touch. Gleaming and perfect, perfectly solid and assured as the riches that entrenched on him now consumed him: the perfect sculpture. And yet his eyes still hummed with the unmistakeable fervour of life, of spirit, of the adventure he so recklessly indulged himself in. She was slowing her breath, he was pulling her under, and she was dizzy with it, dizzy with him. It wasn’t normal, but they were never normal. Lockwood would beckon, and she would succumb, and each time common sense caught up to her just a little bit later than the last time, leaving her dangerously close to diving into the whirlpool that was Lockwood, inhibitions forgotten.

But then the music swelled, and laughter grated on her ears, and she remembered where she was. She let go of his hand almost spitefully, and walked away, ignoring his attempts to get her to stop. It was all so unnecessary and so saddening.

They left soon after, the can uncharacteristically quiet as two out of the four members tried to beat their hearts into submission. As they hung up their coats near the front door, Lockwood paused, and she was sure he was going to say something, but then the moment passed again and she was left climbing the stairs frustrated and wholly dissatisfied.

She kept the door to the attic a crack open, watching as much as she could of Lockwood drifting to the library, not looking away until she heard the soft click of the door. She closed her eyes, burning every memory and image of him into her retinas. Flashes of Lockwood danced like bright spots as she undressed: the bow tie left desolate around his neck, the champagne that blended in with his skin under the golden lights, the unscrupulous charisma that radiated off his too-bright smile…it was unhealthy how drugged she felt on the high that was Lockwood. But tonight had been too real, too visceral: she couldn’t bear dreaming about him for another second.

It was only twenty-four hours ago that she had been wandering near the coast with him while looking for the Source. The air was dizzy with salt and Lockwood’s eyes danced a bit too merrily for either of them to feel too burdened by the hunt for the Source. It was just as well that Lucy and George had found it, because she and Lockwood were utterly useless, getting drunk of each other’s laughter, stumbling in the shifting sand and gravel. She wondered if he thought about that night the way she did, if his breath caught too as he was swept up in the memory of the innocence they shared, blazing as they brazenly ambled foolishly for no one’s eyes but the moon’s and the seas’ who witnessed a love as pure as theirs for the first and last time.

————————————————————————

She woke up feeling painfully brittle from the previous night. She slept restlessly, too preoccupied to wade through her thoughts with much precision, until she finally heard enough movement downstairs. Lockwood was surprisingly already fully dressed, staring a hole into the wall with the case file of their next job in front of him. But his ironed clothes were jarring rather than refreshing, especially when contrasted against the bruises under his eyes and his translucent skin. Good. He was too disarming when he was well-rested anyway. All her resentment towards him dissolved at the sight of a stack of meticulously buttered toast and cup of tea: an Anthony Lockwood peace offering if she ever saw one. It made her want to cry, but it wasn’t the time for it, so she settled for a gnawing in her stomach.

From the boys’ stilted conversation, she gathered that Lockwood had already been to the site that morning and there was clearly something about it that their clients weren’t telling them. From the look she shared with George as they started discussing their clients’ possible secrets, it was clear that he too was slightly troubled. It wasn’t like Lockwood to go out for walks alone, especially before dawn. She nearly upset the milk jug when her heart swooped as she thought about Lockwood staying up alone, slowly bleeding into the shadows of the house that threatened to inhale him. It made her feel funny.

“Hm?” Lockwood turned, tuning back in only at the tail end of the conversation. She hated how adorable his half-confused expression was and how it made her forget how to breathe. She scoffed, leaving her toast but begrudgingly taking her tea with her, mumbling something about Anna Karenina. She was properly put off her breakfast. As if lingering in the edges of her mind wasn’t enough, he just had to disrupt her appetite too.

“Hey.” He had found her hiding away on the floor of the library between some bookshelves. Not that she was actively avoiding him.

“Hey.” Sleep deprivation wasn’t a good look on anyone, but Lockwood still managed to pull it off. Still, he looked miles more unkempt like this than in a regular, cotton shirt.

He uselessly gestured towards the plate, looking less than the perfect cool he typically maintained. “I brought your toast.”

“I’m fine with my tea, thanks.” She fixed her eyes back onto her book, painfully aware of him watching her. He sighed and sat down in front of her.

“I know you felt it too, last night. I don’t know why you’re mad at me when you’re the one going around lying through your teeth.” She snapped her book close. Enough was enough.

