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birrdies · 2 years ago

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the art of ship burning

2.6k, smalletho / boat boys ficlet set in my pirate au (reading the original fic is not required to understand this)

If you asked Joel, ship-burning was more an artform than a science. The matters weren’t as simple as a few dry pieces of timber and a spark to light them. To Etho, those matters probably extended into levels of moisture and the direction of the wind. However the objectively correct and all-around better matters— Joel’s matters— lay entirely with one thing: presentation.

Swords clashed on the deck. Streaks of silver cut through the midnight black sky, rivaling that of the moonlight hidden behind a thick weave of clouds. The ocean roared beneath the hull, waves thrashing the side of the ship this way and that— a storm was coming. The electricity danced in the air, teasing and coy. Gods, what a lovely night for a ship to burn.

Joel threw himself at the starboard side of the military ship, climbing up onto the rusted deadeyes to reach the shrouds. His heart hammered in his chest as the song of gnashing blades and pained yells accompanied his great climb. His sweaty palms gripped tight onto the rope, but with one violent lurch of the ship to the right, Joel lost his grip. Terror swept through him, a coldness sinking in his gut like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Perhaps it was his heart.

His legs, tangled in the rungs of the shroud, caught his fall. He dangled upside down from the ropes, all the blood rushing to his head. The frantic beat of his heart pulsed in his temples. Below him the deck’s action continued to brew. In the center of it all: Etho. He fought wildly through a crowd of butter-spined men who, by uniform alone, could be considered naval officers. They came for him at all angles, but whereas the King’s men relied on brute force, Etho relied on something far stronger: strategy.

He weaved between jabbing elbows and sweeping swords, slipping through gaps in the onslaught of soldiers. One officer lunged with his blade aimed at Etho’s chest. He side-stepped it and grabbed the officer by the sword-wielding arm, pulling the both of them backwards until the officer’s blade pierced one of his own men in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he disappeared from the space between them. They might’ve out-numbered him about a dozen to one, but to keep Etho locked down was like trying to bottle lightning up in a jar. You simply couldn’t, and you looked ridiculously stupid if you tried.

Joel’s vision grew spotty. He’d been dangling too long, his head overfilled with blood and his legs tingling and numb. He heaved himself upright, gripping the shroud and hauling himself the rest of the way upright. Heat rushed down his spine, through his limbs, as the blood returned to its rightful place. He waited for the spots in his vision to clear before continuing his climb up the shrouds.

Usually, Joel liked to let things simmer for a bit before bringing them to a boil. It was nice to savor their targets’ panic, to watch them scurry across the decks like headless chickens as the water filled up to their ankles and they hauled away every valuable thing they had to their name. But there were more of these peacocks than either of them had anticipated; Etho was good, but he was only so good. If Joel didn’t speed things up he wasn’t sure he’d still have a partner to split his earnings with at the end of the day. Good for his wallet, but bad for the ship. Upkeep and raids were much easier when you had someone to split it up with.

So, Joel reached the top of the shrouds, swaying back and forth with the rock of the sea and wind alike. He dug around in his pockets for his flint-and-steel. It was powerful enough to take down the thickest of sails. Tongue stuck between his teeth, Joel leaned out as far as his arms could stretch, sparking the flint-and-steel inches beneath the fabric of one of two large, layered sails. It caught instantly, orange and gold flecks turning into small yet promising flames. A flash of heat kissed Joel’s face; he grinned madly.

If they thought those ridiculously oversized crimson sails stood out, stark and proud, then they weren’t ready for the show in store.

The flames consumed the sail stitch by stitch, fiber by fiber. Joel climbed down the shrouds to keep himself out of the fire’s reach but kept close enough to feel the heat of it. He should’ve quickly moved on to the other sail, to the ratline, to the sacs of flour and fruit on deck— anything to get the flames to catch quicker and get him and Etho both out of there. But don’t blame him for wanting to admire his own handiwork. They didn’t get to do this often, especially not against a military ship. This was a special treat. Etho would be fine for an extra second. Or ten.

The skin of his hands buzzed. The ropes under him shook, a rattle carried down the entire length of the shrouds up towards the nest. At the base, a broad-chested soldier climbed the dead-eyes and climbed after Joel. He was only a few feet away, a sword in his hand.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Joel groaned.

The flames quickly ate a hole in the center of the front-most sail. The further they traveled, the closer they got to the central mast. They’d start eating away at it any second now. Once the mast gave out, there would be nowhere else to go. Joel needed to get off of the shrouds, preferably before that happened and he got crushed in a mess of wood and embers.

If he got lucky, the Gods would quit toying with him and let the storm break. If lightning struck, it’d either knock this guy off and give Joel some breathing room, or it would strike the ship and fan the flames that much faster. The latter ensured almost certain death, but Joel couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. He’d rather die at the hands of some spiteful god than a military peacock who wore wigs at dinner parties for fun.

