#brass door kits

[pfhwrittes]

have a chunk of tradie!141 for your reading pleasure.

it's fuckin' pourin' down, has been for the last 3 days and the forecast ain't getting any better. thick, claggy muck sucks at the soles of simon's boots, threatening to pull 'em straight off his feet as he crosses the quagmire to slip into the portakabin-cum-office where he knows his skipper'll be.

price is fumin' under his hard hat, his ancient brick of a phone glued to his ear as he barks out demands to whichever poor sod is gettin' an earful off the boss today (probably nik, who straight up refused to drive onto site, stating bold as brass that the wagon would get bogged down, fuck the delay, captain. i'm not hurting my girl for your timetable).

with a disgusted snort price throws the offending phone onto the cluttered desk sending a sheaf of papers careening onto the floor.

"fucks sake, riley. what d'ya want?" price growls out in his direction and simon just lifts a battered eyebrow at the tone. no point gettin' his knickers in a twist over weather but price has always thought himself better than acts of nature and god himself.

"told the lads to put the tools down and go 'ome."

if looks could kill, simon would be buried in a shallow grave under the portaloo. price's face is as stormy as the sky rumbling ominously outside.

"well tell 'em to pick them back up, for fucks sake! we've got a fucking job to do here, simon." price snaps, his patience well and truly gone and it isn't even dinner time by simon's watch.

simon's hi-vis jacket creaks forebodingly as he straightens up.

"no."

there's a beat as simon squares off against his skipper, the unstoppable force of john price smashing against simon's immovable iron will. simon's known john a long fuckin' time and he'll play dirty to keep the crew safe if he has to. john's seen him walk off jobs for less.

price sighs noisily, ruffling the ends of his moustache.

"right then. who're we losing?"

"gaz can't work with the humidity, ale and rudy can't paint if gaz ain't finished the plaster, don't trust soap not to fry 'isself, and flash is sat in the van dryin' out." simon counts off on his fingers.

price's eyebrows hike up to his hairline at the mention of the plumber's apprentice.

"'s matter with flash?"

simon chuckles at the memory of flash covered head to toe in mud after an unfortunate tumble.

"debuted 'is mud-wrestlin' career f'r us."

price snorts out an amused sound and shakes his head. poor sod'll be miserable for the rest of the day without any spare kit to change into.

"right, go on then. tell 'em they can fuck off for the day." price reaches for his abandoned phone, probably to tell the client, some jumped up property developer-slash-social media wanker, that the job's been delayed by the shit weather. (simon doesn't envy him in the slightest, last time he met her she looked him up and down like he was scum and he was tempted to "accidentally" score the side of her flash car with the end of a length of 22mm copper pipe.)

simon offers price a nod and turns towards the door of the 'kabin, hooking the flimsy hood of his jacket over his head.

"oi, riley. you better not have stuck flash in my van."

"nah, stuck 'im in with soap and gaz. i ain't gettin' that shit on our seats."

price's barking laugh follows simon out the door into the pissing rain.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Ayo can we get a hot ass "keep my wife's name out your goddamn mouth" Kathy x John

Kathy does routine physical exams obviously and in the showers Price overhears some locker room talking about his wife, how they'd like those hands to go further, like how she bosses them around etc.

Cue him rounding the corner to give them a solid punch and "Don't you dare utter my wife's name again"

Up to you if she rewards him ☺️

yes you fucking can!!!!

That's My Wife!

pairing: F!OC: Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price words: 1.5K~ cw: jealousy, protectiveness, arguments, violence, injuries (mentioned), misogyny, sexually-charged comments, "locker room talk", smutless smut.

The worst time of the year for the army medical staff at Tidworth is September. Oh, how the nurses and doctors hate the month of September during which, for two weeks straight, they see nothing but soldier after soldier for health checks and physical exams to confirm that they’re fit for service.

It’s, unfortunately, repetitive, mind-numbing and time-consuming. It’s also, unfortunately, a whole hands on deck situation. So, everyone who’s not actively doing something else, gets called in to help process the soldiers.

That’s how Kathleen ends up, every year, in the clinic, helping physicians assess the soldiers. Her jobs tend to be easy. More of the same that she tends to already do: measuring heights and weights, calculating their BMI and body fat percentages, using the stethoscope to listen to their heartbeat and breathing, manning the blood pressure gauge…

And, of course, the most interesting stuff. Conducting stress tests and having to strap all sorts of machines and sensors to the soldiers and monitor how they perform as they run on a treadmill, as well as doing physical checks on old injuries, scars…

In short, she spends a long time in front of shirtless men… and even longer touching their chests, arms, backs, and sometimes their legs, to check for injuries, which often ends with her crouching or kneeling at their feet.

And, of course, the stupid soldiers can’t keep their mouths shut. More often than not they make a few remarks about taking her out later, about coming to see her more often, of being lucky they get her for their checks…

It’s a nightmare. Kathleen hates it. In fact, she wishes she wasn’t tasked with that every year… But the choice is her or risking one of the pretty new interns having to do it, girls who haven’t yet developed the thick skin she has, and would likely giggle and get flustered at the lads behaviour… instead of calling them out on it or just downright ignoring them.

September, as it turns out, is also a nightmare for John. But he only figured that out today.

After his Bravo team finished training for the morning, John allowed them to hit the showers and he stayed behind to finish some work and talk with Soap.

As they enter the locker room, the rest of Bravo team is already in the communal showers, talking loudly amidst themselves and laughing, their voices echoing amidst the spraying of the showers over them.

John pops open his locker and starts shedding his workout kit, tossing it into his bag on the shelf. Soap isn’t far from him, a few lockers up, in the adjacent wall, his locker door having his name ‘MACTAVISH’ inside the clear plastic name tag holder, with a post-it naming him ‘F.N.G’ scotch taped below it.

John doesn’t need to pay much attention to know they’re talking about women, especially, the nurses from the nearby Tidworth base. All of them had gone through their check-ups in the last couple of days and, as is typical, they couldn’t keep their traps shut about the pretty women with soft hands doting all over them.

“Oh, mine bent over and pushed those tits of hers right up to my knee.” One of them said.

“Lucky bastard. I got a bloke.” Another replied.

Oh, how many times John had told them to be quiet and keep those sorts of talks to themselves when they were at the barracks, and not in public… But did those knobheads listen? No, never.

John grabbed his towel and 2-in-1 shampoo and bodywash and headed into the showers, taking up one of the vacant spots and drawing the curtain after hanging the curtain just outside his stall.

“I swear she was giving me the look… Definitely wants a piece of me.”

“No bird would want a piece of yer ugly mug.”

The lads continued talking as he let the water run over his body and began quickly lathering himself up with his 2-in-1, washing his hair and face aggressively before running his head under the falling shower water.

“I’m not devout, but this new batch’a nurses they got this year makes me a believer.”

“That’s right, brother.”

One-by-one they started vacating their stalls, still chatting loudly about their check-ups and the young women that treated them, lounging about the locker room and making each other laugh.

“But that arse of hers… I just know she’d bounce so well on my cock-”

“Oh that’s nothing. You didn’t see her last year before they changed the colour of the scrubs… That blue colour just… mmmmm…”

John finishes his shower not long after, wrapping his grey towel around his hip and tying it up to stay still. Then, he collects his 2-in-1 bottle from its perch atop the metal piping of the shower and starts making his way back.

That’s when he hears it:

“It’s no wonder the Captain’s peacockin’ himself around like that… I mean have you seen the size of her tits?”

John’s blood runs cold. They wouldn’t fucking dare. They wouldn’t talk about Kathleen. 

No. 

Not they. 

Him.

Sergeant Ellis Evans. 

One he’s always had problems reining in.

“Captain’s lucky is all I’ll say… Body like hers… Hell, even I’d forgive that bloody attitude of hers.”

The others laughed as Evans continued.

“I mean, I’m sure Kathleen’s mouth’s good for more than just talking… Gotta be good on her knees.. They call her ‘Brass’ for a reason, right? Bet she leaves ‘em with a nice polish and shine once she’s done.” 

That did it.

John rounded the corner into the locker room and, abruptly, the room fell into silence, breaths hitching and the temperature dropping into an uncomfortable ice.

But John didn’t stop walking at the doorway… In fact, he beelined right for Evans.

“Captain, I-” Evans immediately tried backtracking. “We were just joking, we were just-”

“Keep my wife’s name out your bloody mouth.” John grits at him through clenched teeth before he throws a right cross to Evans’ face.

-

It’s just past 7P.M. when Kathleen comes in through the front door. John has made dinner for them and little Charlotte is already asleep in her crib by the time she does.

She sets her bag down in the entrance, takes off her shoes, and pads over to the kitchen in search of John.

“Hi…” She greets him softly as she approaches the table, causing him to swivel on his chair to greet her, wrapping his arms around her waist. 

She presses a kiss to his mouth, which he returns. “Hi, Da’lin’.” He murmurs to her once they separate.

“Is she down?” She asks in a soft tone as she looks at him.

“Mhm… Full belly and empty diaper.” He tells her, which makes her smile softly, seeming relieved.

Kathleen feels exhausted, as usual, still not used to the work-life balance that comes from having a 4-month-old baby who doesn’t like to sleep + and a physically demanding job that runs on a 12-hour-shift schedule. 

John swivels back to his previous position, nursing a glass of whiskey with his left hand, the right one resting on the table, the knuckles covered by a blue gel ice pack.

“So that’s what happened...” Kathleen muses as she glances at his iced hand, before backing away to grab herself a plate of food from the cupboard.

“What is?” John murmurs as he glances at her, watching her serve herself of some frozen lasagna and salad.

“One of your lads ended up in my emergency room after some ‘roughhousing gone wrong in the locker room’... I was musing about what he did all afternoon.” She quips as she pads over to the table again again.

“Hm.” John mutters quietly, seemingly a mix of embarassed and annoyed at that fact.

“So what did he do?” She asks as she takes a seat on his lap, perched on his lap, as she pops a cherry tomato in her mouth.

“Talked about you.” John murmurs, wrapping his free arm around her waist. “Only I get to say debauching things about My Wife.” He grumbles as he looks up into her eyes.

Kathleen rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head, but she can’t help the smirk that takes over her rudy lips as he calls her ‘his wife’. “My, Mr. Price, defending my honour, huh?” She jokes as she pops a bit of lettuce in her mouth.

“Defending my honour… and yours by proxy. Just an unforeseen consequence of it.” He tells her, trying to act nonchalant about the fact he broke a man’s nose, eyesocket and three of his ribs, for demeaning his wife.

“Right… Of course… How stupid of me…” Kathleen teases as she leans toward him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, which makes his blue eyes close, a smile taking over his features. 

“As opposed to… what exactly? There isn’t much up there other than thoughts of my cock, da’lin’.” John remarks, causing her to roll her eyes, annoyed, and flick his head away from her by pushing his cheek, annoyed.

“I can very well just stop thinking about it all together… And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that when I was just about to reward you for defending me…” Kathleen teases as she pops another cherry tomato in her mouth, eyes locked on John and the way his pupils dilated, his cock already stirring awake in his joggers against her ass in her green scrubs.

[chaotic-orphan]

I have a request if thats okay: hero is very scared of villain, but was assigned on a mission to fight them anyway. hero accidentally falls into one of villain’s traps and villain finds hero completely powerless. villain also has mind reading powers and likes to use people’s fears against them.

Intoxicating Fear (I)

The Old Fairground

“Well, well, well,” the voice bounced off the walls and echoed back to Kit who turned in place, eyes scanning the emptiness of the old fairground. There were so many old kiosks dotted around that it created plenty of shadows for Omen to hide in, to watch Kit from.

As if Kit needed more of a reason to be afraid of Omen.

A rush of wind to his left and Kit stepped backwards and to the right, whirling. There was no one there. Omen had to be close, close enough for Kit to hear him over the lapping of the waves beneath the old, creaking boardwalk.

“I didn’t expect Superhero to send his prodigy. Will wonders never cease?” The voice sounded so close to Kit; Omen’s voice was normal as if he were chatting over a coffee in a cafe somewhere. He wasn’t shouting to be heard over the wind and the waves. It made a shudder run down Kit’s spine.

“I must have scared them off and he sent you as mere entertainment for me, hmm? For sport? Are you truly that expendable, little Hero?”