“Because we’ll never be anything more. You’re this…this craze, this bug that’s infected everyone that’s slowly sucking the life out of me, you…you hedonistic disease. You’ll hold my hand and brush your fingers against my head but you’ll never kiss me. And why would you?” She nudged her tea further behind; she couldn’t tolerate even glancing at it. It reminded her of the waves that teased their soles, brimming with awe, a memory that was steadily sinking into the grey of her unpleasantly cold tea. “You have so much more, so much better to choose from. Everybody wants you.”

“Who cares about everyone else?”

“I care! Normal people care! How can you expect me to just stand here, knowing that I will never be good enough for someone like you?”

He looked so genuinely lost that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. Someone as iridescent, and perfect as you.” She spat out that word with disgust. If she weren’t so upset, he would have made some stupid quip about her finding him perfect, but that was a bone to pick for another time. He reached out, holding her hand to his chest.

“Y/N…no one could be more perfect than you.”

She snatched her hand back. Now he was just mocking her. “Don’t! Don’t say that when it isn’t true.”

“But it is!”

“Anthony Lockwood, you are made of fibs, half-truths and tall tales. You bend the truth! You bend, and you bend and you bend until you snap me right in half.”

She was crying by this point. God, could she be more embarrassing? Lockwood shuffled towards her, wrapping an arm around her and speaking into her hair. The exact same spot his fingers had brushed and ignited this chain sequence of events.

“You’re right. I’m a vagabond. A no-good…charlatan. But,” he adjusted his head to look into her eyes, and now all she saw were faint tendrils of gold dust sprinkling in his irises. “I’m your charlatan. Don’t you think?”

And with eyes like those, how could she say no?

#fanfiction #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood x you #fanfic #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x y/n #taylor swift #evermore #gold rush #requested

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catierambles · 1 month

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Blood Moon Ch.27

His family had been understandably horrified when Annalisa helped Sy from the back of the truck and they saw him covered in blood and vicious lacerations. He reassured them that he would be fine, he just needed food, to get cleaned up, and rest. Maybe not in that order. No, he would not be going to a hospital.

"The Damascos guy." Jack said, "You take care of'im?"

"Yes." Annalisa said simply and he sniffed.

"Good."

"Annie, I'm gonna need your help gettin' cleaned up." Sy said, sounding exhausted. "Stayin' upright is getting' tough."

"Anythin' I can get you?" Denise asked and he gave her a tired smile.

"M'fine, ma. Annie'll take care of me." He said.

"How about you make him something to eat while we get him cleaned up?" Annalisa suggested, "With everything that's been happening the last couple days, he's going to need to rebuild his strength. Can't imagine they were feeding them enough."

"Hardly anythin'." Sy said, "Would love a home cooked meal."

"Of course." Denise said, "I'll make you somethin'." She passed by them on the way to the kitchen, reaching out to squeeze Annalisas' arm gently in gratitude.

"Won't have you tackle the stairs, we can use the downstairs bathroom." Annalisa suggested and he nodded, "Why don't you guys help Denise in the kitchen?" She suggested the others who were watching them, wanting to help but not knowing how. "Brian, you may get a report of a steel manufacturing plant burning to the ground a few miles out of town. It was due to equipment not being properly maintained."

"Understood." He said, "Anythin' we'll find in it?"

"Not if the others do their jobs properly. It’d only be fitting that they be handled the same as the wolves that were killed."

"Amen." Brian said, "If I get the call-out for an all-hands, I'll let you know, but I usually handle Narcotics, not Arson."

“I understand.” She said, “Come on, big guy.” Helping him into the bathroom as she heard the others head into the kitchen, he sat down on the closed toilet lid as she started the shower, holding her hand under the spray to gauge the temperature.

“Thank you.” He said and she looked at him, seeing him staring down at his hands, his shoulders sagged.

“For what?”

“Findin’ me.”

“There was no chance of that not happening.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“First one I fought, I didn’t kill’im. Told’im to play possum. He listened. The others didn’t.”

“Kyle...”

“I tried to make it quick, but they still...I can still hear...” He flinched at the remembered sound and she went to him, sliding her hands over his back, the dried blood rough under her palms.

“You did what you had to do to survive.” She said, “No one will judge you for that. Want me to make an emergency appointment with Melody tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He said with a nod. She helped him stand and he pushed off the tattered remains of his clothes, stepping into the tub under the spray. A full body shudder shook him as the hot water ran over him, blood, sweat, dirt, and grime running down his skin. Tears sprung to her eyes as the full extent of his injuries were revealed now that the blood was mostly gone. Some were healing, others were still fresh. Pulling off her clothes, she got into the shower with him and gently washed around the wounds with a washcloth. They didn’t have to worry about the wounds going south, his nature would keep any infection from taking hold. Once he was clean, she helped him dry off, patting him gently with the towel so she didn’t aggravate his injuries. The pants were a loss, but she tossed his boxer briefs into the laundry basket before putting on her robe.

