#gauge sheet metal

[kalpatarupiping]

Sheet Metal Gauge Chart

Discover a comprehensive Sheet Metal Gauge Chart, provides valuable information on gauges, thicknesses, and measurements. Find out the equivalent of 14 & 16 gauge thickness in mm and explore the world of gauge sheet metal.

[sweetimpurity]

On the Run 2

w.c. 1.6k. NSFW Chapter 1

A/N: Hi! Not sure how many chapters there will be in total. I'm thinking 3 or maybe 4.

Chapter 2

He gets up off the bed and at lightning speed pulls on his pants and his black t-shirt, messing with his metal belt buckle and grabbing their things from around the small room, shoving them in their bags. They didn’t take many belongings with them in the first place. 

“Here, put this on.” He passes you a pair of your shorts and his jacket, the quickest things he could find, going back to the window and looking through the blinds, very tense. He runs his hand through his hair, walking back through the room to find anything that they might forget. They can’t leave a trace behind. 

“Move away from the window, okay?” He goes to you, helps you up from the bed, seeing that you're still feeling hazy and your knees are quite literally weak. “What’s going on?” You whisper and hold onto him, feeling overwhelmed by so many things, one of the most powerful climaxes you’ve ever had in your life followed by Miguel pulling away immediately and stepping away from you, leaving you dripping onto the bed sheets. He didn’t even cum, how did he not cum? Were you not doing enough to make him feel good too? You wonder anxiously to yourself.  The situation must be bad then. And you don’t blame him, you know that things are tense and he wouldn’t pull away like that if something wasn’t wrong. He’s always cared for you after sex, he’s your big, sweet, loving man. 

“It’s gonna be okay baby… we just need to go now.” He holds your arm and brings you to the back door of the motel room. There's a small back porch that can hopefully aid you both in making a swift escape. You stand near the packed bags at the back door, his rough jacket wrapped around your still flushed and warm naked torso, watching as he steps back near the window, peeking out the blinds once more before jerking back suddenly to get out of view. They must be close. He switches off the lamp that was giving the room its only light and it’s suddenly pitch black. 

“Miguel?” You whisper anxiously and reach your hands out for him in the darkness, feeling your hands start to tremble. “I’m here, baby…” He whispers back and your hands meet his abdomen before he holds them in his. “It’s gonna be okay..” He tries to soothe you, feeling how your hands are shaking. “Hold these.” He says and you reach out your hands for him to place the bags into your arms. Suddenly you feel Miguel’s arms wrapping around and under you, picking you and the bags up off the ground and holding you in his arms. Your legs fold over one of his strong arms and his other arm wraps around your back. Your head presses against his shoulder and you feel safer in his arms. Even if you’re still not safe yet.

“Stay quiet, okay?” He whispers and you nod against his chest. He opens the back door quietly, looking out cautiously to see if either of the men are waiting there. The coast looks clear so he steps out onto the porch, everything he holds dear resting in his arms. You close your eyes and tuck your face into the crook of his neck, trusting him entirely with everything you have. He looks around the area and listens closely trying to gauge if the men are close by. Silently he carries you down the steps and to the ground, holding you tight. He looks around deciding which way to go. He needs to get around the building to get to his car parked out front but he doesn’t know which side the men are on or which corners they could be lurking around. 

“It’s okay, baby…” He whispers, mostly trying to convince himself that they could make it out of this okay. He walks briskly past many back doors, constantly looking around, he doesn’t want any surprises. He stops at the corner of the building when he hears the men yelling and banging on the doors. Damnit, picked the wrong side. He listens as the men pace back and forth, banging on doors and interrogating the people inside for answers. “Where the hell is he? You seen this fuckin’ guy? We saw his car. We know he’s here, we're not leaving without him… and his whore too!!” He frowns at their words and brings you tighter into his chest. He can’t stay here forever, he’ll need to make a run for it before it’s too late. He moves to turn the corner but then he hears the footsteps grow louder, closer. He panics, stepping back into the shadows, hidden only by a vine covered trellis. Your arms wrap tight around the back of his neck, clutching to him fearfully. He dips his head down into your neck, placing a small silent kiss to your pulse point, staying still until hopefully it passes, he doesn’t want things to escalate, not with you here. His heart beats out of his chest and you can hear it with your head pressed against him. Both of you hold your breath as one of the men walks to the back of the building and Miguel can see him from where you’re hiding in the darkness. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the man, a man he once knew well, a man he called a friend. Just when Miguel thinks he should do something instead of only hiding, they hear the voice of the other man still knocking on doors. “Hey! Someone said they saw him! Get over here!” And the man runs back to his partner. 

You both let out the breaths you were holding, your breath getting caught in your throat as Miguel turns the corner, he can’t wait any longer. He looks down the row of rooms and sees the men at the other end. Swiftly he carries you to his car, swinging open the passenger door, plopping you down in the seat and looking back to where the men are still standing. He quickly gets in the driver's seat and turns on the engine, watching the men as they look back at the sound of his car turning on and the headlights automatically lighting up the front of the motel. “Fuck.” He grits his teeth and puts the car in reverse. “Miguel!” You practically scream, watching the men run to Miguel’s car as he’s pulling out of the motel parking lot as fast as he can. Holding onto the door as the car jerks around, skillfully getting you out of there. 

He assumes the men are getting in their car right now and are about to chase them down seeing as they saw which direction they went. His eyes flick nervously between the rear view window and the road as he speeds through the darkness. It’s about 3 in the morning now so the roads are clear. You turn in your seat to look out the rear window at the road behind his car, your eyes wide and your heart beating too fast. “Oh no… Miguel.. oh my god!” You panic, watching headlights gaining on you up the highway. Your shaking hands pressed to your thumping heart in your chest. “Hey, just look at me baby, okay? Look at me…” He says and takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing your fingers a few times, glancing between the road in front of them, the road behind them and your sweet glossy eyes looking at him. The engine revs as he steps on the gas. Flying down the highway, trying not to throw up from the feeling. "Shit." He mutters. Trying to keep his cool but failing completely. High beams flash behind you, teasing you, letting you know that they're still there and getting close enough to be too close. "Yeah I see you!" Miguel seethes, both hands on the wheel this time, taking the next exit, way too fast. "Miguel-" You gasp, fearing you'll crash before you can escape. "I know I know" He sighs, stepping on the gas because there's not much else he can do. "Fuck." He huffs, knowing this isn't smart but not knowing what else to do. "I don't even know where the fuck we are" He keeps speeding up the highway, trying to lose them. Looking for what he can do to get off this damn highway. He takes another exit, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel until finally there seems to be some sort of neighborhood. "Please slow down" You breathe out, pressed so hard against your seat from the rough ride. "I'm trying." He huffs, taking a few random turns to get deeper into this more crowded area. Finally turning down a long wooded driveway, pulling off to the side a bit, killing the engine and headlights.

“What are you doing?! I didn’t say stop! Why did you stop?! Miguel!” You panic, tears welling up in your eyes as you look behind the car again, so worried that you’ll see headlights at any moment. “It’s okay… it’s okay! They're gone.” He tries to soothe you as you sit up on your knees on the bench seat of his car, looking back through the rear window. “Miguel, we need to go! What are you doing!” You exclaim, tears threatening to fall and he just looks at you sadly. He never should have let your get involved. Now you’re crying, you’re scared, and you’re half naked. It hurts him to see you so scared and it’s all his fault. He beckons you over with open arms.

"C'mere..."

@safixiovi @laysmt @theplaid-wearingmoose @lazyjellyfish300

[luvrxbunny]

nightmare

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader 

Prompt: Knife Play(?)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (uneducated description of) ptsd, dub-con(?), a bit of dry humping, piv, unprotected sex (lmk if I forgot anything)

WC: 2.5k

A/N: hi guys! woohoo! my first bucky fic! i’ve literally been in love with him since 5th grade- uh once again i don't think i’d call this knife play really..? the knife is there but no one is really turned on by it per se 

You can feel him thrashing beside you and your heart is breaking as you slowly wake. This happens once in a blue moon but it’s always bad when it does. You blink clarity into your eyes and look over at Bucky. His hands are gripping the sheets like his life depends on it, his shirt is almost soaked through with sweat and his hair is sticking to his forehead. You sit on your shins and watch him sadly for a little bit, you’re not supposed to wake him up but you still do, every time. He always remembers the dreams no matter what so you’d rather cut it short and deal with the consequences than let him suffer through the entire memory or terror he’s going through. 

You place your hand on the middle of his chest for a moment, feeling his heartbeat to try and gauge how bad the nightmare was but instead, he woke up. All you see is a blur of movements as Bucky grabs his knife from under his pillow and flips you both over, pinning you to the bed. You instantly straighten your legs, wrap them around his waist, and try to pull his hips away from yours, you try to twist him, squeeze hard enough to hurt him- something. But nothing happens, not a twitch in his features or even a grunt of pain. 

You scan his eyes and can tell he’s gone, he’s not in the room with you, you have no clue where he is but he looks so scared. He has his metal hand on your shoulder, pinning you to the bed and his flesh hand is holding the knife to your throat- but he looks more scared than you. “James?” His roaming eyes snap back to yours, and his grip on the knife tightens with a furrow of his brows. “Bucky?” You try, and his head tilts with fluttering eyes, he takes a shaky breath and adjusts his grip on the knife again. His breathing speeds up a bit and his eyes lose focus again, his hand starts to tighten on your shoulder and the knife is trembling at your neck. You lift the hand of the pinned shoulder to caress his forearm, hopefully soothing him and it pulls him from wherever he was with a gasp. The shoulder plates of his arm whir and re-adjust as his gaze zeros in on your touch. 

His gaze is confused and questioning, like he can’t figure out why he likes your touch. His eyes flicker to yours for a second and you see him flicker within them, seeing you for a moment before going blank and unfocused again. “Baby?” You try as your other hand reaches for his face slowly, he jerks the knife against your neck as a warning but there’s no fire behind his eyes, still that same scared gaze. You smile at him softly and continue your hand’s path to his cheek.  “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”

You keep your gaze light, trying to drain all the love you have into this look, hoping he can see it, or feel it. He sucks in a quick and trembling breath of air and his body twitches into yours, pressing as much as he can against you. You can see an internal battle in his eyes as his body slowly relaxes against yours, tensing and twitching before he finally settles. The position is a bit… Your legs are spread under him, pinned open just by the size of his thighs and how his legs are spread. You try to ignore the fact that his dick is pressed into you because this isn’t the time. His face is still in front of you because he’s still holding himself up with the hand on your shoulder. You smile at him again and he breathes out a shaky breath and his face falls for a moment. His hand leaves your shoulder for the bed quickly and he tightens his grip on the knife before lowering himself to you, his head almost resting on your stomach as he keeps his gaze on you. 

His entire weight is on you now and you can’t help the sigh you let out, you’ve asked him to do this so many times, and your heart can’t help but flutter, that in a state like this- he still has you in his head, whether he realizes it or not. You beam at him and he gives you a soft, confused look. You try to reach for him, give him a kiss- at least on the cheek, but his hand reaches under you, shoots for your head, and grips your hair, stopping you from getting too close. His lips are twitching in a snarl, and he shakes his head at you stiffly. 

After you get over the initial shock and pain of his grip you smile at him again, genuine because he could’ve used the knife, he could’ve gotten up again and slammed you into the bed before you even blink, but he didn’t. You nod at him. “Okay, I’m sorry.” You slowly slide your hands to the top of his head, his eyes don't leave yours and you can watch the fear rise in them the closer your hands get. Once you bury your fingers in his hair- something you do quite often in the position- he moves his entire body closer, sliding up your body so his head is more resting on your chest, his hips are pushing your legs off the bed a bit and he breathes out a whisper of a whimper as he presses his head up to your hands. 

You smile and press your fingertips into his head, massaging his scalp until his head rests back on your chest. He still has his eyes on you, with his chin digging into you painfully but you can push it aside to give him what he needs. His eyes begin to look more like Bucky, like he’s slowly but surely returning to you. Your muscles get a bit tired from the massaging so you switch to scratching after a little while and he really likes it. He breathes in a comically large gasp and finally takes the knife away from your throat, dropping it on the ground before digging into the mattress beneath you and wrapping around your waist, pressing your body to his. 

You’re smiling fondly at his obvious struggle to keep his eyes open, something Bucky usually doesn’t fight. His eyebrows twitch as he fights his heavy lids, his hand tensing its grip on your hair when he relaxes into you a little too much. You’re content to do this, you can bring Bucky back like this, no matter how long it takes. Your smile widens further and he gives you that barely audible whimper before his eyes slip shut, finally giving himself over to the feelings you’re giving him. 

You watch him like that for a little bit, his features the most relaxed than you’d seen yet, and his breathing only stuttering every once in a while. You almost fell asleep, soothed by your motions in his hair but he tenses up again, his shaky breath shooting out of his nose and his arm tightens around you before his hips scoot up, pressing his fully hard cock into you. 

You whimper out a gasp at the feeling and his eyes shoot open. They look like Bucky but his hand is still firmly planted in your hair as his hips stutter a grind against yours. His eyes are apologetic and begging, his hips jerk into yours every time his tip catches on your clit and you have to hold back a moan. 

Is this okay? He’s not technically in his right state of mind… right?