“You must have me confused with someone else,” Kit called out into the darkness. Attempting to be brave. Surprising even himself when his voice sounded strong, sure, confident. “I don’t usually talk a lot during my assignments.”

“Pity,” said Omen and it sounded like he was right behind Kit. Kit rounded on his heel, leg up and deadly as it whipped through empty air and found nobody. Kit could see his breath reflect on the chilly Autumn night air and pretended it wasn’t a hitch in his breathing, but more a controlled labour. As if he were in control. “I love a good chat before a fight. Really gets the blood pumping. Perhaps we can shake it up for you, hmm? Good to be out of your comfort zone.”

“Or we can do this the good ol’ fashioned way and you can face me. Stop hiding in the shadows like a coward.”

The fairground went quiet after that. A whistle of wind blowing the creaky floorboards under Kit’s boots the only sounds wrapping around Kit.

“I’ll tell you what, Hero,” said Omen, and Kit could hear the smile in his voice. “Since you want to jump the gun so much and get down to brass tax, I’ll give you a little hint as to where I am.”

Kit’s heart thundered against his chest at Omen’s suggestion. He didn’t want to face Omen at all. Maybe he was a little too convincing. Maybe he sounded a little too brave.

Carnival music started up, followed by lights. Kit followed them with his eyes and found he led to the old arcade. Of course he did. Omen couldn’t have found a less creepy spot, no? That would simply be asking too much.

Kit rolled his shoulders. Then started walking towards the arcade.

Okay, it’s fine. He could do this. He could do this. Superhero trusted him enough to get the job done. He would be fine. He would be okay.

When he got to the entrance of the arcade, fingers wrapped around the handle, Omen spoke again: “let’s play hide and seek, hmm? I’ll hide, you seek.”

Kit grit his teeth, setting his jaw and swung the door open, stepping into the dark arcade. A cord of orange and blue light permeated the walls and ceiling, while the rest of it was different panels of black. There were enough shadows for Omen to hide in, but this place was more open than the pier. At least here Kit had a chance.

Omen and his stupid mind games.

Kit wanted to slap his forehead at not realising sooner how clear he could hear Omen. This whole time he was taunting Kit from his own mind. Poking about and taking up residence like walking into people’s minds and meddling was something completely normal and acceptable. Mentor’s face crossed Kit’s mind and he frowned and pushed it out of his mind.

Telepaths always creeped Kit out anyways.

A scream rang through the arcade and Kit was running before the screaming stopped. He needed to find the civilian Omen had caught… Kit slowed to a walk as the screaming faded.

What if Omen was making this in his head?

What if there was actually no one?

What if this was a trap?

What if, what if, what if— what if wasn’t good enough. Not good enough to warrant Kit to not try and help. If there was a possibility Omen was hurting someone Kit had to save them. He took an oath to protect people. To protect the innocents in the city.

Even if the thought of facing Omen made him want to get sick. Kit clenched his fists and pulled the electricity from the machines around them. The lights flickered briefly and then settled, although a bit dimmer. Crackles of blue lightning cloaked Kit’s fist and made him feel a little better about his inevitable, encroaching encounter with Omen.

Another scream and Kit turned to the left and took off, running through the employee’s only door. A series of offices were on the right side of the hallway and Kit looked in everyone as he ran past.

“Hello?! Where are you?!”

“Malyn?! Malyn? Is that you? Malyn, Run! Get help! Don’t—” Kit could feel the blood drain from his face at the voice. That was Other Hero’s voice. What were they doing here?! They were supposed to be with Superhero… unless Superhero could handle the disturbance in fifth and sent Other Hero for backup. Fuck.

Fuck!

Kit didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home and hide under the covers and cry, and not deal with Omen. OtherHero was stronger than Kit anyway. How was Kit supposed to win against Omen?

Kit got to the end of the hallway and saw the double doors open to the pier again. He swallowed hard, pushing against the handles of the glass door, and walked out onto the boardwalk.

Opposite Kit, close to the fence above the ocean, Omen stood, a gun held to Other Hero’s head that was kneeling a little in front and to the right of Omen. Omen’s appearance alone would strike fear into the hearts of lions.

His face was pale, and that contrasted the darkness to the rest of his features. He had shoulder length raven hair slicked back, a few strands framing his face. Eyes so dark they looked almost black, and his lips a pale red, more naturally pigmented than anyone Kit knew.

Omen smiled when he set those horrible dark eyes on Kit. “Hello Malyn. You found me.”

God, his voice was so much worse up close.

Before it was normal, neutral, but in reality, his voice had depth to it. A mocking lilt and a knowingness that made Kit feel exposed.

Too exposed.

“Yeah,” said Kit, swallowing hard, the blue sparks cackling up his arms. “I found you. So, I win hide and seek, right? How about you let Other Hero go as a prize?”

Omen tilted his head to the side, a smile growing on his lips. “No,” Omen admonished with his silvery voice. “How about a trade, hmm? You for them.”

“Malyn don’t—” Other Hero let out a shrill scream without Omen even lifting a finger. Kit started forward, but Omen pressed the gun to Other Hero’s head and raised his eyebrows in warning at Kit.

As if saying: do you really wanna do that?

Kit held his hands up in surrender and said: “Okay fine. Fine! Let them go!”

Omen didn’t move for a moment, Other Hero still screaming and crying, and Kit fought the urge to step in to help. If he moved quick enough, he could get Omen with a bolt and he’d drop the gun at least… but then he’d have to deal with Omen’s rage and his power.

And Kit knew he weren’t brave enough to do that.

Omen straightened his head and drew the hammer of the gun back with a click. Other Hero stopped screaming and fell to the boardwalk. Kit moved towards them, but Omen stopped them with a light: “ah-ah, Malyn. Trade, remember? You for them.”

“At least let me—”

“No,” Omen’s tone was so final it caused Kit to pause. His heart was pounding against his chest, blood rushing in his ears as he turned his head to face Omen, eyes pleading. He might as well have been trying to talk to a brick wall. “Come along, Malyn.”

“I’m alright here,” said Kit voice shaky, standing protectively between Other Hero and Omen. Omen turned, dark eyes finding Kit’s and the humour draining from his face.

Omen let out a dark, humourless chuckle. “Cute that you think I can’t touch Other Hero with you like that. You want to test it?”

Kit didn’t move. He swallowed hard, planting his feet on the boardwalk. Omen’s eyes narrowed as familiar cackling swelled around Kit’s fists, up his arms to his shoulders and engulfed his body. His hair standing up on his head.

Omen grinned a hollow smile. His lips turning up but his eyes still that intense, black emptiness… Kit’s hands grew clammy as Omen turned to face them. He stood casual, one hand in his black overcoat while the other held the gun at his side.

“Alright little Hero. Give it your best shot.”

Kit didn’t need to be told twice. He threw both his hands forward, palms facing Omen as blue electricity gathered in his palms and shot towards Omen. The arc travelling at the speed of light before—

Kit screamed, his body spasming as he dropped to his knees, drenched in sea water. Kit put his hands out to catch them before he fell forward, coughing out a gasp of air.

His mind moving like sludge.

How… how did…?

The answer was the boot of Other Hero stepping in front of Kit. Fuck. Other Hero could control water. Fuck fuck fuck. If he were under Omen’s control…

“Other Hero…” Kit tried and immediately another blast of water hit Kit harder than a canon. He was thrown back a few feet onto his back and gasped as the wind was ripped from his lungs. This time Kit saw the tunnel of water swirling above him before it was blasted down at him.

Kit rolled to the side, springing to his feet, glaring at Omen who was grinning behind Other Hero. Using them as a fucking puppet. Kit couldn’t use his powers, not unless he wanted to fall unconscious within a few seconds. Fuck. How did Omen even know?! Apart from almost hitting the villain with a bolt two seconds ago, but that was two seconds of reaction. Kit had barely debuted to society.

“Alright there, Sparky? Or do you want to try and hit me again?”

“You fucking—” a rope of water coiled around Kit’s throat and yanked him towards Other Hero. Kit was on his knees as another tonne of water hit Kit from above and drowned him in it. Omen walked up next to Other Hero smiling down at Kit.

“What was that, Sparkles? I couldn’t hear you.”

Omen didn’t even wait for answer. He turned to touch Other Hero’s temple and Other Hero crumbled to the ground. A puppet with his strings cut. Kit reached out, a hand on Other Hero’s pulse and he sighed, sitting back on his heels.

Alive.

Just unconscious.

The relief was short lived, replaced by a vivid fear gripping him in it’s cold vice as a thin, lithe finger came under Kit’s chin and tilted his head up to look into those void-like eyes. Kit felt the hairs on his body stand up as a chill tan through him like ice spreading through his veins, seizing his limbs, rendering them motionless. Useless.

Not his limbs.

Not his limbs, his mind cried as he pushed to a standing position.

His legs pushed against gravity without Kit’s say so. His heart cracking against his ribs was threatening to break them it was pounding so hard. Kit licked his dry lips, the taste of sea salt coating his tongue.

His body was moving by another’s command. Kit tried to battle Omen’s easy control, but he didn’t know what to look for to fight him off. Panic was the only thing Kit had control over in his brain and it wasn’t exactly helping.

Omen’s lips spread slow, creeping across his face into a horrific, charming smile. His black eyes betraying his inhumanity.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, Sparks. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of those who go against me, yes?”

Kit swallowed and didn’t answer. He didn’t even want to look at Omen, but he couldn’t turn his head away. He couldn’t move. Rooted to the spot because that’s exactly where Omen wanted him. Mentor’s face flashed again through Kit’s mind, turning his stomach.

“Oh yes,” said Omen, tone reminiscent. “Old Mentor went mad trying to stop me, poor dear.”

“You drove him crazy! You weaponised his own mind against him,” Kit said, hatred colouring his tone. Omen smirked.

“I was going to do the same to you,” said Omen, his voice flowing through Kit’s ears like liquid silver. “It’s a favourite of my many gifts. Not at all fit for combat like lightning or water, but I can break you without breaking a sweat. Even before I took your body you couldn’t lift a finger against me.”

Kit scoffed, his lips curling back into a snarl. “Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot,” said Omen. “But you think even higher of me, Malyn. Mentor’s fear was easy. Powerlessness. Inhibit his control of his power in his brain like a little switch and let his fear do the rest. But you?”

Omen stepped closer and Kit wanted so much to step back but Omen didn’t allow it, and Kit’s limbs didn’t move despite his brain screaming: danger, danger! DANGER!

“Your biggest fear is me,” said Omen, his voice taking on a revered quality to it. Omen moved his hand down from Kit’s chin to his throat and Kit flinched, his throat bobbing under Omen’s grip. Omen let out a soft laugh of surprise, his black eyes going back to Kit’s as he tightened the grip on Kit’s neck. “It’s intoxicating.”

“Superhero will send reinforcements,” Kit tried, his voice cracking, betraying his own disbelief. “He know—”

“Let Superhero come,” said Omen. “We’ll leave Other Hero here for them to find.”

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. “W- we will?”

Omen laughed again, dark eyes drinking in Kit’s fear. “Oh yes, sweet Hero. I could grow used to getting drunk off your fear, there’s no way I’m letting that go. You’ll have to come with me.”

Kit felt tears building behind his eyes as Omen spoke. Omen grinned as he noticed them. He raised a crooked index finger up to catch a tear as it fell onto Omen’s knuckle.

His dark eyes drew Kit’s in as Kit tried to fight off Omen’s command of his body. “No... no, please no,” he begged, his body shaking even under Omen’s compulsion.

“Yes, Malyn. Oh yes, absolutely yes. Don’t worry. It will be absolutely terrifying. You’re going to forget the road trip there however, you understand I can’t have you telling tales.”

“Omen please—” Kit cried, and it was the last thing he remembered before Omen shut his memory down and blackness descended on his mind.

*~*~*~*~*

This was such a fun request! Thank you anon! I hope you enjoy ^~^

Continued here

[barn-anon]

Your Gaius was ready to snap. The two of you were out late and ran into a lone World Eater. This World Eater was the kind you're more familiar with, blood red and brass armor with those weird horn-fin things on the helmet. Your World Eater had shoved you behind him and heated aggressive gothic words are exchanged. You try to peer around him but he is quick to block you, hiding you behind his white and blue bulky form.

