#Sick Photo Sensor

[shybarbarianangel]

Sick Photo Sensor

SICK Photo Sensor are advanced industrial sensors designed for precision and reliability. They are widely used across various industries for detecting objects, measuring distances, and ensuring process safety. As a leading technology provider, SICK offers a comprehensive range of photoelectric sensors, supported by global distributors. Their cutting-edge sensor technology guarantees optimal performance in automation, making them essential in modern industrial applications.

[navydoves]

Cyborg!Caleb and his strange affectionate habits

you love your part-robot boyfriend, but he’s a little strange!

✎ᝰ a/n: he was supposed to be a puppy for this series… but then this happened, so now he’s a cyborg. i think you all will like this one. enjoy!

cat zayne bunny xavier mermaid rafayel dragon sylus

ִ ࣪𖤐

❥ he's always scanning you. day or night, awake or asleep, caleb will take it upon himself to check your vitals and health on a normal basis. just a quick little holo-scan from his eye is all he needs. and from the amount of time he already spends staring at you, this is a pretty easy feat.

he knows things about you that you haven’t even figured out yet. you’re gonna catch a cold soon, but he already knows from your white blood cell count. you might not know your period is coming soon but caleb has always got your back and tells you when you’re ovulating or preparing for a period. of course, you ask him not to do it all the time. and of course, caleb is insane, so he doesn’t listen all the time. it’s very intimate to him to know the inner workings of your body.

❥ he can’t sleep next to you (and he tries to fix it). caleb does not sleep in a normal human bed. instead, he sleeps in a tube where his charging port is and asks (begs) you to sleep with him there. and while you do indulge him, it’s very uncomfortable for your human body. even after he tried to enlarge the tube by rebuilding, it’s still not ideal.

he’s so upset that he can’t sleep with you in your bed that he’ll charge himself during the day just so he can be next to you at night. except, he can’t sleep without his port, so he just stays awake next to you, exhausting his energy by admiring you. he talks to himself and you during this time and if you ever stir awake from his murmurs, he’ll apologize and lull you back to bed.

❥ he makes modifications for you. caleb doesn’t wish to be any less than perfect for you, so he’s constantly making tweaks and refinements to his system and body to better adapt to you. like the time he installed a heating system inside of him because you always flinched at how cold he was. or maybe the time he installed more sensors in his wires just so he could better feel your touch.

and while to an extent it is sad, caleb will find a way to make it more fun. he’ll adjust the size and feel to his appendage for your pleasure and he’ll also install vibrations to his fingers if you really ask. or maybe he’ll do something silly like add confetti to his hands so that he can pop them out at celebratory moments.

❥ he forces himself to eat for you. caleb doesn’t really need to eat to keep alive. in fact, he prefers not to because sometimes it’ll make his metal tummy feel weird. he’ll never tell you that, though. he loves you too much to let you know that all the meals you prepare for the two of you are actually making him a little sick.

but he’s gotten better at keeping them down. he modifies his stomach to hold food better and slowly he’s working up toward more intolerable foods—such as spices. one day he hopes to be able to stomach everything you make, but until then, he’ll lie day and night to keep you happy and to bond with you.

❥ he’s very picky at his face. the face is the only thing caleb has that’s human-like. because of this, he’s constantly picking at it; snipping at his hair, shaving, cleaning the skin there, everything he can do salvage what he can of his human form. he also prefers it when you touch his face rather than any other part of him, simply because that’s where he can feel skin to skin contact.

he’ll constantly ask you if he looks handsome as a joke, but it comes from a deeper insecurity within him. he wants to ensure you still enjoy him even as he is, and once he gets your reassurance, he’ll start to remind himself every day that he doesn’t need to worry as much about his looks. because you love him anyway.

❥ he takes secret recordings and photos of you. there are two sides of this, the sweet side and the suggestive side. he loves recording your laughs and photographing your smiles with his system so he can rewatch them when the two of you apart. especially if he’s on a mission and away from you for an extended period of time, he’ll make to stock up on your beauty before he goes.

the suggestive side is more like… a few cheeky pictures of you dressed down or right after sex. maybe even a video of your butt while you’re walking away from him. he’ll never want to take videos or pictures of you during intimacy without your consent, but these small provocative pictures of you are more than enough to satisfy him. if you ever do give him consent to make what is essentially robo-homemade-porn, he’ll play it holographically and watch with you after the fact.

❥ he flies you everywhere! come with caleb on a joyride in his arms. he’ll fly you across town or just around the neighborhood! not that he can’t drive you, he just thinks this way is more fun and special because you’re clinging to him the whole way through. no need to be scared of heights because he’s got you tight in his grip and has 8 backup protocols in case he malfunctions mid-air.

you found it a little embarrassing at first, being a spectacle in the air for everyone else, but now it’s fun! you’ve grown so accustomed to being in the air because of him. and since you have such a fun time, anytime you’re down in the dumps or need fresh air, caleb is always there to take you on a little ride to cheer you up.

❥ he has you engraved. it was part of his hardware modifications, but he once asked you to write your name on a piece of paper, and a week later, he has that same writing etched onto his nape. you couldn’t believe it at first, but it was an exact copy of your handwriting now just seared into him.

he tells you it’s so that he can feel more comfortable in his “skin”. knowing that you’re a part of his new robotic body makes him much more accepting and happier of it. he doesn’t hate it as much, not when you’re always in the back of his mind. ִ ࣪𖤐 hey gals: @chersyluvs , @otomegamesforlife

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself. 

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t. 

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you. 

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life. 

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner. 

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you. 

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more. 

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch. 

That took years, too--the settling. 

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless. 

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation. 

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all. 

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down. 

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

--

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books. 

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you? 

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests. 

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little. 

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre. 

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book. 

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose. 

But because the man in front of you is Ren. 

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t. 

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three. 

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did. 

“ Ren ?” 

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break. 

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts. 

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways. 

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences. 

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper. 

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler. 

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin. 

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?” 

--

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all. 

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order. 

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you. 

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars. 

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh. 

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink. 

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop  notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart? 

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and  add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left. 

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years. 

Fuck. What a world you live in. 

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again. 

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it. 

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours. 

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look  up at his face. 

Oh, the passing of time. 

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way. 

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back. 

“Do you live around here?” 

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile. 

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter. 

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die. 

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question. 

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets? 

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely. 

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house. 

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now. 

“Ren, I–” 

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair. 

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren 

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk. 

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound. 

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop. 

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren. 

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness. 

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured. 

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird. 

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

 You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly. 

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either. 

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.” 

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs. 

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.” 

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Sues for Character Defamation (2)

“Nii-san?!”

The lump in Idia Shroud’s bed lets out a pitiful groan.

“Nii-san, are you alright?! Are you hungry?! Sick?!” Ortho demands. “Hold on, I’ll do a scan to see what’s wrong!”

A pale, long fingered hand emerges from beneath the covers. It points languidly.

“…sekai…”

“Eh?” The android crowds closer to the bed. “What is it Nii-san? Your computer? Did something bad happen in one of your games? To Precipice Morai? Did an anime get cancelled?”

“…Isekai…”

“Isekai?” The android asks, confused. “Nii-san, what—?”

“I CAN’T ACCEPT THAT A REAL LIFE ISEKAI WOULD COME FROM SUCH A LAME LIGHT NOVEL!!”

It’s with this impassioned cry that Idia Shroud throws off his duvet, hair flaring wildly.

“After all, there are so many worlds that would be so much more likely to be real?! A tech punk world like LoPri just violates several laws of physics, not to mention thaumaturgy?? Plus the characters are so bland and uninspiring, how is it meant to enrich the blackened hearts of this Wonderland if they’re real?! At least if they were from Hyrule or Laputa or Exandria, they could teach us valuable life lessons that would lead to world improvement!”

His fist hits the mattress. “But no! And on top of that, this happens at the same time as they’re leaking that a LoPri movie is in the works?! That’s so cheap!! It’s like an awful marketing tactic that takes your cherished childhood hopes and dreams and crushes them for a few wads of madol!! I can’t believe—”

“Nii-san, wait!” Ortho begs. “What do you mean, there’s been a real life isekai? The sensors you installed should have noticed a large amount of energy coming from something like a world-crossing event.”

Idia jabs an accusatory finger at his computer screen, where the illustration and photo are posed side by side. “Apparently, not if they hijack Night Raven’s carriages to get here!”

Ortho’s optic sensors dilate and contract as his facial recognition software runs.

“…It’s a match.” He says. “Barring the 4% deviations from differing mediums, this person looks almost exactly like the illustrations from Lost Princess. And the Dark Mirror reported they’re entirely magicless…”

Idia jumps when the facsimile of his younger brother appears in his space. “Nii-san, what should we do?! If she really is from this other world, she’s a criminal, isn’t she? Should STYX take her into preventative custody??”

“Eh—Calm down, Ortho.” The elder Shroud says sternly, as if he hadn’t been in near hysterics only a moment ago. “It’s illegal to lock people up if they haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

“But Nii-san—!”

“Besides, as a bad guy she’s like, seriously wimpy.” It takes a moment or two of flailing in the bedclothes before Idia’s phone is retrieved. “See? According to the wiki, even the worst stuff she does is thanks to abusing her rich family’s power and money. Without that, she’s as pathetic as some hero who’s had all his strength sucked out. Even more harmless than a level one slime.”

Ortho’s synthetic brow furrows. “I guess…”

“Heh. Some of those LoPri simps online might even say that this is divine retribution. Getting banished to a world where she’s worth less than nothing.” Idia slumps, flicking through his apps idly. “Ah, the fates are cruel. Why’d I have to be inflicted with this?”