But said peacock had him cornered. There was nowhere for Joel to climb except for up, closer to the flames where the fire would burn him and the smoke would suffocate him. He had not one weapon on him aside from the fire-starter, and Joel wasn’t so stupid as to burn his literal life-line while he was still on it, suspended forty feet in the air above solid wood and thrashing blades. That was probably second on his list of least preferred ways to die.

The soldier growled and reached for Joel’s ankles. He kicked like mad, hoping he could at least crunch a bone or two under the force of his steel-heeled boots. But the soldier was tougher than he looked. He took each kick without so much as a wince, and in a second he grabbed Joel’s ankle with one hand. He balanced precariously on the shroud, one hand dragging Joel down and the other raising his sword.

“Shit!” Joel threw an arm up to shield his face from the worst bite of the blade.

But it never came. Instead, a much sweeter sound: the soldier’s cry of pain as a bolt whizzed through the air and buried in his neck. Blood sputtered from around the arrowhead; he immediately lost his grip on Joel and the shroud alike, rolling over. With him, the shroud twisted, but this time Joel was ready.

He hung on tight as it flipped over like a tangled hammock, dumping the soldier’s body unceremoniously onto the now still deck beneath. Several bodies were either dead or unconscious, stacked unceremoniously in piles where they’d fallen. The rest were either tied at the wrists and ankles or cowering with their foreheads pressed into the wood like they really thought any sort of god was helping them.

Beneath him, Etho held a crossbow still aimed at the sky. His cheek bled sluggishly.

“You sure took your sweet time up there, Joel!” he jeered, breathing heavy. “Should I grab you a pillow? Rub your feet?”

“Shut up, Etho!” Joel yelled from where he dangled overhead. “The bloody thing’s already lit, we just need to— woah, woah, watch out!”

It was close. Etho spun right as a cutlass swept through the air over his head. But not close enough. Not fast enough— a blade caught Etho in the shoulder. His pained sound was quiet, but to Joel it might as well have sounded like cannonfire. Etho staggered as the general who had snuck up on him reached for the back of Etho’s collar, hauling him back.

The cannonball he’d swallowed turned into hot, active steel. Shot directly out of a cannon, Joel slid down and leapt from the shrouds when he was confident he was low enough not to break both his ankles.

“Nope, no you don't!” His pulse pounded furiously in his ears as he snatched a sword from one of the bodies at his feet. All it took was a single lunge. A dangerous, incredibly stupid and risky lunge. But a successful one nonetheless. Even with Etho held up between them like a human shield, Joel slipped the tip of the sword in the gap under Etho’s armpit, burying the sword in the general’s gut.

He fell into a heap of limbs on the deck, blood bubbling up between his fingers where he clutched at the wound in the center of his stomach. Joel sneered and kicked him as far away from Etho as he could manage. Which wasn’t very far, he was a lot bigger than Joel, but it was about the principle of the thing.

Furious, sweaty, and buzzing with fear, Joel whirled on Etho. “You bloody idiot, what were you thinking, turning your back?! Let me see—”

Etho swatted his hand away. With the other hand he clutched at the wound. “Next time I’ll let someone poke you full of holes, then,” he said, voice strained.

It bled from the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Blood slicked his hands and dripped down the front of his white shirt, but he wasn’t bleeding as much as the guy he’d shot did. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t oh my gods I’m going to die bleeding. Which was a comfort to Joel, no matter how little. He’d be hurt and whiny, but he wasn’t going to die. He could deal with that.

Joel tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. The red sails blazed a brilliant gold and orange. Embers and ash rained from the sky, a storm of their own making. They didn’t need any gods. The ship went up like a torch, more beautiful than any damn lighthouse or painted sail on the seven seas. It was a mark to be made permanently in the way of ash. It won’t be faded by time or bleached by the sun. Joel’s grin grew wickedly sharp.

He put a hand on Etho’s back. “Let’s get the goods and get the bloody hell out of here.”

***

“Ow! Joel, careful!”

“How can I be careful if you aren’t holding blummin’ still?” Joel snapped, grabbing the back of Etho’s neck forcefully. He sat on a stool behind Etho, armed with a rag doused in drinking alcohol. He examined the wound that bit the worst into the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t as deep as Joel initially feared. The wound’s edges were puffy and oozy (everything Joel detested), but the worst of the bleeding finally stopped. Not that that spared Joel’s sleeves any; he looked forward to burning his shirt as soon as Etho was bandaged and put to bed.

He kept one hand on the back of Etho’s neck while the other dabbed at the edges of the wound. Etho shivered with each touch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end every time so much as Joel shifted his hold. Cold air wafted through the ship's calm hull, the steady rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby. A gift for their hard work today (as if the gold and diamonds hadn’t been enough).

“It stings,” Etho complained.

Joel sighed. “You’re the one who told me to do this part.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, but it still hurts.”