It was a tense few minutes before the other World Eater left. Gaius wraps an arm around you as he steers you away from the place. He shushed you and hurries you towards the heart of the city where your apartment was. When you tried to sneak a look behind you, you spot the faint dark silhouettes of other World Eaters move into the shadows.

Things weren't easy once you got back to the busy heart of the city. You don't recognize the white armoured Space Marine that had stopped you and Gaius but he clearly was skeptical of your World Eater. It was only how you clung to your World Eater that would convince the Space Marine to let the two of you go further in.

The door slams shut and you hear the locks click into place. A loud clunk, Gaius's helmet lay on the living room floor. He pulls you into his arms. With your minimal grasp of the language, you ask your World Eater why does everyone seem to mistreat him. He shakes his head,

"it doesn't matter".

He sighs, the knowledge of what had? Would? become of both his Primarch and his legion weighs heavily on his mind. Even before he was transported to this strange world, back when he was still among his fellow World Eaters, he had some semblance of hope that maybe his Primarch would get better and his fellow brothers would too rise above the brutality they've become known for.

It seems that even here, that dark reputation has followed him. Except now it seems every other World Eater he meets are ones that had fallen to Chaos. He's never felt more alone. He looks down at his human that's starting to snuggle up to him. At least he has her, it's a small consolation but it's one he has come to cherish. She's slowly but surely picking up high Gothic, he's so proud of her. He'll sooner die than see anything happen to her.

Tagged: @kit-williams • @egrets-not-regrets • @bleedingichorhearts

[litepowee]

ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴅᴜᴍʙᴀꜱꜱ

synopsis: Shion comes 'round to get patched up, but it seems he forgot what day it is today. (surprise it's his birthday!!)

warnings: mentions of blood, swearing, gn!reader, self-indulgent

a/n: shion was actually my first blorbo ever so the biggest happy birthday to my mad dog <33

✧ comments/reblogs are super duper appreciated ✧

As the warm orange sun set behind him, Shion dragged his feet up the metal stairs leading to your apartment. It had become a routine after every gang fight to come back to you. Always welcoming him with a roll of your eyes, and a face mixed with annoyance and pain, but nonetheless you never hesitate to patch him up. 

Today was no different, as a cool March breeze swept through his blonde hair. Shion knocks on the door, hearing shuffling from within before a small click of a lock reveals you. A simple, but comfortable fit adorn with an apron tied around your waist. 

Your eyes quickly scan over Shion, and sigh, “Really? Weren’t you just beat up a couple of days ago?” He lets out a little chuckle pretending not to hear that as you step aside to let him in. 

“It ain’t nothing major. Just some scratches.” Shion calls over his shoulder as he slides his Tenjiku jacket off, laying it on the couch armrest. The comforting scent of fresh chocolate cake hits his senses, “You good? What’cha baking?” He calls out.

Being met with silence he considers going into your little corner of a kitchen to see, but after another second you break it, “Don’t come back here! M’ a mess, just getting stuff to clean up.” He complies without second thought, examining his hands which he notes are a little bloody and bruised even with the use of his brass knuckles. 

You pop out of the kitchen, no longer wearing the apron but carrying a little first aid kit. The couch dips down as you sit beside him, resting the kit on your lap. You met his gaze on his hands, before digging up some antiseptic spray, “Give me your hands.” Mumbling out as Shion extends out his hands. 

The difference between you two is night and day. 

Skillful and dainty hands work at his scuffed up bloody ones. Shion hisses as the antiseptic spray meets his cuts, “C’mon don’t be a baby.” Mumbling out, as you rummage around for some wrapping. “It stings y'know!” 

Your eyes scan over his hands, deeming them to be taken care of. Glancing up at him you notice a small cut and dried blood on his cheek, just edging below his tattoo. “How do you even manage…” Words trailing off as you dig around looking for something to clean the dried blood. 

Shion only humming in response, watching your focused eyes dart around. He can’t help but smile inwardly at how, even if you act annoyed with him, you never fail to take care of him after a gang fight. Though he would never dare to say that out loud, in fear of losing this.

In fear of losing you.

Losing you? It’s not like you're his to begin with. Just friends. So why would he be so worried about losing you? 

He’s brought out of his thoughts as he realizes how close you’ve gotten to his face. “Oi! Damn jumpscare.” Pulling back to put some space up, clicking your tongue in response. “Shion, just hold still, will you? I gotta get this stuff off you.” Leaning forward you raise a hand to his cheek, keeping him still as you dab a cotton ball against his cut. 

Still as a statue, he prays you won’t notice how much his face is heating up. Have your hands always been this soft? Did your eyes always look that pretty? Shion couldn’t help but stare, not even noticing the slight sting of the cut. It wasn’t until you smoothed the band-aid out on his cheek that he broke his stare on you.

“Honestly Shion. Weren’t you once the captain of a gang? How is it you’re always coming over beat up and bloody, huh?” Quietly talking as you pack up the kit, he can only chuckle at the recall of his time as the Black Dragons’ captain. 

Shion got lost in his thoughts of those times, not even noticing the lack of your presence. But even if he isn’t captain anymore, things are better. He’s got you. He’s got Tenjiku. Being a ‘Heavenly King’ sounds a lot cooler than ‘Captain’, doesn’t it? 

The only thing that draws his attention out of his thoughts is the click of a lighter. Since when did you start smoking? As he opens his mouth to question it, his words stop, caught in his throat. 

You carefully walked over to the couch, a plate balanced in your hands. A single cupcake with a fondant crown placed on top, holds a lit candle. “Do you even know what day it is dumbass?” Shion’s eyes dart from you to the cupcake and back. 

“What..day it is?” He mumbles out unconsciously trying to put the pieces together. Cracking a smile as you look at Shion who’s still trying to figure out the date. 

“Happy birthday Shion, make a wish.” 

extra:

You: What did you wish for? 

Shion: Dumbass I can’t tell you! Don’t you know how this shit works?! 

Shion in his mind: for you to be my partner duh?? 

✧ comments/reblogs are super duper appreciated ✧

tags: @tokyometronetwork @public-safety-network

taglist form

[itsalmostavengers]

Steve quietly helping a “finally at the end of his wick&burnt out” Tony out of his suit and into bed

The button was sticking to his fingers. It had to be. There was no other reason as to why the hell this was taking so long.

Tony looked down in confusion, observing his index and thumb as they battled to wrangle the slick white button out of its buttonhole. It wasn't going very well from the looks of it, which was strange, because he could've sworn he started to work at them almost as soon as he'd stepped through the door. That meant he'd been at it for at least 20 seconds now. This was not something that Tony could say he usually struggled with.

He watched his own fingers as they fiddled desperately at the contraption for a few more moments before, finally giving up and falling dejectedly onto the countertop. He could give that another go later, he figured. For now...

Well. Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Blinking slowly, Tony attempted to orientate himself. He knew he was in the kitchen at the tower. He knew it was... well, Tony didn't quite know what time it was because the meeting with the Secretary of Defence had run over, but it was dark now. 11, maybe? He knew that there was probably something else he needed to get done before he could call it a night. His to-do list had only been growing since he started it at the beginning of the week, and they weren't the kinds of things you could put off until the next day. They were the kinds of things that, if left too long, could get people killed.

Right. Okay. He needed a refuel. A bagel, maybe. And a coffee. And then he would... yeah. The kit for Natasha. Top priority. She was heading out to Alaska tomorrow and her old suit had been torn to shreds in the debacle last Tuesday. So bagel, coffee, workshop. Bagel, coffee, workshop. Bagel-

"Could I suggest, sir, that you substitute your coffee and workshop plans for bed instead? It has been two days since you last achieved REM sleep."

Tony was quiet for a moment. He stared at the wall, and then glanced up to the ceiling slowly, a frown folding into his forehead.

"Did you just read my mind?" He asked JARVIS.

"No sir. I listened."

"Oh. I was speaking?"

"Indeed sir."

"Ah."

See, this was the slight problem that came with spending a week hopping straight from one obligation into another. He started to lose track of himself a little. The overuse of caffeine probably didn't help either. But it was that or fall behind, and he quite simply didn't have time to fall behind. At this point, he'd never catch back up again. He had to do more. Keep going.

So he chose to ignore JARVIS's advice, and instead reached a hand into the pack of bagels on the side. His mind whirred disjointedly as it tried to work through the current set of problems plaguing Stark Industries. The biggest issue was tied into the aforementioned meeting he'd just had with the Defence Secretary. As a general rule, Tony Stark and military personnel did not get on too well. They'd never gotten out of the sulk they fell into with him after his whole 'no more weapons' epiphany, which was just fine by Tony. They talked a lot of shit about him behind closed doors and, occasionally, in public meetings, but they were normally content to leave it at that.

Except now they'd gone ahead and appointed this new guy into one of the top brass roles, and his sole mission seemed to be wrangling Stark Industries back into the weapons business. By any means necessary.

Tony would come out victorious in this stupid little power play, obviously. This wasn't the first time a government official had used thinly-veiled threats and blackmail against him. It was, however, the first time the pressure had come right from the top of the chain. And it implied there was a wider cultural change in the ranks of the US Military, which meant Tony, The Avengers and Stark Industries were all going to have to tread more delicately if they wanted to weather the storm.

He sighed, gaze losing its focus for a few moments. In front of him, the toaster ticked away. The smell began to permeate the air. Tony realised he wasn't even sure he was hungry. He had been, a few hours ago, but the sensation had since faded when it realised it wasn't being listened to. Now he just felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out his brains with a melon baller. He realised he was swaying back and forth on his feet - a slow, repeated motion that was starting to make him feel dizzy. He told himself to be still.

The bagel popped out of the toaster, and it was only then that Tony remembered there were extra steps to this process. Butter. And a knife. He needed both. Hopefully his hands would be able to handle this one.

Turning on his heel, he headed over to the fridge, because he was 90% sure that was where they kept the butter these days - but as his hips swivelled to the left, he felt himself bump against something that had not previously been in the kitchen. It was firm, but soft. Warm. It smelled familiar.

Tony was staring in mild surprise at the chest in front of him, and it took a moment before he realised that that wasn't where you were supposed to look when you bumped into people. And Steve was a stickler when it came to being polite, so he promptly lifted his gaze.

"Hi," he told Steve. This, he thought, was an appropriate thing to say - not too much, not nothing at all, just right. "I'm making a bagel."

Steve, however, didn't seem to care much about the bagel. He didn't even look at it when Tony gestured over to it, which was unusual, because Steve was a very food-oriented man. Instead, Steve was staring down at Tony, a strange kind of intensity in his eyes. They'd been arguing earlier this morning. God, he hoped Steve wasn't coming back to pick up where they'd left off.

Then Steve did something strange. He lifted his hands. Curled them gently around the place where Tony's shoulders met his biceps: soft at first, but then adding just a touch of pressure, enough that Tony's brain noticed it and perked up, flared back into life just a little. The sensation of it kicked off a chain reaction. He realised his thumb hurt, and he needed to pee, and that he'd somehow forgotten to turn on the light as he'd been walking through the kitchen because it was dark as shit and he could actually barely see the other man an inch away from him.

"Tony," Steve's voice was calm, firm, and left absolutely no room for argument. "You can stop now."

Tony didn't respond, too busy trying to process that in his head. It didn't sound right - he knew there was a list, he did, and it was his job to do it and he'd been working at it for the last five days and there wasn't time to stop, there just wasn't. That was what he'd been telling himself, over and over and over. But then, if that was true, it would mean that Steve was wrong. Steve was rarely wrong.

"You can stop," Steve said again. "It's okay to stop."

Was it really?

"Natasha needs--"

"She will be fine. You've created dozens of variants of that uniform for her. Her wardrobe is literally full of protective gear." Steve gave him another gentle squeeze, and it felt good, it felt really good for Steve to touch him. It'd been days since they'd touched. Tony had just been so busy, and then when they had seen eachother they'd been fighting about the fucking portal debacle from Tuesday and now, wow, it felt so good to be touched. The care, the love, it seemed to seep out from Steve's fingers. He'd not even realised he'd been in fight or flight mode all day until he was reminded, right now, of how it felt to be safe.