“Let me get you some clothes before you head out there, okay?”

“Yeah.” He said again, sitting back down on the toilet lid. Annalisa left the bathroom, heading up the stairs and grabbing him fresh small clothes and a pair of lounge pants. Trying to put a shirt on would only tug on his wounds. Going back downstairs, he was right where she had left him and he took the clothes from her, pulling them on wordlessly.

“Ready to go out there?” He just nodded and she helped him stand again, letting him lean on her as they left the bathroom.

“Food’s almost—” Denise stopped as she came out from the kitchen, seeing him standing there. “Baby.” She approached him slowly, her eyes filling with tears as they moved over the claw marks intermixed with bite wounds on his chest, his arms, curling over one shoulder. They were deep, ugly, and looked painful. “Kyle.”

“M’fine, momma.” He said, “Been through worse.”

“Don’t tell me that. Not while you’re lookin’ like this.” She said.

“They’ll be healed fully in about a week.” Annalisa said, “He’ll have scars, but he’ll recover.”

“How the hell are you still breathin’?” Pete asked as he came out from the kitchen, looking him over with an expression akin to horror.

“Too stubborn to stay down.” Sy said with a small shrug, wincing slightly from the action. “Food?”

“Yeah.” Pete said, “It’s done. Annie keeps’er fridge and pantry stocked so we made some beef burgundy and mashed ‘taters.”

“Smells good.” Sy said and leaned on Annalisa as they went back into the kitchen. Jack didn’t say anything when he saw him, but his face pulled in an anguished expression, going to him and squeezing the back of his neck. “M’fine, pops. C’mon, let’s eat. Y’all gotta be hungry, too.”

“See the piercin’ survived.”

“Shut up, Jake.” Sy said and he snorted. Ethan showed up halfway through dinner, Denise getting up and getting him a plate without a word which he accepted in thanks, sitting down with the rest of them around the butcher’s block table to eat.

“Should've told me you were an Alpha.” Ethan said as he dug in.

“Didn’t know.” Sy replied around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Alpha?” Mike asked.

“You all seen his wolf?” Ethan asked and they nodded. “Mine isn’t that big. No where near it.”

“So that ain’t standard?” Pete asked and Ethan shook his head. “Well, damn.”

“How are the others?” Annalisa asked.

“They’re being seen at the hospital. Melody is going to be busy.” Ethan said, “They’ve all declared loyalty to Sy, or “The Captain”, as they call him.”

“How’d they know I was a Captain?” Sy asked.

“Couple of them are former military, recognized your fighting style as one used by the Berets. I think they just got lucky with the rank.” He said.

“Didn’t stop‘em from tryin’ to kill me.”

“They were told whoever killed you walked free.” Ethan said.

“Probably by the fuckhead.” Sy said, “Cover his tracks.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Ethan said. Annalisa’s hand slid over Sy’s arm and he squeezed it when she slid her fingers into his.

#henry cavill #captain syverson #blood moon

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highxbrand · 2 months

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#Kitchen Exhaust Ducting System #Manufacturers in Faridabad

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

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Made for Him II

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, blood and gore, violence, death, grief, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Peter finds himself alone after the loss of those around him, so he decides to find a cure to his grief.

Characters: Peter Parker

Note: I hope you enjoy the second part...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.

Love you all like Garfield loves lasagna. Take care. 💖

The Creator

Peter was bad at giving up. His persistence was both an asset and a flaw, praised by some and bemoaned by others. After hours watching the body, watching another loss, he shut down the machines and left her. He was too disheartened to clean up. The thought of disposing of her made him sick.

It should have worked. Why didn't it work?

He chewed his lip as he climbed up the stairs and closed the hatch, the heavy bang barely registered in his ears. He just couldn't figure out where he'd went wrong. Her neural receptors were alight with activity and the synapses were sparking wildly, her heart kept a steady beat and her breath rose and misted in the cold air. But she just wouldn't wake up.

She was a shell. Just like Tony's stupid suits. There was no life there, only spent energy and wasted time.