He was a great partner to fare the seas with, but by the gods, Etho could be bloody annoying when he wanted to be. How could a man who was capable of cutting down an entire naval crew be capable of complaining so much? Little about him made sense, and while Joel gave up long ago trying to piece him together, it didn’t stop the puzzle from grating on his nerves often.

With a groan, Joel draped the rag over his thigh, feet tapping a restless, agitated beat on the floorboards. “Alright, it’s clean or whatever,” he said, then hesitated. “… You don’t need stitches, do you? I am not poking a bloody needle through your skin.”

“If I don’t want it to scar, probably,” Etho said, and Joel understood what he meant.

Etho was no stranger to scars. It wasn’t the first time Joel had seen him without a shirt, but it was the first time seeing things this close— close enough to touch. His back was littered with them. Thin cross-hatching lines covered the expanse of his back, some silvery and pale with their age, from a time before Joel, others still red and fresh. As fresh as scars come, at least. A gash on the right flank, a spearhead Etho caught with his body during a rowdy raid on a clan of fishermen. A long, straight cut down the length of his spine. A burn scar to his left shoulder. That one was Joel’s fault — don’t ask.

What was one more to the collection? Besides, Joel wasn’t going to complain about not having to sew Etho’s skin shut. Instead he, without complaint, reached for a roll of bandages he had set out on the table. He called it a roll of bandages, but really it was one of the finer shirts they’d stolen among one of the officer’s luggage cut up into long, thin strips. He was proud of himself for the innovation, even if Etho had pursed his lips at the side of it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Etho would have to just get over it.

As he wound the makeshift bandages around Etho’s shoulder and under his armpit, Joel held his breath. Etho didn’t say anything, only lightly wincing when Joel lifted his arm too quickly, which happened every time he needed to reach under the wrap the bandages around. But he endured it without much more complaint. Suddenly, Joel wished he would. Just so he didn’t have to be the one to start talking.

“That was bloody stupid what you did,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you die pulling something like that again.”

“No promises,” Etho said, and by gods Joel could hear the mischievous smirk in his voice. “Someone’s gotta watch your back, Joel.”

Joel scoffed and tucked the edge of the bandage into itself, patting them down. This time Etho groaned and recoiled from his touch, protecting his shoulder with his hands as best he could. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’ll stop being mean when you stop being useless and annoying,” Joel said, quickly climbing to his feet and rummaging around in the armoire (another fixture they’d stolen on a previous raid, a rare and expensive mahogany piece that both Joel and Etho found incredibly ugly but both refusing to be the first to admit it). He pulled out a shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it against Etho’s bare chest.

“Cover up before I throw up,” he said. “More ships to burn, more stuff to steal. Up and at ‘em.”

#i wrote this in a feverish haze after worm brought upon a boat boys relapse #thank you worm #birdie writes #smalletho #boat boys #smalletho fic #double life #double life fic #secret life #hermitshipping #<- tagging just in case

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ofliarsandlovers · 2 months ago

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(Lee Pace, 46, cis-male, he/him) — Look who it is! If you take a look at our database, you’ll find that PETYR STEELE is a HEAD ARCHIVIST that works in SECTOR 5. According to the file, they’re a mutant with the power of NIGHTMARE MANIPULATION. That must be why they’re PERCEPTIVE and OBSESSIVE. If you ask me, they remind me of An old photograph that's thumb-worn and folded too many times, frost on glass, muffled screams in sleep and choral ambient music. They are affiliated with THE DAMNED.

basic information:

character name: Petyr Steele

nickname (s): Pete

face claim: Lee Pace

mutation status: Mutant

birthday: January 8th

sexuality: Homosexual

moral alignment: Neutral Good/Chaotic Neutral

occupation: Head Archivist

work sector: Sector 5

affiliation: The Damned

3 positive traits: Insightful, Resilient, Resourceful

3 negative traits: Bitter, Vengeful, Paranoid

questionnaire:

how do they feel about living in sol city? have they always lived there or did they travel from another settlement? "I came from a settlement in what used to be southern Europe—small, worn, but it was home. I moved to Sol for my husband and daughter, because they believed in fresh starts. I stay now out of spite, because someone needs to remember what their optimism cost."

do they trust the council’s leadership? why or why not? "The Council sells control as order, but all I’ve seen them do is trade lives for power. They let the riots happen, let the city burn, and now they wear their clean hands like a badge—while I bury ghosts.”

if they chose their sector and profession, why did they make that choice? if they didn’t, why not? were they happy with their assignment or not? "I chose the archives because once, stories meant hope—history felt like a thread tying the world together. Now, every page I touch feels like a lie someone lived long enough to record, and I keep them only because forgetting would be worse.”

what’s one object that they always keep on their person? He wears his wedding ring and his husbands is on a chain around his neck. In his wallet, there’s a photo of him holding a child on his shoulders with his husbands arms wrapped around his torso as their expressions are caught in timeless laughter.