"I shouldn't," Tony's voice was quiet. He shook his head.

Steve just nodded his. "Yes you should. Come on sweetheart. You know you need to rest. You're doing no-one any favours by running around half-delirious."

"I'm not half delirious."

"JARVIS told me you couldn't even undress yourself. And you're bleeding all over our floor, by the way." Steve's head nodded downward, and Tony looked to see that yeah, Steve was actually right. There was a smattering of small, delicate crimson drops staining their cream tiles.

Tony frowned, recalling the vague memory of his thumb hurting. He glanced down, and spotted the nail that he'd accidentally removed about 20% of. It was a bad habit. Howard had absolutely fucking hated his nail biting - he used to rip Tony's hand straight out of his mouth if ever he got caught in the act, often taking the rest of the nail he'd had his teeth clamped around with it.

"Oh," was all Tony could say.

Without changing a shade, Steve moved again, hand slipping around Tony's and lifting it. He efficiently slotted Tony's thumb into his mouth, sucking off the blood, and then leaned sideways, delving into the drawer where they kept (amongst a plethora of other random assorted crap) the band-aids. He wound it around Tony's thumb, taking extra care to ensure that the raw skin of his cuticle was padded by the gauze and didn't touch the adhesive. When that was done, he shifted his attention to Tony's dress shirt, popping open the first few with frustrating ease. They'd definitely not been playing ball when it'd been Tony trying to make them open.

"It's time to call it a night," Steve told him. Now his hand was on Tony's jaw. His thumb was rubbing a little circle just in front of Tony's ear, like a massage, and God it felt so good that in that moment Tony lost sight of everything else. The work, the sting of pain, the frantic cacophony of 'do more, do more, do more' that had been looping uncontrollably in his head. The one thing that stood between Tony Stark and oblivion was Steve Rogers' right thumb, and man, it was fucking holding up.

Then, slowly, Steve pulled him into his arms. With one hand still pressing into the side of Tony's, the other circled around the his shoulders. They drew him into the impossible feeling of safety that came with being immersed in Steve's hug, and that was it. That was just it.

Tony sagged. He felt Steve's mouth press a gentle kiss against the top of his head. He was so, so, so fucking tired.

"Wanna go to bed?" Steve asked softly.

Tony nodded.

[toadstoolwriting]

Star Crossed- Chapter Three

Warnings: More google translated Russian, angst (?), german asshole and cursing

Word Count: 2k

Series Masterlist

Chapter Two

______________________________________________________________

The night had gone better than you expected after the phone call. The alpha, Bucky, seemed content sitting on your couch as you read a book. You had attempted to check on the bandages, but each time you got close, he would pull away from you, so you decided to leave it alone for the time being. At least he didn't seem to be in any immediate pain. It's not like you had anything to help him anyway. You knew you should have bought a first aid kit when you moved in two years ago. 

You were extremely nervous about leaving him alone there. Something inside you was nearly screaming at you to stay near him. You had never really been the kind of omega to feel the need to care for alphas, but something about him made you want to ensure he was okay and to be near him at all times. It was a very new feeling for you.

You must have fallen asleep reading because you awoke to a knock at the door. Immediately upon awakening, you jumped up, the book falling on the floor, and looked at Bucky. His eyes were on you, but his body was pointed toward the door, with squared shoulders and his feet in a wide stance. You tried to calm your pounding heart as you made your way to the door. It was probably your neighbor or something. As you had made contact with the cool brass of the knob, a hand wrapped around your wrist, stilling your actions. 

"Нет, не открывай дверь. Мы не знаем, кто это" You looked at Bucky; his jaw was set, and a scowl was on his face. You really wish he spoke any English. 

"I have to open the door. What if it's my neighbor?" You half-whispered. This close to him, you could smell the sour lemon radiating off of him. You really wondered if you would ever be able to sense what his base scent was. It always felt like it was corrupted by something. Right now, there was very evident fear.

"Оставь их в покое. Это может быть Hydra" His hand was still on your wrist, squeezing lightly. Another knock sounded from the door, this time louder than the one that woke you up. 

A voice also came from the other side saying your name, "I just wanted to come check on ya to see if you needed a ride." John, thank god it wasn't the police coming to find the alpha in your living space. You thought it might be the neighbor; sweet old beta across the hall would sometimes bring you breakfast. But with the loud knocks, you had doubted your assumption. Usually, her knocks were quiet, and she never knocked twice.

You moved your wrist from under Bucky's grasp and lightly pushed him to the other side of the door so you could open it without him being seen. It's not like it would help, though. His scent was filling up the entire space. 

"Hey, John! It's good to see you." The alpha in question was waiting there, his hands stuffed in his pockets and an eyebrow raised. He took a second, looking you over and around the space before speaking. 

"Yeah, yeah, you need a ride to the station?" John wasn't really one for formalities at the best of times. As of right now, he looked stressed. You guess it had something to do with last night, given that the "burglar" had targeted his business.

You were hoping to avoid going down to the station for the time being, at least while Bucky was in your care. You also weren't the best liar, and it's not like you could just walk in there and tell them that you helped the man who broke into your boss's establishment and brought him to your house. 

You took a deep breath. "Actually, I was hoping to do that later. Something came up that needs my attention right now." You smiled at John, one of those awkward "what-can-you-do" smiles.

"Unfortunately, I am afraid you can't do that, missy. That german asshole... what was his name...Detective Schwarz said to have you come in as soon as possible." He took a breath, "real piece of work, that one."

A noise came from behind the door, causing you to look in Bucky's direction. His hands were on his head, covering his ears, and a pained look was on his face. The scent of fear filled the room. You looked back at John and gave him a quick, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, John. This is really important, but I must deal with something. I promise I'll go this afternoon, but right now, I have to close this door, bye." You said it so quickly that some words jumbled together as you shut the door. Turning back to Bucky, you moved closer to him, hoping to help somehow. 

"What's wrong? What's going on?" You moved your arms out to touch him, but he backed away. "What is it?" 

He stumbled to the ground, sitting with his back resting against the door. You followed him down, trying to figure out what to do. 

Your instincts pushed you to get closer. Facing him, you leaned into his neck, scenting him. You tried to radiate calm, caring energy as you nuzzled his neck. It took a second for you even to realize what you were doing. You felt his shoulders move down before feeling his arms around your torso, pulling you into him. His breathing slowed from the short breaths. He dipped his nose against your scent gland, taking long whiffs, assumidly breathing you in.

"Bucky," you exhaled, feeling so relaxed in this position you didn't know how long you had been like this. You hadn't known him for a whole day yet, and here you were scenting him, and he was as well! You had never been even close to doing so with any other alpha you had been around. You tried to get up, seeing as his breathing was normal and his scent had become sweet, almost like lemon meringue. But his arms squeezed you a little tighter, keeping you in place.

"Don't go," his voice was deep and strained, almost as if it hurt him to utter those two words. Wait, he can speak English... this entire time, he could speak English, yet here you were, thinking there was no hope for communicating with him. You wondered why he could suddenly say it now and not earlier. 

You gave him a few more moments like that, him holding onto you like you were the single thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You moved very slowly from his grasp, keeping close in case he needed you. You looked into his eyes. This was your first time looking at them so closely. They were beautiful crystal blue, seemingly as deep as the ocean. 

"What's wrong?" You whispered, his eyes dilated at your voice. His chest moved as he took a deep breath, carrying you with it. He must have been searching for the right words because it was several moments before he spoke. 

"Handler." His voice was quiet and shook as if saying the word terrified him.

"Handler? I don't think I understand."

"My handler." The phone rang, making him tense under you. Seriously, people needed to leave you alone. Unfortunately, it seemed like that knocked him out of the moment you two were having because he gently moved you to the side as he got up and made his way to the living room. 

You grumbled as you got up, making your way over to the phone. Sparing Bucky a look as you passed by, you didn't know what he had gone through, but between the wounds he still had from the day before, and how he reacted to that one name, you knew it had to be quite traumatic. You grabbed the phone, slightly irritated about it interrupting. 

"Hello?" You practically growled into the phone.

"Hello, this is Detective Schwarz at the Cushing Police Department. I wanted to ensure you came in today to give your statement." This guy definitely had a prominent german accent that was for sure. Your eyes move to look at Bucky, sitting on your couch, hunched over, looking at his hands, quite unaware of the person on the other side of the phone.

"Hello, may I ask why you called?" You were trying to keep your voice as even as possible, but it was challenging.

"Ah, yes, I wanted to make sure you came in to give your statement. Normally, we wouldn't allow you to do it the next day, but given your... designation. We wanted to make sure you were comfortable and ready to. Must have been quite scary for you, knowing the place you worked at was burglarized a mere minutes after you had left it." His tone irked you. It was one alphas did when they looked down on you. Something you were very familiar with growing up. 

"No, I am fine, thank you." You forced out through gritted teeth.

"Excellent, then you'll have no problem coming in by noon? If you don't think you can make it, we can always come to you, where you're comfortable in your nest." By now, you were seething. This pathetic excuse of an alpha just insinuated being in your nest. The audacity of him and all the other police officers on the force! Had they no shame?

You bit your lip before speaking, "No, sir, that won't be needed. I'll be there at 12."

"Wonderful," He didn't even leave time for you to respond before he hung up. Now you understand what John meant when he said the detective was a piece of work. 

You sighed, feeling most of the tension leave your body. Something in the back of your mind made you have a bad feeling about this, though. But you really didn't need the police coming to your apartment, especially with Bucky around. You had no idea how he would react to them, especially if the detective showed up. 

You looked at the clock in your living room, 11:30 a.m. Great. You made your way over to the loveseat you had occupied last night. 

"I have to go to the police station to give my statement." as soon as you said police, Bucky's head snapped up in your direction. You rubbed your hands together for some reason, very nervous to make him upset. "If I don't, they'll come here, and I would rather that not happen. I won't be long. Just please stay here. We'll figure out what to do when I get back."

Honestly, you didn't know the end goal here, to get him away from here. Something inside you hurt at the idea of him away from you. It's not like you could run away with him, though. You had a whole life here, and you couldn't just give that up for some alpha you met last night. Sighing, you looked back up at him. Trying to read his face, it had returned to what seemed to be a permanent scowl.

"Okay," was the only thing he said. You nodded and went to get ready as quickly as possible, trying to look like you didn't have a rough night last night when you arrived at the station. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, but you were still cutting it close in time.

You were ready, at the door leaving your apartment, when you looked at Bucky again. He was looking at you with the same scowl. You wanted to give him a hug but shook the thought out of your mind. Shutting the door behind you as you left. Unaware that once you had made your way out of the complex, a certain alpha had also left your apartment.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: Thank you for reading! I think I'll try to make these progressively longer.

What do yall think is going to happen when reader goes to give her statement?

Also, did you know lemon meringue was popularized in the 40s? According to my google search, at least. What a coincidence.

Constructive criticism is encouraged!

No beta we die like men

See you in the next one - Phrog

[tbcanary]

arrowfam week day five: embrace

—

Bang!

The wind slams the window open faster than her hands can catch it, and Emiko winces in sympathy for the wall. And also, because there’s no way anyone in the house didn’t hear that, and she was trying to keep this visit from becoming a whole thing.

She waits a second, just to make sure no one is about to come running in and turn her into a new-age pincushion, and then slowly stretches one leg out to rest on the edge of the sink beneath her. Then she pushes off the window sill and jumps, landing softly on the linoleum tile.

Her side twinges, sharp and warm. She winces again and presses a hand to her ribs.

There’s got to be a first aid kit around here somewhere. She knows the residents of this house; not a day goes by that someone doesn’t come stumbling in with a stab wound or a broken bone. The sink is a good bet, actually, and she can check underneath it in just a second. First…

Her toes tap-tap-tap gently as she dances over to the fridge. The light is very nearly blinding as she pulls the door open, even through her domino mask, and she finds herself squinting as she surveys the contents.

Loose vegetables from the local market. Chinese takeout from the restaurant in town. Beer, which means either Dinah or Hal is in town. Three open containers of jelly — strawberry for Lian, grape for Roy, and another strawberry from when Oliver probably forgot there was already one open and ready. Congealed macaroni and cheese.

Emiko wrinkles her nose. She grabs an egg roll and a container of what must be lo mein, grabbing chopsticks from on top of the fridge.

