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nihilityuniverse · 2 months

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𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

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Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐋𝐢𝐲𝐮𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

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It had been three days since the funeral...

You sat on a couch, draped in a silky nightgown, your gaze wandering around your bedroom.

You couldn't help but wonder why, all of a sudden, maids and servants were bustling about your room and home, while Fatui Guards patrolled your residence.

You had always lived alone, cherishing the quiet and stillness of your home atop a hill in Snezhnaya. The solitude was your sanctuary, a place where you could exist without intrusion.

So... what had changed? You had never requested such an absurd arrangement.

And then your eyes fell on the huge pile of expensive-looking gifts stacked neatly on your coffee table.

'Why in Teyvat would someone send you so many gifts?!' you thought, annoyance bubbling up inside you. Slowly, you felt your patience waning, your eye twitching in irritation.

"Lady Innamorati," a maid's voice called out, breaking your thoughts. You turned to see a row of maids lined up, each bowing respectfully as your gaze met theirs before they knelt. The one who spoke wore slightly different attire, suggesting she was the Head Maid.

"We were sent by Pantalone," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "We are here to assist you in any way and to guard you."

"Why were you all sent?" you asked, your quiet and cold tone sending shivers down their spines.

"A-as compensation, Lady Innamorati," the Head Maid stammered in fear. "Pantalone learned that the escorts ran away the moment they saw you. He sent these gifts, along with maids and guards, as a form of apology."

When you remained silent, the Head Maid quickly added, "If this is a problem, we can leave immediately!"

You sighed, exasperated by the unnecessary fuss. "...I don't care," you muttered, dismissing the situation with a wave of your hand.

The other maids exchanged nervous glances before one of them, hands trembling, stepped forward holding one of the many gifts. "L-Lady Innamorati, would you like to open a gift from Pantalone?" she asked hesitantly.

You noticed her hands shaking and asked, "Are you cold?" Your gaze moved from her face to the others, who seemed equally uneasy.

"N-no, Lady Innamorati!" she shook her head quickly.

You sighed, realizing their fear. "You don't need to be afraid of me," you said in a gentler tone. "I don't bite, nor do I kill innocent people out of nowhere, despite what the rumors say."

Her face flushed with embarrassment, and the Head Maid stepped forward. "I must apologize for our behavior—"

"There's no need for an apology," you interrupted softly.

The maids exchanged relieved smiles, and the maid handed you the gift.

The gift was elegantly wrapped in luxurious paper, adorned with intricate designs and topped with a satin ribbon. You pulled on the ribbon, and the wrapping fell away to reveal a dark wooden box. Its surface was smooth and polished to a high sheen. You ran your finger over it, appreciating its fine craftsmanship before opening it.

Inside, nestled in velvet lining, was an exquisitely crafted set of red lipstick and eyeliner. The lipstick was encased in a gold-plated tube with delicate engravings, and the eyeliner's sleek design spoke of its high value.

Your eyes widened as memories from your past came flooding back. These items looked remarkably similar to those you had once cherished.

A rare smile broke across your face, a smile so uncommon that it felt almost foreign. In that moment, you might have remembered what it felt like to smile genuinely.

"Please convey my kind regards to Pantalone. I like this gift very much," you said with a light and soft tone, so gentle that the tension in the room dissipated. The maids visibly relaxed, their expressions softening.

"Yes, I will immediately relay your regards," the Head Maid replied, bowing deeply before exiting your bedroom.

"The makeup will surely suit you well, my Lady!" one maid said with an excited voice, her smile radiant.

"Then how about pairing it with these?" another maid suggested, presenting an incredibly high-quality box. Inside, nestled in plush velvet, lay an exquisite set of earrings and a necklace crafted from diamonds and crystals. The craftsmanship was impeccable, each gem catching the light and sparkling brilliantly.

"Another gift from Pantalone?" you asked, your eyes fixated on the pair of dazzling accessories.

"Yes!" the maid replied eagerly. "He wanted to ensure your happiness."

You examined the jewelry, appreciating the intricate design and the flawless cut of each gem. It was clear that no expense had been spared. The diamonds and crystals were of the highest quality, their brilliance unmatched. The necklace was elegant and refined, the earrings delicate yet striking.

"Such beautiful pieces," you murmured, tracing a finger over the diamonds. "Pantalone has truly outdone himself."

The maids exchanged pleased glances, their faces lighting up with pride at your approval. They had never seen you so engaged, and their excitement was palpable.

"Shall we assist you in trying them on, my Lady?" the Maid offered, her voice filled with anticipation.

You nodded, allowing them to help you with the delicate jewelry. As they fastened the necklace around your neck and secured the earrings, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The makeup and jewelry complemented each other perfectly, enhancing your natural beauty in a way that made you look even more ethereal.

"Thank you," you said softly, a rare smile gracing your lips once more. The maids beamed, their efforts rewarded by your approval.

As you sat back down, you couldn't help but feel a slight warmth in your heart. Despite the loneliness and the icy reputation you carried, there was a small comfort in knowing that someone, even someone as calculating as Pantalone, cared enough to send such thoughtful gifts.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open, and a Fatui Skirmisher barged in, holding an important-looking letter aloft. "Lady Innamorati...." He trailed off, his gaze fixated on your silky nightgown, which clung elegantly to your beautiful form.

"Hey! Don't look!" one maid shouted. "How dare you!" another maid scolded, rushing to shield you from his prying eyes. The skirmisher's face flushed bright red, and he quickly bowed.

"I apologize for barging in, my Lady! But an urgent letter from Her Royal Highness, the Tsaritsa, has arrived for you," he stammered, holding out the letter. One of the maids swiftly snatched it from his hand and ushered the skirmisher out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She handed you the letter with a bow, and you took it, breaking the wax seal to reveal its contents. As you read, your eyes scanned over the elegant script:

'Dear Innamorati,

I deeply regret the incident involving Childe. Please accept my sincerest apologies on his behalf.

Your presence is required in Liyue. Your mission is to capture Osial, dead or alive, and deliver him to Dottore for experimentation. This task is of utmost importance. Failure is not an option.

Remember, Innamorati, the fate of our plans rests upon your shoulders.

Her Royal Highness, Tsaritsa'

Your smile faded as you read the letter. "Liyue... The Land of Contracts," you murmured, the name conjuring up a flood of fragmented memories.

Your expression grew distant. Liyue was a place you had avoided for a long time, a place associated with pain and loss.

The memories were always hazy, shrouded in the fog of time, yet the underlying emotions were unmistakable. Something terrible had happened there, something you had been trying to forget.

The maids noticed your change in demeanor, their faces filled with concern. "My Lady, is everything alright?" the maid asked softly.

You took a deep breath, regaining your composure. "I will prepare for the journey to Liyue. Please ensure everything is in order."

The maids nodded, already moving to assist you in changing into more appropriate attire for travel. They brought forth a luxurious yet practical ensemble, suitable for the journey ahead and the potential battles to come.

Once ready, you stood before the mirror, your appearance now befitting the formidable 0th Harbinger. The makeup and jewelry from Pantalone added an air of grace and power, while your new attire showcased your readiness for the mission.

With a final glance around your room, you felt a mix of determination and resignation. The journey ahead would be perilous, but failure was not an option.

As you stepped out into the cold, snowy landscape, your mind focused on the task at hand. The fate of the Fatui's plans and the will of the Tsaritsa rested upon your success.

"Osial," you whispered to yourself, the name echoing in the frigid air.

"I will not fail."

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You stopped at the edge of the hill, gazing down at the city below, bathed in a sea of lights and floating paper lanterns.

The Lantern Festival was in full swing, painting the night with a warm, ethereal glow. Each lantern, carefully crafted and illuminated from within, drifted upwards like a myriad of tiny stars, carrying the hopes and wishes of the people of Liyue Harbor.

The city was alive with a joyful buzz, music and laughter echoing through the streets, creating a stark contrast to the cold stillness of your perch.

You didn't want to go. You knew that within the vibrant heart of this city lay the seeds of your deepest anguish.

A past marked by betrayal and suffering that made you question the worth of gods and mortals alike. Stepping into the city would mean unraveling the painful memories piece by piece, a torment you weren't sure you were ready to face.