He lets out a sound- somewhere between a sob and a moan before letting your hair go and pushing himself up to a hover above you, pulling his hips away from yours and you try to ignore the ache between your legs as he looks into your eyes. “Please.” He spits the words out like they burn in his mouth, strained and rushed with a pitiful expression, akin to one of a kicked puppy. His eyes unfocus for a moment before meeting yours again and they look like Bucky, they’re also overflowing with guilt.

He pulls away, sitting back on his calves and shaking his head, whispering apologies frantically. You’re not listening though, you gather all the strength you have, lock your legs around his waist, and tense your stomach, attempting a sit-up to get yourself close enough to kiss him. It stops his apologizing and his hands reflexively reach for you, helping you up without question. Once you’re in his lap, you assault his lips with yours, whimpering and moaning into them, appreciative that he’s back but also insanely worked up from the entire previous interaction. He pushes you away softly and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, already knowing he’s going to give you his whole martyr spiel. “No. Baby, you’re just hyped up on adrenaline. You’ll be upset la-”

You lean back in, groan against his lips, and cup the sides of his face before pulling back to look into his eyes. You give him the most pure, and honest tone you can when you speak. “I’m just happy you’re okay, my love.” His face crumples in a broken expression as he starts his apologies again only to be shushed softly by you as you reconnect your lips to his. He whimpers softly into it and places a hand behind your head, pressing you into him as your hips begin to rock over his bulge. You listen to his breathing pick up and his hand slides down to your hips, giving them a squeeze like a warning but you don’t listen. You continue your pace, slow and almost teasing as his cock rubs over your clit again.

His heavy breaths begin to border on moans before he pulls away, his hand moving from behind your head to the bed, behind you as he leans forward and begins to rock his hips into you. Your head falls back with a moan as you wrap your hands around his neck, both of your hips moving in sync. He can cum like this, you know he can, you plan for him too but he lays you on the bed slowly and kisses you. “I want- I want more.” He wants more, he knows he doesn’t need more but he wants it, and who are you to deny him?

You nod but your hips never stop moving, even as he takes his naked cock out of his pants you grind yourself into it with a moan that matches his as the fabric of your panties abuses his sensitive shaft. He uses his metal hand to pin your hips to the bed, a bit more roughly than he intended and his head snaps back to yours, you can see an apology forming on his lips but you silence it with a kiss and reach down to line him up with your entrance. He whines into your mouth as you work him in, his hand leaves his cock to cup your face as you kiss him, letting you guide his cock in all on your own. 

Once you’ve got him in he pulls away from your lips for the sight, he brings down the hand that was cupping your face to play with your clit so he can watch you clench around him. Luckily for him, the action turned you on so much that he also gets to watch your pussy push a load of your juices onto his cock. He takes a sharp but deep breath, his expression almost offended as arousal flares through his body. He meets your gaze before crawling up your body again, a pained expression on his face as his cock slides against your walls, already pulsing inside you. 

You reach out for him, digging your fingers into his hair again as you pull him to your face, wrapping your legs tightly around him and holding him as close as you can as he pumps into you. His arms are both beside your face, caging you in, giving you nowhere to turn your head so your eyes can’t leave his. His eyes stay on yours as his hips grind into yours, he’s panting against you, moaning when you can’t help but clench around him. You can feel his cock twitching inside you already and it helps the coil tighten in your stomach. 

You bite your lip behind your fond smile at him as one hand leaves his hair to toy with your clit. You clench around him with a moan once you start moving your fingers over the bud and he gives you a look of ‘how could you?’ before one hand grips your jaw and the other slides down to meet your hand and swats it away gently. His eyes get hazy and his jaw goes slack as he feels how your little button is pulsing under his thick fingers, his cock twitches inside you again and he gets to work. His fingers move over your clit so fast it almost feels like too much when paired with his cock plunging into you, teasing your G-Spot every time it does.

Your hands tighten in his hair painfully when he- as though he could read your mind- adjusts his hips, moving them so that his tip hits your G-Spot head-on every time he plunges into you. Your toes curl behind his back and you give a sobbing moan of his name against his lips, his eyes close and his head lowers to rest against yours as his cock throbs inside you. “You’re killing me, sugar.”

You squeeze around him at the pet name and he whimpers devastatingly. “M’gonna fuckin’ cum.” His hand leaves your jaw to cradle your head, resting on the top- a habit he acquired when you kept bumping your head into the headboard. “Please tell me you’re close.” He whines against your lips. His eyes are shut tight, his muscles tense and you can hear his arm groaning as he clenches his fist above your head while his hips stutter into you. You nod immediately, the coil in your stomach breaking at his obvious desperation. 

You flutter beautifully around him, his eyes roll back under his lids as you moan into each other. His other hand leaves your clit to frame your face again as he lowers his pelvis to yours, grinding his thick patch of hair against your pulsing clit. He groans and presses his lips to yours as his cock unloads inside you, filling you to the brim and just making his thrusts messier. His lips separate from yours and he mutters desperately against you. “I love you, I love you so much, sugar. S- So good t’me.” His voice pitches up into a whine as his body shudders against you before pushing another rope of cum into you. Your hips lift off the bed to grind into his the same time his hips jerk into you, intensifying both your orgasms. 

Your bodies are shaking against each other as you come down, letting little ripples of pleasure flow through the both of you as his cock softens inside you. Neither of you make any moves to reposition or remove him so you fall asleep like that. No nightmares take Bucky this time. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, here's the rest of my Kinktober Works, and be sure to check out my Main Masterlist!!

[katanablue]

Was going through a massive doc I have of prompts and came across one that gave me a brain blast.

Set after Leo leaves to Central America, a year or so when Raph becomes the NW.

Warnings: Angst, hurt, little to no comfort, Raph yelling at you and vice versa, no happy ending

You had an inkling that your boyfriend was the Nightwatcher, you don’t know exactly when or what it was that gave you that unsettling feeling in your stomach but you just knew.

His sleep schedule was all kinds of messed up, more so than usual. He seemed angrier and more on edge, patience seeming to run thin for everyone.

Including you.

Never mind the fact that he always seemed to be sporting a fresh bruise somewhere on his body. It’s not like he can hide them from you either since he only wears protective pads and his mask. He tells you that it’s from patrolling with his brothers or from sparring with Splinter. If that were the case then why didn’t Mikey or Don have the same bruises? Why did Raph seem to divert your attention away from the topic whenever you tried to pry more?

But then again, who are you to not believe him, your boyfriend has never lied to you before so why would he now?

Still, it’s just another piece to the mysterious puzzle, one that seems to be never ending the more you try and put it together.

Deep down you knew. Knew that he was out there alone and putting himself in these dangerous situations without any help. Whenever you saw a story on the news about how ‘The Nightwatcher Struck Again’, you’d immediately turn to look at Raphael to gauge his reaction, hoping that maybe you can pick up any subtle sign on his face.

But he kept himself stoic, expression blank as he listened to the coverage.

You had asked Donnie, Mikey and even Splinter if they’ve noticed anything off with him but all they told you was that he was struggling with Leo’s absence. It’s believable, because that’s what they believe.

Casey didn’t know any better, saying that Raph was just having a hard time adjusting with the lack of crime fighting and order between him and his brothers. Just because Shredder was dead, didn’t mean that crime stopped. In fact it was at an all time high; especially with the Purple Dragons now trying to take over every inch of city they could.

Then the late night appearances started happening.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to show up at your apartment unannounced prior to Leo leaving. Nowadays he only showed up when he was battered and bruised, looking as if he just got out of a dogfight. And at first you didn’t ask, having tended to some of his injuries before. You presumed that he had a scuffle or two with one of his brothers or maybe he and Casey just got a bit too rough with one another.

That’s when you vaguely recalled hearing Mikey talk about how Splinter forbade them from doing any patrols until Leo returned.

You nearly asked him one night right then and there when he showed up on your fire escape at 3 a.m, splattered in bruises and cuts, nearly halfway unconscious. You had hauled him in and laid him on your bed, on the verge of tears as he bled onto your sheets. You begged and begged for him to tell you what happened but he refused, just wanting you to clean him up and go to sleep holding you in his arms.

And you listened of course, not wanting to push and risk having him shut you out completely. But that night replayed constantly in your head and it’s what drove you for your next course of action.

It was driving you crazy not knowing, and it made you plan to deliberately put yourself in danger just to see if he would come and save you.

Luckily for you, you only had to put yourself at risk just once.

It’s over before it even really began, a long chain weapon zipped right in front of you and into the skull of the thug who attempted to rob you at gun point. You gasped and shielded your face, turning away from the man who was cradling his bleeding head and trying to get up off the floor. You heard a loud metallic thud somewhere in the alley, the footsteps getting closer to you.

You looked up right into the eyes of the infamous Nightwatcher.

It felt like time stood still as he looked at you, alarms ringing in Raphael’s head as he tried to figure out why the hell you were out so late at night.

You practically screamed at yourself to look at him entirely, take in his whole form before he left. Your eyes roamed haphazardly over him; from his metal helmet, down his right arm, all the way to his gloves—

“Hold your breath.”

You hardly had anytime to register his words before he snapped something to the ground, a cloud of gray smoke enveloping your vision. You covered your nose and mouth with your hand, shutting your eyes and waving away the smoke. He ran past you to snatch up the goon, not even sparing you another glance as he hurried out the alley. You went after him blindly, seeing the guy tied up to a light pole and just barely catching the Nightwatcher pull off on his all too familiar motorcycle and drive away.

You went back into the alley, searching the ground until you found it; the capsule. You’d seen these before, not many people, let alone any crime fighters use this type.

And you remember exactly who the mutant was that showed them to you.

As soon as you got home you texted Raph that you needed to see him, hardly giving him any time to respond before you called. You were urgent in your message, pleading for him to come over and explaining that you almost got robbed but were saved by the Nightwatcher.

You felt awful because it felt like you were lying to him, luring him into a trap.

In a way you almost were, because you practically had solid evidence that he is the Nightwatcher. It’s like you acquired the last piece of the puzzle and all you had to do was put it into place.

Raphael knew what you were doing and he hated it. Hated that he allowed himself to be so careless, hated that he got himself into this predicament in the first place, hated that he knew that if he didn’t go to you then it would make him seem like the worlds most horrible boyfriend.

There’s a part of him that hopes you haven’t put two and two together, that you were just in dire need of some comfort after a nearly traumatic event. But when he takes that first step on your fire escape and looks into your window, seeing you standing there like a nervous wreck…

He knows you know.

The silence is uncomfortable, like a thick heavy blanket that makes it nearly impossible to breathe. You feel like there’s something wrapped around your lungs the longer Raph goes without saying anything. He can see one of your hands clenched into a fist, your shaking barely visible and he wants nothing more than to close the distance between you two, scoop you into his arms and kiss you breathless to distract you.

Eventually you can’t take the silence anymore, opening your hand and tossing the smoke capsule onto the carpet between you two.

It’s like the blanket doubles in thickness when his eyes land on it.

“Where—“

“Don’t. Do not fucking lie to me, Raphael.” You keep your voice steady, forcing yourself to maintain your composure and to not completely lose it at your boyfriend.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out harshly, fingers flexing against his palms as he looks between you and the empty smoke pellet.

“I can explain.”

“Why don’t you say it first.”

Another deep inhale, followed by his hand coming to run down his face.

“You’re the Nightwatcher.” Your tone gets softer but it doesn’t lessen the impact of your words nor the tears that start to line your eyes.

You hate how Raph is able to keep up his poker face, like you didn’t just reveal his longtime secret of the past year.

He only gives you a simple nod and that seems to finally break the dam.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Can we please talk about this tomorrow?” He asks, straining as he tries to keep calm.

“No,” You say, actually appalled that he would have the audacity to say that. “You need to explain yourself—“

“What the hell is there to explain!” His voice raises in volume, hands going up in the air in exasperation. “I’m protectin’ the city, I’m keepin’ people safe, I’m doin what I’ve always done!”

“But by yourself, Raph? Are you crazy!?” You fight back, holding back your anger and tears as your emotions start to overflow.

“Listen, I’ve been doin’ just fine, okay? I don’t need you breathin’ down my back now that you know.” He rolls his eyes when you scoff, folding his arms over his plastron and shaking his head.

“You don’t want me to be concerned? News flash, Hothead— that’s what loved ones do!” You couldn’t believe this, that he’s somehow turning this around on you when he’s the one who’s been lying about his late night activities for so long.

“Whatever,” He sneers, waving you off with a flick of his hand and turning towards the fire escape.

“Don’t you dare leave. We’re not done talking about this.” You step closer to him, your slipper crunching over the empty capsule as you get closer to him.

“What the fuck else is there to talk about? Hm? Because I’m sure as hell ain’t gonna stop bein’ the Nightwatcher.” He growls over his shoulder, not even giving you the respect of saying it to your face completely,

This isn’t Raph, not really. This isn’t the turtle you’ve come to fall in love with, the one who used to take you for rides around the city on his bike at random intervals of the night or the one who surprised you with a big bouquet of your favorite flowers waiting on your fire escape with a card that said ‘happy birthday, sweetheart’ right at midnight.

Not the same Raph who held you close and kissed your tears away the first time you made love because you were so overwhelmed by everything. He held you close and whispered nothing but praise and adoration for you, waiting until you showed him that beautiful smile before he took you to a pleasurable new height.

The same Raph who definitely had his faults whether it was by accidentally hitting you a bit too hard during training or the one who’d shut you out but immediately open up once he was ready.