After she’s wolfed down the egg roll, she feels a little steadier on her feet. She turns back to the sink and crouches down, pulling open the doors.

Cleaning supplies. A quiver and a compact bow. Brass knuckles, for some reason. And there — tucked in the back corner, the telltale white cross of a first aid kit. Emiko sighs in relief as she pulls it out from its hiding place.

It’s simple enough, really. She tosses back a few painkillers and rinses her hands in the sink before pulling out the sterilized needle and antiseptic. She’s up on the counter with her shirt pulled up before long, angling herself to see the wound on her ribcage in the pale moon light.

It takes a lot of effort to keep quiet as she works. She thinks she’s done a pretty freaking good job with it, too, until the light flickers on overhead.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Ollie intones, rubbing at sleep-rimmed eyes with a heavy fist, “is that blood on my counter?”

Emiko grimaces. It’s only a little bit from the light overhead. “It’s fine. I’ll clean up in a minute.”

“Not the part I’m worried about, if you can believe that.”

“Sure.”

Oliver walks into the (way too small) kitchen. His sweatpants sit crooked on his hips and his hair is in disarray; he’s clearly sleeping off a rough night of his own, based on the bruise covering his cheekbone.

“Here,” he groans, reaching out, “would you just— just let me do it, kid, you’re gonna—”

Emiko flinches away as he reaches for the needle, but it’s not really worth fighting over. He’s got steadier hands than her at the moment. She’s blaming it on the exhaustion, the loss of the adrenaline that’s been driving her since she found herself in the middle of an impromptu robbery downtown, but it might be the blood. She could be convinced. Maybe.

Oliver hums his disapproval. “This’ll sting, Emi, get ready.” And, as much a distraction as an honest inquiry: “Who did you piss off?”

“Some goon,” she mutters. “I just wanted to get a snack. Court and I were sparring and got hungry. The gas station was pretty busy, that’s all.”

The long gash running perpendicular to her ribs hadn’t hurt that much at the time. She blames the winter chill, or maybe just the fact that Court had been with her. It’s harder to notice her own injuries when she’s busy keeping an eye on someone else.

“Court still around?”

“No, she left already.” Emiko shrugs, then hisses. “Ow.”

“Yeah, well, avoid the knife next time and we won’t have to do that.”

“It wasn’t a knife. I can dodge those,” Emiko snaps.

Ollie raises an eye at her, looking up just slightly from his work. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to.

Emiko sighs. “It was claws. On a glove, I think. They honestly looked pretty badass.”

If Oliver is judging her for language, he keeps it to himself. That’s for the best, probably; Emiko doesn’t want to get into the whole ‘you’re not my dad so stop trying to act like one’ spiel today.

“You oughtta call for backup next time,” Ollie says instead. “We have a whole host of people in this city now. Damn near full to bursting. No point putting yourself at risk when you can avoid it.”

“I’m fine,” Emiko repeats.

Ollie snips the thread he’s been using to stitch her up, then pats her on the leg. “Sure, you are. The bedroom’s available, by the way.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah. We got a weighted blanket for it and everything.”

“Ooh, moving up in the world.”

“Old dogs can learn new tricks, after all.”

Emiko rolls her shirt back down and hops off the counter. Somewhat impulsively, she leans forward to wrap her arms around Oliver’s middle, squeezing him tight before letting go.

Oliver throws his hands up instinctively. “Whoa, hey! Wh-what’s this for…?”

“Thanks for the assist,” Emiko offers. “And for the lo mein.”

“The— wait, that’s my—”

Emiko snatches the leftovers off the counter and sprints down the hall, biting back her smile. One of these days, he’ll know better than to keep the food where she can reach.

[victimeyez]

I'm so curious about any time that Caius had to stop clients and how Tommy reacted to that?

You are so, SO good at asking about things I want to coverrrrrr

It's happened a few times, less often as time went on. With trial and error, Caius started to get a good system down of vetting people and getting a good sense of who's going to go too far.

For your patience, I wrote you a drabble about one time.

-

Sometimes, Kit was mad.

They tried the break room full of glass, and it was fun, for a moment. But in just a moment, they had nothing left to smash. Then the employee running in says you have to put the baseball bat down, you have to pay another 35, if you would please put the bat down-

The bat connected with his jaw and it felt so, so good. When they ran, their hands still shook with excitement - Kit had opened a door they couldn’t close now.

                                         ~

Tommy had about four feet of links behind the choke chain around his neck. The end was locked securely to the stake in the floor. 

He rolled out of the way as the bat came down, denting it’s hollow silver body. They screamed in frustration and kicked him as he tried to crawl away. 

Tommy tried to crawl back to the center to see if he could pull up the stake tying him here, but he couldn’t stay still long enough to try before the bat came down again. The best he could do was crawl and crawl and crawl in circles, just trying to stave off the maniac stalking him around. 

Kit’s boot caught the side of his face and he was sent sprawling onto his side. 

(Run, run!)

In blind panic, he launched himself off of his knees to sprint for the stairs, but his escape was quickly halted when the chain stopped short. It tightened like a noose around his neck and he collapsed, his hands desperately clawing at the chain around his throat as he begged for breath.  

His left eye was swelling shut, his arms ached, his fingers were bloody from trying to claw himself forwards. Winded, he rolled onto his front to try to protect his belly. Kit was twirling the bat in their hands, watching with great amusement before they caught up. A heavy blow cracked across his back, followed in quick succession by another.

(They’re gunna beat you to a pulp.)

He collapsed onto the ground and gagged, pleading what he could on his ragged inhales.

“Stop! Ughhh- Please, fffffffuuuck, stop-”

A heavy boot came down on the back of his head, grinding his face into the grimy floor. 

“CRAWL LIKE A FUCKING WORM!!!”

Kit was a shrieking devil, flip-flopping between gleeful amusement and terrifying fury. The bat came down on his thigh, hard enough to stun him for a moment. Tommy had never felt a pain like that, deep into the bone, and he was afraid to move.

The bat cracked into his knee, and again, and again, and he screamed, and he screamed but his throat hurt so bad and he was going to throw up -

Crack.

His ankle exploded in pain.

He heard a broken cry he didn’t recognize, but his throat burned. It didn’t sound like him, it sounded like some mangled creature dying in the woods. 

(Shot dirty by a hunter. Begging for death.)

There was a meaty thunk, and Kit crumpled to the ground beside him.

Caius’s clean leather shoes appeared in front of his face, stopping for a moment before he crouched and pulled Tommy’s head up from the floor. Tommy blinked blindly, his vision painted with blood and sweat. He coughed dryly and Caius dropped him.

“We’re done here.”

His head hurt too much to process what was happening until he was suddenly over Caius’s shoulder, his nose dripping blood onto the other man’s suit as he was carried out.

“Why?” He croaked. 

“I’m not carrying you everywhere,” Caius explained vaguely.

“What’d you do to ‘em?” He slurred.

“Brass knuckles stop a stupid conversation before it starts. They were out of control, they broke the rules, we’re done here.” 

Caius was keeping his composure, but there was an anger Tommy could feel underneath that made his stomach tight. 

(Of course, everything was fine until Caius was at risk of being inconvenienced. Him being beaten and choked as he screamed for mercy, that was just business as usual.)

Caius buckled his seatbelt and locked him into the back of the car. 

“I hate you,” Tommy told him, his voice nasal from a broken nose. 

“I know.”

Tommy saw a glint off of the silver knuckles on Caius’s fist before it made contact with his head, and he was out.

[wh3nturtlesfly]

15 K? Your writing is very good very entertaining:))

Thank you! :)

15, K: Where no one else goes, “Play along or they may take us both.”

CW: Suggestive

Hero ran the mission again through their mind as they fled from the presence of bright lights and pleasant conversation. The masquerade still echoed in full swing from behind them. Seventh room down the hall, brass key in the fourth drawer down, safe hidden away in the closet. It was their last chance, the only lead the agency had and the only hope of keeping the city from falling to shambles. The fate of everything laid on a single manilla folder, and it just so happened that said manilla folder was stashed away at the venue of one of the largest parties of the year.

A thin sheen of sweat graced Hero’s brow, though their skin was all chills. They had managed to slip past the crowd after what had been a most exhausting dance, but they only had a few minutes before the hustle of skirts and waistcoats gave way to the Supervillain’s toast. When that came, they would have to be long gone.

The hallway was deserted when Hero stepped inside, no eyes to bear their witness aside from the intricate paintings that hung on the walls. Supervillain sure was one for expensive tastes; much to Hero’s misfortune as they hated the way their collar itched and their toes pinched in shoes much too tight.

It was overwhelming, the swell of bodies. Hero had longed for hours to escape the endless chatter and hands, grasping, pulling. They despised the grip of fingers upon their waist, greedy as several of Supervillain’s guests had paraded them across the dance floor. Only they were required to play along. Their own comfort wasn’t worth risking their cover, the agency had made that quite clear.

Now as their shoes echoed across the tile floors of the dim hallway, Hero took a deep breath. Seventh door down the hall. Hero counted, a breath for each step. They rolled up their cuffs to allow for better movement. One, two, three.

The seventh door was by far the most plain of the corridor. It was as if it were trying to appear unimportant, though its lack of gold detailing and shining brass handles made it stick out like a sore thumb. Hero grinned at the sight of their target, hands already slipping to the lock picking kit they had strategically stowed away.

They made quick work of the door and slipped inside without a word. It took but a moment to scan the area. It was a study of sorts. Books lining the walls, dark cabinets, a closet, and tucked into the corner of the room lay a grand cherrywood desk. The wood grain swirled across the surface, adorned with a gloss finish and several brass knobs.

Feet padding across the carpet, Hero prayed they wouldn’t make a sound. They slipped on a pair of leather gloves, should anyone look for fingerprints they wouldn’t find any. Hand trailing down the drawers, Hero settled on the fourth.

Upon opening the drawer they were greeted with a cloud of dust and the scent of old paper. Their nose was tickled from the dirt and against their greatest efforts Hero sneezed.

“Bless you,” the voice came from seemingly nowhere. Hero flinched and snatched up the key as they whirled around. Sultry eyes met their own and Hero would have reached for their weapon if they hadn’t been so surprised.

In two steps Villain crossed the room. They two were adorned in formal dress, including a black mask that rested just on the bridge of their nose. Sequins fluttered to the floor as they slipped the mask off their face and placed it in their pocket. “If I had known any better, I would say you aren’t supposed to be here.”

Hero’s grip tightened on the key until they could feel the brass biting into their palm. It was cold between their fingers, but a solid weight to remind them of the mission at hand. “It’s not as if you’re welcome here either,” Hero said. “Since when does Supervillain invite you to their parties?”

“They don't, haven’t since I made the last one an absolute spectacle,” Villain stepped closer and the Hero in turn took a step back. The drawer pushed closed behind their knees. “After they took my glory, well… I figured I should take something of theirs.”

Something in Villain’s eyes screamed of revenge. Hero was almost certain the Supervillain had caused more than a little embarrassment over a party. This glory Villain spoke of was hardly broken easily.

Still, Hero was not here to help their enemy redeem their injured pride. The key in their palm was gripped tightly. They slipped it into their pocket, just as Villain’s eyes trailed to their hand.

“You’re trying to hide something from me aren’t you?”

“I’m not hiding it. I’m simply protecting it from you”

That drew a laugh from the Villain, “I see. You want what I do, only you’ll take it for some stupid reason. Saving the world or something hopeless like that.”

“Keeping people alive is not hopeless!” Hero drew the key from their pocket and instead clutched it to their chest. Hidden in the closet. The safe was hidden in the closet. Just a few more steps and they could finish the mission.

“Oh but isn’t it darling?” The pet name spurred Hero from their thoughts. They hadn’t noticed how Villain crept closer, nor the finger that trailed down the desk, a mere inches away from Hero’s form. And yet, not a single fingerprint, Villain had worn gloves of their own to ensure that. Ensure no one would ever know. “You work all day and all night to stop a lot of things my dear. Supervillain, me, do you ever think we’ll stop?” Their breath ghosted the shell of Hero’s ear, “You’re better off just to take care of your pretty self.”