Your right hand rested on the hilt of your sword, the cold metal a comforting reminder of your power. You could erase this land from existence with a single strike, rendering its pain and betrayal into nothingness.

"The land of betrayal and pain..." you whispered to the breeze, your voice cold and detached. Your gaze, icy and unwavering, locked onto the heart of the festival below.

The lanterns, symbols of hope and renewal, floated gently upwards, oblivious to the dark thoughts they illuminated. The streets of Liyue Harbor were a tapestry of vibrant colors, filled with stalls selling traditional foods, children chasing each other with sparklers, and performers enchanting the crowds with their skills. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the sound of festive music, creating a sensory symphony that seemed almost otherworldly.

But to you, it was all a cruel mockery.

This land, with its beauty and its light, held the shadows of your past. Each step you took towards it felt like a step into the abyss, where every smile and every laugh could trigger the painful memories you had buried deep within.

With one last look at the glowing city and the floating lanterns, you began your descent toward Liyue Harbor, your heart a battleground of emotions. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with memories and challenges, but you knew you could not turn back. The echoes of your past would follow you, but so would the faint hope of redemption.

Your right hand tightened around the hilt of your scabbard, and you moved forward, ready to face whatever awaited you in the land of Contracts.

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pinkiemachine · 2 months

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Cute Little Town Designed by Some Creative People Right Here on the Internet :3

My shop is a bakery called “Heavenly Helpings” where I make the cutest cakes, and brownies, and macarons, and eclairs, and pies, and strudels, and everything always smells like freshly baked bread, frosting, and custard—and there’s an upstairs where I live above the bakery :)

At the top of that street is “Uncle Stubby’s Ammo, Liquor, and Tackle shop XD”

Next door, someone submitted “a bookstore called Good Buddy! A pet friendly store that you bring your pet (well trained of course) and where you can read the buy books of any genre! There is also a small coffee shop inside that sells both great drinks and treats for your pets!”

The shop below mine is, “A guinea pig cafe 🥰 tubes and little hideouts run a long the walls with a lower area where people can pick up, pet, and feed the guinea pigs. These guinea pigs are super friendly and love to get treats 12/7. The outside has windows so people can see some of the tubes inside. The back yard has a huge garden to provide all the vegetables and fruit for them. Up stairs is where the owner and his family live.”

And below that, “My shop would be a craft/coffee shop😋 Lots of windows and twinkly lights, and the shop’s colors would be sage green, coral pink, and cream! (Basically colorful but peaceful 😌) It would have all kinds of craft supplies (clay, paint, paper, and chargers for Apple Pencils), and the drinks served could be named after artists and famous paintings! I don’t have a lot of good ideas for a fun name, so I’ll go with Crafts n’ Coffee for now (but that can change)”

Finally, there’s the World’s Market, where you can buy all sorts of things from around the world!

On the other side of the street, we have a gas station for blimps called, “The Descent Diesel”

And below that, “NICKNACKS AND DOODADS!! An antique place where you can find nicknacks, doodads, and trinkets. Ranging from very very tiny things to very LARGE. Ancients, antiques, modern, magical, you name it! Items can be bought or traded. Run by a very organized cat :D bro is not very forgiving if you make the place crash and burn.”

And below that, “A little magical musical theatre. There is a legend that the theatre is haunted by the ghost of an opera singer who never finished her song in one play, so now she sings it every night when the theatre is empty. She's not scary at all though and some people say she helped them find their way back home on very foggy nights. By day, the theatre is a very warm place where everyone feels welcome. Outside it looks a bit like a miniature gothic castle, but its walls are covered with warm, happy posters. It's close to the river and the owner of the theatre is a great friend of the otters from the river that come to the theatre sometimes. There are a lot of flowers in the windows that are not covered with posters.”

Beneath that is the cinema! “I only ever have the good stuff playing in my theater, the bad stuff can premiere in some other theater. Concessions offers popcorn and candy and pizza and hamburgers and spaghetti-- Because why not? And I sell plushies of the movies currently playing. I do annual film festivals to showcase the creations of local movie makers, their film gets to play for a couple of weeks (*and of course they recieve the profits from the ticket sales*).”

Ending with a VHS store :)

#art #Main Street #Dream Shop #fun #cute #small town aesthetic

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feyclowns · 22 days

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a look at magic and the core system

the core system explanation and my loose idea of what magic is. this uh. this got long. this is a longass post.

my thoughts on magic

i have this idea that mother nature, while creating her earlier lifeforms, used magic as a sort of bind-all, something modeled after the overarching powers of time and creation, etc- giving them extra powers and extending their life (like a kid making their first ocs). most of her older creatures are on planes higher up and function on magic. as she got better with her craft she began to appreciate the complexity of making all those bits and pieces stuff on earth has, and the faster ebb and flow of life AND death. humans are one of her favorite creations.

magic is inherently chaotic. it exists in multiple forms, on multiple planes. it's something that touches things in a biological way and yet obeys physical laws set before it. it can be stored and used up. it can create more of itself. it can corrupt things. when mother nature realized it was a bad idea to give near-unlimited power to beings when she was creating ones of lower ability on the planes below, she changed magic and the creatures that used it- gave them weaknesses, sometimes bordering on the ridiculous, compulsions too. things to keep them in check.

i also like to think you can't entirely 1:1 seelie to humans on even a biological cell-scale. they just fundamentally are different.

magic's function

the more pure magic is, the more powerful it is- magic comes in all colors of the rainbow, but different colors have slightly different attributes. one can never truly filter one color out of magic entirely, as it needs all its components to function.

with the True Fey nearly extinct, the only beings that can use raw magic without the assistance of a device or sigil are genies, and i'd argue they got quite the short end of the stick considering their compulsion.

fairies, fey and their subspecies primarily function on purple magic. this stuff is filtered, diluted, as "neutral" as one can get. if you create magic rather than consume it, and your species functions on filtered magic, you cannot handle it raw. like, your body can't handle the extra energy. physically.

magical backup is when a fairy has so much magic in their system they cannot filter the chaotic energy that magic produces and explode.

filtered magic is also, simply, on paper, easiest to use. as a third party, non-seelie magic user- use raw magic while unprepared and get evaporated while changing the laws of physics. use overfiltered magic without the correct sigils and nothing happens except maybe a bitter taste in your mouth.

onto the core system.

the core system

the neural core is where magic flows freely up towards- the filter strains clean, purple magic from the magic produced by the central core. conscious wishes are also made from the brain connected to the core here.

the central core is where magic is generated. the central core takes calories and nutrients from ingested food (fairies have a stomach that is right next to their core) and converts it into magic. the core membrane acts as a storage for filtered magic in both areas.

the core pools are located at the base of the wrists of a fairy, which are where excess magic flows and stays in anticipation of use. when a fairy exhausts the magic from their pools, they must wait until they begin to refill from the reserves in the core membranes.

the inner cores are the most important part of the system; if this part of a fairy is damaged they will die. this part also holds the data for the rest of the body- if worse comes to worse, the inner cores will maintain the body parts left and rebuild the core system before completing the rest of the body. this is in part why fairies are so gd resilient. no inner core, no regeneration.

magic threads are what magic travels along throughout the body. they are thick, wide tubes that extend through the torso and extremities. the central thread is also called a nervous thread. during pregnancy, the body creates a sixth thread (and sometimes seventh) to deliver magic to the developing child's core.

fairies produce raw magic in their central cores. they have two cores- a central and neural core, which are connected to each other through the nervous thread and extend to their magic pools and flow magic through the body by the four magic threads.

anti-fairies are where all that excess magic goes when fairies filter it out. anti fairies don't need to generate magic or filter it- they can handle it just fine. they have a simpler core layout- a thick core membrane to hold their magic and the excess chaotic magic swirling about in their inner core. this enables anti-fairies to grant powerful rule-free wishes. anti-fairies tend to have strange colored magic threads, generally aligning with the color of their counterparts' eyes.

pixies are quirky things. pixies have the same amount of cores as their fairy cousins but do not produce raw magic. they instead need to feed on magical creatures (or take their magic supplements, as provided by pixies INC) to keep their core systems afloat. another issue is that most pixies' core filters still work- which would be fine if they produced magic. pixies overfilter their magic, leading them to use a highly complicated wand (along with several binding contracts) to utilize the magic still delivered to their core pools. (it's also a phone. why not toss that in for free? Head Pixie was feeling really nice when he made that decision.)

pixies have a very large core filter and membrane in their neural core, with a small central core and large magic pools. their magic threads are thin.