You know that Raph is still somewhere in there, hidden within the castle of walls and laying beneath all that anger and hatred he’s built up over time due to Leo being gone.

There’s a brief fleeting moment that passes in your brain that maybe you should’ve been more patient with him, that if you had just waited out a little longer then maybe he would’ve told you instead of you having to confront him like this.

“You know what, no, how bout we talk bout the fact that you put yourself in danger! Just to prove something that you already knew! Are you fuckin’ thick in the head?” Now he whirls around to face you, his brow set so deep that all you want to do is reach up and smooth it out with your fingers.

“It’s not like you would’ve told me if I asked you! You could hardly admit it just now—“

“My business is my fuckin’ business, okay?” He gestures towards himself, tapping at his plastron and glaring down at you. “And you need to learn when to stop stickin’ your nose into shit that ain’t yours!”

He hates how he’s letting his anger consume him, letting it take over and manipulate his body like a puppet. He feels himself start to get out of control and he knows he’s got to get out there before he says something he’ll regret.

“Fine,” You croak out, the quiver in your tone not going unnoticed by him.

But it seems it’s already too late.

“You want me to stop getting in your business?”

Shit shit shit, don’t say it.

Please don’t say it.

“Wish granted. I’m done.”

You turn away so you don’t have to see the way Raphael’s face fall at your words, how his brow immediately smooths out and how his lips part in shock.

“Wha— no, sweetheart. You can’t—“ he reaches out towards you and just faintly grazes your arm. His heart falls to his stomach when you pull away, like his touch burned your skin and you had to get away before it spread like wildfire.

“I will not stand by and watch you throw yourself in danger, night after night, with absolutely no backup. I will not be waiting by my window every night, wondering if you’re going to show up with one foot on deaths door. I respected your privacy but only asked that you be careful and be mindful about what you’re doing.”

Raphael stares hard at you, fingers clenching into fists as he chooses his next few words wisely.

“So that’s it then? It’s over?”

You can tell he’s doing all he can to not break down and beg for your forgiveness. Even the next sentence being on the tip of your tongue has you shedding tears, wiping them away quickly and willing yourself to finish speaking.

“You pushed me away, refused to even give me the grace to tell me what you were doing, instead having me back you up into a corner and practically force it out of you.” You inhale shakily, saying it before you can fully stop yourself.

“It’s over.” You whisper, crying more freely now.

He looks at you crestfallen, shaking his head in disbelief as your words rings over and over in his head. He doesn’t say anything as he turns away from you and back out the window. He looks over his shoulder one last time, hating that his last memory of you is going to be you standing there heartbroken with a tear streaked face.

He wants to scream and shout; at you and himself. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you while he pleads for you to forgive him and that he’ll do better, that he’ll work on his vulnerability more. He tells himself that all you need is space, that with time you’ll take him back and you can go back to the way things were. That you can adjust to him being the Nightwatcher.

“I’m sorry.” He leaves you with that, jumping off the fire escape and disappearing into the bleak night.

You believe him and that thought makes you cry even harder.

[ghostlysoaps]

Nothing behind the eyes

Simon had thought himself equipped to handle it, the world crumbling down, but even Ghost can’t shield him from the sight of Johnny falling in a hail of crimson, blood pooling around his head like a jagged crown, nor the feeling of stillness as he presses his fingers to the side of his neck.

They leave him there, though he fights tooth and nail against the grip on his vest. They’re not even in the clear when the facility blows. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing since the gunshot and the explosion after helps none. Debris scatters with unbridled force, yet he doesn’t feel the gauges they carve through him until Price presses down on the weeping wounds.

He’d been the lucky one out of them, their captain. Ghost had needed stitches and Gaz a lengthy hospital stay on top of physical therapy before he was fit for fight again, albeit with new shadows haunting his eyes.

Ghost hands his resignation in soon after and does what he does best.

Disappear.

His new flat sees more life than his last one ever did. In the daylight hours he walks shambling trails on the already worn floor, tries to keep his mind and body busy, to acclimate to the sounds and scents of a smaller town where he’s not yet mapped the streets in their entirety. At night it hears him choking on gasps, sees his stirring limbs and the heaving of breaths as he jerks awake, again and again, from nightmares so vivid the taste of gravedirt lingers on his tongue and Johnny’s corpse, grinning from within a coffin his sergeant hadn’t seen, is still imprinted on the backs of his closed eyelids. 

The only torture worse than seeing Soap broken, being the one to further desecrate his corpse to free himself, is seeing him happy. When he’s hail and whole and reaching for Simon with laughter pouring like gold from his mouth. Because he’ll wake from those moments of false tranquillity, where all is right again, only to face a reality wherein it never came to fruition.

-

It’s a small thing. A creak of the floorboards. Something shifting close by. Simon is surprised to have heard it over the low whine in his ears, but instinct is a formidable thing even while on the cusp of sleep.

Ghost catches the steel-bearing arm when it careens for his neck and twists himself out of bed as he works to unsteady the assailant. They’re trained well. When he hooks one foot behind their leg to take them to the floor, they retaliate by grappling him in a move Ghost remembers teaching countless others. He’s at a disadvantage. The person going for his throat is strong and he’s dressed in tactical gear. Heavy where he struggles to pin Ghost down enough to wring his neck or slice the scar running down his chest back open again. 

But he’s not the only one armed, not when Ghost has knives stashed within reach and he manages to fumble one into his palm and drag it down his assailant’s thigh.

The distraction it brings allows him to flip their positions, to bash the man’s head against the floor until his eyes grow dazed.

He’s wearing a mask to shield his lower face, metal akin to a muzzle, and Ghost hesitates when those green irises catch his own – the shade of them unfamiliar though the shape of the eyes carrying them are not.

Cognisance is returning rapidly in that hollow gaze so Ghost does the only logical thing. 

He knocks him unconscious.

It gives him a momentary breather and Ghost uses that time to strip the assailant of his gear, of any hidden weaponry, and to tie him up with firm bands of rope made from hastily repurposed sheets. He doesn’t touch the mask until the overhead light is switched on. It feels sacrilegious to rid someone else of  the very thing Simon had used to protect himself for so long.

Soap stares back at him from beneath it. His mouth and jawline, his facial hair messier than he’d seen before. Ghost’s body had felt it the moment he had his thighs wrapped around the shadowed figure standing over his bed, had known, deep down, and had denied it until the proof was irrefutable. Dread creeps up his spine the longer he stares. Messy locks of brown hair covers his temple and Ghost very nearly rips it out of his scalp in his haste to bare it. A gnarled scar rests underneath, free of new growth, spanning nearly the length of his profiled head.

Pain blooms over his forearm and Ghost hisses, training kicking in to shove the appendage deeper into the teeth lodged there rather than tearing it (and a chunk of his flesh) away. His remaining hand digs fingers into the hinge of Soap’s jaw until it falls open, teeth bloodied and frothing with saliva. Yet the expression on his face barely changes. It remains terrifyingly placid. The way a rabies-stricken animal can go sweet and comfort seeking before the inevitable decline. They stare at one another for a beat, Ghost’s hand now gentled on his face – though a pale show of one considering how he’d been born for violence alone.

“Soap?”

No response.

He goes through every name he remembers them calling him and nothing sparks so much as a blink.

-

Prompts by @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 5 - First Blood

Darksiders, War X Reader X Strife.

--------

“What is this place anyway?”

Standing at the edge of the iron bars that stretch like rot-black teeth across the platform's surface, War raises his head at your question, letting his eyes roam sideways to cast a surreptitious once-over of the human hovering anxiously just a few paces to his left.

Skin that he now knows is thin as a sheet of parchment glistens with sweat, and your strange, expressive eyes flit about the cavern on a constant search for danger. You certainly are a jumpy little thing, the Horseman decides, regarding the soft, pink tongue that darts out to wet your lips for the umpteenth time. Not that his brother's reckless stunt helped much.

“If…” Your voice trails off and your body turns stiff as Strife brushes past you to circle the grate, his helm tipped down at the light glowing under the bars.

Once he’s moved beyond your immediate vicinity however, your limbs slacken by a notable margin, something that doesn’t go unseen by War, who doubts it slips his brother’s attention either.

“If it’s a dungeon… then, where are the guards?” you finish, eyeing the emptiness with new sense of unease. Then again, perhaps guards weren't deemed necessary here, what with the open space, the towering ceiling of rock bearing down on your head and the inescapable moat of lava surrounding the platform with no conceivable way off. Those factors alone might be adequate to deter any unwanted trespassers. They sure as hell would have deterred you if you weren't bullied here by two Horsemen who wouldn't take no for an answer.

With a gentle clinking of his bandolier, Strife comes to a halt on the opposite side of the iron bars and returns his full attention to you, studying you briefly before he starts to swivel his head about, copying your inspection of the chamber.

“Mm… That was starting to cross my mind as well,” he admits, shooting a blink-and-you-miss-it glance at his brother. He knows his fellow Horseman’s frosty glare well enough to recognise that War had been thinking along the very same lines.

Good. So they’re both on edge.

Truthfully though, neither of them were expecting you to notice. You’re more observant than War was prepared to give you credit for, at least.

“Plenty of space for a fight,” Strife points out. And with that thought now at the forefront of his mind, he starts to sidle back around the edge of the grate as inconspicuously as he can, none-too subtly drawing closer to you whilst pretending – poorly – that he isn’t moving in your general direction.

Somehow, War’s brows knit together even more firmly across his forehead.

For a Horseman who was, only minutes ago, very blasé about your safety, Strife certainly seems concerned about the distance between you now.

Unimpressed by his brother’s odd behaviour and borderline boyish curiosity regarding a human, War simply brushes it from his mind and instead lowers his chin to gauge the sturdiness of the grate. It looks, in a word, durable. Probably even unbreakable… For anyone other than the Red Rider.

The softly glowing light that emanates from within comes from nothing more than a small, pink crystal, floating in the gloom of its subterranean cell just near enough to the top of the grate that he could simply reach in and slide it through the bars. He could… if his gauntlets weren’t twice the width of the gaps.

A quick glance confirms that even Strife’s hands wouldn’t fit.

Fine. Brute force was always more their style anyway.

Flexing his metal fists, War starts to bend down, reaching out and wrapping his metal fingers around two of the bars, muscles clenched, ready to test their strength.

But no sooner has he secured a grip against the solid iron than a distant, but very unbidden sound floats over the gurgle of lava and drifts into his well-attuned ears, faint, but audible enough to serve as the forewarning he’s been expecting ever since he, his brother and their unwilling tagalong arrived.

Flinching, you jerk back a step as War suddenly and without preamble wrenches himself upright and twists towards you until he’s sending a rock-ribbed glare right over the top of your head, his steely eyes trained on the far side of the platform.

In an instant, Strife has followed his brother’s lead, turning his armoured back to you and straining his own ears to hear anything above the lava murmuring its course through the mountain.

“What’s the problem?” he asks, stepping backwards until his heels nearly tread on the hem of your dress, prompting an indignant noise from you that goes ignored, “Heard somethin’?”

His question remains unanswered for several, terrible beats, during which your pulse makes a steady rise from thumping to jackhammering.

At last, War narrows his eyes and grumbles, “Perhaps…”

He doesn’t mention that he’s been hearing things ever since you all set foot in this accursed keep, nor how suspicious it is that in travelling through the halls and chambers, there hasn’t been a single glimpse of another life.

Nostrils flaring, he grunts to catch his brother’s attention and adds, “Keep your guard up. Demons have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Strife wasn’t wrong when he noted that there’s plenty of space in here for a fight…

There’s plenty of space for an ambush too.

“Demons!?” you squeak, kneading the chain strap of your bag between white-knuckled fists, “You mean there’s more?”

“Yeah kid. A lot more. Whole Hell of a lot.” Strife spares a chuckle at his own joke, doing little to assuage your trepidation.

For a second, as War watches you toss his brother an exasperated look, you nearly manage to appear half as unimpressed as he does, something the giant admittedly takes a bit of vindication in.

“Stick to knock-knock jokes,” you suggest, swallowing thickly and eyeing the ledges, “They’re funnier.”

You know something is wrong – very, very wrong – when Strife suddenly has nothing witty or inflammatory to say in response.

With a gulp, you try leaning sideways to see past the armour-clad Horseman, more than a little perturbed that they’re both aiming a narrow glare in the same direction, both of their shoulders locked back like rearing vipers.

Just as you start to get the sinking feeling that you’re missing something extremely vital, a resounding growl suddenly spills out of War’s boxcar of a chest right behind your ear, forcing his lips up over his teeth and just about scaring the living daylights out of you. Whipping your head over a shoulder, you find him standing barely a foot from your back, near enough that his armoured chest takes up the entirety of your view.

How the Hell had he moved so close without you hearing it?

You wrench your mouth open to ask why the Hell he thinks making loud, unexpected noises is necessary when you’re already wound up tighter than a miser’s purse, but before you can utter a single syllable, War’s unconventional noises become the least of your worries.

From out of absolutely nowhere, the entire cavern explodes into a dreadful cacophony of chitters, high-pitched snarls and yips that send you ducking your head instinctively, tossing it back and forth with wild abandon to try and pinpoint the source of the sounds.

“What the Hell!?” you bleat, alarmed that you struggle to hear your own voice. Somewhere below the awful orchestration, the platform shudders, and a new noise emerges, the scrabbling of numerous claws frenetically fighting for purchase on a sheer rock-face.