Just then the Hero felt a gentle tug on the key. A flick of their eyes revealed Villain had reached for it during their speech. Now discovered they tried to pull it from Hero’s grip.

It was a dance of sorts. One moment the tension built as the two locked eyes, both of their hands enclosed around the single item of brass. The next was a blur of movement that erupted in something truly musical.

Villain had managed to knock the key from Hero’s fingers and caught it out of the air. Before Hero could grab it back they had jumped away, holding the possession like a prize.

“Such a shame, the Hero wasted all their precious energy in the ballroom.” As if to accentuate their point Villain spun, avoiding the heel of Hero’s boot by an inch.

They locked eyes across the desk, two pairs of hands settled on the table. Only one holding the key. Hero steadied themself. One, two, three…

Hero thrust forward, grasping at the Villain’s wrists. Their feet shuffled towards their nemesis, quick to cover ground. They were inches apart, but a breath between their faces- only to be torn apart again as the Villain stumbled.

That was thanks to Hero who had swept the criminal’s legs from beneath them while they had focused on keeping hold of the key. Now the brass trinket dropped to the ground and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

Hero lunged for the key, ignoring the sharp burn that came as their skin slid across the floor. Their rolled sleeves threatened to slip down their shoulders and their hair was disheveled. It tumbled in front of their forehead in thick dark curls, nearly covering their icy gaze. They scrambled to their feet just as Villain regained their senses.

The Hero tried to tuck the key into their pocket as they had done before though the Villain clutched the back of their shirt in their fingers, yanking them back. Hero stumbled and banged their hip hard on the corner of the desk. It was sure to leave a bruise in the morning.

On and on they fought, slowly becoming less aware of their surroundings. Carpet twisted under their heels and papers flew from where they had been neatly stacked on the desk. Thrown punches left pens scattered across the floor while well placed dodges made dents appear in places they definitely shouldn’t be.

Hero had nearly reached the closet, key in hand before they felt a pressure around their wrist. It yanked back with a sharp force and they were left pinned against the desk, Villain’s arms bracing either side of their hips.

Neither side had realized how long they had been fighting. It was almost a surprise for Hero to gaze into Villain’s eyes, sweat dripping down their temple. They were panting, cheeks flushed from the fight and yet their eyes still remained intense, trained on the Hero with a fiery gaze. Beneath their rumpled shirt Hero could now catch a glimpse of their collar beneath and the skin that shone with a thin layer of perspiration.

“What do you say we end this game, hm?” Villain’s voice was lower than before. They were utterly still, not so much as a hair shifted as their voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Give me the key.”

Hero tensed, “And if I refuse?” Their fist closed tighter until they could feel the key’s imprint sharp in their palm.

“Well then,” Villain raised a brow, “I suppose I would have to take it from you.” Their hand rose from where it had been braced on the desk. It shot towards Hero where their fingers slid around the crime-fighter's wrist just as the door latch clicked open.

Panic shot through the Villain’s eyes, merely a sliver of fear, before the hand constricting Hero’s wrist shot to the back of their neck and dragged them forward.

Their lips collided, Villain suddenly feverish as they trailed kisses across the Hero’s face. Hero didn’t have time to think, though everything erupted around them, a swirl of emotions. They tried to pull away, this was wrong, this was so very wrong- Villain’s grip was like a vice, keeping them pinned in place. Their mouth drifted, brushing lips along Hero’s jaw, “Play along or they might take us both,” they breathed.

Hero obeyed, arms slipping down from where they had pushed against the Villain’s chest and instead settling on their hips. From the corner of their eye Hero caught a face, pale white as it observed from the doorway, but still present. That just wouldn’t do.

Without warning, Hero fisted the front of Villain’s shirt and deepened the kiss. Villain gasped and Hero captured it, smirking a little as they did so.

Though it had seemed to be ages, the door finally clicked shut and the two nemeses were left alone again.

Hero broke away first, hands slipping back tightly to their sides. The key was still in their palm, they had refused to let go no matter what. When Villain gained their bearings, they almost seemed shocked. If they had looked even a bit presentable before then they sure didn’t anymore. Eyes widened, their face was a deep crimson, though now Hero believed it wasn’t just from the fight.

“You never told me you could do that,” Villain breathed.

“Pardon?” Hero had the nerve to look surprised. Of all people to say such things, it had never crossed their mind that Villain-

The hands returned to the sides of the desk and Hero was again trapped. Something yearning resided in Villain’s gaze, though with it there was also a hint of curiosity. “Did you mean it?”

“What? The kiss?” Villain nodded slightly and Hero nearly exploded. “You told me to play along! If anything I saved us from getting caught!”

“Oh we were caught, just not in the way you may have intended.” As Villain spoke, Hero's eyes swept across the floor. Flung papers and toppled items- oh god, what they must have thought the two were doing-

Villain’s hand caught Hero’s chin, drawing their gaze up, “Don’t look so frightened, you’ll spoil that pretty blush on your cheeks, unless of course it was a lie all along and that passion I felt from you was nothing more than a falsehood.”

“I-” The Hero was speechless. Of course it was a lie, they had panicked. It had been the only way, the only chance of not getting spotted. There were no other options, nothing Hero could have done-

And yet as Hero gazed into the eyes of their enemy they felt something flutter within their chest. Maybe they had felt something, a fleeting sensation just as they always seemed to fluster around the Villain. The same way the banter they shared brought a heat to Hero’s cheeks. Normal, it was completely normal for their ears to redden at the sight of Villain’s face or for their gaze to linger just a second longer on the curve of their jaw.

“Your silence concerns me,” Villain leaned close, “Almost as if you’re questioning yourself.”

“I’m not, I would never. You’re evil.” Hero tried to look away, to think about anything else.They had to get to the safe. Supervillain’s secrets, they had a mission to uphold.

The hand gripping their chin slid down their neck and settled on Hero’s shoulders. It drew a gasp from them as they felt the leather of Villain’s glove against their skin, circling where their collar had become undone. “With the display you just put on my dear, I believe you’re just as capable of doing evil things.”

The words were stolen from Hero’s throat. This was treachery, against everything they had lived for. Even the mere mention of such things had to be some kind of crime. They needed the Villain to stop talking. They did so the only way they could think of.

Their lips crashed together and for a moment Villain was shocked, though they soon understood. It was intoxicating. Villain’s hands had started on the corners of the desk though they didn’t stay there for long. One tangled in Hero’s hair, playing with the curls and jerking their head back so they could trail kisses down their throat. Everything about this screamed wrong, though Hero couldn’t find the motivation to stop.

Their own fingers gripped the Villain’s forearms, thumbs brushing delicately over the skin on the inside of their wrists. It left the Villain in ruins, so much that they ducked away for a moment only to tug at their gloves. The key was long forgotten, falling to the floor without so much as a second glance.

“Villain- fingerprints,” Hero whispered.

“Who’s to say I don’t want Supervillain to know we were here?” Villain murmured against the shell of their ear just as their hands slid down Hero’s waist, cool to the touch. It made Hero shiver. “I say it's about time this party became interesting.”

Villain was silenced as Hero kissed them deeper and they were left within the shadows of the study. The mission drifted to the back of Hero’s mind, an afterthought. As the night drew on they drank in the feeling of Villain. It was likely that they would never feel such a thing again. It was quite forbidden after all.

Only as the sounds of distant chatter faded did they begin to separate. Still, each inch apart was compensated by a gentle press of lips, an embrace that lingered a moment longer, hands that squeezed tightly, a goodbye with a promise that maybe- just maybe it wouldn’t be the last. Hero sure hoped such things were true.

In the morning, Supervillain would come to find the room unlocked. They would frantically rush to their safe and find that too had been opened, the manilla folder inside nothing more than a memory. And on the floor would be a single brass key, glimmering beneath the cherrywood desk, which after rounds of testing would reveal two sets of fingerprints and a very infuriated Supervillain.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

Cabin Inn

As the car rumbled along the road, the only sound was the crunch of gravel under the tires and the occasional soft groan from Bubbles in the backseat. Mark drove with a palpable tension, his eyes scanning the dark woods for any sign of trouble. Cesar sat beside him, his worried expression deepening with each passing moment.

The isolation of the drive gave Bubbles time to reflect. The physical pain was one thing—a constant, throbbing reminder of the night’s events—but it was the emotional and mental strain that weighed heaviest on her. The secret she guarded so fiercely, the identity of the Celestial Artisan, felt like a growing burden, one that threatened to expose itself with every encounter with the Alternates.

When they finally arrived at the cabin, the first hints of dawn were creeping over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft pink and blue. Mark’s Hispanic friend quickly unlocked the door, and the three stepped in.

The decor embodies the quintessence of rustic charm blended with touches of '90s flair. The trio were greeted by a warm and inviting atmosphere, illuminated by the soft glow of a wood-burning stove in the corner, crackling gently.

The living area features a comfortable, slightly worn sofa adorned with plaid throws and mismatched cushions that add a homely touch. Nearby, a large, hand-knotted wool rug in earth tones anchors the space, inviting anyone to relax by the hearth. The walls, paneled in knotty pine, are adorned with framed landscape paintings and vintage skiing posters reminiscent of the era.

A heavy, wooden coffee table sits in the middle of the room, its surface bearing the patina of years of use, perhaps scattered with a few magazines from the '90s, like issues of "National Geographic" or "Outdoor Life." Nearby, a bookshelf overflows with a mix of classic literature and popular novels from the decade, along with board games and a cassette tape collection featuring grunge and pop hits.

The kitchen is simple yet functional, with aged copper pots hanging from a handcrafted pot rack. The countertops, perhaps a bit dated, are covered in laminate that mimics the look of natural stone. They show signs of wear but are clean and well-maintained. The pine cabinets match the wall paneling, and an old, chunky microwave sits next to a spice rack filled with dried herbs and spices.

A small dining area features a round wooden table and chairs, each chair cushion covered in a floral fabric that was trendy at the time. Overhead, a wrought iron chandelier provides soft lighting, enhancing the cabin's rustic ambiance.

The bedrooms continue the theme down a narrow hallway with cozy plaid-patterned flannel bedding, handmade quilts, and thick woolen blankets. The furniture is sturdy and wood-made, with vintage brass lamps on the nightstands casting a warm glow.

The cabin's windows are covered in handmade curtains, perhaps a bit faded but clean. These curtains offer views of the surrounding woods and let in natural light that plays across the cabin's nostalgic interior.

"Wow... DAMN! I didn't know your guys' cabin you two own was nice!" Bubbles’s eyes sparkled in awe. “So much for living in 2024. It looks really nice to live in here.” She thought. “Ack–!” She winced again, feeling sharp pain shooting on her side.

Mark immediately went to the bathroom to gather medical supplies while Cesar filled a basin with warm water and grabbed some towels. They returned to Bubbles’ side and cleaned her wounds with gentle, efficient movements.

"You're good at this," Bubbles commented, trying to mask her pain with a weak smile as she observed her Hispanic friend handle the cloth.

"I've had some practice," the Hispanic male replied in a low voice. “I used to help my mom with her garden injuries while tending to our roses. I never thought I'd be doing this under such different circumstances."

The brown-haired teen rummaged through a first aid kit they found in a cabinet, pulling out some antiseptic and bandages. "This might sting a bit," Mark warned before carefully applying the antiseptic.

Bubbles tensed, her breath hitching as the solution touched her wound, but she bit her lip and bore it. "Thanks," she breathed out once Cesar began to bandage her up more professionally than she would have expected.

As they tended to her, the silence was heavy with unspoken questions and concerns. Finally, Mark broke it, his voice filled with unwavering support.

"Bubbles, you know you can trust us, right?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "Whatever is going on, whatever you're hiding... we're here for you, no matter what."

Bubbles looked up at them, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and fear. She took a deep breath, considering her following words carefully.

"I know," she replied softly. "And I appreciate it more than you can know. It's just... complicated."

Cesar nodded, dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. "We get it. But seeing you out there tonight and the way you handled everything... You’ve almost got yourself killed!"

Bubbles chuckled weakly. "Understatement of the year." 

“Don’t wave it off!” The Hispanic friend scolded her. “You’re always putting yourself in a situation that scares us when you almost die every time! It’s not funny! ¿¡Lo entiendes!?”

"Sí, lo sé." She rolled her eyes slightly.