#gettin' biological #anti fairy biology #fairy biology #pixie biology #fairly oddparents #fop #the fairly oddparents

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sadesluvr · 28 days

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CAT AND MOUSE. (IIII)

Miguel O'Hara x Black Cat! F! Reader Warnings: None PREVIOUS CHAPTER | READ ON AO3 | SERIES MASTERLIST

CURRENT DAY

“Miguel doesn’t want to see you.”

Some fucking man he was. Despite the soft spot you held for him in your heart, it was difficult at times to put up with him. One minute he was hot, the next cold…it was nauseating, to the point that it made you want to go out and practically throw yourself into the arms of danger.

In moments like these, there was only one thing that made you happy – a late night burglary. You hadn’t settled for anything small – no, tonight was for something more serious; a high security lab, one that just happened to be owned by Doc Ock himself. It wasn’t as if you cared about stealing serums, instead you knew that he was bound to have a few high-tech weapons that could certainly be beneficial to your arsenal.

As you scoured through exposed pipes and racks of spare tools, a prototype on a stand caught your eye. It was a smaller version of the man's tentacles – a size that could certainly fit you. Retracting your claws, you ran your fingers along the crafted object, as if it were the Holy Grail itself. How much of a shocker would it be if you showed up to your next encounter as strong as, or even stronger than Miguel and Jess combined?

(Was it worth destroying your progress in changing for the better solely because a man wasn’t giving you attention?)

On a level, yes. Your complicated relationship with Miguel was all about power, and you knew better than anyone how dehumanising feeling ineffectual could be. If he wanted to be petty, you could certainly be pettier.

(You’re toxic. This attitude isn’t healthy.)

Who gives a shit?

You were ready to wrench the contraption right out of its power sockets until you caught a glimpse of something behind you. It was big, it was shiny, and it was certainly expensive, right there in a glass tube. There was a red blinking light on its side, virtually screaming at you that it was dangerous.

It was time for you to make a choice. Take the contraption and become a stronger villainess, or do the right thing and steal what could be a weapon of mass destruction and save the city?

(Wasn’t that Spider-Man’s job?)

Both outcomes involved you taking the contraption regardless. It was down to you whether you wanted to use it for good or evil.

In your sick, attention-seeking mind, you rationalised it all with the idea that Miguel wasn’t just ‘any’ man, but one you were quickly falling in love with. It was as if since meeting him, your entire philosophy had changed.

Your past run ins with versions of Spider-Man had left you admiring the enigma without caring about the person underneath, but that hadn’t been the case with Miguel. You still remembered your second encounter as clear as day, when he’d run up on you at the Met Museum.

“Missing me already, huh? How did you know I was here?” You grinned, crossing your arms over your chest. Though Miguel, ever so elusive, kept his mask on, you could practically see his face from under the pixels. That signature, totally disappointed look.

“You’re predictable. I saw an ad in the paper about an unnamed cat burglar’s spree.”

“Becoming predictable,” you corrected, jabbing him playfully in the arm. “I never used to be this way. Something’s changed.”

“Don’t make excuses.” He replied flatly.

You cocked a brow before shifting your weight, focusing your attention back onto the sculpture in-front of you. It was a weighted, bronze statue of Eros sleeping, his cherubic frame dangling off a slab of stone. His cheeks were puffed and there was exhaustion written all over his face, all flourished with a sense of innocence to it. After all, he was just a baby.

“What’re you here for anyway?”

“Patrols.”

Miguel’s lip twitched at the lie. This ‘crush’ sort of thing didn’t come natural to him. By the way you were scanning his face, he could tell you didn’t believe him in the slightest.

How embarrassing.

“Are you much of an art guy?” You said, changing the subject. “I must say, you don’t strike me as one.”

Miguel shrugged.

“Art back home is far different…It’s futuristic. You don’t know what’s what sometimes.”

This seemed to interest you.

“And home is…?” You questioned, your voice raising as your eyes widened, hoping for the slightest bit of insight into the strange man who popped into your life. Miguel was silent for a while, contemplating whether he should tell you about Nueva York. Technically, it was safe to – you didn’t have a watch that could take you there – but then he would simply be giving too much of himself away, inevitably having to answer the age old question about family. Between Gabriella and his mother…there wasn’t a favourable option.

“It’s — Not important.”

“I don’t think I’d like it,” you sighed, clicking your tongue. His aversion to any kind of prying was annoying. “You can’t beat physical art. I love when you can see every stroke and chip, it’s like you’re watching the artist in real time.”

Perhaps it was the distant look in your eye at the statue below you, or the soft genuineness within your voice at the statement, but either way Miguel felt an inexplicable urge to remove his mask.

He hadn’t paid much attention to it at first, but the closer he looked, the more the statue reminded him of Gabi; on the days where she’d be so exhausted from school outings or soccer practice that he’d drape her over his shoulders and gently place her on the sofa so she could nap. The slow, happy times.

Watching you stand over it, your fingertips brushing gently against the inanimate skin of the boy as you voice lulled did nothing but awake something in him. Motherly, kind… breedable.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that people were more than just a costume.

“Are you an artist?” he said, his brown eyes gazing into the side of your face.

“God no,” you chuckled. “But there were a lot of books in jail and I read about the classics, modernism, that sort of thing. It gave me a new perspective.”

He didn’t know why he was stunned by this. It came as a bit of a violent wake-up call to him. He didn’t judge those who’d gone to prison – but it was all dependent on the nature of the crime.

“Jail? Why did you go to jail?”

“I thought you’d know,” you laughed dryly, placing your hands on your hips. “Trespassing, and, surprise…theft.”

“I should’ve guessed.”

“You really should’ve.”

You hadn’t expected the man to smile, let alone chuckle. It was brief, but it was genuine, and for a second you saw his pearly whites peeking from under his lips, the sides of his cheeks crinkling slightly. It wasn’t sex, but it somehow felt more rewarding than the act.

“I get it from my Dad, but it wasn’t always this way,” you continued, motioning your hands in the air. “I went to college for social studies, and before that I was a gymnast. I almost joined the circus.”

Miguel pursed his lips. You had the confidence and charisma of someone made for a life in circus – perhaps you would’ve done well. He knew that the sight of your gravity-defining locks gliding through the air would’ve been a spectacle on its own.

(Gabi would’ve loved you.)

He folded his arms.

“Where did you learn how to fight? I’ve seen you in action. It’s…Impressive.”

Your demeanour suddenly became strained, and he watched you suck in a breath between your teeth, staring distantly into the unknown. The longer you didn’t reply, the more he worried.

“My college ran self-defence classes,” you said quickly. “It was just a starting point. Jail certainly taught me something, as did life in the mafia.”

He nodded. That seemed understandable.

“Are you not going to arrest me?” You interjected. “I’m confused as to what’s happening here.”

So was he.

“You’re not doing anything,” he said matter of factly. “Everything is still in tact. I have no reason to.”

“Then you could fake perp walk me out the building. It might give you some street cred, I know how you Spider’s like a good photo op.”

“‘Street cred?’” He repeated inexplicably. It was one of those words the younger Spiders used. “Jesucristo, how old are you?” [Jesus Christ]

“Old enough to know that me saying that sounded weird,” you smirked. “I keep forgetting you’re not from here. Definitely not a city boy, are ya?”

He frowned and diverted his gaze, mumbling something in Spanish under his breath. From the corner of his eye he could see you glancing at the security cameras, twitchy as you eyed the doors and the piece in-front of you. How could he have convinced himself that you weren’t there for just a look-around? At the end of the day, you were still a criminal.

“Well, if you’re not going to arrest me, can you be a lamb and help me move this piece?” You chirped, pinching his cheek. “It’ll look stunning in my living room. Strong man like you can move a ton.”

He glanced down at the cherub. Its malt-coloured features morphed into ones that were tangible, with long brown lashes and a baby blue football top draped across its pudgy body.

“This piece?” he remarked, eyebrows furrowing. “No…Leave this one.”

“Why?” you frowned. “You want it for yourself?”