“I will monitor the villainess, Nii-san.” Ortho announces. “If she attempts to partake in any criminal behavior, it will be reported to the authorities, so Nii-san’s daily school life may continue unimpeded.”

“Eh? Well, uh.” Idia’s attention fights with the gacha he’s just opened, but ultimately surrenders to the colorful world within. “Only if it’s a low priority thing, okay?”

“Roger!”

***

Vil is distracted.

Not enough for his makeup to be anything less than perfect. Certainly not enough to make his class work, modeling, or acting suffer.

But enough that the poison apple he’s trying to polish has nearly given him the slip twice already.

That is unacceptable. If he cannot maintain a firm standard of discipline, how is this Epel meant to absorb any of his lessons?

Vil cannot allow this to continue.

He saw the villainess the magicless interloper yesterday morning, on his way to History class. Wearing some truly shapeless castoffs that can only have come from the dumping ground that passes for a Lost and Found, raking leaves away from the statue of the Beautiful Queen.

Vil had mostly convinced himself that it was purely his imagination. An unfortunate side effect of working on so many projects at once.

Surely what he had heard was merely a word that sounded like the fantasy names his script contains. The author had to take inspiration from somewhere, after all. And word association tricked him into believing that some potato who bore a little resemblance to his mental image of the villainess was, in fact, the person in question.

An honest, if slightly embarrassing mistake.

And then Rook reported over breakfast that the magicless janitor had somehow wormed their way into becoming a student, and a Prefect. Of the most prestigious magic school in the country. Despite the aforementioned complete lack of.

And all those foolish doubts Vil had spent so long laying to rest reared their ugly heads again.

A long, perfectly manicured finger taps the cafeteria table.

The potato is sitting with Clover and Diamond from Heartslaybul, alongside two first years and that little monster. From his position, Vil can see the back of their head if he inclines his own just slightly.

“Epel.” The boy in question jumps at the sound of his name. “Tuck your elbows in, your dorm mates shouldn’t need to defend themselves every time you lift food to your mouth.”

“My ba—ah, I mean! I, I apologize.”

Immediately, his arms go from imitating a chicken’s spread wings to an eastern dragon’s bent forelegs.

Behind Epel and slightly to the left, Rosehearts blocks Vil’s view of the magicless prefect. With the way his shoulders are tensing, his voice raising, he’ll likely be there a while as he metes out his slovenly attempts at discipline on his juniors.

Vil suppresses a grimace as he sighs. He’s going to get frown lines at this rate…

He needs to put this from his mind. If the sheer force of his not inconsiderable will is somehow lacking, then he needs to try something else. Obtain some definitive proof one way or the other so this irritating matter can be settled once and for all.

Proof…

A collection of ideas begin swirling in Vil’s head. Nothing concrete, just associations and possibilities of possibilities. Not enough for a proper plan of action.

Not yet, anyway.

***

Idia’s back cracks as he stretches.

“GG Muscle Red-shi,” He mutters as he types. “You carried hard for that secret boss encounter.”

Only a few moments after he hits send, Muscle Red’s response pops up.

Muscle Red: You give me too much credit, my friend. It was your strategic thinking that won us the day.

Muscle Red: This old man will need to log off shortly, but I wish you a pleasant evening and good hunting.

Gloomurai: NP Muscle Red-shi! GN

He tries to ignore the disappointment in his chest as Muscle Red’s avatar disappears. It’ll be hard to top the fun he had in that raid, so he may as well just log off this game. Maybe catch up on some of the anime he’s been letting build up so he can binge it all at once…

Ah, but there was that one that Ortho said he might be interested in, but that Idia had been too busy to start watching yet! The one about an otaku security robot that was exasperated with the scientists it had to look after…

“Hey, Ortho, we can start I’m a Murderbot But I’m Keeping A Diary…” Idia turns to where his brother is meant to be charging in the power station in the corner.

It’s empty.

“Ortho?”

There’s no one in the room except Idia right now.

He tries to tell himself that it’s fine, that Ortho’s fine, he’s probably just…just gone on a snack run? Yeah, he must’ve realized Idia was getting low on food and decided to help! What a good, kind brother Idia has! There’s no way he’s in any kind of trouble that he needs Idia to save him from, right?

Right??

Idia’s able to stave off the anxiety for a record-breaking four point two seconds before he turns to his computer, bringing up the “Find My Brother” program and sending his tablet whizzing out the door to the coordinates it brings up.

Why is he in the library at this time of night? Idia gnaws on his fingernails as the tablet gets closer, and prepares to use the mic once he can see Ortho’s back.

“…you’re planning to cause trouble, I will report you to the Headmaster and the relevant authorities.”

Idia straightens at his brother’s serious tone coming through the speakers.

It’s the work of a moment to gain access to the feeds of the library’s security cameras. Although there’s only three of them, and they’re really shoddily placed for actual monitoring purposes…

“Oh that’s rich.” The villainess scoffs, low voice made tinny over his speakers. “I’m not the one causing trouble here. Besides, it’s a public library. All students are free to look up reference materials on whatever they’d like.”

“Materials on restricted subjects are monitored.” Ortho declares. “Failure to return them to the library is logged against a student’s profile. You have not returned [SEVEN] books by their assigned due date.”

“So, Overblot is considered a restricted subject then.” Uh, hard pass on the villainess’ tone in that reply, it’s just as sus as some sixth ranger smiling to themselves while everyone else’s back is turned. “Why exactly is that? Is it the same reason there’s no primary sources on it in any of the history books or scholarly articles?”

“That is classified information.” His baby brother says coolly. “You do not have even the lowest level clearance, so it does not concern you.”

The villainess’ voice drops dangerously. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Idia begins prepping to set off the fire alarms in the headmaster’s suite. If the villainess makes any move against his brother, he’ll not only make sure the ultimate authority figure is there to catch her, he’ll publish her past and every embarrassing search she’s made since coming to Twisted Wonderland online for everyone to see. Maybe even post her address online so those LoPro simps can avenge their faves in person?

“Things that jeopardize my safety don’t concern me? Things that endanger my wellbeing don’t concern me? Threats to my life don’t concern me?!”

It’d be easier to watch if the villainess hit the wall, flipped a table, threw some books on the floor, something. Instead Idia’s on the edge of his seat, eyes fixed on his monitor like he’ll get jumpscared if he looks away.

He flinches when the villainess does, movement made jerky by the old cameras. Seriously, this is why he can’t stand live action analog horror!

But it is kinda weird how the figure opposite his brother is hunching over the table like that. Almost as if standing is difficult?

“..f you think,” Ortho’s mics can barely pick up the sound. “That I’m just going to wait in the wings until another one finally kills me—that I’m going to die quietly—then you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t care who you are. I’m not going to let anyone or anything stop me. I refuse to end up in some forgotten grave in this twisted world!”

Kind of a mid monologue tbh. He was low-key expected something…more villainous? But considering how trash LoPri is it makes sense.

It’s the kind of cringe that almost makes you feel bad for the one you’re meant to be rooting against.

“You’re injured.” Ortho says, uncertain. “Partially healed rib fractures and a torn posterior tibiotalar ligament. How—?”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that doesn’t concern you…?”

“Ortho Shroud.” His kindhearted brother supplies.

“Shroud-san.” The first year bows stiffly. “I’d like to say it’s been nice to make your acquaintance, but it really hasn’t.”

The villainess attempts to stride away from Ortho—well limps is more like it, holding herself stiffly and putting much more weight on her left ankle than her right, when did that happen? Surely it would’ve been flagged somewhere in the school records if something serious enough to cause those injuries had happened. It’d be noted in her student file, if nothing else.

Idia frowns. Then he accesses the school’s mainframe.

Wow this is. Really half-assed. You’d think the headmaster would put a bit more effort into filling out this kind of thing!

It’s a weird parody of the file Idia created for himself and Ortho in his second year at Night Raven, which the headmaster was too inept to create himself. In Idia’s, Ortho is nominally listed as a student, even if he doesn’t get graded or even enrolled in any classes like a regular student.

In the villainess’, half of that careful formatting has been thrown out the window in the name of grading a “two in one” student. Some of the information is missing or contradictory, and the rest seems to focus on the magical familiar rather than the human prefect.

There is a section way down the bottom of the file where there’s some notes from Nurse Kamac recording visits to the infirmary. But for some reason, the broken ribs have the amendment from the headmaster of “incurred before enrollment” and so don’t list how it happened, and the only notes for the ankle injury are that it occurred a few days later during a “Heartslaybul dorm head challenge”.

Idia pushes his fingers against his eyes as he groans, stretching his aching back and trying to crack it again.

This has nothing to do with him and Ortho. That much the vi—Prefect had gotten right. It may be weird that sh-they’re checking out all the books on Overblot the library has to offer, and are this badly injured only within a few days of starting the new semester, but it could be nothing! Certainly it’s not enough to be worth reporting to their parents.

“Ah, Nii-san? Were you looking for me?” Ortho sounds apologetic over his speakers. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back to the dorm right away!”

“Mm. I was thinking we could start binging that series together…”

“It’s not good for you to stay up late watching anime, Nii-san!” His younger brother scolds. “…But, I guess a few episodes of I’m a Murderbot But I’m Keeping A Diary can’t hurt!”

He grins. “I’ll get it queued up for when you get back. TTYL.”

Yeah, this is definitely worth more of his time than worrying about some weird magicless Prefect. Even if part of him itches at the memory of h-them saying “another one finally kills me”…

Definitely not his problem. Definitely not gonna think about it.