“Ah, there it is,” Strife’s muffled voice cuts through to you over the ruckus, “Bout time the welcoming committee arrived.”

“What!?” you blurt, feeling for all the world like a record stuck on repeat, “What is that!? What’s going on!?”

Neither Horseman responds, which, you suppose, doesn’t much matter, given the answer helpfully reveals itself to you just moments later.

Louder and louder, closer and closer, the jaw-clenching clamour closes in on you from all sides of the platform until finally, just as you raise your hands to press them over your ears… the cavern is plunged into a shocking and unexpected silence. And your heart just about drops out of the bottom of your shoes.

Everything remains in a state of inertia. Nothing moves. The Horsemen don’t seem to waver an inch, even with their hands poised statuesquely on the hilts of their respective weapons. And you don’t move a muscle either. Even the breath stays trapped in your lungs, turning hot and stagnant as the seconds crawl by.

War and Strife stand on either side of you, each facing the far end of the platform.

Squinting around latter of the two, you train your eyes at the distant drop off, both trying and dreading to see what they’ve seen.

And then, slightly to the left, something hauls itself up and over the ledge.

You can’t help yourself. You wish you could stay as stoic and unaffected as the bristling giants, but you’re just too human, too fraught and unprepared, and your nerves are too shot to clench down on the muscles of your throat and stop the startled exclamation from bursting out of you.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Strife and War visibly jump at your outburst.

Standing before you on the edge of the platform, supported by two stumpy legs, is a creature plucked straight from the pages of a horror novella. Eyes of the same liquid fire that churns far below you leer out of their sunken sockets, luminous against dark, charcoal scales. You stare back at it agog, reminded first and foremost of some fanged, hairless ape with arms too long to suit its rotund little body, and a torso that feeds directly into an oversized chin, completely forgoing any semblance of a neck.

Despite its diminutive stature putting it at least a foot shorter than you, the beast sports a jaw large and wide enough to fit your entire head between fangs that jut from blackened gums like crooked stalagmites.

You think you might just pass out. Hopefully you’ll wake up when this is all over.

Through the gaps of its scaly underbelly, a burning light spews forth, orange and red and scalding like the glow in its bulging eyes. It’s mouth cranks open, and at the back of its throat, that same light seems to emanate from somewhere deep down inside its guts, as if the thing has just swallowed a bellyful of lava.

“Holy shit,” you croak, ungluing your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

Despite your hushed tone, the thing’s ragged ears twitch towards you and it lowers its head – and half its body – to jeer across the platform at you, arms splayed wide, and claws extended in threat. And then, as if you weren’t already on the verge of losing your mind, the damn thing laughs.

At least you think it laughs.

The sound that gurgles from the back of its glowing throat reminds you more of tyres on a gravel driveway.

“What in the name of god is that thing?” you whisper, secretly glad that there’s a wall of living armour standing between you and it.

“An imp,” Strife replies darkly, “And if there’s one thing you gotta know about imps-“

“-There’s never just one,” War finishes in a snarl.

As if that’s just the cue they’ve been waiting for, the cavern comes alive once more as the caterwauling starts up again, and all around you, to your left, right and even to your rear, a surging horde of those same, stocky beasts come scrambling over the lip of the platform.

Using meaty fists tipped with claws, they heave their robust bodies up, growling and chirping in excitement, their too-large fangs protruding from exposed, glistening gums.

In a perfectly rational manner, you let out a spineless shriek and whirl yourself around to face those hovering behind you, your heels clacking noisily on the stone underfoot. “Holy shit, they’re everywhere!” you gasp, so fixated on the ‘imps’ that you’ve all but backed up into the front of War’s bulwark of a leg without even realising it.

In the span of a few seconds, you find yourself utterly surrounded on all sides by a dozen… no, two dozen of the little beasts. Maybe more.

Unseen by you, War and Strife share a quick but meaningful look over the top of your head.

In a moment of clarity that often precedes their numerous battles, an understanding passes between the apocalyptic beings, a unified acknowledgement conveyed in the shadows lining War’s stone-like features and Strife’s hard, determined stare.

Your small, helpless shape huddling against a leg nearly as tall as yourself, is enough to spark a blaze in both their chests.

Together, without a word passing from one to the other, the Horsemen suddenly spring into action.

You nearly topple over backwards when the leg you’d been pressed against abruptly disappears as War spins on his heel and places his spine to you, mirroring his brother’s stance. Chaoseater’s dark blade glints in the firelight as it swings in a wide arch from the Horseman’s back, over his shoulder and finally out in front of him, held at the ready in one, powerful gauntlet.

At the same time, Strife’s revolvers are out of their holsters faster than you can blink.

Hauling them up, he levels his sights at the imps and takes a slow, measured step backwards, then another, glowering menacingly as he all but corrals you into the meagre space between their armoured legs.

You’d probably be more concerned about having a pair of Horsemen bearing down on you like this if your attention hadn’t been snagged by another figure looming out of the darkness of the pathway you’d just been thrown down from.

In swiftly mounting horror, you lift your eyes to track the newcomer as it draws closer to the precipice.

You might not have even noticed it amongst the rabble of demons clamouring at the edges of the platform. After all, you’re currently surrounded on all sides by two dozen snarling, chittering beasts, what’s one more card on the table?

But the newcomer has one, unignorable facet that distinguishes it immediately from the imps…

… It has to stand over ten feet tall.

All the moisture dries up on your tongue, and you realise with a punch to the gut that neither of the Horsemen have yet noticed the figure looking down on you from above.

The shadowed escarpment grants you no clues as to its immediate features. But the sheer size… the implied weight that sends loose pieces of stone tumbling from the bottom of the overhang and out of sight as the creature clomps heavily up to the edge…

It cuts a broad silhouette. Wider than a car. Wider than a bus. And taller than Strife and War combined.

“Uh, guys?” you whisper hoarsely, your lungs as dry and empty as a dead lakebed.

The colossal shape crouches, and whatever hope you might have had at getting out of this in one piece is shattered like glass on a marble floor.

With a physics defying kick of tree-trunk legs, it jumps.

War and Strife turn their heads just in time to witness the sinister figure leap from the edge of the overhang, hurtle across the space the Horsemen – and you – had just cleared, and land with a resounding ‘boom!’ on the platform with enough force to send shockwaves rippling outwards through the solid stone underfoot.

You’re almost shaken right out of your heels by the impact, barely sparing yourself a tumble by grabbing the edge of War’s steel faulds and hauling yourself upright again, not even budging the Horsemen an inch. If he cares at all, he doesn’t react, and you could almost believe your strength is so insignificant to him that he didn’t even feel you use him as leverage at all.

Straining your neck back, you take your first proper look at the beast that just threw itself down here with you…. And then you nearly collapse all over again.

You thought it looked big up on the escarpment, but seeing it now a mere dozen feet or so in front of you, you couldn’t have underestimated its size more dreadfully if you’d tried.

“This isn’t happening,” you ramble to yourself, eyes bulging in their sockets as you tip your head back to take in the gruesome sight towering over you, “Please God, tell me this isn’t happening.”

Not that you really believe a god had any hand in making this scary son of a bitch.

The monstrous creature walks like a man, upright and bipedal, with swollen, musclebound arms and a small head perched upon its neck. But there, the differences diverge. Dull, leathery scales the colour of rust shine under the firelight, entirely hairless like the imps. Its immense bulk is supported by strong, digitigrade legs that bend inhumanly at the knees and ankle, carrying it forwards as it tromps noisily across the stone towards you.

Roving your stare up the length of its body, you audibly gulp at the sight of two, inverse wings protruding from somewhere between its robust shoulder blades, a layer of bulging fat stretched between the bones like a membrane to evoke the twisted image of a gargantuan, oversized bat.

From the top of its skull, a pair of horns sweep forwards in threat, black as charcoal and pointed at their tips.

Perfect for impaling or goring, you note with a swirl of dread.

But perhaps worst of all, more-so than the bear-trap jaws and the honest-to-god Morningstar fused to the end of a powerful tail, is the weapon it carries in one of its meaty fists that makes War’s sword seem comically small in comparison.

It looks like some sort of club. Albeit one made entirely of metal, with spikes protruding from rotating cylinders that churn mechanically as the beast spins them idly with its free hand, showing off a nauseating array of skulls engraved in the surface.

Well, if you weren’t dead before, you soon will be.

As if the demon weren’t already unconquerable enough, everything above its rotund waist is protected by a layer of medieval, grey armour, which begs the question; What could possibly be out here that would prompt a beast like this to wear armour?

You’d wondered the same about War and Strife when you took a moment to consider them properly.

There’s always a bigger fish…

And if there is a merciful god in this ever-expanding universe, you can only pray to it that the fish don’t come any bigger than this.

You can’t tear your eyes off the demon – for a demon it must be - not even as War takes a deliberate and unexpected step in front of you, obscuring you from its sight, but leaving your flank exposed. The doesn’t stop you from peeking around his side of course, quaking with each of its footfalls as you gape up at those crushing teeth.

Imps scatter left and right as their apparent champion tromps a path through their ranks, defying any to get caught underfoot.

Then, with its armour clanking and its bulbous tail swinging lazily from side to side, the beast lumbers to a halt, nostrils flared with interest.

Suddenly, that massive, terrible jaw falls open and –

“Horsemen.”

A voice as deep as Earth’s molten core booms out of the demon’s throat, buzzing through your chest and spreading from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet.

Honestly, you hadn’t expected it to be able to talk…

At your side, Strife shifts his weight, muttering a foreign, gruff word under his breath, his eyes narrowed so thinly, they only permit a crack of golden light to shine through. His guns remain poised at some of the imps, but you’ve no doubt they could easily be redirected at the slightest provocation.

“I’m glad you decided to drop by,” the monster continues, its booming voice rivalling War’s for volume, low and rough as if it’s spent a lifetime gargling rocks, “My pets were starting to get hungry.”

On cue, the imps perk up with gleeful snaps of their teeth, eyeing you greedily between the bridling Horsemen.

Breathing out a quiet whimper, you’re so entrenched in staring at the larger creature that you don’t even register War squaring his stance, sliding one of his legs back to cover your exposed flank.

“Oh yeah, they look real famished,” Strife drawls, his eyes sweeping the room continuously, “Bet I can guess what’s on the menu…”

Gnashing his teeth impatiently, War brandishes his sword and raises his voice to issue a thunderous command. “Give us the artifact, demon! Or I shall be the one feeding you and your pets to my blade!”

In his hand, Chaoseater thrums eagerly in anticipation.

Meanwhile, still trying to swallow your heart, you don’t dare speak, petrified that you might draw attention to yourself, but even so, there still exists the smallest part of you that vies to apply some sort of order to this circumstance, an explanation or – Hell – just a plain old escape plan. You’re not in the know here, you’re completely out of your depth. You realise, with some ironic twist of fate, that you have little choice now but to trust these two, unpredictable Horsemen, because in a situation that spans entire universes beyond your understanding, you have to look to them to know what comes next.

Peeling your tongue off the roof of your mouth, you manage to squeak out a thin, reedy, “What… what do we do?”

At the sound of your voice, Strife’s helm twists ever so slightly over his shoulder to send you a fleeting glance, only to immediately do a double take, his scowl lifting as he catches a glimpse of your haggard face and glistening lashes.

Creator... Did you always look that small?

“…Hey,” he utters, his voice a note gentler in addressing you, “Just sit tight, Sweetheart. We’ll take care of this.”

Startled by the unexpected softness, your eyes snap sideways, blinking desperately up into his.

You want to believe him, so, so badly. Because if they can’t fend off these demons, then you haven’t got an ice-cube’s chance in Hell of getting back to your father, or Earth at all, for that matter.

But even you can see how awfully the odds are stacked against you.

Not only are the Horsemen outnumbered, but they’re also outsized, outgunned, and outmatched in every conceivable way. All of this, you convey in your pinched brows and clenched teeth, practically broadcasting your doubt to Strife, who meets it with his own gaze, steady and fearless, everything you’re not.

You still don’t understand why he and his brother dragged you here, nor why they’d bother to keep you alive.

Who are you to them?

Who are humans to them?

“Oh…?” That dreadful, rumbling cadence utters, drawing Strife’s furious glare back into place once more as the demon inhales deeply through its nostrils, exhaling sparks of fire. “That smell…”

You see the Horsemen physically tense around you. War’s shoulders nearly double in size as if he’s making a concerted effort to appear larger than he is, and a reverberating growl vibrates the heart thrashing behind your ribcage.

Whipping forwards again, you dare to poke your head a little further out past War’s faulds, only to immediately lose the colour in your face, regretting your decision the moment it’s too late to withdraw it.

Your eyes have locked with the cold, jaundiced stare of the demon.

Trapped by the hypnotic allure of something that had, until now, been completely unknowable to you, you watch as it peels its black lips aside to unsheathe the extent of its jagged, gleaming fangs, spilling orange light from the back of its throat. “Ah,” it breathes, exhaling insidious satisfaction, “I see you’ve brought me an appetiser.”

Where your heart had been lodged in your throat, suddenly it plummets into your stomach again, sinking with a heavy stone of dread. You let out a gasp, only to have your choked exclamation drowned out by Strife’s sharp retort.

“Hey!” he yells, pulling the demon’s gaze away from you.

Snarling, it twitches its head in his direction, fangs bared in threat.