There was a flash of recognition in his eye, and your gaze followed his own as you watched his irises scan the child’s gentle features. Absentmindedly, he ran his large fingers along its cheeks and up its fringe, as if to stroke the hair from his face. As if it were human.

And that’s where you got your first glimpse of the man under the mask. Someone who was possibly yearning. Someone who had probably lost something.

Someone who was hurt.

“You know, I’m not in that much of a stealing mood tonight.” You announced, casting your gaze at the man. He frowned, and raised an eyebrow. He was upset. Not necessarily because you hadn’t put up a fight, but because you were leaving. Unfortunately for him, he wanted to stay and talk to you.

“I’ll see ya around, Spidey.” You grinned, brushing past him gently before escaping through the cracked window you’d entered in, leaving Miguel on his own once more.

Standing on the rooftop opposite Doc Ock’s lab, you played with the blinking object in your hands, the familiar feeling of goosebumps peppering your skin. Since meeting Miguel, you’d tried so hard to be better that you’d forgotten how much fun it was just to be bad.

And what was more devious than stealing a detonator from a mad scientist?

Taglist: @honeyluvsatj @vancehopper1987 @saturnknows

#florence writes!!#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #spiderman 2099 x reader #atsv fic #atsv x reader #miguel o'hara fic #black cat! reader #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac x reader

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zuccnini · 2 months

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☆ Shop: Etsy

☆ Tips/Shop: Ko-Fi - All my new art is posted here first, any tip, commission or shop orders grant you access to that art early!

☆ Commissions: Ko-fi │ Etsy

Mini Painting [Pokemon] │ Mini Sculptures │Sketch/Watercolor

Other places to find me:

Twitter │ IG (Inactive) │ Blusky │ Cara

Craft Blog @zuccninis │ Sketch Blog @squashni

Miscellaneous info below:

-Business Contact: [email protected] [Don't send me unsolicited trash]

-If you wish to contact me for other matters most of my DM's are closed, Best places to contact me is Etsy for order issues, or Ko-Fi. Don't ask me for my Discord that's for friends only.

-If You see my art getting reposted, report it, the only accounts I post on are included above. Anywhere else I'm being impersonated. Please don't support low quality repost accounts that steal art from actual artists. Many times these accounts screw over actual artists since they love to monetize and sell stolen work.

-I schedule posts both here and twitter! Schedule is Mon-Wed-Friday, Usually bonus posts are Tues-Thurs. I try to make weekends OC focused when I can.

-On that note: Dont tag my OC / Original Character art with "pokemon" or any other fandom tags, This is NOT a pokemon blog this is my illustration blog.

-As for Fanart: People are free to draw my OCs, feel free to tag me in it! I do ask no nsfw without my permission.

-Mediums: I'm a traditional artist and my main medium is watercolor. I'm not being paid to promote any specific brand, but here is what I use:

Watercolor: Renesans Half pans & Holbein watercolor tubes,

Brushes: 0.5, 1 & 2 Foldable travel watercolor brushes, and those waterfilled brushes.

Paper: Fabriano Hot Pressed Watercolor paper, I usually bind these into my own books.

Other Mediums: Microns, Prismacolor Color Pencils, Posca Wax pastels, Paint markers, Tombow water based markers, Ballpoint pens, Acryla Gouache, and Crayola crayons.

That's most of the info I can think to include for this.

Extra-Curricular art:

[18+ Obviously]

nsfw twitter

#Text Heavy post #Pinned #Character: Mr Dinosir

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hellenhighwater · 10 months

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Hello! May I ask your advice on a crafting project? I have a neon sign that I love but it is way too bright. I'm thinking of painting over the neon tubes or putting translucent paper over them or something to dim the light. Do you have any suggestions?

If it's true neon, I'd be hesitant to put anything on it. While well-made glass tube neon shouldn't get hot, it's not impossible for that to happen. There are some heat-rated materials you could look into--lighting gels*, like those made by Rosco, for example, are intended to be used safely with potentially high-temp theatrical/film lights. They can be a little hard to get your hands on though, and I'd still hesitate to apply them directly to the neon; better safe than sorry. They're heat resistant, not heat proof.

If it's LED "neon"--plastic, not glass--you can pretty much use whatever. Alcohol inks are interesting with light coming through them; you can get color-tinted transparent vinyl, even mod-podge'ed tissue paper would be fine to glue over the 'tubes', because LEDs don't heat up. Might be worth testing some stuff--you can try materials on plastic wrap and cover the tubes to see how it effects the light.

*Lighting gels are transparent sheets of plastic that tint light to specific colors. You can layer sheets for custom colors but they manufacture them in a huge range of hues and sizes.

#for translucency inks/dyes are generally going to be better than paints just FYI #due to differences in how their color/media is constructed

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zs-art · 1 month

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crafted some of the Alien Stage mics! 🎤

. made out of recycled materials like plastic bottles, toothpaste tubes, and that glossy sheet you peel off sticker paper

. tho i only need the Round 5 one bc i'm gonna cosplay as Luka :] (another character i like who's name starts with Lu, how crazy~)

. this is also the first time i bought a wig, which i also styled it myself, so that's been fun

. ik it's all wonky but i live for making things with my bare hands and i've been feeling all over the place but yey that's one thing done.

#alien stage #cosplay #cosplay props #alnst #alnst luka #alien stage luka

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satureja13 · 4 months

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Have I ever told you how much I like these crime games? Some of you might know how much I struggle to keep up with something due to my ADHD (a glorious exception are the Boys ^^') But I was able to finish this book for my games/current case! I haven't been able to craft a bigger project for a while so I'm very proud of myself lol and I thought I show you.

I can reuse this book over and over again for new cases and it's made out of stuff I already had at home: amazon packaging, printouts, envelopes, tea dyed paper, wallpaper, a belt, the lock is from an old suitcase I found, paperclips, stamps, fabric and the metal book corners are made from a tomato paste tube...

These games come with a bunch of documents and I like that I can sort them now and that I'm able to find them quickly instead of having them in a heap. It takes me a few days or even weeks (when I get distracted by someting else ^^') and with this book I can put everything quickly away and return as quick to my research again.

I also made little writing pads and a notebook. The most fun I had with the paperclips. You can make them so quickly and they are so pretty and useful (I use them as tabs and to keep the documents in place)! Just fold a strip of paper in a 'w' shape, glue the metal paperclip inside and decorate. Ready! If you are interested in doing sth like this, don't hesitate to ask, I'm happy to help and share links to to the amazing youtubers I learned from!

I came into crafting only late in my life and I have so much fun. I wish I discovered the joy of it earlier but I never thought it could be something for me. Art class in school was so discouraging and I always thought I don't have the patience/talent for it. Then I went into rehab and we crafted and I kept on crafting ever since ^^' (Maybe you remember when I posted about my tarot book I made a new cover for or my amazing tool case I posted a while ago?)

The box in the pic below is a chocolate packaging I glued some tea dyed paper on :3

I also made a little booklet:

Did you know that you can make tape out of almost everything by using doublesided tape? Here I used old book pages. The dangles are made from cardboard and napkins :3

That was a fun little project and it's also a nice gift. I printed out the AI edits from my Mount Komorebi screenshots to decorate the pages. When you look close you can see Kiyoshi and Kiri in the pic on the left.

#non sims #artists on tumblr #crafts #my crafts #junk journal

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seat-safety-switch · 2 years

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You can be cheap without being a scumbag. Buy used things. Repair them when they wear out. Check every vending machine you pass for forgotten change in the coin return. Get rid of all that excess blood plasma you don’t need for your non-intensive office job. If you want to be a scumbag, though, you have to be constantly looking for new angles.

Around my part of the world, the government has been telling restaurants to cut it out with the plastic shit. Every meal you order, even if it comes to your house, comes complete with half a dozen plastic utensils that just end up in the dump and – more likely than not – choke a dolphin to death. Yeah. A dolphin. Flipper’s dead because McDonalds won’t stop giving you free forks. What do you think about that, reactionaries?

I digress. One of the things that they’ve been getting rid of as a result of this new regulation is plastic straws. So now the straws are made out of paper, which is not a problem with me, but they include those straws even when you buy a bottle of water. Bottles are for chugging, folks. Which means I have tons of leftover straws kicking around my house, and it bothered my scumbag nature to no extent not to have a creative use for them.