Definitely

***

It would seem that the Headmaster has decided to make the magicless Prefect into a gopher-slash-amateur investigator rather than looking into the mysterious injuries of each dorm’s Magift players himself.

Vil’s heard from Rook and from some of his other dorm members that the first year and their little monster have been interviewing everyone involved in an accident.

Of course, it’s only a matter of time until they begin questioning those who have not been affected, to rule out some causes if nothing else.

So, when Rook spots them, along with a redheaded potato, a blue potato, and Diamond, he motions his vice dorm head to bring them over.

“You must have had some reason for spying on us.” He says to the motley group. “Out with it and maybe I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“Busted~” Diamond says cheerily. “Well, can you guys keep a secret?”

“Mais, bien sûr Monsieur Magicam!” Rook proclaims. “Consider our lips sealed!”

“We think that the injured Magift players are being deliberately targeted.” The blue haired second potato says. “We’re investigating potential suspects who could be behind the a—”

“Dude!” The redheaded first potato hisses. “You can’t just TELL ‘em!”

“Yeah!” The monster yowls. “They’re suspects!! If we tell ‘em that, they’ll know we think they’re suspicious!!”

“You just told them anyway…” The magicless first year mutters.

“Hm.” It doesn’t surprise him as much as it should to hear that this year’s games are being deliberately sabotaged. And given a certain someone’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm at the dorm head meeting recently, he’s fairly sure he knows who’s behind it.

“While it is rather rude of you to cast aspersions on myself and my vice dorm head like this, I believe we could provide some assistance with this matter.”

The monster perks up. “Great! Then—”

“However.” Vil crosses his arms. “I’m a busy man. I can’t offer my assistance without being assured that it’ll be worth my time. I need something in return first.”

“Man, shoulda figured.” Potato #1 sighs. Potato #2 shakes his head. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”

Diamond hushes both of his underclassmen. “So? Whaddya need, Vil-san?”

Vil carefully does not smile. Not yet. “You. I need you to help me with something.”

The magicless prefect blinks at the end of his pointer finger. “Huh? Wh—if you don’t mind my asking, why me?”

“Your presence compared to the others’ makes you most suited for the task.” He turns to his bag and flicks through the contents until he finds what he’s looking for. “It’s hardly a trial. I just need someone like you to fill in for a certain role.”

Vil holds out a copy of the script.

The magicless prefect reaches out warily, as if Vil’s handing them a serpent rather than a few pieces of paper.

“This is the script for a movie I’ll be starring in.” He says. “I’d like you to help me practice my cues. You’ll be reading the lines that aren’t highlighted.”

And, seeing Diamond’s hand creep towards his phone, he adds. “Given that this is confidential until the film’s release, the production company has been assured that I refuse to be party to any leaks, and will prosecute those who create them to the fullest extent of the law.”

Diamond’s hand suddenly changes direction to scratch his cheek instead.

The Prefect takes the script, eyes scanning over it.

“Eh—how come the names are blacked out?” Potato #1 asks.

“To prevent leaks, of course.” Vil lies smoothly. “Now, do you want my help, or don’t you?”

The villainess’s teeth snag on her lower lip. Vil keeps his own from curling at the sight of the dry and torn skin there.

“Alright.” The villainess says. “How does this work?”

Vil straightens. It wouldn’t do to show his triumph at this juncture.

“If you start halfway down the page, I will respond. Make me aware if I deviate from what’s on the page in any fashion.”

The villainess nods, clearing her throat. “He-hem. You wished to see me, brother?”

Vil slips into the character as easily as buttoning a shirt. “My wishes are immaterial. But we need to talk.”

“What could be so important to waylay the young heir?” The villainess’ lip curls as she reads. “I hardly merit the attention, usually.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He snaps, dignity and guardianship offended. “Your behavior is completely inexcusable.”

The villainess balks, her tone hardening from mockery. “My behavior? I do believe I need clarification, brother. I have done nothing to dishonor our family—”

“If that’s what you think, then you’re even blinder than I imagined.” His fury is ice, solidified through years of abnegation and honor. “Your conduct towards our sister has been abominable. Either you correct it, or I shall correct you.”

“C-correct?!” The villainess stutters, unsightly for a scene partner. Vil will need to recommend someone else for the final production. “I have done nothing to—”

“For once we agree.” Righteousness straightens his spine, quickens his stride. “You have done nothing to make her feel welcome or as if she belongs. Ignoring her at school? Making snide remarks to tear down her confidence? Who do you think you are, to commit these acts with such audacity? It seems you’ve forgotten who has the natural right to live in this household, and who is here merely due to Father’s generosity and goodwill.”

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He scolds the unsightly cuckoo before him. “I am telling you what will happen. You will be civil towards our sister. You will be polite to her. And you will still your sharp tongue every time it decides it wants to say something unkind. If that means you never speak again outside the necessities, then so be it.”

“Wait, please wait, please, stop—”

And now going off script? Will blunders never cease? Vil continues the monologue as best he can in the face of such unprofessionalism.

“And if you disregard my words—if you fail my instructions in any way? Well.”

He tilts his head, channeling Gracey Enji in every pore of his being. “What will happen to you will make the punishment you received for ruining Asahiko’s high school debut feel like the gentlest kindness by comparison.”

And the villainess—

The Prefect flinches, curling in on themself as if in anticipation of a blow.

Their eyes are staring down, unseeing, as their mouth babbles, clearly not even trying to stay on script any more.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I won’t, I, I didn’t—!”

But somehow still reciting exactly what’s written on the page despite that.

There are two ways to read these lines, Vil is suddenly realizing.

One is as a hero decisively warning a scheming villainess that his patience with her wiles has run dry and that there will be consequences for her actions.

And the other…

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Potato #1 has moved into Vil’s space, shoulders tensed like the first year was about to lay hands on him if not for Rook’s intercession. His vice-warden’s grip strength clearly has taken the potato by surprise, uniform wrinkling as he attempts to yank himself free.

Potato #2 is hovering around the Prefect, the monster whining and tearing holes in their too-long trousers. “Prefect, are you okay? Do, do you need something, a, ah, some water maybe? Hey, hey, Prefect, Yuu, look at me, please?”

“Ooh-kaaay!” Diamond pops up between Vil and his underclassmen, perfectly fake smile not quite as magicam-ready as it usually is. “Not that this hasn’t been su~uper interesting, you’re a master of your craft Vil-san, really, but y’know we’ve gotta lot of work to do with this investigation thing, hate to see the dorm head if he thought we were playing around, you know how it is, right~? C’mon guys, we’d better get moving, this is an important date and we can’t be late!”

Potato #2 nods at Diamond, an arm tight around the Prefect’s trembling shoulders as he pulls them away, still murmuring low platitudes. Potato #1 is still glaring daggers at Vil even as he shrugs out of Rook’s grip. He picks up the copy of the script on the ground—when had it fallen?— and shoves it at his vice dorm head.

“Next time someone tells you they wanna stop,” He spits. “Maybe listen instead of just doin’ what you please. Freaking tyrant.”

The insult stings, but Vil controls himself as Potato #1 scoops up the whining monster and strides after the rest of the motley little group.

He can still hear the panicky, shuddering hitches in the Prefect’s breathing, after all.

“Roi du Poison?” He blinks back into himself to see Rook peering at him in concern. “Vil? Are you all right?”

“F-fine, I’m fine.” He turns sharply on his heel. “Come, Rook. It’d be best to return to the dorm for now. Epel may be attempting to shirk his etiquette lessons again.”

“…Oui, Roi du Poison.”

He doesn’t say another word the entire walk back to the Mirror Chamber, which Vil finds deeply irritating as it means his thoughts keep circling back to the other interpretation that dawned on him for this role.

But it’s ridiculous, he assures himself as they emerge outside of Pomefiore. Just a combination of his previous experience and some, some personal issues the Prefect clearly has that have mixed poorly in his mind. Gracey Enji is the male lead. Vil’s chance to play the hero, for once in his career. There’s no way that Bella DeNiâmerée intended for the character to come across in any other fashion than the style in which Vil has been playing him. No chance in the slightest.

Certainly not as a high school senior threatening a child five years his junior in a way that they cannot defend themselves from.

[addicted-to-dc]

AK!Jason Todd x Catwoman’s protégé! Reader - Just for tonight, Kitty - Pt 2

I really had to squeeze my brain to get this out, but I cannot wait for maybe part 3 👀? I have some ideas revolving around a fic or two for Gotham Knights! Jason. We shall see.

Link to part 1

Content: mind control, violence (obv), toxic af relationship, lovers to enemies to lovers (again)?

----------

It feels like you’re being puppeteered, every movement meticulously controlled by strings and sticks. It almost feels like last Tuesday. You had infiltrated Star Labs to steal some new tech designs, especially when Batman was distracted by Catwoman.

Security is nothing compared to your skill, even if you’re not completely yourself. It takes a bit longer than you’d prefer, but you finally make it to Stagg’s office.

Adjusting your goggles, you scan the area for anything that could spoil your fun. One by one, you check off your mental list until you clear the room. Most rich CEOs usually hide their deepest darkest secrets, not wanting an inkling of them to be discovered. Not Stagg, though, you know his type.

Walking around the room, your eyes scan over the décor. A man like Stagg likes to be reminded of his accomplishments. The publicity photos, front page Gotham Gazette articles, the whole nostalgic works. Everything seems to stroke his ego one way or another, but then you finally see what you’re looking for. At first, it seems like a piece of trash thrown onto a table. No, it’s the focal point, the center of it all.

You scan over the structure before carefully opening it. A flash drive appears, absolutely begging to be taken away from this place. Readying yourself, you snag the drive and place the top back on.  Just as you’re about to head to the door, you hear footsteps approaching. You immediately head for the window, quickly dismantling the alarm as you pry a panel open.