(mutant only section)

what is your character’s ability (or abilities)? Nightmare Manipulation

are they gen i or gen ii? Gen II

what can your character do? what are their strengths? He can create, shape, enter and manipulate the nightmares of himself and others, including modifying, suppressing, fabricating, influencing, manifesting, sensing, observing nightmares and turning dreams into nightmares. He can use his ability to physically manifest peoples fears, pulled straight from their nightmares and use them to inflict terror onto people. He appears to have an intuition and power of insight on personal fears, enabling him to determine what any individual fears, which he uses to play mind games or break one's spirits.

what can’t they do? what are their weaknesses? If the target does not have anything to be afraid of, then he cannot control their nightmares. He can only manipulate sleeping subjects, due to this, he has a limited amount of time while their target is asleep. As it is their dreams, targets may also be able to manipulate the dreams against the user via lucid dreaming.

is there anything else you’d like to specify about them? He’s tall, gaunt, and elegant in a way that’s faded but still commanding—his presence is unsettling to some. He dresses with old-world taste, often in layers of black, grey, or deep navy, like mourning personified.

#armatask ; 001 #armatask #the archivist ; intro

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dawnquafam · 1 year ago

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“I didn’t know where else to go” but give that line to Stephen?? Stephen whump for a twist?? Or Stephen having to get Orm somewhere safe??

Some amnesia whump featuring Shinorm's lesbian neighbors, Orm having a surface world alias, and my love of body temperature differences for you <3

3k ~ AO3

His head hurt.

That was the first thing he felt as consciousness returned – a ceaseless pounding with every heartbeat that made him almost glad that it was nearly pitch black around him. The second thing was cold. Bone deep, soaking wet cold, his violent shivering in response triggering a wave of further aches and pains throughout his body. He groaned, dragging a stiff arm across the pavement to press a hand against the worst pain low on his stomach, hot blood sticking to his palm in sharp contrast to the icy rain pelting against the rest of him. It didn’t feel like too much blood, but that didn’t exactly feel reassuring.

Something else felt worse, though. Something that wasn’t physical. He curled up a little, trying to ward off the cold as he turned his attention to trying to remember. Trying to remember where he was, trying to remember what had happened, trying to remember who he was. He thought so hard that it made his headache worse, thought until the pounding in his skull grew so painful that he felt like he would pass out again, but nothing came to him.

I don’t know who I am.

Panic tore through him. He buried his face in his arm, suddenly shaking from far more than the cold. He couldn’t remember anything before waking up here. He couldn’t remember anything but pain and cold and darkness and the rough pavement beneath him. He didn’t know if he could get up. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know where to go, he didn’t know anything-

Calm down.

The inner voice sounded different this time, like he was listening to someone else rather than thinking his own thoughts. He had no earthly idea who he was listening to, but paying attention to them felt right. It was the only thing that wasn’t terrifying him at the moment, at least. He sucked in a shaky breath, as deep as he could manage, and tried to obey.

Calm down, the voice repeated, and assess the situation.

He could do the second part. Bracing himself, he lifted his head and tried to look around, but something was wrong. Everything was blurry. That didn’t scare him like everything else did, though. That felt… sort of normal, actually, and when he spotted a particular object lying about a foot away from his head, he realized why. He picked the glasses up and put them on. The lenses were cracked and the raindrops hitting them further obscured his vision, but it was better than what he had been working with.

His vision somewhat restored, he took another look around. He was in a narrow alley, lying beside a dumpster, surrounded by a scattering of trash that hadn’t made it inside. Groaning a little in pain, he shifted to peer past it, spying a sidewalk lit by streetlamps at the end of the alley, but he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear anyone, either. He was alone, and there was no one to call for help.

Wait.

He patted his pockets. They should have something helpful, right? His phone, maybe, or his wallet. Except… they were empty. Not only that – they were outturned, like someone had been rifling through them. Did I get robbed? he wondered. That would make sense. Ambush him at night in the rain, knock him out and hide him where he would be hard for any good Samaritans to find. That was a solid plan of attack. It had certainly worked well on him.

I… don’t think that sounded like me, either. Who is that?

He waved off the thought with a feeble gesture. It was nice to have that steady voice in his head, but so long as it continued helping him think through the terror, he had more pressing concerns than its identity. He had to get out of the rain. He had to treat his injuries. Was anyone missing him? He had to have a home somewhere that he ought to be getting back to.

Something about that thought spurred him on. Gritting his teeth, keeping one hand against the wound on his stomach, he grabbed the dumpster and started to pull himself up, his shoulder screaming in protest, his skin paling around bloody knuckles. The world spun wildly, his knees threatening to buckle the second he put weight on his feet, but he pushed through the pain and vertigo. Clutching the dumpster and then the wall, he limped towards the light of the streetlamps.

But which way to go? He paused. He looked left, he looked right, he looked across the street. Nothing seemed consciously familiar. But… something tugged him to the right, and he swore the voice even whispered an encouraging, Go on. With nothing telling him that it was wrong, he followed the gut instinct, lurching along between the puddles of light, his heart hammering in his chest the whole time. He had no idea where he was going, or if he would even make it there before the pain overwhelmed him and he collapsed to die alone.