Sure, I tried the basics. Arts and crafts. Scale-model fabrication. Drain tubes. Using them as blowguns to knock out the mailman with a powerful paralytic agent so I could interrogate him at my leisure about why my packages take two weeks to clear customs. Nothing really worked, or at least didn’t use up the straws faster than more arrived with my weekly order (usually placed when I needed another water bottle with which to catch a newly-sprouted leak.) That is, until I figured it all out.

Way back in the 1970s, when the world was going to hell because gasoline became not as expensive as it is now, the brave Swedes had a solution. They figured out that they could burn useless trees as fuel, and so developed wood-gas reactors that they strapped to the back of their Volvos. Run out of gas? Chop down a nearby tree and cram that shit into the tank, you’re good to go. All I had to do was make a trip to Swedish eBay and order a several-hundred-pound woodgas conversion kit using someone else’s credit card. Don’t worry, environmentalists, I picked the slower shipping option. Now, I could chuck these paper straws right in there and get like half a block of gas – for free!

The project has been so successful, in fact, that I now find myself visiting fast-food restaurants just to help myself to several boxes of straws. They give me weird looks, sure, but there’s just something about a half-feral scruffy dude burrowing into your restaurant, stealing several hundred paper straws, and then running out the nearest exit that shouts “don’t call the cops yet.” Even though it probably wouldn’t be hard for them to find me in this plume of noxious waxed-paper smoke.

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blurredcolour · 4 months

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In My Blood | Part Three

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

Leaving Belgium behind, you and Curt enter the next phase of your journey in France. Unfortunately, the closer you get to the Spanish border, the more complicated things become - not only with those you are trying to evade, but also between you.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Brief Description of Murder, Death, Injuries, Angst, Grief, Fear, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6599

-------------------------

Your sleep that night, once your tears had slowed and you had pulled yourself from Curt’s arms, was a fitful thing. Tarnished by the awareness of your need to depart in the deepest dark, interrupted by numerous glances at your wristwatch in the limited light of the attic. When your eyes registered five minutes to midnight, you surrendered with a heavy sigh, retrieving your bag to fish out the non-descript brown paper tube of Benzedrine tablets. You strove to use the uppers sparingly, not overly fond of the way they made your heart race and dried your mouth out faster than a summer’s day, but with a six-hour walk ahead of you after the stretch of days you had endured, you would take any assistance you could get.

Forcing one down with only your saliva, you gently shook Curt awake.

“Time to go.” You murmured.

As he mumbled and grunted, assembling himself, you fished out every last piece of Belgian currency, setting it onto the floorboards to leave as an offering for your host, before sliding into your jacket just as she opened the small half-door to see you out. As quietly as possible, the pair of you made your way down the narrow stairs and out the back into the dark garden – blackout was a great friend to the Resistance, making it easy for you to move around at night unseen.

Sticking to small country roads flanked by fields and the occasional clump of trees, you were grateful that Curt managed to remain silent without needing a reminder. If it was out of sheer fatigue, you would not have been at all surprised. Nearing the border, you slipped low into a ditch alongside the road on which you were travelling, light beginning to gather along the eastern horizon. Sitting in absolute silence and stillness, you watched and waited, observing the invisible division between Belgium and France to ensure there was no activity, no trace of a guard. After a good twenty minutes, you tapped Curt’s shoulder and nodded, keeping low as you crept across the rather open stretch, stripped back of all trees and other barriers to visibility.

Maintaining a brisk pace, you did not stop until you reached the safety of another ditch a significant distance away, once again watching and waiting for twenty minutes before giving Curt the all-clear to proceed. Despite the chemical assistance you had employed, by the time you neared the small farming community of Ronq outside Lille you were flagging, your feet practically dragging along the dusty road. At your side, Curt was not faring much better. The sight of your destination, a small farm owned by perhaps the sweetest couple you had ever had the pleasure of meeting, was nothing short of a relief.

“Ici.” You murmured, touching Curt’s elbow as you gestured down their drive, and fought back a smile at the look of relief that crossed his face.

His pace even seemed to quicken slightly as he headed towards the neatly appointed two-story house that had withstood at least of a century in this hamlet. You had no extra energy to summon, continuing on behind him at the same trudging gait. Movement out in the field caught your eye and you smiled softly to see the husband, whom you only knew by his codename of ‘Hugo’, waving brightly from the back of an ox-drawn thresher. You returned his greeting with a wave in kind before stepping up onto the porch behind Curt to knock on the screen door.

“One moment!” The wife, who’s codename was ‘Delphine’, called out in French from inside the house before bustling over to the door, wiping wet hands fresh from the dishpan on her apron. “Marie!” She cried and swung the door open to grasp your jaw and plant a kiss of greeting to each of your cheeks.

“Delphine, it has been too long.” You smiled warmly. “Please allow me to introduce my friend, Curt.”

Turning with a small grin, you watched as the woman in her mid-fifties, hair dark but with streaks of grey, grasped his shoulders to kiss his cheeks like an old friend as well. Curt, for his part, looked as though he had seen a ghost, making your smile falter as you grabbed the suitcase from his hand, following after him and Delphine into the house.

“You ok, Curt?” You whispered once you were in the sanctuary of their warm kitchen.

“Just…tired…I…” He looked between you and Delphine who, after shoving him to sit in a chair at the table, was digging through her small refrigerator. “My ma’s name is, just so similar and I…” He stuttered out and you were briefly concerned you may have broken him.

“Votre maman? Then, I will be your France maman and feed you breakfast. Marie, go take a bath, you look horrible.” Her delightful mix of French and English seemed to both charm and bewilder your traveling companion.

Far from offended, for you knew she spoke only the truth and purely from a place of caring concern, you found yourself laughing softly under your breath as you turned to head upstairs. This house was a blessing in many forms, including the fact that its placement made it safe enough for guests such as yourself and Curt to remain upstairs. To eat at tables, take baths, and sleep in real beds. Setting Curt’s suitcase in one of the spare rooms, you left the room you preferred for yourself. Both rooms previously belonged to their sons, one a pilot, the other an infantryman, lost when the Nazis conquered their country. A loss with which you could thoroughly empathize. Taking your suitcase with you to the bathroom, you ran yourself the first hot bath in an unspeakably long time, sliding into it slowly to savour the almost uncomfortable heat, thoroughly trusting Delphine to look after Curt in your absence.

It was a relief, for however long you could manage it, to not be the one in charge for a time. To surrender the reins and just relax. As the steam began to fade, the fierceness of the water’s heat ebbing into tepid territory, you set about cleaning yourself thoroughly before sliding from the water to dry off. Taking advantage of the first aid supplies, you changed the bandage on your arm by pulling the knot tight with your teeth, pleased to see the healing progress of your arm in the foggy mirror, before then setting about cleaning some of your dirty clothes in the tub. Once you were dry and dressed, you carried your cleaned and wrung out garments to hang on the line strung in the bedroom your frequented, smiling fondly in memory of how Delphine had put it up for you when she realized how rough you tended to live.

Feeling significantly less horrible, you descended the stairs, finding your pace slowing at the sound of Curt’s voice filling the kitchen to the rejoinder of Delphine and Hugo’s combined laughter. It was difficult to fully decipher the story in progress, but it most definitely involved flying, Delphine translating some of the more technical points for Hugo’s sake, and you tarried a moment just outside the doorway. Closing your eyes, you indulged yourself a moment in the fantasy that none of you knew suffering or loss, that this was simply a happy gathering of friends on a sunny November morning.

“Ah, ma belle, there you are.” Hugo’s voice, coarsened by decades of smoking the pipe still clenched between his teeth, shattered your reverie and your eyes flashed open as you leaned in to exchange your cheek kisses in greeting.

“Much better, Marie, now sit. You are starving.” Delphine declared as though she could also feel your stomach rumbling, and you shared a knowing smirk with Hugo before taking the open chair beside Curt, who smiled broadly.

“You clean up nice, don’t you.”

“Don’t you start, too.” You huffed half-heartedly and he quickly raised his hands in defence, much to Hugo’s amusement.

“You will take the train in the morning?” Hugo asked with a tilt of his head, and you nodded.