Mark placed a reassuring hand on Bubbles' shoulder, his expression serious. "We care about you, Bubbles. We don't want to lose you. So please, promise us you'll be more careful next time."

Bubbles nodded, her gaze meeting Mark's with sincerity. "I promise. I'll do everything in my power to keep us safe. But you have to promise me something, too."

Cesar and Mark exchanged a glance, their expressions curious. "What's that?" Mark asked.

Bubbles took a deep breath, steeling herself in case she had to do a reveal. "Promise me that you'll trust me no matter what happens. Even if things seem impossible or I make decisions you don't understand. Promise me you'll trust that I'm doing what's best for all of us."

There was a moment of silence as her words hung in the air, the weight of their implications sinking in. Mark and Cesar shared a look before turning back to Bubbles, determination shining in their eyes.

.

.

"We promise,"

.

.

they said in unison, their voices filled with conviction.

With that assurance, Bubbles felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She knew she couldn't do this alone, and having her friends' trust and support meant everything to her.

“Let’s rest for the night,” Cesar said, rising from his sofa seat. “We can worry about the sigil cards later. Bubbles can explain it to us in the morning since she knows how it works.” He nodded. 

Mark nodded in agreement, his gaze softening as he looked at Bubbles. "Yeah, rest is what you need right now. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow." He helped her to her feet, supporting her as they walked towards one of the bedrooms.

The cabin, with its warm wooden walls and the comforting crackle of the fire, felt like a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. Bubbles felt the tension start to ease from her shoulders as they entered the cozy bedroom, its rustic charm underscored by the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

Cesar pulled back the covers on the bed, fluffing the pillows before turning to Bubbles. "Get some sleep. We'll be right here if you need anything," he assured her, his tone protective.

Bubbles managed a small smile, grateful for their care and concern. "Thank you, both of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

As she settled into the bed, the soft mattress comforting against her bruised body, she felt a sense of peace envelop her. The weight of her secrets and the burden of her responsibilities were still there, but for now, she allowed herself the luxury of rest, surrounded by the quiet strength of her friends.

Mark lingered for a moment, watching her with a thoughtful expression. "Goodnight, Bubbles," he said softly before leaving the room with Cesar.

Once they were back in the living area, Cesar looked at Mark, a concerned frown creasing his brow. "Do you think she's telling us everything?" he asked quietly.

Mark sighed, sinking into an armchair by the fire. "I don't know, man. But I do know she's under a lot of pressure. Whatever she's holding back, I'm sure she has her reasons. We just need to be there for her, no matter what."

Cesar nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "Yeah. We stick together. That's how we'll get through this."

They sat silently for a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Both were lost in their thoughts, pondering the complexities of their situation and the mysterious entity known as the Celestial Artisan. The night deepened around them, and the dark woods outside the cabin whispered their own secrets.

Back in the bedroom, Bubbles drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams a whirlwind of shadowy figures and echoing voices. She was haunted by the Perpetrator's words, the implications of her own power, and the unknown challenges that lay ahead. Yet, amidst the tumult of her subconscious, a steadfast resolve formed. She would protect her friends, come what may. She was the Celestial Artisan, whether acknowledged or hidden, and she bore the weight of that mantle with a fierce determination.

Morning would come, bringing with it the need for decisions and actions. But for now, in the heart of the night, Bubbles and her friends found a semblance of peace in the solidarity of their bond, the quiet strength of their unity offering a shield against the darkness outside.

[venstm]

cue kaeya at the door of the winery, knocking on it only to be found pretty fucked up and bloody about to pass out. sorry diluc

The  sky  had  grown  dark  &  morose,  the  imminence  of  rain  hung  in  the  air  as  petrichor,  enough  to  urge  many  indoors  before  it  broke  into  a  downpour.  It  was  enough  to  compel  even  the  winery’s  master  inside,  Adelinde  concerned  into  fussing  over  his  well  being,  lest  he  end  up  bedridden  &  plagued  with  fever.  His  gaze  remained  adhered  to  the  windows  as  sleet  gathered  &  dripped  down  in  thin  rivulets,  a  sense  of  foreboding  burgeoning  within  the  longer  his  eyes  sat  upon  the  grim  grey  of  the  horizon.

It  isn’t  until  an  abrupt  series  of  knocks  disrupts  the  silence,  the  patter  of  rain  on  the  high-ceilings  intermittent  but  never  soothing,  that  Diluc’s  eyes  flit  up  &  that  inkling  of  unease  comes  back  in  full  force.  There  was  urgency  behind  it,  enough  so  that  his  strides  across  the  room  were  hasty,  gloved  fingers  securing  around  the  brass  knob  &  turning  it  just  in  time  for  Kaeya  to  almost  slump  against  him.  Fear  &  dread  coalesce  sharply,  inundating  every  other  sense  until  he  breaks  free  from  them,  looking  over  his  brother  to  find  the  place  he  was  injured;  it  was  all  saturated  fabric,  drenched  in  rain  or  blood.  ❝  You're  bleeding..❞  worry  seeps  into  his  voice,  strains  against  his  attempt  to  remain  composed,  an  arm  extended  to  offer  him  support,  guide  him  inside,  desperate  to  discern  the  where  &  why  of  his  injuries. ❝   Kaeya.  ❞  the  way  his  says  his  name  cuts  through  the  flurry  of  information  uttered  from  the  captain’s  trembling  lips   ❝  Your  wounds  need  to  be  treated  first,  then  you  can  tell  me  ━   what  happened.❞  It  doesn’t  take  more  than  a  sweeping  glance  for  the  maids  to  hurry  off,  locating  a  medical  kit,  gauze,  antiseptic,  Diluc  delving  back  to  scuffed  knees  &  unavoidable  injuries  of  their  childhood,  remembering  the  proper  way  to  treat  them.  ❝  Show  me  where  you’re  injured,  then  keep  talking.  ❞

[bates--boy]

The condo was now officially on the market, thus leaving Peter's inbox flooded with offers from recent university graduates to young couples trying to start their own families, people who are trying to stay above the crushing housing shortage by snatching up this cheap place.

There was much to do, still: the final bedroom still needed painted and his office equipment set up, and he still awaited for his Petition for Relocation to finish processing so he can fully move into his new place and hand the condo's keys over to the buyer.

And here: packing up the remains of his old home. With a satisfying plastic rip of packaging tape, Peter tossed the roll onto the bed and heaved the box into the living room, taking it to the ever-growing pile in the corner. He wiped at his forehead as he returned to the bedroom. "Whoo, alright..." Peter said, crossing his arms and looking around the room which was now bare, even the bed that down to a plain white bed set and two pillows, which he'll have the movers take last on moving day. His observing gaze landed on the closet, its door cracked open. He had most of his clothing packed, but it wouldn't hurt to organize it once more, would it? He picked up a flattened box and assembled it, setting it by his feet and sliding the door open wider.

For a task that was supposed to be mindless, Peter found that his mind was stirring as he sorted through the junk. Every piece he picked from the closet he paused to mull over, opening the compass with its tarnished brass, turning over the extra ball bearing for his aerial silks setup that he was sure he was going to need someday, wiping the dust off the age palette kit with expired makeup, kept because it was a limited edition Nimya box by the Nikkie de Jager, herself. Peter had always wanted to alter it to make it more durable, coat it with resin, perhaps, and line the inside with velvet. But he had never gotten around to it, and looking at his schedule ahead of him, he likely never will, so... he set the palette box aside.

And that was how what was meant to be twenty minutes of work stretched beyond its deadline, Peter finding long-forgotten trinkets, getting lost in the memories and old intentions of why he had kept them for so long, weighing the value of it and trying to predict the potential of future use before deciding to set it in the packing box, or to the opposite pile for disposal.

How had he gotten so much stuff? How had he let everything sit in his closet for so long that dust had collected on most of them like the growth of a second skin? I should be wearing gloves, Peter had thought too late as he paused to wipe his hands clean on his sweatpants. The more he dug through his closet, the more it began to remind him of home. The fort, from the stubborn scent of salt in the scratchy blanket he never used, and the algal perfume in the leatherbound books he never read. More and more, Peter was brought back to that day, that particular day, when he was made to hurry through his room and pack what he absolutely wanted in the two suitcases Arthur loaned him after delivering the news that Peter was Berwald's problem from then on. Of course, the clothes would disappear when Peter outgrew them, but how had he managed to keep these after all these years? They had practically ceased to exist when Peter saw he had no need for them, his life under Berwald's care and love proving more than comfortable enough to no longer warrant holding on to these.

Still, as he scrubbed his sleeves and popped open his keepsakes, a sense of nostalgia bloomed within him, that little boy glee stretching his grin from ear to ear as he leafed through crumbly comic issues, unrolled a pair of military-issued wool socks, carefully moved the arms and legs of a faded kaiju action figure, and --

"Oh, my god!" Peter chuckled and pulled out an old friend. A vintage box of the HMS Beagle. This one was intensive as hell; the kit boasted over one thousand pieces, with top-quality decals to make the model look as close to the real ship as possible. Only the most dedicated and attentive could complete this...

... And Peter did. So long ago, in fact, and he distinctly remembered begging Arthur for another kit that he never received. So, why did Peter still have this aged box--?

And so quickly, as Peter set the box on his lap and eased the top off, did his life seem to drain from him.

See, I told you you'd like it...

Letters. Yellowed envelopes and curling postage stamps, faded pen ink and even coffee stains on one of them, the letters filled the box and left Peter's insides brittle and cold.

See, I told you you'd like it...

Warm, large brown eyes that raked over Peter's young body, beautiful lips that Peter only wanted the most innocent kiss from, finding and tainting skin that Peter never wanted them to go. Hands that --

I do you and then you do me, okay?

He didn't need to read the letters.

Peter blinked, clawing his nails into the carpet to drag himself back to the present. He worked through the murkiness of his mind to find out why he would even need to tell himself that, until he found the temptation it responded to: that he wanted to read them.

He didn't need to read the letters. He could put the box away, the unread letters still untouched, or even burned to unholy ashes, and live the rest of his life with the uncertainty. Because calling up memories through hypnosis carried a risk of manufacturing memories, didn't it? He could live with the tiny chance that it was all fake this entire time, and just not open the letters.

So, why did Peter sift through the pile, turning each over until he found the very first one he'd never opened, among the many he had never opened? Perhaps his hope that it was all unreal was greater than his self-preservation; perhaps by opening the letter, it can repair his childhood, changing Andy from the monster of Peter's miserable imagination back to the beautiful boy he once loved.

Peter found the letter he never opened, one of many that he tucked away into the box when mail call came.

That's a good boy.

[universitypenguin]

Hey Alice :) this is prob a weird question but what kind of car do you think Lloyd drives? We know he’s luxurious so I can see him in something sleek and sporty like an Audi or another European make car

Also how do you envision Lloyd’s house? Is he particular about his decor? Is he the type to be in to antiques or more modern pieces of furniture

I think Lloyd would drive something expensive, but also nondescript. I’m picturing a Mercedes-Benz sedan. It would probably be gray or black. I can see him in a few different models. If he was being conservative, he’d have bought a mid-priced model like a C 300. If he was in a spending mood when he bought the car, he’d have gone for the pricier S 580 4MATIC.

He likes the performance of German engineering and the powerful throttle of the motor. It’s an added bonus that in the D.C. metro, the car blends into the sea of other luxury vehicles. The reason he’d never consider a smaller, sporty model, like an Audi R8 or a BMW M4, is simple. You can’t fit a dead body in the trunk. He’s not planning to commit a crime, but proper preparation prevents poor performance. And when you need to move a dead body there’s no room for error.

Lloyd sticks with a roomy sedan that has plenty of space in the trunk. He keeps it stocked with a shovel and a large box of kitty litter. In the Virginia climate, those items don’t attract much notice. They’re snow storm essentials and he keeps them next to the emergency kit with blankets, water, jumper cables, and a tow chain. But a shovel and kitty litter is good for more than just getting traction in an ice storm, you know? 🫣

For his house, Lloyd lives across the Potomac from D.C. in Old Town Alexandria. He chose the house because it’s less than 30 minutes from the office and the charm of the cobblestone streets appeals to him.