Undeterred, the Horseman lets out a throaty noise of his own and growls, “How about you pick on someone your own size?”

While you’re somewhat taken aback by his interference, you don’t really think you need to point out that neither he, nor his brother are anywhere near the size this demon boasts.

Apparently, it agrees with you.

Throwing its head back, it lets out a raucous, bone-chilling laugh, its fleshy chin wobbling with the force. “I will pick you from my teeth, Horsemen!” it chortles, lowering its head to flash a bestial grin, “And when I’m done with you, I’ll wash the taste of your flesh down with this tender morsel’s blood!”

The crimson and grey bulwark in front of you draws himself up, proverbial hackles rising with his boiling temper. The reverberation that spills from his chest is as inhuman as he is. 

Legs like jelly beneath your hips, you unconsciously reach out and grasp for the back of War’s faulds again, steadying yourself on the cumbersome armour.

Sucking a breath in through his teeth, Strife pretends to be pensive for all of a second as he bounces one of his revolvers and responds, “Ah. No. Sorry, big guy, but that’s not really gonna work for us. Y’see my brother and I-“ He notches his head sideways at War. “-Just agreed to keep an eye on the human, so it’s gonna make us look real bad if you go and kill her now.”

If War wasn’t so busy taking stock of the battle ground, he’d spare just a few seconds to slap a palm to his forehead.

All around you, the excitable chatter falls silent and still as each and every pair of demonic eyes swivel around to look directly at you.

The juggernaut’s crooked jaw twitches. “Did you say… human?”

A heavy weight seems to drape itself over the platform, bearing down on your head until the blood screams through your ears.

“Uhm…” Strife falters, his eyes darting from left to right until he at last lets out an eloquent, “Shit.”

Just as you start to wonder – again – why your humanity is such a point of interest, without warning, the demon hoists its weapon into one hand and aims the end of its bludgeon at you.

“KILL THE HORSEMEN!” it bellows at the top of its lungs, shaking the stalactites that dangle from the ceiling, “But leave the human to me.”

In response, the imps start to howl and bay like dogs on the hunt, slamming their fleshy fists against their chests whilst the demon turns its fetid gaze down to you once more, and you can’t do anything but watch on in horror as a thick, fat tongue slides out from behind its lips and sweeps across crooked fangs, leaving a trail of drool trickling down its chin. “I want to have the first taste.”

A pitiful noise falls out of your mouth, but once again, it’s swallowed by the sharp ‘click’ of Strife cocking the hammers back on his guns.

“Over my dead body,” he spits, then raises his voice and calls out to War, “You wanna take the big one!?”

Grunting in affirmation, the larger Horseman gives a roll of his almighty shoulders and huffs, “Gladly. It seems more fitting.”

“Why?” Strife quips, sending a sly grin at his brother, “Cause he’s mean and ugly?”

Curling his lip, War snarls at the smaller demons as they begin to rush forwards as one shrieking horde, ushered by the trumpeting of their master. “Yes, and you can take the imps,” he retorts, ramping up his volume as he breaks into a slow, forward charge that rips your hand from his faulds, building momentum with each, pounding footstep, “They’re loud and bothersome!”

Unleashing its most primal roar yet, the demon lurches into motion seconds later, following the weight of its head and horns as it lumbers towards a frontal collision with War, who meets its challenge with a battle cry so fierce, you wonder how it doesn’t rip the flesh from his throat.

“He can’t fight that thing!” you exclaim, incredulous. As much as you don’t like the surly giant, you’re not exactly vying to see him flattened by one swing of the demon’s fist. He might be your ticket out of here, after all. And if he goes down, there’s no way Strife could take on every demon in here and keep you alive.

You’re suddenly broken from your fretting when a towering, silver silhouette steps in front of you, filling War’s vacated spot with another wall of gleaming battle armour.

“Don’t worry about War,” Strife calls down to you over his shoulder, taking aim at two imps who have broken away from the ranks in the vain hopes of getting to you first, “He’s a professional, he does this all the time.”

You find it hard to imagine any profession where charging headfirst at a colossal demon is considered the norm, but then there are a lot of things about this world that fly straight over your head.

Around the edge of Strife’s armour, you can see the imps scurrying closer, and every synapse of your brain suddenly jolts, sending a shot of adrenaline down through your blood vessels, waking up your overwrought muscles and telling you to take flight.

That, of course, is when the first bullet is fired.

Instinctively, you yelp and duck your head as a veritable explosion sounds out across the chamber, amplified by the high ceiling and hard surroundings. Somewhere up ahead, an imp’s beady little eyes roll back into its skull, and it crumples to the floor, sporting a clean hole straight through the centre of its forehead.

“Holy shit,” you breathe aloud, privately impressed. But you hope he has more than one round in the chamber because there are a lot of –

‘BANG!’

Again, you flinch, while Strife’s arm barely jerks as another round erupts from one of the guns, this time finding its mark through an imp’s eyeball. Blood explodes out the back of its head, and your stomach lurches, forcing you to retreat behind Strife’s back again lest you start dry heaving all over the floor.

Swinging your gaze around, you blurt out a sudden shriek, thoughtlessly plastering your spine to the Horseman’s backside and slapping frantically at his leg, screeching, “Behind you!”

With a grunt of surprise, Strife flicks a look over his shoulder and sees the other half of the impish army swiftly closing in from the rear.

A second passes, the briefest interval in which he’s struck by the humbling realisation that you’re sticking close to a Nephilim for safety.

And then suddenly, Strife comes alive.

Deft fingers flex rapidly against the triggers of Mercy and Redemption as he sweeps them in a wide, graceful arc, squeezing round after round out through their chambers and into the heads of the oncoming horde. Vibrating with glee, Strife lets his muscles do the work. They remember the motions. He revels in the familiar buzz of tingling nerves and the roar of gunfire thrumming in his ears.

There isn’t even a second between one shot and the next. His torso twists lithely despite all of his armour to shoot over your head, taking out a line of imps in the span of a few seconds. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. The demons don’t even pause to take stock of their dead, too confident that their sheer numbers will be enough to overwhelm the Horsemen. They simply clamber over the one that falls in front and continue, salivating, mad with blood lust.

It’s almost too easy.

Strife tips his head back, yawning obnoxiously as he whips Mercy towards an imp that’s made it just a bit too close to the human for his liking. A blast to its gut is powerful enough to send it flying back into some of its brethren, knocking them off their stubby feet.

Yes, he’s big enough to admit that he might be showing off, just a little, but with the eyes of a fabled human on him, Strife can hardly help himself.

He has to resist the urge to glance down and check that you’re watching.

Unbeknownst to the Horseman however, you’re not so much impressed by the display as you are downright horrified. Mouth hanging ajar, you forget to breathe as you watch Strife move. Precise twitches of his arms and wrists bring another target into the firing line, minute adjustments that happen too quickly and too numerously for you to keep track of.

You remember watching some old Westerns with your father when you were very small, gathered in his favourite armchair to witness the skill of Hollywood actors who posed as gunslingers and desperados, each claiming to be the ‘quickest draw in the West.’ You used to believe you were seeing the best of the best, back before you grew older and learned that magic can easily be faked by special camera angles and cuts and fine editing.

But even if it was real, even if all those actors and stuntmen were authentic and really could shoot a man’s dime out of the air blindfolded with one hand tied behind their back, they wouldn’t have held a candle to the skill you’re witnessing first hand.

Calm as an old oak tree and with the grace and power of a machine, Strife stands fast against the braying swarm, never missing his mark, never stopping to reload, never even flinching from the recoil.

In what has to be under ten seconds, Strife has thinned two dozen imps down to the last four, leaving scores of small, rotund bodies dotted around the chamber. The survivors don’t even slow as they reach him. You brace yourself, still cowering in the Horseman’s shadow as the imps launch themselves at you, their claws outstretched and unsheathed ready to slash, to fight.

… Only to end up having their skulls caved in by a bullet before they can even come close to scratching you or the Horseman’s armour, too stupid to break ranks and try to come at him from different angles. But even if they’d tried flanking him, you doubt they’d have had much more luck.

It’s over before it ever truly began.

The last of the imps drops dead to the floor, its forward momentum sending it skidding to a halt on the stony ground, inches from the toes of your heels.

 You almost fall over yourself stumbling away from it, cringing at the rivulet of blood that dribbles out between its teeth.

“See?” Strife boasts as he turns himself around to face you, flashing a cocksure grin down at you before he remembers it’s hidden behind his visor. Huh. Disappointing… Heaving a mental shrug, he carries on, “Nothing to it.”

Nothing to it, he says, as if you hadn’t just watched him massacre a small army without so much as a ‘by your leave.’

Strife seems to notice that your face is drawn back in trepidation instead of awe, and his grin falters slightly beneath his helm.

Breathing hard, you gulp past a stone in your throat and peer around the Horseman, jutting your chin at the demon currently trying to crush his brother into pulp.

“Uh, okay, sure - but what about him!?” you sputter.

Turning to look, Strife silently observes War’s attempt at getting in close enough to land a hit on the leathery behemoth. To its credit, the demon is far quicker on its feet that either of them seem to have anticipated.

To your astonishment, Strife lets out an honest-to-goodness chuckle and cups a hand around where you assume his mouth is, calling, “Having trouble, War?! Come on, I just killed like, fifty demons and you’re still on your first!?”

There were nowhere near fifty, and you wonder if he thinks humans don’t know how to count.

Your head cranks around to stare at him, aghast. “Strife!” you exclaim, his name sounding awkward and unnatural on your tongue.

“What?” comes his breezy reply.

Setting aside the fact that he’s probably distracting War, you’re more astounded that he’s just… standing here, cracking jokes whilst his own brother tries to fend off an adversary nearly three times his size.

If it were your father there, fighting on his own… you’d….

“That-!” you splutter, throwing an arm out and gesturing wildly across the platform, “That’s your brother!” Christ alive, how often have they been in these situations that such casual indifference is warranted?

Strife must see the abhorrence etched across your features because he’s quick to change tactics, realising that he isn’t impressing you by acting aloof.

Holding up his hands, still with a revolver clutched in each, he bobs them back and forth at you mollifyingly. “Okay, okay, take it easy,” he acquiesces, “I’m on it.”

Bemused that you’ve taken such a sudden, unexpected turn towards his brother’s safety, Strife spins neatly on his heel, pauses, then twists around once more to level a contrastingly stern glare down at you. You blink at the abrupt change, recoiling slightly as he extends one of his forefingers and points it between your eyes.

“Stay. Here,” he tells you firmly, no trace of a joke in this order.

“But-!”

“Ah!” he interrupts, “No buts! Just stay there and don’t move!”

In response, you lift your hands indicatively and give him a look that screams, ‘where the hell would I move to?’

Satisfied, the Horseman nods once, and then he’s off, jogging briskly across platform towards the pair of titans battling it out.

Another of the demon’s blows misses War, striking the ground where he'd been standing seconds before, and shaking the platform under your feet.

Hovering here, helpless and useless, you bring your hands up to your chest, wringing them over one another, suddenly feeling a lot more vulnerable out in the open sans a Horseman to act as a buffer.

It’s a selfish thing to think, that your first instinct is to see them as a pair of shields against the horrors of this place, but you’re well past pretending to be a selfless person. It’s easy to act heroic when situations that require a hero aren’t foisted upon you. Survival should be paramount for you now.

You won’t leave your father alone on his death bed.

You won’t leave him without saying goodbye.

Stumbling backwards away from the grate at the centre of the platform, you allow your tired feet to carry you as far from the battle as possible, keeping your gaze locked on the Horsemen as you pick your way blindly around the decimated corpses of the imps until at last, you stop, casting a brief glance over your shoulder to find you’re as close to the ledge as you dare to get. On the corner, furthest from the fight, you watch the Horsemen with your stomach twisting itself into anxious knots.

“Need a hand!?” Strife shouts as he skids to a stop near the demon’s flank, raising Mercy and firing off a shot that ricochets off its metal helmet.

The beast’s head jerks forwards before whirling around to roar at its new opponent.

Quick as a whipcrack, Strife fires another two rounds, the twin retorts echoing around the chamber.

Wrenching its head to the side just in time, the demon manages to catch each bullet on its horns instead of its face. They bounce harmlessly off the solid bone, their casings falling to the ground with smoke trailing from the hollow ends.

Letting out a rumbling growl, War uses the momentary distraction to charge for its legs, aiming a lunge at the beast’s exposed belly.

It’s size, however, is deceptive. With just milliseconds to spare, the demon heaves itself backwards, retreating just out of range of the arching blade. In retaliation, it lifts its bludgeon high overhead and glares down at War, sparks flying from its maw when it bellows, bringing the long weapon down on a direct collision course with the Horseman’s skull.

Unseen across the platform, you slap your hands over your eyes, teeth bared in terrified anticipation.

War’s head snaps up to see the weapon rapidly bearing down on him, and merely curls his lip in response, more vexed than alarmed.

Muscles bunching, he suddenly kicks off on his boots and throws his body to the side, rolling over his shoulder and using the momentum to spring to his feet once more, further away from the beast, and not a moment too soon.

‘WHAM!’

With the force of an asteroid impact, the bludgeon crashes into the hard floor, exerting enough force to crack the rock and send splinters spiderwebbing out from the point of contact.

“Nice move!” Strife praises his brother, only to let out a short bark of shock when the demon swings its tail around towards him as it recovers from the missed blow.