Peter took off his helmet and plunked it on the counter. The Italian humidity was not so bad as before but his hair curled damply around his face from so long in his suit. He glanced out the arched window and stared at the sky, a dimming greyish violet. A storm was brewing and would help ease the thickness that lingered.

He finished stripping away the heavy equipment, the gloves were tinted from her blood and the interior smelled of his sweat. He kicked it into the corner and swore. He would have to try again but he didn't know if he had the heart for it. He was so very tired and so very lonely.

He opened the fridge out of habit but had no appetite. He let it close and turned with a snarl and threw his fist into the stone wall of the villa. It cracked and a large chunk shattered onto the floor. He didn't feel the pain, he never felt the physical damage but he felt everything in his soul.

That was something he could not manufacture. Likely, what he was missing, but how could he infuse a living form with that mystic enigma. He laughed at himself sourly. He was deluded into thinking science fiction could ever be reality. Maybe he was mad, maybe he'd finally gone over the edge. It was a startling moment of self-reflection fractured by the sudden sharp crackle of lightning.

He went down the hall and looked down the coast at the dark waters. The sky had quickly turned black as the storm moved in. Suddenly his vision lit up as lightning roared down and fizzled across the waves. The ebb and flow crashed loudly as the winds began to burgeon and bellow.

Peter watched, transfixed by the violence, as thunder rumbled through the clouds as the air broke and he felt a rare coolness crawl over his skin, the hair standing on his arms and neck. Boom, boom, crack! The tempo beat wildly as he was swept up in the terror.

Thump, thump, thump�� At first, he thought it was the thunder but it was hollow and much closer. The sudden muffled crash of metal made his heart skip. His feet moved on their own as he raced back to the kitchen and flung open the hatch.

There was movement from below, clattering, clinking, an odd groan. His steps hammered down and he hopped over the last few stairs.

The tray of instruments was overturned, the air still frigid and still. The metal table was bare but for the crisscrossed tubes that led to the other side. He rounded it as his ears itched and his throat lumped.

She was there, shivering and yanking on the wires hooked to her. Her face was contorted with confusion and fear, but most significantly, she was awake. She was alive!

Her eyes flicked up from her struggle and rounded as she saw him. She gave a strangled groan and clumsily wriggled away from him but not far as she was caught up in the tubes. He raised his hands as he neared, plaintively as if coaxing an animal.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you?" He cooed.

She thrashed out as he got close and he caught her arms. They were warm and strong as she wrestled with him. He squeezed her wrists until she stilled and he cautiously let go of one. He felt along her hand and took out the IV. She didn't resist as she was awestruck at his actions.

He glanced up and found her watching his hands. He continued to detach her and took the sensor from her chest. She was naked still but unaffected by it. He removed the ring from her head and she grabbed him suddenly.

She raised his arm beside hers and looked between them. He watched the horror swell behind her eyes and she shrieked as she let him go. She searched her body and her wails got louder as she felt the stitches he placed on her, like spiderwebs holding her together.

"It's okay," he said, "please--"

He reached out and she swatted him away. She pinched a stitch and tugged, whining as blood began to bead from the incision. He tore her hand away and grabbed the other.

"No! No!" He hissed, "don't do that."

She stared at him and her forehead wrinkled. The air rushed from his lungs as he realised she couldn't understand him. He had little hope of her retaining memories of her former life, he'd counted on it, but she didn't seem to understand anything at all.

"Come on," he stood and pulled on her until she did the same. She was unsteady and stumbled against him. She clung to him and he basked in the feel of it. "Here."

He picked her up and she cried out in surprise. He cradled her against him and headed for the steep stairs. He climbed treacherously and when he got to top, she babbled at her new surroundings.

He took her through the kitchen and into the front room. He placed her down on the sofa and watched how she felt the cushions and pressed them with her fingers.

"Please, stay," he said as he backed away and showed her his palms, "stay."

He pointed to the couch as she batted her lashes dumbly. He slowly inched to the door and watched her as she craned to see him. He repeated his order and gesture and quickly flitted away.

He raced upstairs to the closet he filled in expectation. He took out a dress without looking and came back down. He heard whining as thunder hammered down and shook the villa. He found her under the table, hiding from the cacophony.

He set the dress over the arm of the couch and went to her. He drew her out from beneath the table and guided her back to the couch, she flinched and exclaimed every time the windows flashed or the sky boomed. He calmed her by rubbing her arms and she looked at him curiously.