Closing it just in time, you push yourself up against the exterior of the building. Letting out a breath, you move further away from the window and jump. Falling with the rain, you crack your whip and swing off a flagpole. The momentum sends you buildings away from Stagg Enterprises, finally completing what Jason… what the Arkham Knight ordered you to do.

“It’s done.”

Despite the job being done and over with, you still have no control over yourself. Your body keeps moving, heading deeper and deeper into parts of the city you’ve never even seen. Landing softly in an alleyway, your body heads straight towards the end of it. Even your sensors fail to pick anything out of the ordinary. Why has he brought you here?

You hear him land behind you after a few moments. Turning around, you move to hand him the flash drive. The Knight acknowledges it with a head tilt before taking it from you. It disappears in one of his pockets. As soon as his hands are free, he presses a button on his wrist.

You tear your helmet off as soon as your body catches up with your mind. Rage builds into your chest as you lash out at him. He can’t prevent your claws from screeching along his armor until you finally find skin.

“You just come back from the dead and USE ME?!” you scream, grunting as he grabs your arm and twists it behind your back.

You try to lash out with your free arm, but he quickly dodges the attack. Before you know it, your back is against the cold brick wall of the alleyway. One hand holds yours above your head, the other trails across your cheek to wipe away rogue tears.

“They wanted me to kill you, this was the only option,” Jason reveals, using his spare hand to open the front of his mask. “I-I couldn’t do it.”

“Why are you doing this, Jay?” you beg, sick of the mind games that he’s putting you through.

“Batman.” A wave of cold washes over you at his tone, riddled with a hatred you’ve never seen before. “He left me to die, (Y/N), he deserves to die for what he’s done.”

“Jay, he searched for you. We all did, but when we saw him shoot you, we thought you were dead,” you whisper, flinching as he leans closer to your face.

“You did find me, though, in Venezuela,” he growls, leaning closer until his helm digs into your skin. “Do you know how hard it was to let you leave? I couldn’t believe my girl finally found me.”

“What are you going to do now that you have me?” you ask, staring into his cold blue eyes. “Lock me away as you take over Gotham with your buddies?”

His eyes darkened at the suggestion. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

You shake your head, more tears escaping from your eyes, “I lost you, Jay, really lost you. I just got you back and you’re just going to do it all over again.”

He remains silent, unsure how to respond. Jay slowly leans in, his lips ghosting over yours before lightly kissing you. Your resolve shatters quickly, leaning into the kiss and giving in to your desires. You can’t lose him again.

He releases your hands, abandoning them to grasp your waist and yank you closer. The softness of the kiss disappears, desperation forcing the kiss to become feral. Both of you break away to breathe, taking each other in as you recover.

“Can we pretend, just for tonight, Kitty?” Jason asks, his eyes desperately pleading you to agree. “I can’t stop what’s in motion, but I’ll explain everything.”

Fuck it.

“Just for tonight, Birdy.”

[hiemaldesirae]

Swap AU:

Vox's Goetia (we need a name for him...umm because he's where Vox gets the extras for the fight against Heaven; got any ideas?) looks like a Griffin. He's got a Lion lower half and eagle upper half but his colors are shades of blue. (You see why Vox proposed that deal.)

The crew work on defense for days. Vox goes to Lucifer to ask about Angel weaknesses and informs him about Adam's threats against Charlie and the Hotel, and that's how the hotel crew gets informed of angel weaknesses. Lucifer tells, after all why should he keep Heaven's weakness a secret when they're coming for his daughter?

Vox then puts a big order of Angelic steel in for Carmine, paying extra to have it arrive early, which it does so he and Pentious can build turrets and drones to shoot down the exterminators. They have a blast.

Also: fun facts:

Vox's sensors and subconscious relax and recognize Alastor's scent as safe, even though Vox himself cannot smell anything. The sensor's database has recognized certain scents as family (Husk's, Vel's, Val's) lover's/husband's (Alastor's) little sister (Charlie's) my duck loving liege lord who might be my friend too? (Lucifer) the crazy exorcist chick whose now treating me with kid gloves--IT WAS ONE PANIC ATTACK! (Vaggie) Val's weird Spider who keeps taking photos and I know is stealing my shit (Angel Dust) The Best Little Engineer That Could (Sir Pentious) The Engineer's less then steller sidekicks 1-8 (Eggbois) the chick that keeps blowing up the wall (Cherri Bomb)

Angel Dust does do more then steal. He brings in Alastor's cooking to the Hotel, and Vox who does miss homemade jambalaya jumps at the chance to eat it. Vox just devours it. (Of course Angel lied and told him it was set aside for Niffty and Velvette for working so hard. He wasn't going to tell him Alastor had been waiting at the door of V-tower with the large Tupperware bowl with strict instructions that only Vox got what was inside.)

Vox actually turns in early--he'd been stressing out with Adam's threat laying over him and the thought of a true death coming for him hasn't sat well, but the warmth of good food made him sleepy and he goes to bed. He's barely asleep when Alastor joins him, gently petting his rabbit ears and murmuring his undying devotion to sleeping Vox's ears.

uhhh. drawing from the demons of the ars goetia grimoire, seir could work as a name? according to his description, seir can go to any place on earth in a matter of seconds to accomplish the will of the conjurer (possibly explaining how vox can use him for errands and such), and hes not a particularly evil demon. he's also a prince of hell, so that makes his and stolas' relation even closer since there seems to be only 7 of them in the ars goetia grimore

HAHAHA awww bonding time with pentious and vox!!! i still stand by the fact that i think vox should get to say kys to at least ONE other person in the swap au. i simply believe my wife should be allowed to cyberbully whoever he wants <3 also i imagine lucifer would show up to help with fortifications too, no? i just cant see him leaving his daughter and friend alone to deal with the fallout while not leaving the palace... though admittedly, i am a bit biased from what electric mentioned.

me after i die. HE STILL RECOGNIZES AL AS HIS LOVER...... auwgudawgh...... imgonna be SICK. what the HELL did they even fight about because clearly it wasnt enough to keep both of them from pining for each other... AUAUWGAHAH every time you come in my inbox its like another plane (angst( striking the twin towers (my heart)

and i am SUCH a fucking sucker for radiostatics love language being food. the idea that al nabs / has angel nab voxs stuff so that he can stake his claim but he also makes him food.... just stop being cryptic and TELL HIM YOUR SHIT !!! god i hate them. dysfunctional ass toxic couple theyre the WORST. and al. please for the love of god just be a Normal Person and STOP BREAKING INTO VOXS BED AT NIGHt ?!!?!?? just one normal thing from you. god damn its like if he doesnt act like a freak he loses 20 years off his lifespan or something

[sirfrogsworth]

hey man, well done for getting out there with your camera when it must be unspeakably exhausting sometimes. i'm really enjoying all the urban photography! but i'm too shy to say it non-anon! keep it up though!

Thanks!

I've been challenging myself to go on a photography field trip once or twice a month. I realized if I scout a location on Google Maps and do some pre-planning with the street view, I can drive somewhere, set up and take my pictures, and be done within an hour or so.

For my bridge pictures I was looking for a good vantage point and street view had this...

And I knew I could make that work. So on my way to get more eggs I decided to take a detour. I timed it for sunset and headed over there.

Unfortunately there is a really confusing bridge you have to drive over to get there. There was a stoplight, but there was no intersection.

I could not figure out the purpose of this damn stoplight. I was sitting there for nearly 5 minutes and didn't understand why the light wasn't changing. So I thought maybe it was broken or something and just drove ahead.

Then I got to the middle of the bridge and realized my error.

The bridge only had one lane for car traffic. And the light had a sensor that told you if a car was coming from the other direction. And so I was face to face with a car in the same lane.

The area on the right is a bike lane. And there is a huge bump separating the car lane and the bike lane. And unless I wanted to do the world's longest drive in reverse, I had to hop that little curb into the bike lane. As I proceeded forward I could hear it just barely scraping the bottom of my car.

I was very embarrassed.

I'm really hoping I didn't damage anything. But I could tell it was just barely kissing the bottom of my car and only 2 or 3 times so I think it is okay.

But I learned an important lesson.

They don't put out random stoplights for no reason.

In any case, I was able to get my photos and my eggs and be home in about an hour in a half. And that is just about the limit of my energy.

It's actually easier than going to the movies. 3 hours being upright was just too much for me. And I get to spend the next week editing photos and feeling artistically satisfied.

So my photo field trips have been a big help to my mental health and usually only have a day or two of post-exertional malaise. Which is pretty manageable. Going to the movies was usually double that. Which is problematic because I am thinking about going to see Dune 2... which is a 3 hour movie. So 4 hours out and about including driving and whatnot.

I've picked out my next photo field trip already.

This may look like a boring highway, but if I go at night every single one of those cars will leave a long bright light trail that will probably span all the way to the horizon. My only issue is I could really use a companion to go with me. I don't feel safe going by myself. But hopefully I can get that figured out by the time I am ready to go.

I took over 250 photos at the bridge the other night. And I am having trouble choosing which ones are best to share. So I have decided to do some very interesting edits to make them all a bit different. I will be sharing one of those shortly. But I'm a little worried you all are going to get very sick of this bridge.

Thanks for writing in. I hope you have a lovely day.

[wilmingtoncommercial]

Why Modern Offices Demand Smarter Cleaning Services 

Modern workspaces demand a fresh mindset. Think hot-desking areas where five different people might share one surface in a day. Picture lounge zones dotted with snack crumbs, coffee rings, even the occasional sticky spill. Now imagine waiting until the end of the week to address it all. No thanks. Commercial cleaning services in Wilmington catch these spots in real time, wiping down desks between users, refreshing break areas mid-day, swooping in with disinfectant foggers when the office empties out. 