Ducking his head, the huge appendage skims over him, so close that the softer under-scales ruffle the tips of his spiked hair.

“Shit!” he exclaims, eyes tracking the tail when it starts sweeping back towards him, leaving the Horseman with little else to do except throw himself to the ground, stomach first, flattening his body into the hard stone.

“Son of a…” Not his most dignified position…

Hopefully you didn’t see that…

Baring his teeth, he braces himself, waiting to feel the air rush past above him, and then, with a grunt, he rolls onto his side and raises the arm that isn’t pressed into the grit, firing several rounds at the underside of its tail.

A deafening howl erupts from the demon’s lungs as his bullets embed themselves into the spongey flesh, drawing forth thick, oily blood that spatters from the wounds and joins the imp blood on the stone slabs.

The demon snorts furiously through its nostrils, slamming the bulbous end of its tail against the ground in a way that promises retribution as it stumbles backwards, putting a little more distance between it and the Horsemen.

Unbeknownst to you and your unorthodox kidnappers, something has finally occurred to the brute.

Maybe it really is on the backfoot here.

It knows these Horsemen. Word travelled fast after the massacre at Eden, of how four Nephilim were able and willing to eradicate the rest of their species…

The demon had, perhaps foolishly, assumed that with only one half of a quartet, it would stand a chance. But one Horseman alone has already proven more of a challenge than it anticipated. The second, the one with the loud mouth, was supposed to be overwhelmed by the imps… Now that the pair of them have entered the fray though…

The demon’s twisted mind chugs into gear, cobbling together a desperate strategy. Its yellow eyes flit from the red-cloaked Horseman to the one toting guns who’s hauling himself to his feet, its nostrils opening wide in agitation.

It draws in a deep, ragged breath…

... And freezes.

Only for a second, mind. Plenty of time to process the scent whilst the Nephilim regroup.

Below the stench of brimstone, below the freshly spilled imp blood seeping into the stone underfoot, it catches that smell once again.

It’s mouth-watering.

Meat made tender by fear.

Forbidden meat. Exotic… Something no demon has ever had the chance to taste.

Its crooked jaws split open in a wide, cruel grin, and all at once, it whips its head around, beady eyes locking fast onto the tiny morsel wrapped in white, standing near the ledge.

‘There,’ it concludes, zeroing in on its unsuspecting little boon, ‘is how to gain the upper hand.’

Strife’s brows snap together when the demon’s entire demeanour shifts.

Picking himself up, he shares a glance with his brother on the beast’s opposite flank.

‘The Hell is it looking-‘

He connects the dots a few moments too late.

“Strife!” War bellows as the demon heaves its bulk around, away from the Horsemen, and there’s an unbidden hint of urgency in his tone, “The human!”

‘No,’ Strife mouths silently, looking beyond the demon to find you frozen near the platform’s edge, paralysed with fear.

Then, aloud, in a voice that grows stronger with each word, he growls, “No… No! NO!”

He’s moving before he’s even finished the last word.

Two sets of metal boots slam against the ground as two Horsemen hurl themselves into a breakneck gallop, tearing after their adversary as if a fire has been lit under their heels.

War’s hood topples back off his head, leaving his long, white-blonde hair to whip madly through the air behind him as he sprints, only slightly slower than his brother, whose guns are aimed at the demon’s retreating back.

“LEAVE HER ALONE!” Strife roars, unleashing a maelstrom of bullets that strike the tougher scales on its exposed legs, doing nothing to slow its forward charge.

Neither of them understands why there rises such a ferocious surge of rage at the prospect of the demon threatening their human charge, but regardless of why, War’s sigil scar still blazes hotly in the open air, streaking orange across his forehead, and Strife’s golden eyes burn like sparks off a blacksmith’s forge.

The unspoken agreement that had passed between them earlier, connects them again now.

You haven’t moved from your spot in the corner, hunkered down in a half crouch, half cower with your legs locked in place and a swirling, empty abyss carving a hole straight out of your stomach. Your entire body jumps with each of the demon’s footsteps.

It passes the grate, in long, loping strides, hurtling towards you at a breakneck pace, leaving you no time to gather your wits.

Strife’s little stunt lies forgotten in the past where it happened.

This is how you really die.

‘So much for getting back to dad,’ a small, sardonic voice whispers in the back of your mind.

Behind the demon, War puts on a burst of speed, rocketing past the grate and keeping his eyes locked on you like you've lost your mind.

Why are you just standing there?

For a split second, his priorities shift, and in an unprecedented turn of events, it’s his mission that takes a backseat.

Later, he’ll berate himself for allowing his composure to slip enough that he opens his mouth and aims a harrowing order in your direction.

“HUMAN!”

Your bulging eyes meet his across the platform.

“RUN!”

‘Run?’ you grimace, effectively shaken from your stupor by the sheer absurdity of his demand, ‘In heels?’

But it’s as if that one, deafening order had adequately unglued your legs from solid cement.

War hadn’t told you what will happen if you don’t run but you’re smart enough to parse the consequences for yourself.

Run, or die.

Not fantastic options, but you know for a fact which of the two you like less.

Giving your head a rough shake, you suck down a breath and clumsily gather up the front of your skirts as the demon extends one of its hands towards you.

Like a bullet, you turn to the side and start to run, haring off across the platform and cursing with each step you take in your tottering heels. The tender soles of your feet burn with the pressure of running in them, and you’re half tempted to kick them off in favour of fleeing barefoot, but that would take time. Time you’ve stupidly allowed yourself to run low on.

You can hear the demon bearing down on you like a runaway train, feel its sulphurous breath raging against the back of your neck. Bullets twang off the metal armour, and behind you, Strife hollers something which gets lost under the cruel laugh that erupts from the monster chasing you and reverberates through your chest.

The platform’s opposite corner is rapidly approaching.

Blinking through the sweat clinging to your brow, you pump your legs even harder, thighs already burning as you haul your ungainly dress along after you and will the demon not to tread on the back of it as it trails through the dust in your wake.

Suddenly, just as you come to the corner and start to push off on your right foot to dart left, a rush of air whooshes by, bringing with it thick, meaty fingers and claws that appear in your peripheral vision and reach past you, curling into your path.

You know as soon as they appear that the jig is up.

You’re too late to slam on the brakes.

Regardless, you try to stop yourself anyway, pushing your weight down into the toes of your shoes to come to an awkward, staggering halt. But, thwarted by your own momentum, your weight comes unbalanced, and you totter forwards, throwing your hands up to catch yourself as you topple right into the demon’s waiting palm.

Clammy, rugged fingers snap shut around your waist and legs, and you barely have time to gasp in shock before you’re unceremoniously wrenched off the ground.

Triumphant, the demon digs its heels in and brings itself to a clumsy stop at the edge of the platform, a writhing, whimpering human squeezed viciously beneath its crushing fist.

“Ha!” it barks, whirling to face the Horsemen and bringing its struggling prize up in front of its face.

Collectively, Strife and War come careening to a stop several yards from the demon, the former’s guns shaking with rage as he aims them at the brute’s skull, his fingers stiff on the triggers. He’d been microseconds away from firing when it turned. He hadn’t expected it to raise you up to cover its head, leaving Mercy’s sights trained with terrifying precision right at the sweat-streaked furrow between your brows instead.

There are tears pouring down your cheeks, your blunt nails scrabble uselessly at the closest, scaly knuckle, and something hidden deep down inside Strife’s soul starts to raise its sleepy head.

Grinding his teeth together, he eases his fingers off the triggers and spits a venomous curse, though he doesn’t lower his weapons.

“Coward!” War seethes at the demon, Chaoseater humming against his palm, “You would use a human as your shield!?”

With a chortle that raises the hackles of both Horsemen, it bares its fangs into a malicious grin and utters a single, chilling demand. “Lower. Your. Weapons.”

You give up on scraping your nails against its toughened hide and take to thrashing madly in its hold instead, a swathe of distressed grunts and bleats tumbling from your constricting throat. It’s like trying to fight your way out of a concrete coffin. The flesh on its palm is spongey, softer than the rest of the brute, but still inescapable. No matter how hard you try to kick your legs or twist your torso around, the colossal fingers don’t budge an inch.

‘Not like this!’ a frightened voice screams inside your head, ‘Not like this!’

The demon seems content to ignore you. The struggles of its prey are hardly a thing of concern now that it has you in its grasp. Of far greater concern are the two Nephilim bristling like hell hounds with their meal stolen out from under their noses.

Their weapons remain raised, and when neither of them makes a move to do as asked, the demon simply shrugs one massive shoulder and gives its hand a demonstrative flex.

The cry that’s punched out of you breaks apart halfway through, turning into a wet, choked gurgle as your ribs squeeze against your lungs. Head thrown back, your jaw stretches open around a silent plea for mercy.

Strife is the first to react.

It wounds him greatly to do so, but with an effort that physically aches, he lowers his guns until they’re pointed at the ground.

The pressure around your chest loosens by a fraction.

War’s face is set like stone as he glowers up at the demon from underneath his creased eyebrows, white hair cascading around shoulders that heave up and down with unmitigated outrage.

The demon merely raises one of its cragged brow ridges, peering at him, expectant.

“War,” Strife breathes.

His brother’s canines glint wickedly in the light.

Slowly, as if Strife had just asked him to pluck out his own eyes, War begrudgingly allows Chaoseater to drift down, its tip thudding against the stone in front of him.

Another inch of space opens up around you, enough for you to noisily suck down a greedy lungful of air, coughing and spluttering as you try to get your precious breath back.

Above you, the demon’s throaty voice growls over your head like a roll of thunder. “Now… Place your weapons on the ground.”

Collapsed over the demon’s forefinger, you half hear Strife bark, “You put her down first!”

Something shiny glints in the corner of your eye.

Shuddering around each breath you take, you roll your head to the side, mouth ajar, and spot a familiar, silver chain falling over your shoulder. It takes you a second to recognise the significance of it, yet when the realisation hits, it hits hard.

You still have your bag…

“You are in no position to bargain, Horseman,” the demon snarls, lashing its tail aggressively, ignorant of your eyes snapping open and your shivering heart giving a hopeful jump.

You still have your bag!

The tiny, silver lifeline dangles over the side of the demon’s index finger, the chain still hot against your bare neck. It isn’t much. Hell, it’s barely anything.

But right now, it’s the only thing you have to work with.

Suddenly frantic, you stretch your arms out and scrabble for it, grabbing the chain and yanking the whole thing towards you.

‘Please, please, please!’ repeats in your head like a mantra as you fumble with the clasp and throw open the lid, plunging your hand inside, digging for something – anything – you can use.

You’re just lucky the demon is so focused on the Horsemen that it only equates your sudden liveliness with renewed attempts to free yourself.

“How about a deal?” Strife pipes up, he and his brother equally oblivious to your discovery, “Demons like deals, right?”

In response, its scowl deepens, and it bares its teeth at him, unconvinced.

Undeterred, the Horseman forges ahead. “So how about this. You-“ He points a finger up at the overgrown demon. “-Let the human go… And we-“ Here, he gestures between himself and his brother. “- promise to kill you nice and quickly. Sound good?”

You don’t even hear the beast’s response, you’re so fixated on the contents of your bag.

Blinking hard to try and clear away the tears on your lashes, you peer down into your bag, shoving aside notes, lipstick, your phone-

Your phone!?

You nearly drop the whole bag in shock.

Of all the…

How!? How could you have forgotten you put your phone in the bag before you left for church!?

It’s less than useless in this situation, of course, but if you make it out of here alive…

A surge of adrenaline smacks you square in the chest, filling you with a much-needed boost of determination to get out of this bastard’s clutches.

Pushing the phone aside, you can finally see all the way to the bottom of the bag.

There!

Your gorge rises with terrified excitement.

A slim, tiny object sits in your bag’s depths, almost lost amongst all the other bric-a-brac, stainless steel, tapered to a point at its tip…

It’s not a knife, nor truly a weapon of any kind. But right now, it’s the best you’ve got.

Nearing the very end of your frazzled tether, you slip your trembling fingers around the metal nail file and pull it from the confines of your bag, clutching it inside your fist with the sharp point sticking out beneath your curled pinkie.

Wriggling around to face the soft, unarmoured flesh in the juncture where the demon’s thumb and forefinger connect, you fill your lungs with a hot, steadying breath, and raise your fist high above your head.

You’re about to pit a few inches of metal meant for filing nails against a demon of biblical proportions.

This will either be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, or…

No. No, it’s only stupid.

Bravery is for other people, smarter people who would have figured a way out of this by now.

You’re just a desperate human who wants to go home.

Far below you on the ground, War’s eyes track movement near the demon’s head, and his sharp, blue gaze flies up to see your shaking arm poised high in the air above you.

Something small and silver flashes in the light, held in a vice-like grip between your tiny fingers.

Strife sees it just after his brother, and his jaw immediately goes slack.

The demon only sees your arm fall…

… And then all it sees is white.

A blinding pain sears up the length of its bulging forearm, forcing its head back to send a roar up at the stalactites quivering overhead.

Staggering backwards, the demon all but flings its hand open and allows its prey to tumble towards the hard ground with a yelp.

For a moment, all you know is the gut-wrenching sensation of gravity pulling you back down to the ground once again, and then, without warning, there’s a distant clatter of steel, and all of the air is knocked out of you for the second time in less than an hour by something brawny and powerful.