He was frozen by her gaze. Slowly she lifted her hand and touched his cheek. Her gangly fingertips dragged along his jaw then she spread her hand over his face entirely. She pulled back and felt her own face and sobbed. He caught her hands and hushed her. He put them in her lap and reached for the dress.

He helped her poke her arms through the cap sleeves and got her head through the top. He pushed the fabric down and stood to help her up so the skirt hung down to just above her knees. He smiled. She looked wonderful.

The thunder quaked around them and she whimpered and fell against him. She latched onto him as she trembled and he brought his arms around her. He rocked her until she calmed, though she still winced at every noise.

He sat her down again and held her. She fidgeted restlessly as the storm lulled and only the patter of rain remained. He dared to let her go and took the thin woven blanket from over the back of the couch. He swathed it around her shoulders and she clutched the edges thankfully and played with the fringe like a child.

He stood and she let out a sharp breath. He paused and caressed her bare head. She watched him as he slowly pulled away, keeping his eyes on her as he went to grab his tablet from the shelf. He went back to her and sat as he unfolded the case and propped it up.

He scrolled through his files and selected a video. His collection was not vast but carefully curated. He wanted her to be happy so he kept to a particular genre.

She leaned forward and gaped at the tablet, her nose almost touching his hand. He chuckled softly as the credits began to roll and Audrey Hepburn's name flashed below Gregory Peck's. He sat back and drew her to him against the cushion and fixed the blanket around her.

She slapped his arm but he realised it was unintentionally gruff. She felt his sleeve and pressed her thumb to the muscle beneath. He let her explore across his chest and she grabbed his chin, once more looking him over. He took her hand and twined his fingers through hers.

"Alright," he said and nodded to the tablet, "watch."

Her eyes flicked to the screen and she blinked at the images of other people. She squeaked and pointed at it then waved her hand in excitement. He smiled as she leaned forward again, gaze intent on the scene playing before her.

He was happy because he knew she would never leave. She couldn't. She needed him. Besides, he doubted she'd even have the thought. He was her creator, she belonged with him. Belonged to him

#peter parker #dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #peter parker x reader #frankenstein #au #mcu #marvel #spider-man #avengers #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #horror au

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thebrickinbrick · 4 months

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What Is To Be Done In the Abyss If One Does Not Converse? Part 1

Sixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection, and June, 1848, knew a great deal more about it than June, 1832. So the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline, and an embryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have just sketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.

The insurgents under the eye of Enjolras, for Marius no longer looked after anything, had made good use of the night. The barricade had been not only repaired, but augmented. They had raised it two feet. Bars of iron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest. All sorts of rubbish brought and added from all directions complicated the external confusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over, into a wall on the inside and a thicket on the outside.

The staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it like the wall of a citadel had been reconstructed.

The barricade had been put in order, the tap-room disencumbered, the kitchen appropriated for the ambulance, the dressing of the wounded completed, the powder scattered on the ground and on the tables had been gathered up, bullets run, cartridges manufactured, lint scraped, the fallen weapons re-distributed, the interior of the redoubt cleaned, the rubbish swept up, corpses removed.

They laid the dead in a heap in the Mondétour lane, of which they were still the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot. Among the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs. Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.

Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.

Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:—

LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!

These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848.

The three women had profited by the respite of the night to vanish definitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.

They had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.

The greater part of the wounded were able, and wished, to fight still. On a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen, which had been converted into an ambulance, there were five men gravely wounded, two of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal guardsmen were attended to first.

In the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth and Javert bound to his post.

“This is the hall of the dead,” said Enjolras.

In the interior of this hall, barely lighted by a candle at one end, the mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar, a sort of vast, vague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf lying prone.

The pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade, was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag to it.

Enjolras, who possessed that quality of a leader, of always doing what he said, attached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody coat of the old man’s.

No repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat. The fifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty provisions of the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had passed there. At a given moment, every barricade inevitably becomes the raft of la Méduse. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger. They had then reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th of June when, in the barricade Saint-Merry, Jeanne, surrounded by the insurgents who demanded bread, replied to all combatants crying: “Something to eat!” with: “Why? It is three o’clock; at four we shall be dead.”

As they could no longer eat, Enjolras forbade them to drink. He interdicted wine, and portioned out the brandy.

They had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed. Enjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he came up again said:—“It’s the old stock of Father Hucheloup, who began business as a grocer.”—“It must be real wine,” observed Bossuet. “It’s lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles.”

—Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs, placed his veto on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might touch them, he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.

#lm 5.1.2 #part 1 #the brick in brick #barricade day #les mierables #lego

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