And there’s more. They lean on tech like usage sensors and interactive apps. Facility managers get instant alerts (“Room B messy!”), then nudge the cleaning crew with a tap. End result? Surfaces stay germ-free, and employees don’t have to tiptoe around sticky floors or dusty keyboards. It feels seamless, and almost invisible. But trust me, you’ll notice the difference. 

Why health-first cleans win every time  

Sick days tank productivity. We all know someone who caught the latest bug in an office germ-fest. Smarter services don’t spray blindly. They map out high-touch hotspots like door handles, shared tables, and elevator buttons and hit them with hospital-grade disinfectants. Better yet, they recommend green-certified products that leave no harsh residue.  

Here’s a fun fact: UV-C robots can zap up to 99.9% of pathogens in 30 minutes. They roll into meeting rooms after hours, beam ultraviolet light across every nook, then buzz away. No human hands required. It’s like having a microscopic cleaning army at your service. 

Sustainability that doesn’t skimp 

Cutting back on single-use plastics and toxic chemicals isn’t just trendy. It’s expected. Offices championing eco-friendly practices win brownie points with employees and clients alike. Smarter cleaning outfits swap out disposable wipes for reusable microfiber cloths. They install refill stations for cleaning concentrates, slashing plastic waste. Heck, some even power their vans with electric batteries. When you team up with these providers, you’re telling the world you care—about your workspace and the planet. 

Customization beats one-size-fits-all  

Every office has its quirks. Maybe your open area calls for daily vacuuming, while your fancy video studio only needs a weekly deep clean. Smarter services start with a walk-through audit, jotting down every nook and cranny. Then they build a blueprint: tailor-made schedules,

checklists with real names, and service windows that dodge your core work hours. Want a midnight mop? They’ll be there. Prefer a midday sanitizing blitz? No problem. Flexibility is the name of the game. 

When transparency fuels trust  

Nothing irks a facility manager more than wondering if tasks got done. Smarter cleaning teams flip the script. They log each completed job in a cloud-based dashboard, complete with timestamps and check-in photos. Curious about yesterday’s restroom round? It’s a click away. Need to raise a quality issue? Simply drop a note in the app, and watch them spring into action. This level of openness turns cleaning from a mystery chore into a visible asset. 

[how2fit]

Smartwatches have come a long way from when they used to just count your steps and measure heart rate—now, your Apple Watch could provide some early warning that you might not feel up to hitting that step goal soon. Apple recently rolled out the Vitals App for the Apple Watch that monitors your breathing, temperature, and heart rate overnight. Since the release, Apple Watch users are sharing that the watch alerted them that their vitals were out of the norm before they even thought they were sick. Now that fall illnesses, including COVID-19, are in full swing, users are sharing across social media that their watch clocked abnormal breathing rates and elevated temperatures days before they later came down with full-blown cold symptoms. “The Vitals App knew I was sick 3 days before I did,” posted one Redditor. Others in the thread report other watches with blood oxygen, heart rate, and temperature sensors have done the same. Photo: Apple This smartwatch premonition has been going on for some time; users have been noting that “the Apple Watch knew I [had] COVID before I knew” for at least three years, since the device rolled out a wrist temperature feature with the Apple Watch Series 8. Researchers have also been studying this ability, and finding it to be an accurate early warning for COVID and other illnesses, since 2021. The Vitals App, available with the latest watchOS 11 on Apple Watch Series 8 models and later, is particularly useful as it gives a comprehensive picture of multiple metrics and will even send notifications of irregularities. And the number of stories popping up points to its potential as a cold and flu season tool. X user Rory Evans posted that his Series 9 picked up some irregularities in his vitals days before testing positive for COVID, calling the tool "clever and very useful tech to have—especially in such a fast paced world." X user Emanuel Job Ayo posted a screenshot showing Vitals "outliers" and called it "wild" that the app could "detect and warn before you even fall sick." Other Reddit users reported the app showed outliers after they had their COVID vaccines, and some even saw the effects of having a bit too much to drink. X user Valerie Polad posted that she was "incredibly impressed" with the Vitals App: "My watch told me that a few metrics were unusually high this morning and that the underlying cause may be illness. And here I am with my fever a few hours later!" As your watch gets to know your biometric data, like your typical temperature, breathing rate, and even how many hours of shut eye you get per night, it knows your normal ranges. So while your typical sleeping heart rate isn't a particularly useful data point on its own, the combo of metrics can show when something is off—and help you tune into your body and potentially seek medical attention. Unfortunately, blood oxygen (a key indicator of COVID) is not one of the metrics Vitals tracks in the U.S. Apple had to remove light-based pulse oximetry sensors from the Apple Watch after courts found that it violated another wearable technology company's patent, and watches sold with the feature overseas are banned from being sold in the U.S. Apple told Well+Good they could not officially comment on the anecdotes, but it's worth noting the watch was recently FDA approved for sleep apnea, another condition where any advance warning can help be proactive about health. Apple also partnered with researchers to use Apple Watch blood oxygen data to study COVID in the very first year of the pandemic. When it comes to fighting viruses, information—and early warning—is power.

[therejectkat]

Thanks to a generous gift card I received as, well, a gift, I was finally able to add several Junji Ito books to my ever growing collection.

I do have a few more books coming though, including Cat Diary and his art book Twisted Visions coming in the next few days.

I’ve also preordered The Liminal Zone, Black Paradox and the collector’s edition of Dissolving Classroom.

Still, I’m very exited and happy to add his legendary work to my shelves 🖤

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Sues For Character Defamation (1.5)

“Nii-san?!”

The lump in Idia Shroud’s bed lets out a pitiful groan.

“Nii-san, are you alright?! Are you hungry?! Sick?!” Ortho demands. “Hold on, I’ll do a scan to see what’s wrong!”

A pale, long fingered hand emerges from beneath the covers. It points languidly.

“…sekai…”

“Eh?” The android crowds closer to the bed. “What is it Nii-san? Your computer? Did something bad happen in one of your games? To Precipice Morai? Did an anime get cancelled?”

“…Isekai…”

“Isekai?” The android asks, confused. “Nii-san, what—?”

“I CAN’T ACCEPT THAT A REAL LIFE ISEKAI WOULD COME FROM SUCH A LAME LIGHT NOVEL!!”

It’s with this impassioned cry that Idia Shroud throws off his duvet, hair flaring wildly.

“After all, there are so many worlds that would be so much more likely to be real?! A tech punk world like LoPri just violates several laws of physics, not to mention thaumaturgy?? Plus the characters are so bland and uninspiring, how is it meant to enrich the blackened hearts of this Wonderland if they’re real?! At least if they were from Hyrule or Laputa or Exandria, they could teach us valuable life lessons that would lead to world improvement!”

His fist hits the mattress. “But no! And on top of that, this happens at the same time as they’re leaking that a LoPri movie is in the works?! That’s so cheap!! It’s like an awful marketing tactic that takes your cherished childhood hopes and dreams and crushes them for a few wads of madol!! I can’t believe—”

“Nii-san, wait!” Ortho begs. “What do you mean, there’s been a real life isekai? The sensors you installed should have noticed a large amount of energy coming from something like a world-crossing event.”

Idia jabs an accusatory finger at his computer screen, where the illustration and photo are posed side by side. “Apparently, not if they hijack Night Raven’s carriages to get here!”

Ortho’s optic sensors dilate and contract as his facial recognition software runs.

“…It’s a match.” He says. “Barring the 4% deviations from differing mediums, this person looks almost exactly like the illustrations from Lost Princess. And the Dark Mirror reported they’re entirely magicless…”

Idia jumps when the facsimile of his younger brother appears in his space. “Nii-san, what should we do?! If she really is from this other world, she’s a criminal, isn’t she? Should STYX take her into preventative custody??”

“Eh—Calm down, Ortho.” The elder Shroud says sternly, as if he hadn’t been in near hysterics only a moment ago. “It’s illegal to lock people up if they haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

“But Nii-san—!”

“Besides, as a bad guy she’s like, seriously wimpy.” It takes a moment or two of flailing in the bedclothes before Idia’s phone is retrieved. “See? According to the wiki, even the worst stuff she does is thanks to abusing her rich family’s power and money. Without that, she’s as pathetic as some hero who’s had all his strength sucked out. Even more harmless than a level one slime.”

Ortho’s synthetic brow furrows. “I guess…”

“Heh. Some of those LoPri simps online might even say that this is divine retribution. Getting banished to a world where she’s worth less than nothing.” Idia slumps, flicking through his apps idly. “Ah, the fates are cruel. Why’d I have to be inflicted with this?”

“I will monitor the villainess, Nii-san.” Ortho announces. “If she attempts to partake in any criminal behavior, it will be reported to the authorities, so Nii-san’s daily school life may continue unimpeded.”

“Eh? Well, uh.” Idia’s attention fights with the gacha he’s just opened, but ultimately surrenders to the colorful world within. “Only if it’s a low priority thing, okay?”

“Roger!”

[yes-this-account-is-alive]

no anon ig time to get exposed ;-; djhfbfjdjd

anyways can i request yoru , phoenix , jett , and killjoy with a chaotic reader who is also very clumsy ? tysm dhdbdndnjdn

welcome to my page lmao,, don't worry we're all simps over 2d characters here- except that i wasn't sure whether this is for simping since you didn't specify so- uh up to interpretation

Yoru

-edgy statue, hyper human

-he WILL NOT help you for the first slip up of each day

-and WILL laugh at you

-meanie.