The neighborhood he picks has a brick wall and wrought iron gate facing the street. To get to his house, you have to park in a lot down the street, and then walk down the block to the courtyard gate. The gate isn’t locked but it’s another layer of security - something that would slow down an attacker. Inside the gate is a cobblestone courtyard with Beech trees in the middle. There are five townhouses in the courtyard neighborhood, two on the right and two on the left, with another at the back.

Lloyd owns the inner property on the left side. He likes the location because he’s insulated from every possible angle. The gate protects the front and the courtyard access gives him a view of anyone approaching. Both sides are covered by the other row houses and the brick wall hiding the common area means no one can see much beyond the small gate. The large trees prevents overhead photos and the lack of a garage door further secures the location.

For decor, he paid a decorator to fix the place up. She went for a mix of antiques with modern touches, with a subtle nod towards costal styles in the color palette. The walls are a neutral white, to better showcase the eclectic artwork she chose for his home. She went with the traditional set of wingback chairs, a structured sectional sofa to anchor the room, and a jute rug in the living area. His coffee table is a simple design made of reclaimed elm wood and the end tables are mismatched. One table is made out of distressed gray wood and the other is polished brass.

The decorator gave him plants to tie it all together. He has a fig tree, a Japanese maple, and a ficus. There are potted plants in every room, and he loves how they liven up the place. Looking at them makes him feel like he’s at home. That’s in addition to the herb garden with mint, basil, chives, and tarragon, that she installed in his kitchen window. He has to admit, the herb garden is one of his favorite touches. He uses it almost every day.

The kitchen is thoroughly modern. It has a wide island down the middle and cabinets on both walls. The quartz countertops are durable and crafted to look like marble. Having lived in flats with marble counters in the past, Lloyd has no interest in getting the real thing. They’re too easily scarred. He has a farmhouse sink, with plenty of elbow room to peel potatoes and stack up dishes. On the end of the kitchen is his formal dining room with a table that, when extended, seats fifteen.

His bedroom has one of the best antique pieces in the house. The Italian Renaissance walnut headboard has hand carved Foliate Scrolls and a matching footboard. He has it restored and styles it with a green jacquard bedspread. The decorator finishes the look with antique tea tables for the nightstands, and places an overstuffed chair and a reading lamp in the corner. She installs a wall of floor-to-ceiling black out curtains to prevent the east facing windows from waking him up at dawn. On the windows themselves she adds bamboo shades to bring another texture to the space.

And despite his protests, the decorator puts more plants in the bedroom. Lloyd can’t help but leave them there even after she’s gone. They just… work. He’d never have put them there on his own but the morning sunshine makes the Christmas cactus bloom every three months and turns the climbing vine thing into the picture of health within days.

A year later, when it’s time to decorate the guest room and the sun porch, he re-hires the same woman. This time, he hands over his credit card and tells her to follow the same process she did the first time.

[revenancy]

TGOED: On the Spicers & Ophie

The Spicers Guild – La Gremie d'Espiciers – has existed in some form or another for nearly four hundred years. Its grand motto, Weighed And Measured, is etched above the door of every city Guildhall, every apothecary, every grave-tender who was trained in its halls. It's among the oldest of the guilds of Argent, and is headed by House Plommiers – la sangue de l' Plomador – in the tight-packed sun-starved cities of Corant.

Its purpose: to standardize weights and measures across the continent; to maintain the quality of imported and exported spices and dyes; to hide the Company of Decadents in its shadow.

Dead And Unburied is the motto inscribed over the door to the hall where the Company of Decadents meet. It’s what members of the Company call it when they run from one city to the next, change names, cut their hair, and put on accents so no one might know who they used to be.

[more below the cut]

Ophélie Lourens was born a Spicer. She'll die a Spicer, too – and who knows how many times.

She was born Ofelia Lloranç in the shadow of l' Carillón, the Corantés Palace of Bells, to Bartelme and Viatriz, a pair of Spicers Decadent who did the dirty work of tending to the dead. When she was three years old, her uncle Renard – but his name was Placid, then – invited her family to join him on a trip into Argent.

Really, he invited her father to join him in a life of adventure, and didn't much care what became of Ophie or her mother.

When she was six years old, her mother left them to find a more peaceful life; when she was seven, her father settled in a little mid-city flat in Grisencourt and told Renard – his name was Arman, then – he would be happier as an apothecary than a murderer. Renard moved on; Bartolom and Ophélie stayed, made themselves more Argentaise for the people around them, and the little father and daughter thrived in their little flat in the largest city in the known world.

She was educated by the Guild until she was considered a Spicer, and then her father taught her all he knows of poisons and antidotes – which is a hell of a lot more than she expected from the boisterous, happy man who raised her. He gave her a kit bag of lancets, a hacksaw, handkerchiefs to hold evidence until it can be burned, and told her stories of all the times he used it, and that man sounds nothing like her father.

Now, she's twenty-three – now, her uncle's come back to Grisencourt – and he sits in the little sun parlor with her father until midnight asking him, begging him, to come to the Grand Palaces. It won't be the same without you, Barti. And when her uncle leaves, she slips out after him, her little black guildbook in hand with a little brass coin tucked between its pages marking her as a Decadent, if only barely. A Decadent, if only in name. And she offers: I'm not him. But I can help.

She doesn't know what she's asking for.

[omegaplus]

# 4,507

October 30, 2018.

Something inside me was nagging me to go to Manhattan. A few days later, I find myself on the Deer Park platform for a good half-an-hour before the westbound Penn Station train arrives. Six PM. Upper 40’s. The deep prismatic remnants of the fallen twilight sun sit on the horizon west on the tracks. Clear skies, no clouds. Stars in the sky and the moon’s already gone. It’s rare I’d take a train this late to the Five Boroughs and it’s not to see family, doctors, or for a band. I was curious to see how well my kit took night shots and take it from there.

I felt like I didn’t finish the job properly the last time I was there. By “job”, I meant the August photography session at The American Radiator Building, The Freedom Tower and Times Square. I always wanted to aim and fire at those two locales and that day’s doctor appointment made it possible. That was right after I entered a new sordid era. Ever since the Brooklyn goth girl tore my heart out I’d have a new perspective on what could’ve been and what I’ll be missing completely.

The brass ring I was told of was never there to begin with. Someone else had it all along. I was still poisoned with the effects of being led on, lied to, and deceived in the worst possible way. I would never feel or see the same way about city aspirations again. Yet, no matter how many razor-thin-tipped arrows are pierced deep in your body, you still fight on.

I don’t even remember what I thought of on the ride west to Penn Station. I was too busy numbing myself with the night’s playlist. I look out the window to my right as Impalers’ “High Wired” was as going fast as the motion blur itself. 65 minutes later, the train slows down as it enters Penn Station. Ron Morelli’s “Golden Oldies” came on when the line slowed down to darkness and crawled by the obscure rarely-seen corridors. The line slows to a complete stop. The doors open and it starts.

I board off, head up the steps to and through Penn Station, and take the 1/2/3 to 42nd St. For the first time since one New Year’s Eve, I’m in the heart of Times Square at night. The Electric Behemoth. I set up my tripod in-between the streaming traffic while being aware of my surroundings. I aim high and shoot with all the settings and adjustments possible, even wildly playing around with the f-stop and leave the sizzling effects for interpretation. After an hour the kit’s display would tell me a story: I’d find out that no matter how I balance my settings I’d never have the right amount of color or sharpness. Too dim, too fuzzy, too bright. Not enough detail. The color’s are off. It seems you could only achieve what your camera allows you to. On towards Tribeca.

I take the 1/2/3 Express line all the way down to a few blocks short of the Freedom Tower. It’s a different scene from when I was there the last time. Not the pleasant blank-blue skies of a baked early-August afternoon, but the quiet pitch-black streets of the end of October where the silence begs for your attention. A few bars open on Church St. where a scant few people stand on the sidewalk conversing with associates or on their phones closing their deals. I line the camera down south and shoot darkness. The numerous specks of overheads and streetlamps illuminate stationary as the traffic lights instantly switch from red to green. The negative space help separate the dynamic range between darkness and colored lights as I play around with the zoom, firing the kit while it adjusts its focus to capture the bokeh effect.

I walk straight to the Hudson River Greenway. Only 3,500-4,000 feet of water separates me from Jersey City. 1,500 to One World Trade Center / Freedom Tower. Total isolation. A younger couple walking amongst themselves from the piers…and no one else to be found. All I could do was aim and fire at Jersey City with as many combinations of settings as possible. The empty office buildings are fully awake with their bright lights and lucid signs as they stood tall and away in the distance as no one else besides myself are around. After all I could, I turned it south towards the Freedom Tower and shoot as much as the batteries allowed it. I successfully managed to avoid the incoming traffic of cyclists because I paid attention and looked where I was going. Not so much for one oblivious muppet who walked first and looked later. He walked right in front of a oncoming bicyclist and they almost collided. “C’mon. Seriously?” barked the cyclist who verbally flashed some sense into the oblivious dullard. Now back to the 1/2/3 express line up north to head home.

I got off one stop short north of Penn Station, the Times Square / 42nd St. Stop where I ended getting up at 40th St. And 8th Av. I walked around Lord knows what streets. I didn’t plan it but somehow I walked past the Port Authority. And somewhat of a pleasant surprise to break negative thought if even for five minutes: a “post no bills” message stenciled on a random red door. Below it: another stencil of Bill Murray. Genius.

I walk through the Manhattan maze the night before Halloween. All five boroughs are gearing up for the whimsical festivities. The city streets are tidy and quiet with barely anyone walking through the minimal light and activity but it’s still all there. I’m right where I want to be. Always - except I walk solo. It would’ve been great to have someone join this unique experience with me. No reason why it shouldn’t but there always is. Instead, someone took me for a ride and left me head-fucked and demystified. She’s right here yet so far away and I can’t get to her. All I could think of on the walk towards back to Penn Station is another could-have scenario once again made possible by immature people and their foolish games. What’s worse? It’s her holiday tomorrow. I know in my mind she’ll be having lots of fun however she gets it. I won’t.

Another night in the record books. About 200 shots taken against the blinding million dollar lights, the pressing cold winds and the serene city silence. The 11:15PM line back to Deer Park is here. It usually takes about 10 minutes of standstill before the train finally takes off. It’s no surprise that Council Estate Electronics’ “60 Megawatts” grinds in my ears as I sit still in the front car sitting forwards and that alone is all doldrums; just waiting for train to take off. Then it morphs into Ron Morelli’s still-unsettling, suspenseful “Narco FRQ” as the line slow-rolls out of Penn Station in tune with the subtle clacking of the train’s wheels on the track. Another 65 minutes to go as I keep my quotient up and my era open, stupified as to what’s in store for me.

Plaque Marks: “Anxiety Driven Nervous Worship”

Council Estate Electronics: Urals

Erica Eso: “Vaccination Free”

AceMo: Black Populous

Arctic Flowers: Weaver

Pop Group, The: “(Amnesty Report II)”

Impalers: “Filth Binge”

Boy Harsher: “Motion”

Fellony: “Politics Of Verticality”

Sky Ferreira: “Voices Carry”

Heem Stogied X EyeDee X Tha God Fahim: “Drive By”

Gnarcissists: “We All Just Wanna’”

clipping.: “Something They Don't Know” (Bad Zu RMX)

Jeremiah J ft. Knxwledge: “Almost”

War On Drugs, The: “Up All Night”

Radon: “A Fist Full Of Potash”

Palm: “Ostrich Vacation”

Impalers: “High Wired”

Caroline K: “Chearth”

Echo Beds: Why Bother Stacking The Chairs On A Sinking Ship”

Blueprint: “Five Years Ago”

Beths, The: “Great No One”

FACS: “Primary” (demo)

Death In June: “Little Black Angel”

Philippe Hallais: “Hero / Fall / Angela”

Fire Engines: “(We Don't Need This) Fascist Groove Thang”

Dilly Dally: “Doom”

Serge Gainsbourgh: “Je T'aime Moi Non Plus”

wosX: “Armageddon”

Young Fathers: “Lord”

Further Reductions: “Central System”

Street Sects: “And I Grew Into Ribbons”

Frankie Cosmos: “Outside With The Hotties”

Badlands: “Heavy Sighs”

Ron Morelli: Disappearer