He really, really hated the not knowing.

He staggered through the pelting rain for what felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He didn’t have it in him to go for hours. However long it was, he kept moving until a shout sliced through the storm, making him jump out of his skin and nearly lose his balance. “Stephen!”

He stumbled back from the woman darting towards him, scurrying out of the shelter of an awning over the doorway to what looked like an apartment building. Hidden by darkness and a tan umbrella, it was a moment before he could make her out, white hair in a messy bun framing a wrinkled face, a well-worn blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Stephen!” she repeated, a wedding ring on her finger glinting as she crossed into the light, close enough to tuck him beneath her umbrella. “Where have you been?”

She felt familiar like the blurry vision, and it was good to be out of the rain. He sagged against the streetlamp beside him, struggling not to just slide to the ground. “You- you know me?” he asked in a nervous rasp.

Her eyes widened, but her voice was calm. “Yes, I do. I’m your neighbor. May I?” She offered her hand, and the voice said nothing, so he let her take his arm. She was warm. “My name is Gail.”

“And I’m… Stephen,” he said slowly.

That felt right, and her nod confirmed the feeling. “Let me take you inside, darling, and get you comfy.”

Shivering so hard that his teeth chattered painfully now that she was making it even more noticeable how cold he was, he answered by forcing himself off the streetlamp, letting her guide him into the building that was even more blissfully warm and dry than her arm and umbrella. A second woman awaited them inside, hurrying to support Stephen on his other side. She was tall, willowy where Gail was squat, silver hair curled around elegant glasses, immaculately dressed in red and black with a matching ring on her finger. “What happened to you?” she gasped.

“I think I got robbed,” he answered distantly. Was this building familiar? It felt familiar. And it was getting harder to stay upright, with familiar things and being out of the storm stacking up just enough to make him feel vaguely better. “I don’t… really remember.”

“He didn’t even know his own name, the poor thing. This is Soobin, Stephen,” Gail said, wrapping her shawl around his shoulders, holding him close. “It’s usually Oliver who comes home looking like this. Call him, honey, while I get Stephen taken care of.”

They both helped him down the hallway, Soobin getting on the phone and calling someone who was pretty frantic, based on her telling them to slow down and take a breath. “Who’s Oliver?” he asked Gail.

“Your boyfriend. Well, more like your soulmate, if you ask me and Soobin, but you two young’uns are still figuring that out. He’s been worried sick about you.” She led him into an apartment full of natural wood tones and soft pink and orange décor, holding him on his feet until Soobin, still on the phone, laid a couple towels over the couch for him to sit on. She gave him a washcloth to press against his stomach, too, and Gail made him lean forward, wrapping a blanket around him before checking his head. “That doesn’t look pretty, but Oliver should have something to patch you up in your apartment. His injuries always seem to disappear in the blink of an eye.”

He furrowed his brows and immediately regretted it, wincing as he felt a few drops of blood drip down from what he guessed was a cut on his forehead. He didn’t recognize the name. It stirred nothing in him. Shouldn’t he recognize the name if he had a boyfriend who might be his soulmate? That seemed more important than anything else he’d recognized so far. Right?

He glanced at Gail again, tension stiffening in his exhausted muscles. Was she really familiar? Had he really gone the right way? Or was he just confused and in pain and terrified and ready to trust the slightest hint of shelter? Was this a huge mistake?

They hadn’t even called the police or an ambulance or anyone else he was pretty sure people were actually supposed to call when someone woke up injured and robbed in an alley. They had only called this… Oliver.

Soobin emerged from the kitchen with a mug and no phone. “He’ll be here any minute now,” she said, handing Stephen the mug. “And quite ready to scoop you up and carry you home, from the sound of it.”

He clutched the warm mug in one trembling hand, unable to convince himself to let go of its delightful heat even as he wondered if it was safe to drink. He stared at it, torn between fear and longing. Should I get out of here?

He didn’t see how he could. He didn’t want to go back out in the storm. He was in no fit state to go anywhere, let alone outrun anyone if they tried to stop him. All he could do was… sit and wait and see how things went, he supposed. And the mystery voice still wasn’t protesting any of this, so it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Tentatively, he let himself sip the tea, let Gail’s hand on his arm be at least somewhat soothing. She and her wife kept up a steady stream of chatter that kept him awake, and time slipped into another haze that felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been very long at all, since the tea hardly cooled and he hardly drank any of it. Stress aside, it was comfy enough here. Maybe it wasn’t so scary after all.

Rapid banging on the door broke the haze.

“That’ll be him,” Soobin said as she hurried to answer it. Stephen froze, uncertain how to react, uncertain if he expected the person on the other side to be his savior or his murderer.

She stayed well clear as she pulled it open, letting an admittedly very handsome, also soaking wet man burst in unobstructed. “Stephen!”

I know that voice.