-catches you after the first one though, acts so annoyed by it whenever he stops your face from kissing the ground instead of him jkjk unless??

-usually either grabs you by the hood of your jacket or holds you still with his hand on your shoulder

-isn't usually up for your chaotic antics unless it's against phoenix

-he 110% joins if it includes messing with jamie ONG.

-if you tell him your plan and he thinks you'll get in mad trouble for it, he's picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder

-he then walks off in the opposite direction with you trying to get out of his grasp lol

"you're going to get hurt, idiot."

Phoenix

-both of you are terrible istg

-shaking my head stupid mindless humans

-valo proto is so sick and tired of both of y'all like omg stop running around??

-y'all have ran into viper and reyna when they drink coffee and they're this 👌 close to murking y'all

-you clumsy? bro he sees you fall and somehow he falls too like huh destiny bond what

-tries to body block your fall

-STRAIGHT UP DIVES LOL?

-also 2000% down if it's trolling yoru

-after you both tire out they'll find y'all sleeping in the most uncomfortable poses in the living room

-neon throws two big blankets over your bodies and walks away

-NOT before raze takes embarrassing photos of your sleeping faces

-she sends them in the group chat after lmao

"let's stick toilet paper on yoru's pants!"

Jett

-half up to it, half not up to it

-she joins in if it's a little fun but not if she knows she's gonna maaaaaad piss someone off

-also stops you from doing anything too outta the line

-if you're gonna bump into anything or anything/you fall as a result of your very slippery limbs

-she sends a little wind to tilt you or the object back up

-hell, she uses a gust strong enough to push you back into your room if you won't trust her judgement lmao

-funny sight for the other agents and herself as you try your best to walk against it

-other option: you get tickled until you're on the floor dying of laughter

-at the end of the day, she sees how tired you are and offers to share her ramyeon with you ^^

-...eating jett's ramyeon and tteokbokki UGH

-CHEESE RAMYEON AND TTEOKBOKKI AOWIEKEKBWIEH

-sorry off topic

-she loves seeing the smile on your face the second you eat her cooking

"heyyyy, i made your favourite~"

Killjoy

-nope not joining

-will gladly watch though

-might stop you from doing anything dumb but sometimes lets you do it so you learn

-inventor type mindset LMAO

-she WILL stop you if you're planning on using her bots or her lab though

-her priorities are straight or are they? haha wink wink nudge nudge ahowoehekebbe

-honey, she loves you but not enough to sacrifice her botties.

-is not amused when her turret runs off with you

-you feel like you're being chased down? DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE.

-kj hauling ass after you faster than neon ong

-made a gadget that has like gyro sensors and shit that holds you in place if you're boutta fall

-she just gives you the neutral face of displeasure when you come back to her with a bandage bc sage refuses to heal your dumbass 😮‍💨

-will have alarmbot watching your ass for the rest of the day

"nothing wrong with trial and error, but could you please stay put? you have TEN bandages!"

[plush-rabbit]

Smile For Me

Warnings: Noncon, Somnophila

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N: I’ve really fallen for Ghostface and that seems unfair (Part 2 to Picture Perfect)

You’re easy prey. Nothing more than a simple deer, a lovely little rabbit that he gets to stalk and hunt. There’s something odd about you, something so sweet and incredibly cute that he wants to corrupt. You change your locks, you add a sensor light that must have made a pretty dent in your wallet. He can see how you move behind the blinds, your silhouette, the way you walk and how you hold something in your hands, and he runs the first few times, but after the third time, he decides to push his luck, linger close, hidden behind a shed in your backyard and minutes pass until he realizes that there are no sirens. You don’t call for help, your alarms are nothing more than for decoration, to ward off a lesser person. You trust that whatever was lurking outside, has fled. And he falls for you naivety more. He falls deeper in love with you, covering his mouth with a gloved hand, the faint bitter taste of copper still lingering as he bites down to avoid his laughter ringing throughout your backyard.

Ghostface stalks you. He watches and learns what security system you have and it’s almost laughable when he finds out that it is nothing. All you have to protect yourself are different locks. The lights were nothing more than that, sensor lights that can do nothing more than to catch a rodent that lurks in your backyard. The locks might be different, but you don’t have an alarm, there are no cameras inside your home to record that he wandered around- drank from the bottle of your cranberry juice, sat on your couch and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, dried mud that crumbled and he stared at it, wondering if you would even notice, but with a swipe of the side of his palm, it falls and disappears into your carpet. You have no camera to watch as he grabs your underwear and jerks himself off in your bed, his mouth open behind his mask as he creams himself on your belongings, the memory of how you felt already fading in his mind. And once he’s done, he‘s left sticky and wet, creamy slipping down and it’s only a matter of time till you come home. He wonders how often you wash your pillowcases and he dries himself on your pillow, a soft thrusting motion that leaves his already sensitive cock dribbling with more seed, spreading it on your pillow. When he comes back to watch you, he sees through the blinds how you touch the pillow, your lips pouted and your fingers brushing against the hardened cotton. He wonders if you know.

You’ve captured his attention- enough for him to leave his other prey and focus solely on you. You fret around your home, clean and check every crevice, a pair of scissors in hand and he scoffs in amusement. He palms himself through his jeans. He wonders how you would really react if he were hiding inside your house. He can hide himself in your closest, jump out and wrestle you to the ground, watch as your eyes grow fearful and he’s salivating at the thought of entering you already, knowing how well you’d take him. With a soft sigh, he pulls his hand away. All he has to do now is wait for you to fall asleep.

Grateful for the night, he watches in silence. You walk around in your room, towel around your body, letting it fall off of your body and rest against the bed, your naked body alluring, the soft yellow light glistening off of your body, and you walk to your dresser, lotion against your body, spread thin, the creamy white disappearing onto your body. You sleep in a camisole, a lace trim around the straps, stitched onto the soft dip where your naked breasts lie, nipples already pert and peeking through the shirt. Your underwear are a soft blue, raising up your hips with a teasing dip to your sex. He doesn’t have to wait long until you’ve fallen into your slumber, body still and after a few minutes, he’s inside your home. 

It doesn’t take much to break-in. A simple twist and a careful step, and Ghostface is undetected, inside your home. The weeping mask stares down at you, a single twist of his fingers and your lamp is on, the glow of the light doing nothing but make you furrow your brows and with a simple shush, a coo under his breath that makes him feel like a dotting lover, you return to your relaxed state. It’s not much, but seeing you asleep- vulnerable and willing- is enough for him to kick off his boots. Clothes are slowly discarded, the pale, horrific mask still kept on, the soft cloth of the hood tickles at the base of his neck, and he’s above you. 

There isn’t much that makes him actually lust for others. He’s always been more fascinated in other areas of the human body, but there was and still is something about you that makes him yearn, to grab at you and mark your body. And one day, he’ll do it with your consent. He’ll come and greet you as Daniel- have you call him Danny- pull out the smile, pull you close and throw you on his bed, have you want him and there will be the sick pleasure of knowing that you’re fucking a killer and your personal tormentor without you knowing. But for now, he slips off your clothes, raises your thin shirt and he’s slow and methodical, pulling you into a sitting position and having you lean against his body, your gentle, warm breaths against his chest, your shirt is removed. He lays you back on the bed, hair fanning out into a halo, strands falling in front of your face and with a simple brush, the smooth fabric of his gloves cold against your skin. Your underwear is too delightful to tear off, simple and pure against your skin, something so sweet that it’s almost wrong of him to dip his fingers underneath and pull down your bare legs. 

Asleep and undisturbed, his hands are on you. For a brief moment, his mask is off, eyes that hold something fierce in them watch you, the low rise of your chest, goosebumps pricking at your skin and his smile is hungry. His face buried into your sex, tongue at your heat, his spit warming you and moistening past your folds. The tip of his tongue swirls around your entrance, a gentle dip into you, and in your sleep you clench your walls, a soft squish against his muscle and he smiles against you, wide and teeth pressed against your soft flesh. He presses his face forward, nose pressed against your clit, lips puckered and he kisses you, a soft, sensual kiss against your cunt, tongue slipping past his lips, and into yours, flickering inside and on the tip of his tongue, he can taste your sweet nectar, oozing in a thick puddle against him. 

The mask returns, hiding his identity and in it’s in place, the gloves are removed. There’s a sound outside, a racing car that screams through the night and in his chest, his heart races and his body flushes, his face heating up, sweat beading on his forehead and two bare fingers enter you. You’re slick enough to enter but he can feel the tight grasp of your sex, something that he’s sure stings by the way you shift under him. His fingers curl in, a beckoning motion inside of you, fingertips brushing against your walls, slick slowly starting to form until the clicking noises in the room intermix with your breathy, soft moans- a cry that whimpers past your lips. He grows hard above you, watching your breaths deepen, the wet, shucking noises of your cunt grow louder, fingers slipping in and out, your arousal dribbling past his fingers and down to his knuckles. It’s awkward, fingers pushed deep inside of you, his knuckles kissing at your cunt as a strong hand reaches to grab his camera, holding tight onto it, his fingerprints dirtying the screen and it’s shaky, a horrible picture when compared to his previous works. He forces himself to still, fingers half way inside of you, limp and still compared to your throbbing, wet cunt that still leaks and there’s a click. On the screen is a captivating photo of your cunt teased with his fingers. And as always, Ghostface isn’t satisfied. 