“So long as you can bear our company, we would appreciate it.”

He gave his ascent with a firm nod. “Delphine has chores pour toi, naturellement.” His grin was filled with mischief, his wife shooting him a murderous glare and he quickly stood. “I have chores, out of doors.” He winked and quickly made himself scarce, both you and Curt barely concealing your amusement.

There was some good-natured muttering at the stove before Delphine set a plate in front of you with some vegetable hash, several slices of toast, and an egg glittering like a jewel in the centre.

“Delphine!” You exhaled in shock, beginning to shake your head in protest.

“Hush, Marie, it’s my oeuf to use as I see fit.” Her tone brooked no further argument, forcing you to accept it.

Lifting your cutlery to take a bite, you could not help but admit it was one of the most delicious things you had eaten in far too long. A tiny noise of satisfaction rattled in your throat, Curt’s lips twitching as he most definitely heard it.

“Madam Delphine makes a mean egg.” He nodded firmly, smiling to the woman as she collected his empty plate to wash it.

“Enough, handsome pilot, you bath now.” She patted his shoulder, and you hid your laugh behind against the side of your hand. “Follow me.”

Sending him off with a friendly wave, you watched Delphine lead him upstairs, no doubt giving him a tour of the rooms and bathroom before she returned to finish cleaning up. It was a good thing you had finished eating, because you immediately launched into a full, yet enjoyable, afternoon of chores. Curt joined the pair of you once he was cleaned and changed into fresh clothes. The pair of you looked distinctly more presentable, much less like fugitives, which was surely the entire purpose of her insistence on bathing.

Once the was basement reorganized – boxes of items carefully labelled with the names ‘Antoine’ and ‘Philippe’ stacked amidst unused furniture and a cozy nook set up in the corner to endure the air raids which Delphine shared were coming with more and more frequency – it was then time to turn to dinner preparations. Like many living under occupation, lunch was simply ignored to stretch rations further. Keep busy during the day, set your hunger aside, and eat as much as you could at night to ease your sleep, so long as the bombs did not fall.

Hugo returned from the fields just in time to clean up for the meal the three of you had prepared, Curt proving rather adept at peeling potatoes for his first time. The whole day had a domestic, dream-like quality about it, as though the world were doing its best to make you forget about the war. The night, in sharp contrast, was split open by the shrill sound of air raid sirens piercing the darkness from nearby Lille and across the border in Belgium. Pausing a moment in the clean sheets and cozy bedding, you pondered just laying there and letting your end come to you in comfort – and yet it was not in your blood to lay back and go quietly into the night.

Wrenching yourself from your downy paradise, you flung your coat overtop your nightgown and shuffled down towards the basement, bumping shoulders with Curt on the lower stairs.

“Think we might’ve tempted fate by setting up that shelter for ‘em.” He chuckled and you summoned a half-hearted laugh of your own, one that was cut short by the first explosion rumbling from far off.

You would have liked to consider yourself a brave person. Could claim many instances where you had proven to possess that very quality. And yet there was something about death raining down from the sky that made your muscles freeze, made your mind go traitorously blank. Warm hands were suddenly seizing yours, coaxing you down the last few steps into the basement.

“Almost there gorgeous, just a bit further.” Curt murmured softly, grip not letting up as he felt his way along the stacks of boxes and furniture the back corner of the stone basement with you in tow. “Just sit right there.” He helped you settle on a worn wooden bench before sinking down beside you, Delphine and Hugo’s presence across from the pair of you only recognizable by the way your feet met in the middle of the cramped space.

The sound of bombs impacting buildings and earth grew in volume, intensity, frequency. The windows began to rattle in their frames upstairs, making you clasp your hands together before clenching them tightly between your knees.

“Gotta be the RAF.” Curt muttered and you nodded weakly despite the fact he could not see you, closing your eyes tightly as though it might drown out the noise.

All it achieved was to summon images of explosions behind your eyelids with each resounding ‘boom.’ Explosions of homes, factories, bridges. You forced your eyes open quickly to stare at the worn edges of your coat, no more than a shadowy outline. A comforting warmth slowly pressed against your side, Curt’s solid frame striking a sharp contrast to the rigid, icy fear seizing you, and you slowly allowed yourself to lean into him as you tried to remind yourself to breathe.

“Don’t worry, those boys couldn’t hit anything if they tried.” He whispered into your ear, breath tickling slightly against your skin as his arm snaked around your shoulders to squeeze reassuringly, and you managed to exhale a small laugh through your nose.

Gradually the cacophony abated, taking with it your pounding heart and sweaty palms, the peace of the night returning before the single blast of the all-clear siren sounded.

“Safe to return to bed.” Delphine sighed and stood, shuffling back upstairs with Hugo, Curt and you following close behind the sound of their footsteps.

Reaching the top of the second set of stairs, you were startled as Curt insisted on escorting you to your door, eyeing you softly in the dim hallway.

“You sleep well, alright?”

“You too, Curt.” You nodded softly, faint smile fighting its way onto your lips before you slipped back into your room.

It took some convincing, some reassuring of your senses that you were safe to fall back asleep, but once it returned to you, it took you over deeply, Delphine needing to shake your shoulder firmly to rouse you the next morning.

“Breakfast, Marie. Hugo has checked, trains are still running to Paris.” She smiled to your groggy face as you snuffled awake, struggling to shake off the deep desire to sink beneath the covers in a fit of teenage petulance.

“Thank you, Delphine, I’ll be right down.”

She looked you over with a trained maternal eye, waiting expectantly and silently until you tossed back the quilt with a heavy sigh and sat up. “Now I believe you.” She smirked and stepped out, shutting the door behind her.

As you dressed for the next leg of your journey, you took a moment to pack your clean and dried clothes before retrieving your French papers from the bottom of your suitcase. Slipping them into your handbag, you carried the Belgian ones downstairs in your hand to slip into the flames of the wooden cookstove to destroy forever. It was yet another stab of pain, of failure, to your heart, but that identity was no longer safe to use. That country was not one you could return now until the Nazis were rooted out once and for all. You lifted your eyes to meet Delphine’s over the skillet in which she was preparing breakfast, her mouth drawn into a grim line, but she stayed mercifully silent on the subject.

Bustling about the kitchen with her, you helped prepare breakfast, looking up as Curt finally appeared from upstairs.

“May I please have your Belgian papers, Curt?” You asked, voice still a bit fractious, which you tried to cover with a cough.

“Guess I won’t be needin’ ‘em again huh.” He nodded, pulling them from his inner pocket and double-checking he had the right ones before passing them to you, watching silently as you tossed them into the stove for incineration.

“No, just the French ones now.” You replied quietly, taking his prepared plate from Delphine to set on the table in front of him.

You could feel both of their eyes on you now, trying to read through your muted attitude, making you feel remarkably like a specimen under a microscope.

“This looks amazing, thank you Delphine.” You forced a smile, taking your plate from her work-roughened hands to join Curt at the table and immediately digging in.

“Bon. I made lunch for your train ride, I will pack in your bag?”

Swallowing your mouthful quickly in order to answer, you began to shake your head, but she was already shooting you that look. “You know you didn’t have to, but we are very grateful. I will fetch the bag–”

“After you eat hot food.” She cut you off, punctuating her decree with an officious nod as Hugo shuffled in the backdoor to partake in breakfast.

Working at eating your plate, you watched the pair of them chatter, Hugo earning an affectionate swat for trying to eat food from the skillet with his fingers before receiving a plate and kiss on the cheek. The banter only swelled as he sat down next to Curt, the two men discussing the state of the harvest in Hugo’s endearingly heavily accent English, punctuated by numerous French words.

God you were going to miss them.

Quickly forcing yourself to your feet, you gathered your dishes to take to the sink of hot water, scrubbing at them aggressively as you fought back the blur of tears. Someday the Nazis would stop taking things from you and you could hardly wait for that day to come.

“Marie…” Delphine appeared at your elbow as you set the spotless plate in the drain tray, and you straightened.

“I will grab that bag, just one moment.” You offered the ghost of a smile but did not dare to meet her eyes, stepping into the parlor to open your suitcase where you had stashed the canvas bag from Doctor Legot.

“We will miss you, child.”