Stephen stared at him. He rushed over to the couch and knelt in front of him, ignoring Gail’s warning about tweaking his bad knee. “I will kill whoever did this to you,” he growled, lifting a hand to his cheek but stopping just short of touching him. He visibly controlled his expression, and his voice was much gentler when he asked, “Can I hold you?”

The anger didn’t scare him – it just felt protective. He cared much more about the fact that the voice had a face, a face that was looking at him with boundless love and concern, and he didn’t hesitate to nod. He cupped his cheek and rested a hand on his knee, settling for the delicate touch at first, and neither of them noticed Gail pluck the mug out of Stephen’s hand. His boyfriend’s attention was fixed only on him, and his hands were plenty warm enough to make up for the disappearance of the tea.

“You were late coming home and you weren’t answering your phone,” he started to explain, stroking his thumb along his cheek, “so I went to your office, assuming you had gotten lost in your work again. When you weren’t there…” His thumb trembled, and with a breathed, “Oh, thank the gods,” he abandoned his restraint and swept Stephen into a hug.

Safety enveloped him in a heartbeat. His body heat burned like a furnace despite being soaked, muscular arms squeezing so tight it almost hurt, but somehow, Stephen knew he wouldn’t hold him tight enough to worsen his wounds. The pain was melting away, actually, the longer he held on. He slumped into the security of his embrace, into the comfort of the hands pulling him close, and he fumbled to twist his fingers into his shirt. “I know you,” he whispered, absolutely certain of something for the first time since waking up in the alley.

“Yes, you do,” he confirmed softly. “Are you all right?”

“I- I think so, now that- now that you’re here, um…” He couldn’t bring himself to call him Oliver. The person was right, the voice was right, but the name still wasn’t. He concentrated, which was much easier in his boyfriend’s arms, until something finally jumped out of the fog. “Orm?” he tried, lowering his voice for some reason, the question only for the two of them to hear.

“Yes, my love,” he confirmed again, just as quietly, relief loud and blatant despite the low volume.

Stephen let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, pressing further into the embrace. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he rambled. “I didn’t know… anything. I’m not used to that, am I? It feels weird. But I- I think I still knew to come home to you.”

“Good,” Orm murmured, the voice that had calmed him in the alley now thick with emotion, gently running his fingers through Stephen’s hair. “That’s good.” He kissed his cheek, lingering like that meant the world to him. “You did the right thing, Stephen. You’re safe now. No one else will hurt you.”

“I’m getting that impression,” he said, only half joking. Orm bumped his glasses while kissing him again, drawing his attention back to his fractured vision. He took them off, realizing they looked even worse in the light. “I, um… I think I need new glasses.”

“I’ll be your eyes for now,” he promised. “It isn’t the first time.” With a nod, Stephen let his eyes drift shut, more than ready to take him at his word, basking in the warmth of his voice as much as his body. “Thank you,” he added, addressing their neighbors at normal volume. “Both of you.”

“Any time,” Gail said. “You can keep the blanket and everything until you’ve washed it all.”

“Now go be wet and bloody in your own apartment,” Soobin said, patting Stephen’s shoulder to soften the words. “Knock if you need anything.”

“I will.” Orm pulled back just enough to look at him, lowering his voice again to ask him to open his eyes, and the effort was worth it just to once again see all of the love and concern for him written across his handsome face. No wonder his presence had stuck in his head even through the fog of amnesia. “I’m going to carry you, all right?”

He was pretty sure that even if he’d had all of his memories, not having to walk or let go of him would still have been the best idea he’d ever heard. “Sounds good to me.”

Keeping him bundled in the shawl and blanket, Orm gathered him up and lifted him with the utmost care, and he didn’t have the energy to question how exactly he did it like he weighed nothing, nor was he interested in doing so. It felt even safer like this, snuggled against him, being carried next door to a wonderfully comfortable bed in a room with low lighting, just bright enough to chase away the darkness without hurting his head. He only protested when Orm pulled away, trying to tug him back when cold air sliced between them. “I will be right back,” he assured him, catching his hand and kissing it. “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

Reluctantly, he let him go, and true to his word, he was only gone for a minute, returning with a small white machine, a medical kit, water and snacks, and fresh clothes and towels. He set up the machine first, hooking him up to it and turning it on so a pale blue light roved across his injuries, and then he set to work drying him off and cleaning him up. The light and the antiseptic stung, but his touch was gentle, and he relaxed into it in between munching on some crackers, relaxing into the hands that he instinctively knew would never hurt him.

He was rewarded when Orm, dried and wearing a fresh outfit himself, finally laid down beside him, tucking them both into a soft blanket and tenderly kissing his temple. “Better?” he asked.

“Much,” he answered, nestling closer to the muscular furnace that he was quite certain he was very lucky to be in love with. He bit his lip, a new anxiety springing to the forefront now that everything hurt less and he didn’t have to question everything around him. “I will remember you soon, right?”