Metal clicks against each other, a soft chime in the room that acts as a lullaby, pulling you back into sleep, your body relaxing, breath going back to its own undisturbed tempo and all that remains is a wide-eyed man staring at you through a mask. Dark eyes are unwavering as they stare at your sleeping body- you look so peaceful, so rested and deep in slumber that he’s sure you must have had a heavy day and he feels almost sad at that thought. Bare hands grab at your breasts, thumbs pushing around the pert nipples- he’s almost sad that you had to grow through something so heavy without him- his hands lower to rise against the swell of your belly- he promises to himself that you won’t face it alone next time- one hand holds onto your hip, the other against the base of his cock, pre-ejaculate beading off his slit in opalescent pearls. 

He lowers himself to you, the plastic of his mask brushing against the shell of your ear and he’s hopeful that you’re listening to him. “No one is allowed to touch you, you know? I’ll make sure of that.” His cockhead is pressed flushed against your entrance, arousal mixing and getting lost with each other. Nails dig into your hip, perfectly formed crescents appear on your body, the hint of blood is familiar to him and makes him almost inhumane. His laugh is sharp, unforgiving and cruel, as he presses himself further into you, the welcoming hug of your walls wrapping tight around him and he releases his hands from your hip and himself. “My fucking muse,” he whispers harshly, stilling himself inside of you, your walls pulsing against him, a gentle pull deeper into you. “My naïve-” his hand covers the swell of your belly- “dumb little muse.” He wonders if you’re late. He wonders what you have done to either rid yourself of his kin or to prevent yourself from being bred. “I wonder what it’ll be like-” his thumb arches gracefully over your stomach- “seeing you with a child, tits full of milk, cunt always creamy, ready for a good pounding.” He laughs lowly, hooking an arm underneath you, hand spread against your spine, arching and he’s deep inside of you, feeling you tighten against him. 

The masked killer is grateful that he’s forgotten how you feel. You’re limp, nothing more than a warm sex-toy for him, curved and heavy underneath his hand, neck bent and mouth parted, and he smiles when he sees your eyes begin to flutter. That’s what he wants. He wants to see your fear. Intruding on you in your sleep is wonderful, invading your home and snooping around your things is nothing more than an extra step for him, something for him to relax himself with, but with all your fearful glances, he’s never realized that he could force you to look scared, to see it up close and personal. 

He continues to thrust against you, moving his cock and a hand, large and heavy, fingers that look perfect and immaculate, wrap around your throat, small, pale scars wrap around his fingers like rings of past lovers, memorabilia that is only seen when looked upon closely. He tightens his hand, cutting off air and your body reacts first, going rigid, hands raising and eyes popping open in horror and he truly does ponder what it must be like to see him. Your nails dig into his hands, eyes already wet with tears, and you’re horrified. He can practically smell it off of you, the dripping arousal, the way he can feel your heart speed up through the pulse in your neck, the way you gasp for breath and he can hear you whisper out something, strained and hoarse, only able to be heard when he stills his hips and stops the lewd noises that scream from your cunt. 

“Ghostface,” you mumble, bottom lip trembling and a lovely blue color forming on your face. 

His smile is stretched comically beneath his mask. “That’s right.” He pulls out, the tip still warm inside of you, leaking with arousal and he slams back into you, legs tensing, muscles strained and taut as he fucks you. “The one and only,” he whispers, pressing the mask against your face, the soft mesh of the black mouth kissing against your frightful parted lips.

He keeps a hand around your neck, loosening it enough for you to breathe again, while his other hand slips between your meshed bodies, dipping past your mound and into your slit, circling around your clit, feeling it throb under his touch. He laughs and it’s full of pride. He holds you close, pulling you deep against him, a soft cry when you instinctively clench as he circles around your pearl. Tears slip past your eyes, catching against your eyelashes like pearls, latching onto his hands like dew on the morning, and he’s pressed himself still against you, hand leaving your clit, and reaching blindly for the abandoned camera, taking a picture of you with a hand around your throat and tears a simple, but handsome ornament. On the screen is you, terrified and crying and he tosses the camera to the side, plastic buried into your chest as he fills your hungry cunt with his seed.

“I can’t wait to see you with a round body.” He pushes himself further against you, cock dribbling inside of you, filling you with copious amounts of semen. “Fat fucking tits-” his tongue pushes against the black fabric covering his mouth, licking at your chest that has moistened with his quick breath- “a creamy, little cunt that will beg to be fucked.” His hand returns to your clit, pinching the bud between two fingers and hearing you squeal makes him thrust his hips, shivers running down his spine, the sensitivity making squirts of thick discharge fill your already prepped cervix. “Trust me-” he rises and looks at you and he knows he’s making eye contact- “when I’m back, I’ll make sure to make you feel good.” 

He latches onto you, hand escaping your neck and he hears you gasp for breath. You wheeze and croak, crying and pleading for him to stop and it only pushes for him to go further, to fuck you until your muscles start to tense, twitching and pulsing. You moan and it’s muffled by a bite of your lips. It’s a short sound, cutoff and ruined by you, but it’s alluring, melodic and making him shove two digits into your mouth, pulling your jaw down by your teeth and his fingertips rest flat against your tongue. Your moans are stretched, muffled and broken and it’s still enough for him to want more, to push himself deep inside of you, to have you reach your own high if it meant he could hear more of your perverse sounds.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, naked body sticking to yours by his sweat. “Scream. I want to hear you say the name of the one who’s making you feel this good. Scream and I promise that you’ll survive this night.” He kisses you through the meshed black of the mask, salvia swapped and spreading into a thin puddle of his mask, pushing his tongue through it until he feels as if it’s going to rip. You were always going to survive. He’s had too much fun to ever let you go but you don’t know that and he uses it to his advantage.

It’s a whisper, a soft movement of your lips against his. Your nipples rub against his chest and his name is broken with your voice. “Ah,” you sing, tightening your legs and your high is approaching. “Ghost-” he can hear the disgust and lust mixed with each other- “Ghostface,” you murmur. It’s repeated until your voice is hoarse, lust taking over, eyes heavy and rolling back, arms reaching around him and you’re entangled in a gruesome hug with him, moaning his name as your cunt clenches around him, flooding with your release, his name a mantra under your breath, echoed in the room and he stills, spilling inside of you. Eyes closed and resting his body onto you as you squirm underneath, desperate to continue your high. His name, “Ghostface” slowly murmured, a mess of his name as you release against him.

[justplainwhump]

Ridley Dies AU: Turning Point

The Ridley-Dead-AU, everyone. I shall tag these who commented on it, plus the Dany tag list: @distinctlywhumpthing @whumping-on-the-ridge @queenofthenoobs @ocean-blue-whump @just-horrible-things @whumpymirages 

Ridley, B and Leo belong to the wonderful @hackles-up

[Dany masterpost]

Cw for (obviously) major character death and thoughts about it. Very vaguely implied past noncon. BBU (vaguely mentioned). Whumpee married to (dead) whumper. Blood. Thoughts about killing a loved one.

He's dead.

Ridley Lordin is dead. His body is still warm, his  brown eyes still open, empty, staring into nothing. There's a hole between them, slightly asymmetric, towards his right eyebrow. The hole is ridiculously small. Like his ridiculously small gun. Like he is a ridiculously small man. 

I don't know where my thoughts come from. I feel like I'm stuck here, stuck in the present, stuck in this moment, with the cool metal of the small gun trembling in my hands, and warm blood soaking the carpet under my bare feet.

The hole is bigger at the back of his head, of course.

I feel sick.

Next to his body, his cellphone vibrates once. It must've slid out of his pocket. New message. Leo. 

Ridley Lordin is dead, but Leonardo Luciano is still alive.

My head is spinning. There's only one thing I know. I have to leave the city before he finds out.

I step forward. The carpet is sticky. Mingled in his beloved 80s rock music are the smacking sounds of my steps. 

I take his wrist, pausing as my gaze falls on our hands. His wedding band next to mine, his perfect skin next to the scars crossing the back of my hand. "Fuck you," I whisper, repeat the last words I said to him. Probably the first ones, too.

I almost have to laugh, even though I don't know why. Nothing of this is funny. Still, it feels ridiculous.

I place his thumb on the phone's sensor to unlock it. 

Love you. Looking forward to date night. I'll text you when I leave here. Special project needing a little more attention tonight.

Date night. Tonight. Here.

There's even less time than I hoped. 

Without another glance at my husband, I walk into the office, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. I don't bother. Leo will know everything, anyway.

I know the layout of Ridley's office by heart. I've spent countless hours on his lap, even more crammed under his desk, keeping him warm. I know where he keeps his laptop, his paper files, his special thumb drives. I pack them all, throw them into a large briefcase. 

There's a stack of bills in his safe, less than I hoped, but it'll do for a start. I add it to the pile. I also know his credit card pin. I'll be able to get more.

Ridley's phone vibrates again. A photo. Leo's  special project, in what must be excruciating pain.

My stomach twists, as I reply with a chain of heart emojis, just as Ridley would.

I can't help her. I can't help anyone but myself.

Not even -

My gaze goes to B, sprawled over the couch, barely breathing. He's still unconscious, bleeding on his head, his arms, his chest, from the brutal blows Ridley rained down on him.

For me.

He'd punished him for me, because his wife can't have bruises in public, but his pet can. Because he knows B matters more to me than anything else.

There's a tear running down my face. I don't fight it. It's ironic. I wanted to save B, but instead I destroyed everything for him. B can't live without Ridley. He'll fall apart. He'll tear me apart, for what I did. And then, Leo will torture him to death, for his failure.

If I'm clever, if I'm quick, and with a whole portion of luck, there's a chance at freedom waiting for me, just outside.

B can never be free.

There's only one thing I can do for him.

"I love you, B," I whisper. "Thank you for everything. I... I wish it had ended differently."