You looked up to see that she had followed you, swallowing roughly at the threatening tingling in your nose.

“I will miss you both more.” You somehow managed to voice, allowing her to pull you into a tight embrace. “You must stay safe, please.” You murmured into her faintly lavender-scented hair and felt her nod fiercely.

“Us?” She scoffed a watery laugh before sniffing and pulling back with a stern mask on her face. “You are the one who must be safe out there, you reckless, brave woman.”

A self-deprecating laugh rang hollow in your throat as you sniffled in kind, holding out the bag to her.

“Ah, perfect.” She took it quickly, bustling back to the kitchen, revealing a concerned-faced Curt loitering in the doorway.

Avoiding his gaze, you knelt quickly to reassemble your suitcase, snapping the latches shut and sliding it to stand next to his.

“You should come back here after you get rid of me…live with them.”

Oh how the temptation of that clashed with the cruelty of reality, stealing your breath and leaving an ache deep within your chest. You shook your head sharply to clear it, to chase the harsh reaction away.

“I am a liability. The Gestapo will never stop hunting me, and here, they will have the Carlingue to help. I would only put them in danger, as I already endanger you. I have to leave France as well. I have to leave it all.” Straightening as you spoke, you summoned your fierce determination. “But not before I get you to safety.”

Curt’s brow furrowed over his breathtaking blue eyes, his lips parting, surely to voice some endearing bravado or perhaps protest on your behalf, but Hugo stepped into the parlor.

“Come, time to leave.” He nodded, picking up your suitcases before making for the backdoor, wearing his efficiency like armour.

“Let’s go.” You quickly added, moving to the kitchen to collect your lunch and exchange one last set of cheek kisses with Delphine before bodily forcing yourself to turn and follow after Hugo, not daring to glance back.

Hopping up into the cab of the rusted farm truck, you rode in silence, sandwiched tightly between Curt and Hugo, into Lille. Evidence of last night's raid scarred the streets – collapsed buildings, still burning fires, yet Hugo was still able to navigate a route that brought you within a few blocks of the train station.

“Told you they can’t hit nothin’…” Curt murmured as much of the city seemed to continue about its day as usual.

Your parting from Hugo was much more subdued, Curt sliding from the vehicle onto the sidewalk to fetch the suitcases from the back of the truck as he squeezed your forearm gently.

“Bonne chance.” He murmured fiercely, gazing forward through the windshield into the bright yet cloudy morning.

“Toi aussi.” You forced out past the lump your throat before lurching from the truck cab, grabbing your suitcase from Curt and heading toward the station at a determined clip, torso bent forward in your drive to continue your forward momentum.

Papers checked at the door, tickets purchased at the booth, your pace did not relent until you boarded the train and secured a compartment, sliding the door closed for now.

“In the past, this has been a very busy train, so do not be surprised if we have company.” You murmured quietly, settling in against the window as Curt slid the luggage up onto the rack.

“Even in war everyone still wants to go to Paris, huh?” He smirked, settling onto the bench opposite you, shaking his head as he smoothed his hair. “Still can’t believe she basically has my ma’s name.” He murmured in awe as the train jolted into motion and you eyed him fondly. “What…what’s that look.” You shook your head, feeling caught out, but he was shaking his harder. “Nuh uh, c’mon Marie.” His narrowed eyes pinned you ruthlessly, making you swallow tightly.

“It is a codename, Curt.” You spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. “It makes the resemblance no less remarkable, however.” You assured him gently.

He seemed to mull it all over for a few silent moments before he slowly tilted his head. “So… ‘Marie’….?” You quickly pressed your lips together into a thin line, reticent to answer either way, and he huffed dramatically. “Well, then.”

Moving rapidly to try and distract him, you reached into the canvas bag to offer him some lunch. “Sandwich?”

Swiping the parchment paper packet from your hand with all the grace of a disgruntled toddler, you chewed on the inside of your cheek as he devoured half of the sandwich, glancing out the window when the train pulled into the next station. True to your suspicions, a sizeable line of passengers waited on the platform and while no one intruded on your sanctuary at that stop, two stops later, a mother and her two small children had politely asked to join you. Nodding your ascent, you had explained that your friend was deaf so they should not expect a response from him. Curt, for his part, spent the rest of the journey alternatively watching the blur of scenery and napping, while you made idle conversation with the clearly exhausted woman and watched over him.

Pulling into Gare du Nord, you showed your tickets to the conductor, prodding Curt awake to do the same, before letting the woman and her children disembark first. The city was infinitely busier, more crowded than anywhere you had been thus far, and thereby also infected by markedly more Nazi soldiers. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to the paper forgers back in Belgium as you both made it through the checkpoint, you led Curt down to the crushingly over-crowded Metro. Riding a few stops, you arrived in the 19th arrondisment, finding your way to the apartment of ‘Emile’, another Resistance contact whom you had not imposed upon in a while.

Walking up the worn steps to the door, you swung the brass knocker and held your breath as always, hoping to find this safe haven still intact. After an agonizing thirty seconds, the door opened a crack before swinging wider. Your greeting was no more than a silent nod before he gestured you both inside quickly with a wave of his hand. Leading you through the sparsely appointed space, he took you into the bedroom, opening the closet door before pushing open a false wall in the back to reveal a small hidden room with a twin bed and enough floor space for you to sleep on.

With another nod, the pair of you slipped into the secret space, moving as quietly as possible as you set down your things and shed your outerwear. Unpacking the rest of your uneaten lunch, you and Curt finished up the apples and the rest of the sandwiches while sipping at the bottles of water, perched side-by-side on the edge of the bed. Emile reappeared nearly an hour later with two bowls of thin broth decorated with a smattering of vegetables to add to your meal, whispering a quick goodnight before he was gone. Enjoying it for warmth more than anything, you drained your bowls and stacked them near the door before moving to lay on the floor, nearly bumping into Curt as he tried to do the same.

What ensued was a silent comedy of exaggerated facial expressions and wild gestures, each trying to convince the other to take the narrow bed. That the floor was a perfectly fine space for yourselves but not the other person. Eyes widened, jaws jutted forward with frustration, Curt rose to his feet to tower over you as though height might make his argument more convincing. Not to be outdone, you leapt up quickly, hands on your hips, a small noise of surprise escaping you as his hands seized your hips and pressed you down to sit on the mattress.

The lopsided grin of triumph on his face was enough to make you consider murder and you almost hopped off the bed to take revenge, but his grip stubbornly held you in place, face dangerously close to yours, making you look aside quickly as you exhaled harshly in frustration. Tossing your hands up in a markedly annoyed display of surrender, he slowly released you, before stepping back and settling down on the floor. Diving beneath the blankets, you listened intently, waiting for his breaths to even out, signalling he was asleep – something that did not seem to take long for him.

As sleep seemed to roll over him smoothly, you slid the top blanket from the bed and carefully lay it over him, feeling a small sense of victory as his eyes flashed open with a huff, shooting him a victorious smirk of your own before returning to the bed and switching the shadeless lamp off.

Emile’s return just after six the next morning, bearing sandwiches made of canned creamed corn on thick slices of coarse bread, was a less than gentle way to wake-up, the lamp searing through your eyelids as he turned it on before shaking you awake roughly. Leveraging yourself out of the bed, you quickly re-assembled it with the blanket you snatched from Curt’s still-prone form before sitting down to make quick work of your meal, knowing your host had to get to his occupation mandated shift at the factory soon. A groggy Curt thankfully followed suit with minimal prodding, shooting you only one or two looks at the metallic tang marring your breakfast.

Offering a nod of sympathy, you slid to your feet, tidying your hair and clothes before sliding on your jacket and shoes. Curt managed the luggage while you gathered the dishes, taking them to the kitchen to wash before you each shook Emile’s hand and slipped out the door. It was easy to blend into the crowd of the morning commute and you chose to forgo the chronically crowded Metro in favour of a pricey fare for a pedi-cab ride to Gare de L’Ouest to catch a train to Bordeaux. Only a small train was in service, with no private compartments, and so the pair of you sat in the open car amongst the other passengers, Curt catching up on sleep with his head braced against the foggy window as you fought against heavy eyelids and the lulling sway of the train.