You’ve felt this before. Arms as thick and steady as tree trunks catch you before your back can hit the ground, stopping your descent in a manner that’s only slightly less jarring as it would be to crash into solid stone.

Your eyes fling open, and you once again find yourself blinking owlishly up into War’s rugged face, now completely exposed by the noticeable lack of his usual, scarlet hood.

Behind him, his sword lays patiently on the ground, dropped in favour of freeing up his hands to spare you from a bruised or broken spine.

He’s staring down at you with the same, open-mouthed shock you’re giving back to him. In a small, seldom visited corner of your mind, you realise that he’s a lot less terrifying without his hood.

“Nice… catch,” you wheeze breathlessly, and after a pause, you add, “Again.”

The sigil on his forehead flares brightly for a second as he inspects you from top to bottom, drawing in a breath like he’s about to speak.

Before he can utter a sound however, the platform around you judders under the power of the demon’s uproarious screech.

Wrenching his eyes up and away from you, the Horseman’s teeth snap together into a wordless snarl, and in another shocking turn, he promptly yanks you right underneath his chest, squashing you against armour that’s less forgiving than marble.

Wincing in discomfort, you nonetheless follow his line of sight until you find yourself staring up into the warped visage what might have been your murderer.

The demon’s eyes are rolling in their sockets, and although it might be small, you and the Horsemen can still make out a little splinter of metal jutting from the sensitive flesh at the base of its thumb.

Outraged, it uses the tips of its fingers to pluck your nail file from its wounded hand. A spurt of blood bursts from the wound once the metal is free of its confines, giving you a good indication of just how hard you’d shoved the implement into its skin.

Sparing the file a filthy growl, the demon cocks its arm back and hurls it spitefully to the ground, sending it skittering right over to the grate where it comes to a rest, the once silver blade dripping with unholy blood.

Rounding on you and War, the beast lets out a ferocious growl.

“You… You dare!?” it demands, raising its bludgeon, a fresh and frenzied hatred bursting into existence within its heartless chest. Blood spilled by a human - a creature so much lesser than itself - is a shameful humiliation that it doesn’t intend to let go unpunished. The only way to stymie the flow of its haemorrhaging pride is to kill you, ruthlessly, something that will bring it far more pleasure now than it would have before.

It will instil a fear in you so great, your human kin will know the terror of demon kind without having the privilege of meeting them.

Spine curved back, its arm reaches the apex of its swing, the bludgeon poised behind its head ready to come crashing down on top of you and a seething War.

It’s easy to forget about the long, pink scar trailing down the length of your arm in spite of the person who gave it to you clutching you against his broad, armoured chest. It’s easy to forget that War is supposedly a Horseman of the Apocalypse when there’s a creature here who has already shown so much more inclination to kill you than he has. For a moment, you’re not ashamed when you turn your head into his chest and twist your fingers tightly around the fabric of his cowl, tugging yourself as close to his silent safety as you can get. 

The Horseman jolts around you, somehow growing impossibly more solid, though whether that’s because of you or the giant club casting a shadow over his head, you couldn’t say.

You just don’t want to see your own death coming when it-

A single, deafening shot rips the air asunder, reverberating off the cavern walls.

The sound startles a sharp gasp from your mouth, and you can’t help but peek over your own shoulder to see that the demon’s body has gone stiff as a board.

It blinks once, the maniacal grin wiped clean off its face.

As you watch on in confusion and terror, slowly, from the centre of its forehead in the space between its rigid brows, a tiny bead of blood appears, blooming outwards like a rose unfurling crimson petals.

Still crushed against War’s chest, you stare up at the demon in disbelief, mouth flapping open and shut around words that refuse to come. From the corner of an eye, you see the light glint off silver armour as Strife lowers his smoking gun.

“Deal’s a deal,” he says gruffly, rolling a kink out of his shoulder, “Nice and quick.”

There’s something almost graceful in the way the demon starts to tip over backwards, its colossal weapon sliding from loosened fingers to plummet over the ledge and out of sight.

Its wielder doesn’t take long to follow suit.

Crumbling in on itself, its fleshy wings slump abruptly, as does its tail, and its beady, yellow eyes roll up into its skull as the brain gives out, severing any connection to its muscles. Gravity takes hold of the brute’s mass, and with an encouraging tug, it coaxes its prize down over the precipice.

Thousands of pounds of flesh are claimed in an instant. The demon’s feet slip out from under it, sending it toppling backwards into the pit, vanishing in the blink of an eye over the edge it had once held you upon so precariously.

In tentative silence, you and the Horsemen remain utterly motionless, your ears straining to hear over the high-pitched ringing that slowly fades with each passing second.

Then, at last, you hear a distant, muted ‘kersploosh,’ followed by the rather gruesome sounds of sizzling flesh and the near-satisfied gurgles of lava swallowing its latest victim.

Then, and only then, do the three of you at last breathe varying sighs of relief.

“That,” Strife remarks, turning towards you and his brother, hands planted squarely on his hips, “was awesome.”

If looks could kill, the one you shoot at him around War’s swollen bicep would bring the Horseman to his knees.

You don’t think you’ve ever disagreed with anyone so fervently in your entire life.

[mintmatcha]

the pursuit of silence (and all the noise along the way)

nanami kento x reader

part one: potential (and the lack there of)

CW: cisfem reader, Space AU (vaguely Star Wars. Vaguely), reader has a cybernetic limb. slow burn.

JJK AU MINORS DNI

Out Station, Hosnian System, Core Territories

When you first arrived, the station's constant thrum would keep you awake. The slow, thrusting drawl echoed through your metal cot as the craft perpetually spun, the sound of gears and cogs drilling down to the marrow of your bones to eat at the edges of your mind. Night doesn't exist in space, not in the same way it does on solid ground. There's no physical marker for rest, no sun to rise to mark another day, so everything always trudges forward, with heavy, uneven steps.

 When you were young, the visitors to your planet's surface had told you that space was eerily silent, marked only by the sound of your vessel and your own thoughts.

"Nothing like here," One man -Simmons- had promised. He had tucked himself away into your Sun Dome, waiting for the thunder to calm itself, "Nothin' like this eternal rain."

He had left later that night, leaving only stories about the Inner Rim and an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

"Don't that sound make you wanna go crazy?" he said as he headed towards his ship, "Don't you ever want silence?"

It was funny, how you had never noticed it before, the tap-tap-tap that bore down upon the plexiglass. A frog born into boiling water: you didn't know you were being cooked in it all until someone else told you this wasn't normal.

You've been chasing that silence ever since.

You thought you had found it when you joined the station. Promises of flights to places you've never heard of, adventures you could never dream of: you didn't even bother to pack a bag before jetting off and leaving the rainy planet's surface behind. There, beyond the atmosphere, it was- stretches of ringing, perfect quiet.

Then you arrived and the noises never stopped. It was nothing like the storms you had grown up with, no rhythm, no comfort. Gone was the devil you knew, traded for another nightmare of soot and gears. 

Nothing changed. Maybe you did. The hourly chimes, the rattle of cargo leaving and arriving, the sighs and snores and sex sounds of fellow pilots that shared the dorm: you learned to live with it, allowed yourself to become a part of the drum. In fact, a part of you found comfort in it, like a cosmic lullaby, rocking you to sleep as the stars spun around you.

The sudden sharp, violent clanging of metal on metal is not a part of that lullaby.

You jolt from sleep, clutching at your side for where your blaster usually is, driven only by panic. It takes a couple bleary blinks for you to gauge the scene and realize there's no threat. A pink haired rookie is smiling up at you, his cybernetic limb still clutched against the steel of your bed frame.

"Nine!" Pilot 501-G grins, "Scared ya."

"Stars and Makers, Itadori." You soften your tone, but still kick away his hand. Your own prosthetic isn't as advanced as his; while his is covered in thin synthflesh, the metal of yours is exposed, covered only by sheets, "I just fucking fell asleep."

The younger man laughs, backing away from the wall sheepishly. The glimmer in his eye is what keeps him looking young, despite the scars that cut through his lip and over the bridge of his nose. Someone is snoring a couple bunks over, practically gagging on their own spit. Every now and again, the sound stops and Itadori’s head snaps to look in that direction, concern dripping from his features. You’ll tell him later that it’s just G’hil: he’s been snoring like that for years.

"Sorry, sorry - I thought it was funny!" He better be sorry - you're the one in charge of training his ass, "But they're looking for you, so you gotta get up."

You rub the grit of sleep from your eye. "Who could possibly need me? I just fucking landed--" you check your watch- “Four hours ago.”

"One of the guys with the offices," he shrugs, "They told me you'd know where to go."

You do, unfortunately. Only one commander gives instructions to the G Group. With a groan and stiff back, you throw yourself from the bed. As you slide into your fly suit, Itadori dips his head to the floor to avoid watching you dress. In a few months, he'll lose his modesty too; it's hard to stay pure in such a confined space.

Once you're dressed, you both head into the bustling halls. The paths divert and wind, dipping into ladders for the deeper parts of the station. Itadori still gets lost most days, so he follows you as you wind your way towards the loading bay. 

"Are you going on a mission?" he asks.The recycled air is extra stuff today and you swear it tastes like the slop dining served last meal. 

"It’s an assignment," you correct, "And probably."

"Dammit." Itadori kicks at nothing, practically skipping, "They make me clean engines when you're gone."

"Good, it'll beef you up a little bit."

The boy gawks at that, squeezing his biceps to prove he doesn't need any more. You laugh and mimic him, flexing your own muscles as you walk. He flexes harder then, bicep so coiled you fear he might hurt himself. The ball of muscle is bigger than you expected, easily larger than yours, but you blow him away with a raspberry anyway.  

“Okay, okay, Shrimp.”

“Maker, please don’t call me Shrimp-- I’m afraid it’s going to stick!”

He has a point. Nicknames have a funny way of gaining traction around here. As you both wind your way into the main level, the activity picks up. More bodies are roaming the narrow halls, rushing to-- well, you aren’t quite sure. The Station is 45 levels top to bottom with a couple hundred employees on hand at all times, some of which are stationed to pilot hypermatter crafts to places that need it. Other people did a variety of boring, overly scientific sounding jobs- stuff that went immediately over your head when they explained it to you.

“Itadori, we'll fly when I get back, okay? I'll take a cruiser and a couple credits and we'll get a good dinner. Something nice." You bump your hip against him and he almost staggers into an officer. "Something fresh."

"Real Caf?" he asks, "Not the powdered stuff?"

You’re not sure ‘real’ Caf exists, but you promise him anyway.  "Sure, whatever you want."

Itadori pumps his fist in the air with a woop. He goes to continue, then pauses as his eyes flit down the hall. Staggering out of an unknown room is a familiar face, much less bruised than you last saw it.

"Hello, hello," you croon, hands on your knees like you’re calling for a loth-cat, "Look who's out and about!"

"Ha, ha, very funny." Haibara hobbles on a crutch, the wood tucked under his arm's cast. His leg is set straight with chunky plaster, basically paralyzing his right side. The few people who pass clear the way around him, but a round little R2 Droid drives straight into his good leg and almost bowls him over. The round faced brunette wobbles and swears, waving it off with his good arm. 

"Do you know how hard it is to not have an arm and a leg?" he exclaims.

You and Itadori share a look, then gesture to each other's cybernetics.

"Yes."

"I know very well," you agree, "I have no sympathy. Don't steal an X-wing next time."

Haibara groans, sounding as pathetic as he looks. He’s actually a couple of years older than you, but he looks softer than Itadori in the face. “I just wanted to try it out. If they didn’t want joy riders, they shouldn’t have refueled here!”

“That’s awful logic,” you tease, clapping his shoulder. Unlike you, Haibara came into the station without any flying experience and has not proven himself to be a fast learner. Why he thought he could borrow an X-wing without the experience ending in disaster is beyond you. “Surprised they didn’t fire your ass. Thank god for unions, huh?”

He shoots you a deadpan look. 

"And I was coming here to tell you good news, Niney." Haibara leans on his crutch,  nose in the air, "But now I won’t.”

“Aww, Hai.”

“I won’t! Don’t give me those pouty lips!”

You bat your eyelashes for effect. 

“Ugh, be glad I like you,” he says so sweetly, “You-know-who is here." 

All humor immediately evaporates from your body. Both men notice and have polar opposite reactions: Haibara glows with a chaotic grin while Itadori sobers.

 "Oh, god," you whisper. A tightness has gripped your ribs. Maybe it's dread, maybe it’s panic. “The you-know-who?”

"I don't know who," Itadori interjects. 

“There’s only one you-know-who.”

"Oh, god."

"I don't know who!" Itadori says again.

Haibara throws his head back to laugh, then grimaces in pain. Good, he deserves it.

"Who's you-know-who?" Itadori stresses, looking between his two superiors. You throw a hand over your face to hide your expression, but Haibara continues.

"Niney-Nine, our fearless leader, our beloved pilot-” Haibara’s grin is consuming his whole face. If he wasn’t already stitched and taped up, you might punch him, “--has a crush."

"You have a crush? What?" Eyes snap to you, "On who?"

Crestfallen is written all over the poor kid's face, but you can only focus on your own burning cheeks. Oh, how your body has betrayed you. 

"Shut up.”

"She won't even talk to him." Haibara continues, "I try to call her over to talk to him and she shrivels up like a bug."