“Your mind is never down for long,” Orm said confidently, curling around him beneath the pale blue glow. Everything about him, from the rhythm of his breathing to the weight of his arm to his slightly fishy scent, felt like familiar comfort. “And if you don’t, we will figure it out together.”

“Ok,” Stephen hummed sleepily. That answer felt right, and the alley already felt like a distant nightmare. He trusted Orm.

That was all he really knew right now, and that was enough.

#stephen shin #orm marius #shinorm #aquaman #dceu #my fanfic.#julie tag #it's my mission in life at this point to fill up the shinorm tag on ao3

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dizzymoods · 4 months ago

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i can’t explain my poetry very well and it it 8am but all the trump voter regretters are nothing more than barbz and hive and long backs. Even kholes.

that is to say, parasocial relationships imbue a messianic aura (benjamin) in the certain object of desire. only pop star girlies can really only bleed your wallet dry or make you do stotastic terrorism. Whereas politicians ruin your lives.

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dragonmage08 · 2 years ago

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It's so ridiculous how there's still people who refer to themselves as gamers that bootlick corporations by arguing that it is some how the fault of pirates and people who don't go out of their way to buy the games that they like that layoffs happen. Like, you'd think that companies like Konami terrorizing and then kicking out Hideo Kojima because his games were even remotely risky long term investments instead of the instant and far more exploitative gratification of profiting off of pachinko machines and gambling addictions, and more recently Hasbro selling millions of copies and getting rpg of the year at the game awards for Baldur's Gate 3 only to layoff the creators of it anyway because again it was a long term risky investment instead of instant short term profits acquired by the likes of said layoffs would make so called gamers realize that piracy or whatever has nothing to do with layoffs and "voting with your wallet" is a load of liberal bullshit, but "gamers" aren't exactly known for their sound understanding of politics and economics. Hell, they even seem to forget how something like a wage works and act like every sale gets the employees paid more, which is obviously and objectively not the case but whatever.

#baldur's gate 3

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girlrecords · 3 months ago

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i wanna be urs

#object terror #waltus #object terror wallet #wallet object terror #cactus object terror #object terror cactus #art #fanart #osc #object show #object show community

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bfdiandmore · 2 months ago

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#object show community #object shows #osc #bfdi #bfb #battle for bfdi #tpot #bfdi firey #bfdi leafy #legoboynj #object terror #ot wallet #lexmas #lexmas3

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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Cryptocurrency has always made a ripe target for theft—and not just hacking, but the old-fashioned, up-close-and-personal kind, too. Given that it can be irreversibly transferred in seconds with little more than a password, it's perhaps no surprise that thieves have occasionally sought to steal crypto in home-invasion burglaries and even kidnappings. But rarely do those thieves leave a trail of violence in their wake as disturbing as that of one recent, ruthless, and particularly prolific gang of crypto extortionists.

The United States Justice Department earlier this week announced the conviction of Remy Ra St. Felix, a 24-year-old Florida man who led a group of men behind a violent crime spree designed to compel victims to hand over access to their cryptocurrency savings. That announcement and the criminal complaint laying out charges against St. Felix focused largely on a single theft of cryptocurrency from an elderly North Carolina couple, whose home St. Felix and one of his accomplices broke into before physically assaulting the two victims—both in their seventies—and forcing them to transfer more than $150,000 in Bitcoin and Ether to the thieves' crypto wallets.

In fact, that six-figure sum appears to have been the gang’s only confirmed haul from its physical crypto thefts—although the burglars and their associates made millions in total, mostly through more traditional crypto hacking as well as stealing other assets. A deeper look into court documents from the St. Felix case, however, reveals that the relatively small profit St. Felix’s gang made from its burglaries doesn’t capture the full scope of the harm they inflicted: In total, those court filings and DOJ officials describe how more than a dozen convicted and alleged members of the crypto-focused gang broke into the homes of 11 victims, carrying out a brutal spree of armed robberies, death threats, beatings, torture sessions, and even one kidnapping in a campaign that spanned four US states.

In court documents, prosecutors say the men—working in pairs or small teams—threatened to cut toes or genitalia off of one victim, kidnapped and discussed killing another, and planned to threaten another victim’s child as leverage. Prosecutors also describe disturbing torture tactics: how the men inserted sharp objects under one victim's fingernails and burned another with a hot iron, all in an effort to coerce their targets to hand over the devices and passwords necessary to transfer their crypto holdings.

“The victims in this case suffered a horrible, painful experience that no citizen should have to endure,” Sandra Hairston, a US attorney for the Middle District of North Carolina who prosecuted St. Felix’s case, wrote in the Justice Department's announcement of St. Felix's conviction. “The defendant and his coconspirators acted purely out of greed and callously terrorized those they targeted."

The serial extortion spree is almost certainly the worst of its kind ever to be prosecuted in the US, says Jameson Lopp, the cofounder and chief security officer of Casa, a cryptocurrency-focused physical security firm, who has tracked physical attacks designed to steal cryptocurrency going back as far as 2014. “As far as I'm aware, this is the first case where it was confirmed that the same group of people went around and basically carried out home invasions on a variety of different victims,” Lopp says.