I lift the gun and point it at his heart, blink back the tears.

"I'm so sorry."

[Next]

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 22: Reservoir House Call

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, body horror

Summary: Moraue needs Heisenberg’s help.

Feedback appreciated, 18+

Movement tripped the alarms, something deep in the factory stirred the sensors. Heisenberg and Juniper entered the control room. He sat in the chair, looking over the cameras.

“What the fuck it that?!” Juniper pointed to one of the screens. Heisenberg turned to look where her finger led.

Down on the lowest reaches of the factory, where water from the reservoir flowed through the factory a large shape lumbered out.

It was a mass of fat and eyes, pulling free of the water with multiple legs.

“Aw Christ…” Heisenberg sat back in his chair rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it’s Moreau.”

 

“That’s Moreau??” Juniper said in disbelief.

By the time they made it down to the lowest level, Moreau had changed back into his more humanoid form, coughing near the edge of the waterway.

“H-Hello Juniper.” The man croaked. Seeing him now, without his usual coverings was a sight to behold. His back was covered with bulbous, pulsing growths. Damn, some looked to be monstrous eyes. A vestigial aquatic tail poked out from the mass, moving on its own accord. It looked painful, forcing the man into a hunchback.

“H-Hello.” Juniper managed.

“Yea Yea, fish.” Heisenberg stomped up, “What do you want, I’m busy.”

Moreau seemed to worry his hands, glancing down, “Brother…I…I need your help.”

“I fucking know that, what is it?” Heisenberg interjected, annoyed.

His tone made the other flinch a bit, “My television…i-it broke. I can’t f-fix it.”

Heisenberg signed, thinking over the situation. “I’ll come fix it.” He finally spoke.

Moreau’s face lit up with hope, shuffling his feet a bit. He turned towards Juniper, “You’ll come too?”

“Sure.” She nodded tentatively, hearing Heisenberg groan behind her.

“I can take you over!” The man gestured to the water excitedly.

Juniper felt a shiver, remembering what emerged from the water, until Heisenberg cut in again. “Thanks but…uh…fuck that.” He waved his hand, “Well take our own way.”

Slightly dejected, Moraue nodded, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Mhm.” Heisenberg shrugged tightly. Before anyone would speak again the fish man turned and jumped back into the waterway.

~

“Is that a purse?” Juniper asked amused. They walked towards the Reservoir, the ground muddy from the melted snow.

“It’s a tool bag.” Heisenberg answered through gritted teeth. He pulled the bag closer, it was letter and hung around his shoulder at hip level.

“It looks like a purse.” Juniper snickered, earning a growl of annoyance from Heisenberg.

As they drew nearer, past the town, the ground grew more sodden. The air slowly began to gain a certain smell, like the rotting of waterlogged plants. Juniper wrinkled her nose.

They walked through a narrow passage between a cliff face, Heisenberg holding back a bramble patch for Juniper to safely squeeze through.

She could see the windmills now, old and groaning as they slowly turned. Most of the land surrounding them had long since been lost to the rising water. The roofs of houses and other debris could be seen floating on top of the murky water.

“This is it.” Heisenberg announced, “The beautiful Reservoir, perfect place to cool off in the summertime. Just watch out for the fish!” His voice mimicked an old radio announcer as he split his face into a cheeky smile.

Juniper brushed him away, walking towards the edge to look into the swirling water.

“Be careful, buttercup.” Heisenberg came up behind her, “Won’t be able to fish you out if you sink in that.”

She felt a little shiver run down her spine.

She stepped away from the water, “So where does Moreau live?”

Heisenberg gestured for her to follow, easing his tool bag more comfortably on his shoulder. They entered the closest of the windmills. The old wooden mechanism slowly turned and groaned as they took stairs deeper into the underground. They came to a lift, resembling ones in the factory, but this one was wooden.

They rode it down into what looked to be an old mine. Juniper’s eyes caught the glittering flecks of crystals embedded into the rocky ceiling.

Going deeper still, with the far off shuffling of Lycans in abandoned mining shafts, they finally came to a metal door.

It bore the crest of Miranda.

“Don’t touch anything.” Heisenberg warned, “I don’t want you getting any diseases.”

Before Juniper could scold him he knocked at the door.

They heard mumbling and the scraping of feet across the wooden floors before the door opened. Moreau was a mixture of joy and apprehension, greeting them inside.

His ‘house’ was one of the mine shafts that had been converted into a living space. There were wooden floors and walls, and some furniture about. It was definitely sparse, save for some shelves with old books and storage containers.

Everything looked to be heavily damaged by water and the goo that Moraue would produce, not to mention the off colored stains that Juniper didn’t want to ask about.

It smelled about as one would expect, given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry…about the mess.” Moraue picked up a pile of old magazines, their covers warped and faded.

“It’s alright.” Juniper tried to sooth.

“So where is the tv?” Heisenberg asked with disgruntlement.

“Oh!” The twisted man exclaimed, “It’s right over here.” He padded around a corner into another small room. An old television set was staked on a crate, some soft things and boxes of films close by. This room looked to be the space he spent most of his time.

“Thank you, Heis-Heisenberg.” Moraue stammered.

“Yea, yea.” Heisenberg strode forward, kneeling down behind the machine. He placed the bag of tools beside him, pulling out a screwdriver.

Juniper wandered back to the entertainment room, Moreau curiously following her.

Heisenberg, busy with his task, took no mind of them. He wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible.

Getting all the screws loose he was able to free the back panel. It came away with an odd sucking sound, goo oozing out with it. The slimy substance hit Heisenberg’s boots as the television gave small sparks.

“Fucking hell!” Heisenberg grimaced at his boots, shaking the panel free of the muck.

“The TV is full of your green shit slime!” Heisenberg yelled into the next room. He heard more apologies from the room over. Grumbling, he began to clean out the inside of the box.

Juniper walked along the wall, looking at various  things that were hung alone it. Most of it was old gushing memorabilia but a few worn picture frames peaked her interest.

One photo in particular stood out. It was faded, the edges being ate up with mold. But she could still make out a man, stocky with jet black hair. He stood proudly in front of a clinic. She squinted her eyes to read the sign in the photo: Moreau’s Clinic.

“Sal?” Juniper turned, pointing to the photo, “Is this you?”

Moreau came closer, looking to where her finger led. His wide mouth parted in a smile as he spoke, “Oh yes!”

“Were you a doctor?” Juniper turned back towards the photo. Looking now she could see the shadows of his features hidden away under all the twisted flesh.

He nodded, “Yes, I took over the clinic. It was my Father’s. I helped people…before…before all..”

His voice trailed off, but Juniper understood.

He shook his head a bit, his smile returning, “But I help Mother Miranda now! I try to make her proud of me.”

Juniper gave him a small smile, knowing that nothing she said would sway his devotion.

“Heisenberg said you were sick.” Moraue looked up at her, his good eye full of worry.

Feeling her stomach she answered, “I went through a lot recently, but I’m feeling much better now.”

“Mother’s gifts hurt sometimes.” He tried to sooth, “But it’s worth it, she wants us to be strong.”

She tried to nod, her gut turning a bit at the memories.

“You are Heisenberg’s helper?”Moreau tried to change the subject.

Heisenberg’s voice sounded from the other room, “She’s my wife!” He corrected.

Moreau gave a small ‘oh’. Juniper’s cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners.” She whispered mischievously, earning a warbling chuckle from Moreau.

“I heard that!” Heisenberg yelled again making the two snicker harder.

~

It was a good few hours before Heisenberg was able to get the inside of the machine clean and in working order once more. He had to use his powers with electricity to rewire some parts, replacing one of the tube bulbs and showering it with a plethora of curses for good measure during the whole ordeal.

Juniper kept Moraue occupied and out of Heisenberg’s hair. He had convinced her to look at his collection of finishing lures. Given his simple speech patterns and twisted visage one would think him very dim; but he was surprisingly intelligent and talkative with certain topics. Fishing was one of those topics, Juniper discovered.

The sound of boots tore them from their conversations, Moraue closing the old wooden tackle box to look up.

“Well I got it working again…but damn your slime mess is really fucking it up.” Heisenberg announced, holding his tool bag.

Moreau took Juniper’s hand excitedly, “Would you want to see one of my movies?”

“No, no.” Heisenberg interjected.

“One movie?” Juniper looked at him with big puppy eyes, “Just to make sure it’s working properly.”

The two looked at Heisenberg expectantly. After a long moment Heisenberg pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed, “Jesus fuck…Fine!”

As Moreau excitedly went through his box of films Heisenberg pressed, “Only one.”

“Thank you.” Juniper whispered, hugging Heisenberg softly.

Rolling his eyes, Heisenberg hisses, “I don’t know why you humor him.”

“Because it’s a nice thing to do.” Juniper snapped under her breath, “Don’t be so mean.”

When he didn’t speak she gave a little huff, wandering closer to the crouched Moreau.

The man was sifting carefully though the films, mumbling things to himself.

Juniper made a sound of surprise pointing into the box, “You have ‘The Secret Garden’?”

Moreau nodded, pulling that film free. It was the 1949 version, in black and white.

“I used to love that book.” Juniper spoke excitedly, “Can we watch that one?”

Moreau, just overjoyed to have company, instantly agreed.

Heisenberg leaned against the far wall, watching them set up the television. Moreau apologized profusely for not having proper seating, while Juniper shrugged and sat on the floor.

He smiled as the two became quiet when the movie started, walking quietly up to sit besides Juniper. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer as he settled in.

The movie wasn’t his cup of tea, liking westerns or thrillers more himself, but the quiet was nice. Even if the place was damp and smelled.