The first sign that your day would not go according to plan came when the train stopped ten minutes short of your destination, the conductor walking through the carriage ordering everyone off due to damaged track ahead. You stood and began collecting your luggage, pleased at the limited protest in your arm as you reached overhead for the suitcases. Climbing from the train, the jumped the last bit of distance onto the gravel, glancing over your shoulder to see Curt following close behind. The wind was cold, biting at you through your thin coat as you walked along a dirt road that ran beside the tracks into town. The sun did its best to shine, but it was losing the ability to warm you, heralding the approaching winter, only making you more nervous for your mountain crossing to come.

The gasps of some of your fellow passengers made you turn your head to glimpse a tangle of warped steel above a gaping crater – a direct hit to the rail line. Casting a glance to the side, you met Curt’s eyes and he nodded firmly to confirm that he saw what you saw. Someone else had been raided recently. Nearing the edge of the city, you were feeling both hungry and fatigued, pointing to a café that seemed to have a few open tables despite the increase in foot traffic.

Lunch was still mostly potatoes, but effort was put into the preparation, so spirits were lifted, and bellies were feeling full as the pair of you set out to catch the electric tram to Bordeaux-Midi where your train should have arrived originally. Dishearteningly, there appeared to be damaged to the track between Bordeaux and Toulouse as well, and service was not expected to be restored for several days. This was not welcome news, but you were nonetheless always prepared with a back-up plan.

Returning to the tram, you made your way through the city to the modest home of ‘Gilles’ to seek refuge for at least the first night or until you could come up with another way to make it to Toulouse. You were agonizingly close to your jump-off point into the Pyrenees, if only your damn Allies had not blocked your path. More than a little weary from your meandering journey, you were very much looking forward to holing up for the night as you rounded the corner onto Gilles’ street only to be treated to the sight of him being forced into a car by a fleet of Vichy police officers just outside his home.

The warmth stolen from your blood, your heart began to pound rapidly beneath your ribs as adrenaline closed the gap in what little energy you had left. Rounding quickly on Curt, you broke your own protocol and began to address him urgently in English out in the open.

“Curt, go back two blocks, left two blocks, and find a place to hide.” You hissed sharply, shoving him away, not waiting for a response.

There was a slim chance that you might be able to talk your way out of this, but most definitely not with him at your side. You could feel him hesitate, resist against your hand, and so you shoved again harder. Hearing him take off, you exhaled softly, turning to face to disaster behind you.

“Halt!” One of the policemen shouted out, and you slid your hand into your bag hanging from your shoulder, fingers seeking the cold metal of your pistol, hoping it would not come to violence, but prepared for any eventuality.

“Good evening, sir, is there a problem?” You asked sweetly as you stepped out into the street, feigning innocence and confusion.

“Your friend will stop, or I shall shoot!” He barked out, spittle flying from his lips and clinging to the square shaped moustache beneath his nose.

It was quite clear whom he idolized.

The metal of his gun flashed in the growing gloom of twilight and without further hesitation you drew your own weapon, bracing your arm against your your hip to fire two shots into his chest as trained by the SOE before bolting after Curt. He was not difficult to find, a wall of muscle you narrowly avoided as he was already running back towards you, against your explicit instructions.

“I heard gunshots and I–” He gasped out.

“Fucking run.” You hissed and continued to dash through the streets, weaving through several back alleys to hopefully pose a difficult target, until the pair of you came across a man walking towards his car with keys in his hand. “We are taking your car.” You growled, pulling a wad of francs from your bag to shove into the pocket of his coat before trying to swipe the keys from his hand.

Aggravatingly, the man balked, taking a step back and emitting a string of derogatory curse words concerning you, your appearance, even your family. Seriously concerned your time was running short, you once again pulled your pistol from its hiding place in your handbag. You had no desire to harm or kill a French civilian, but you had even less of a desire to be taken into custody.

“Now.” You insisted firmly, chest heaving, sweating rolling down the back of your neck from your exertions.

The tenor of his protests only became more irritating, reaching a higher pitch and volume, until there was a clatter on the sidewalk beside you. That sound was your only warning before Curt’s solid right hook collided with the man’s glass jaw. You watched, stunned, as he crumpled soundlessly into a heap upon the sidewalk as Curt shook out his fist.

“Thought he’d never shut up.” He muttered before grabbing the keys, tossing them up for you to catch with numb fingers, before he deposited the unconscious man behind the bins beside his home.

Remembering yourself and the Vichy police not far behind, you turned to quickly unlock the trunk, loading the suitcases inside. Opening the driver’s side door, you started the car before reaching over to unlock the passenger’s side for Curt, pulling away at a forcefully reasonable pace once he was safely inside the vehicle. It would not do now for the pair of you to attract undue notice.

Driving towards the tramline, you used it as a landmark to make your way to the outskirts of the city before finding the road out of town, towards Langon. There was a safehouse there, and a train station where you might have better luck tomorrow. As you put Bordeaux firmly in your rearview mirror, you shifted into a higher gear, letting your lead foot rest heavily on the gas pedal, hoping to spend as little time as possible on the open road so close to curfew.

Curt gazed over his shoulder through the back window before his eyes flicked to the speedometer, a grin blooming on his face as the needle crept higher before his bright laugh filled the car. The sound of it combined with the thrumming of the engine was like petrol in your very veins, making you shudder slightly.

“Damn I need a cigarette…” You sighed wistfully and his laughter graduated to a howl.

“You are full of surprises, gorgeous. The fast driving, cigarette smoking, gun toting woman of my dreams…”

A smirk slowly crept across your face, and you quickly shook your head. “Ghosts of my misspent youth. Gave up the cigarettes when the good tobacco left town, and the fast driving when the gasoline became scarce. The gun will leave when the war is over.”

Curt chuckled warmly. “But the attitude most certainly will not.” He settled into his seat properly, sighing deeply as your escape finally seemed to have been successful. “My misspent youth involved intense games of kick-the-can or baseball in the nearby empty lot. Yours certainly sounds a lot more interesting.”

A soft laugh escaped you and you glanced at him warmly. “Yours sounds a lot more idyllic.”

“Wouldn’t trade growing up in New York for anything in the world…” His sigh smacked of nostalgia and, for all your envy, you most certainly felt the same way about your upbringing, despite its more morose ending.

A sign indicating you were two kilometres from Langon flashed by and you began to gear down, casting frequent glances to the left for an approach to the Garonne River. Spotting an opening between two fields, you turned off into the small clearing, much to your passenger’s confusion.

“What are we…?” He asked as you cut the engine and began rolling down your window.

“Getting rid of the car.” You replied, sliding out to unlock the trunk.

Without needing direction, he quickly retrieved the bags and you turned your attention to scavenging a sizeable rock from the nearby landscape. Not too heavy that you could not carry it, but not too light that it would not hold the gas pedal down. Most importantly, it needed to be flat on one side so it would not roll off.

“All clear?” You asked quietly.

“Yup.” He replied at a similar volume, and you opened the driver’s door, leaving it ajar as you set the rock onto the floor of the car, depressing the clutch and gas pedal to start the engine back up before shifting into first.

Pointing the tires towards a gap in the trees lining the riverbank, you sunk your teeth into your lower lip as you rolled the rock with your right foot to replace your left on the gas pedal, the car jerking slightly but thankfully not stalling. Inhaling sharply, you turned to leap from the vehicle as it began to lumber towards the water, a small exclamation of surprise leaving your lips as Curt seized your elbows to help pull you free, gathering you into his chest protectively. Pressed against him, heart hammering so hard you were convinced he could certainly feel it impact his chest as well, you turned your face to watch the vehicle careen over the bank and into the river before beginning to sink rapidly beneath the murky water.

You turned to face him, matching grins of triumph gracing your faces. You could feel his short, sharp breaths caressing the skin of your cheeks, making your tongue dart out and wet your lips nervously. His mouth was treacherously close to yours. Mere millimetres. A final burst of air bubbles breaking the surface as they were forced from the car when it reached the riverbed pierced the night, sending your heart leaping into your throat, making you wrench yourself from his arms.

“We must keep moving.” You rasped, bending to pick up the nearest suitcase, uncertain whom it actually belonged to, before taking off down the road towards Langon.

Hopefully towards safety for the night.

-------------------------

Read Part Four

In My Blood Masterlist

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