Lopp notes, nonetheless, that this kind of crime spree is more than a one-off. He has learned of other similar attempts at physical theft of cryptocurrency in just the past month that have escaped public reporting—he says the victims in those cases asked him not to share details—and suggests that in-person crypto extortion may be on the rise as thieves realize the attraction of crypto as a highly valuable and instantly transportable target for theft. “Crypto, as this highly liquid bearer asset, completely changes the incentives of doing something like a home invasion," Lopp says, “or even kidnapping and extortion and ransom.”

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ask-ambusher-ame · 2 years ago

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why tf did you follow me LOL

I was just bored. Also, I'm a huge fan of Object Terror and kin as Wallet and Magazine.

#object terror

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rolkstone · 2 years ago

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YOUR OPINION ABOUT WAYNE X ANNIE(OTP RELATIONSHIP ASKS)?

(these are just my headcanons for the couple; I might change my mind about things later but here goes)

1 Who most initiates PDA? Annie

2 Any sleep habits either had to get used to? Annie has to get used to Wayne's night terrors and nightmares and talking in his sleep

3 Hot and Steamy or Soft and Tender? both

4 How did they first meet? At a social function held for members of the FBI and CIA. It was a sort of work-lunch situation. Annie could not keep her eyes off Wayne and Wayne kept glancing at her.

5 What is their love language? Annie - acts of service, validation Wayne - acts of service, spending time

6 When did they realize they loved each other? Soon after they had their first date. Wayne had been very stressed during this time and Annie was a breath of fresh air. She felt she fell in love with him from the first moment she saw him. But she really felt genuine love for him after one day he defended her against a bully at her work

7 Who is more sentimental? Annie

8 What’s one way their personalities complement one another? Annie is rash and forceful, Wayne is more like water, powerful but able to be soft and resistant when needed.

9 How are their personalities different? Annie is a lot more extroverted and confident than Wayne, more experimental and daring

10 What are some non-sexual activities they do together? Shopping, going to history museums, movies, dinner. Annie has been trying to teach herself painting on her free time and she uses Wayne as a muse

11 Which member is more physically affectionate? Annie

12 Which member is more verbally affectionate? Annie

13 Which member steals borrows the other ones clothing? Annie

14 Are they an introverted couple or an extroverted one—AKA would they prefer to go out to a party or event together or would they rather stay in? They are a mix of both so they often have to compromise

15 Who is more likely to make an impulsive decision and who is the voice of reason? Annie; Wayne

16 Who stays up way too late and who tries to drag them to bed? Wayne; Annie

17 Who fell in love first? Annie

18 What song fits them perfectly?

19 How do they deal with being away from each other for a long time? Annie dives into her work more. Wayne is OK being alone for a while. If it's a very long time, he'll carry her picture in his wallet and writes letters

20 Who holds a grudge the longest? Wayne

21 Which of the two is quick to speak and which one is quick to listen? Annie; Wayne

22 Who gets more easily embarrassed? Wayne

23 Who overthinks the most? They both do in their own ways

24 Which of the two is the most competitive? Annie

25 Who’s the most stubborn? Wayne

26 How do they comfort each other? Annie will use soft physical affection; Wayne will say kind and encouraging things

27 What random everyday object/activity makes them think of each other? any kind of weapons or badges

28 Do they get along with each other’s friends and family? idk...

29 What is their sex life like? passionate; filled with experimentation and kink; they can get wild. But they always end up cuddling and kissing tenderly when they're done

30 What is their favorite place to kiss the other? (Cheek, hand, closed eyelid, neck, nose, etc.) Annie likes to kiss Wayne's neck and cheek; Wayne likes to kiss her lips and hand

31 What’s the relationship like? Smooth? Rocky? Rocky

32 How do they resolve their arguments? Not too healthily. Wayne will give Annie the silent treatment often and Annie will provoke Wayne into talking to her, even if it makes him mad

33 Who has the most nightmares and how do they deal with them? Wayne; Annie will hold him and stroke his hair and get him some water

34 Do they give each other nicknames? Annie calls Wayne some pet names sometimes like "babe"

35 What movies do they enjoy watching most? Annie: art documentaries. Wayne: war documentaries

36 How’d they meet each other’s families? idk

37 What do they like the least about each other? Wayne dislikes Annie's impulsiveness and that she takes too many pills Annie dislikes when Wayne lectures her about it

38 What was their most memorable date? it was very late, they were so tired but also wired from their exciting, dangerous day. They met up at an art museum after hours and explored the place in the dark

39 What other couple would your otp get along with the best? idk but as far as non-couples go, I think they'd get along well with Patty and Selma, esp. if Wayne is working at the DMV

40 Who makes the other smile with almost no effort at all? Wayne

#otp asks meme #wayne x annie #asks: answered

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