He brings his good arm to his chest and sticks out his tongue, then roughly mimics scurrying away in the air. Itadori’s jaw is slack, enthralled by his antics. 

“It’s nothing,” you insist, “He’s not even cute.”

It’s not nothing. Oh, you wish it was, but it’s not. You have the type of crush that makes your knees buckle and jaw ache and you haven’t even spoken to the man directly. Once, he nodded your way, just the hint of a smile on his lips, and you spent the following afternoon locked in a shower stall, shamefully jacking off to the memory.

Dread rises in your throat like bile.

"Oh, please! You're so smitten! It's crazy!” he turns back to Itadori, “She’s so smitten. Makes this dumb little face-" Haibara makes his eyes wide, “Once, she went to Coruscant to watch his speech-”

"We're leaving." You start walking, pace crisp enough that Itadori can barely follow, let alone your injured copilot, "Bye, Hai!"

"Oh, come on!" The linoleum squeaks under the rubber stopper at the end of his crutch, "I know for a fact that it'd go well if you just talked to him!"

"Goodbye!" you call back. You’re better than this. A stupid crush isn’t going to dominate your life, especially not one this unrealistic.

You click the heels of your boots against the floor with purpose, marching forward and away from that mess. 

But Itadori doesn’t have the sense to read the air. “So, who is it-?”

"Itadori," you warn.

Silence only lasts another couple of steps.

"You should ask him out," he continues, "You're really great. I know any guy would be-"

“Don’t,” you warn, a bit harsher than you really should, “Not now, Shrimp.”

As you arrive to where you need to be, a room marked ‘superior’, Itadori chews on his lip and hesitates, shuffling his feet unhappily. He’s still bright eyed and full of adventure, just like you used to be, so he must be upset about missing another ‘mission’. 

'Hey," you elbow him again, softer this time, "I'll probably just be toting cargo to the Outer Rim again. There's no reason to be sad or jealous or whatever." 

"I'm not jealous of-" Words fail him, then the rookie relents and retreats, "You're right-- have fun on your stinky old rocket."

 He waves you off, still a little down. "Still sounds better than sitting here."

You ruffle his hair. It’s unwashed and sticky enough that it stays in place when you pull away, so you wipe your palm on his shirt. Itadori steps back with fake offense, but his smile is returning.

“Sorry, shrimpy,” you say, “I’ll see you soon.”

You turn the door handle, then pause. “And take a shower, for Maker’s sake.”

.. . . . . . . . .

The office is essentially just an overlook of the bay, with ships and droids constantly twirling about. Today, no large freighters are reloading, so the space is rather barren, filled with only pilots and fuelers passing the time.  At the intercom, a tall, thin woman stands. Commanding Officer Mei Mei tilts her head with the coyest of smiles, like she's barely containing a secret. She greets you by name, a strange familiarity she holds with all pilots she deems worthy.

"Senior Pilot 333-G, reporting for duty," you say.

She wastes no time. Her eyes bore into you from behind the thick plait that covers most of her face.

"You're from a single biome storm planet, right?"

You hesitate to answer. Mei Mei is nice enough, but there's always an insidiousness behind it all, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but your gut can taste. Like the predatory bird, she perches herself against the edge of the table, primed to strike the moment you’re most vulnerable.

"I am, indeed," you admit. 

"And you've flown on your planet?"

It's where you learned, in between storms and pressure pockets, on the laps of men that promised to take you away and never did. "Many, many times."

"Good." She claps her hands together and turns back to her makeshift desk. The same papers are scattered around its top, in the same position as always, a charade that works on most. It’d probably work on you too, if you didn’t know how often she disappeared offsite. "It’s settled then. You'll be transporting our visiting senator back to his home planet."

Your heart stops for a moment. Neurons connect.

"Who?" you ask, even though you know better.

The OutStation is a part of multiple trade routes, so it isn't uncommon for senators to make appearances. Most of the time, it's to file complaints about efficiency or lost shipments (with piracy at an all time high, you can't blame them), but a certain senator seems to visit more often than others.

"That would be me.” The man in question stands up from his chair on the other side of the desk and you wonder how you didn't notice him before. Every hair on your body stands on edge as you process his presence, a Loth cat with its hackles raised. 

“This time of year, the storms can knock out the Nav and landing systems."  He adjusts his cuff link and smooths the sleeve back into place, always the picture of grace. Senator Nanami Kento, with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and chin never below parallel with the ground, adjusts his glasses and you catch his steely gaze directly. This time, there’s no hint of a smile, just a thin drawn line on his peach slice lips.

Your mouth goes dry.

It's not that you don't like the Senator. Oh. Quite the opposite.

He’s You-Know-Who.

You’re not sure where you gathered the absolute gall to develop feelings for the man. It certainly wasn’t a logical decision. The men you usually go after are in your league: other pilots passing through, engineers that can’t remember your last name, strangers who understand the game and how to play it-- it’s always people who see the Outer Rim Hick written across your face and treat you as such. You have no business falling for a man who dresses in ironed long coats, white collars that are never dirtied, with  a neck that’s never been burnt by the sun.

It doesn’t help that he’s simply attractive. Not a special kind of hot, with caveats and conditions, but genuinely, truly beautiful. It’s the kind of attractiveness that makes people kinder and life easier and you wish you were immune.

"Senator, I-" You're sweating. Your eyes won't leave where you've planted them on the floor. His boots are polished leather, so shiny you can see your warped reflection. It’s better than looking at him. "Wouldn't it be better to use an official transport? Or Haiba-- 299-G?"

Haibara grew up on the same planet as the Senator, so the two have been close since their teenage years. When Haibara left, Nanami went to work, climbing the political ladder. Their home planet used to be a bit more like yours, desolate and unknown, but in the past ten years Prixiyi has transformed into a vacation destination. The change is controversial amongst the citizens, but it undeniably has made the planet a gem in the eyes of the galaxy.

Maybe that’s what made you like him in the first place, that ability to rise. 

"There's no official transport in this sector and Haibara is currently… out of commission. I need to go home as quickly as possible and finish some work before the tourism season begins." Senator Nanami leans back, turning away to mutter over his shoulder. "Besides, I'd prefer to make it back in one piece."

Despite yourself, you blossom into a smile. Haibara doesn't have a very good track record of keeping his craft in the sky. It's a bad joke, but coming from him, it's everything.

From the corner of your eye, Mei Mei gives you a sideways glance. That immediately sobers you. Don’t forget yourself: you’re a grunt performing a job, not some schoolgirl with a crush. This isn’t some sort of fanfiction; there’s no reason to get excited.

“I just need someone with experience dealing with the hazards," The Senator reiterates. 

"I'll rise to the occasion, sir." You nod to both of the people in the room. Besides, you aren’t some rookie flyboy anymore: you, for better or worse, are considered a proper pilot. As an adult woman, you can swallow down a childhood crush for a couple hours.

Then, maybe, you can go home and masturbate about it.

“Wonderful,” Mei Mei says it in a way where you doubt she really thinks it's wonderful at all. She waits a moment, that crisp smile still pulled tight, "Well?"

There’s the moment, where your guard is down and the soft belly of your emotions is exposed. “Uh-”

“Our darling-” she stresses that word and the man in question seems stiffer, if that’s even possible- “darling Senator said as soon as possible. Start moving.”

You don't wait for any further instruction. In a bit of a scramble, you turn on your heel and leave, careful not to let the door slam. The lack of sleep is still tight in your muscles, but you push through and head towards the bay. There was no instruction of exactly where to go or what you’re flying, but that doesn’t matter.

As long as you know who is onboard, it’ll be a nightmare.

Masterlist | part two

[luvrodite]

cw children, implied afab reader, discussion of children, established relationship

jason and coming home to an empty home after being around family all day, breathing out shared sighs as you change out of our clothes. he clasps a hand around the back of your neck to press a kiss to your forehead, and the both of you climb into bed, the sheets cool under you.

the silence is louder than it usually is. after a beat, he says,

‘it was nice to be out today.’ you hum, shifting closer to tuck your chin over his shoulder. instinctively, his arm comes up around your back, and he smooths your top down where it’s begun to ride up.

‘you were so sweet with the kids,’ you murmur, and he preens a little when you brush a finger over his cupid’s bow, propping yourself further up his chest. he purses his lips, bestowing a kiss to the pad of your finger.

‘they’re cute,’ he mumbles. the words you haven’t said hang between you, and you grin a little when he hesitates, before asking, ‘you ever think about that stuff? havin’ kids?’

you stare down at him for a moment before letting out a breath. ‘yeah, sometimes.’

‘sometimes?’

you lift a shoulder. ‘yeah, it crosses my mind. today, it definitely did.’

he laughs quietly. ‘when i was with the kids?’

you pinch his chin. ‘don’t make fun.’

he catches your hand as you pull it away, kissing your palm. ‘sorry. ‘m not.’

‘better not be.’

‘cross my heart.’

‘good,’ you say decisively. he hums in response, rolling the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.

‘that something you want now?’ he asks quietly. the metal of his wedding band presses briefly against your hip and you shiver, pressing closer.

it takes you a moment to answer, distracted briefly by the warmth.

‘i don’t know,’ you tell him truthfully. it comes easily, words slipping from your lips like water. he’s your best friend. how could they not?

you stroke his cheek as you think out loud. ‘i like things as they are now, baby.’ you look at him to gauge his response and he lifts his lips in a small smile.

‘i do too.’

‘i like it, getting you to myself like this,’ you say, feeling a little selfish and warming all over when he laughs. it’s an affectionate noise, and he draws in close to brush his lips against your cheek. ‘i want a baby, i think, but later. not now. i want to have you like this a little longer.’

the sigh he lets out is one of contentment, and he settles back into the sheets.

‘me too.’ a thumb strokes over your hip and you lean down to press a kiss on his mouth, lingering when he lets out a sweet, soft sound, an exhalation of air that presses into your tongue and dissolves, spun sugar and pure love. ‘later, then.’

‘later,’ you affirm. the late afternoon is spent swapping drowsy kisses, and though the silence is not replaced by the squeals of a child, love fills your home still.

sorry had this thought of coming home and being like. i want kids. but also not right now. because i want it to be just us a little longer. so everything changes but also not much at all. tagging this as selfship because it’s also so stupidly indulgent and borne out of my daydreams with him

[specialinterestshows]

Enjoy chapter 69 😏 of my Rhea Ripley x lady!reader fic, Absolute Smokeshow.

Warnings for this section: Group sex, spanking, dirty talk, praise, small penis humiliation, humiliation/degradation, collaring

-

Absolute Smokeshow (Part 69 of ?): R+D+Me

“On your feet, slut, and bend over the bed,” Rhea ordered, sliding out of her pants and underwear. You felt two pairs of eyes watching your naked form as you stood and bent at the waist, touching your hands to the sheets. Rhea slid onto the bed in front of you, scooting closer just as Dom grabbed your ass and whispered “fuck.”

“You can service both of us at once, can’t you, slut?” Rhea asked, spreading her legs apart as Dominik grabbed the lube, “Now be a doll and give Mami your mouth.”

Wordlessly, you opened up and stuck out your tongue, beaming when you were praised for it.

“Ah!” you moaned in surprise at the firm slap Dom gave your ass before Rhea’s wet, pink folds ran into your mouth. Another moan buzzed on your lips just from tasting her - how refreshing it was to indulge in what you so frequently craved.

“Fuck yes,” Rhea breathed as you set your tongue to work, a cool, slick feeling greeting you from the other end.

“Let me know if it’s too much, perrita,” Dom told you, teasing you with his tip.

“That pathetic little thing?” Rhea scoffed at the instruction as you kept going, “I would be surprised if she could even feel it.”

An involuntary whimper fell from Dominik’s mouth.

“You’re right, Mami,” he agreed, clutching your hip with one hand as he gauged the best angle to enter you.

Keeping the rhythm you had going with your mouth started taking more and more of your concentration as Dom gradually slid inside you.

Stifling the sounds of your pleasure was the last thing on your mind as Dominik began thrusting, but Rhea certainly didn’t seem to mind the moans peppering your lip service.

“Mmm, you can go faster than that, Dom-Dom” she said between soft moans, gripping your hair, “Really give it to her - Mami wants to feel more vibrations from her easy little fucktoy.”

“Yes, Mami,” he grunted, obediently thrusting faster and a bit harder.

Rhea’s moans were soon accompanying your muffled ones as you gripped the sheets, trying to keep your writhing and twitching to a minimum as you neared your orgasm.

“Turn her over,” your domme ordered, holding your head in place as she pulled away and smiling at your disappointed face when your tongue reached forward longingly, “Mami wants to enjoy both her collared bitches at once.”

Dominik somehow managed to stay inside you, turning you onto your back quickly and resting your legs on his shoulders. Something caught you off guard about the sweet, caring way Dom was looking down at you. His face was flushed, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow from all that the three of you had done so far, and you were cockwarming him at the moment - but the way he smiled and held your gaze was so… gentle.

Unsure how to react, you were thankful when one smooth, swift leg swung over you, blocking Dominik from view for a moment as Rhea straddled your face before lowering herself onto your mouth.

“You don’t have to pause on my account,” she said, and you heard the soft sound of metal against metal as Rhea presumably held Dom by his collar, “Keep fucking her, pretty boy.”

You were enjoying the way your girlfriend tasted and having her ass in your face far too much to be paying attention to what she said; the sudden pleasure you felt as Dom thrust in and out of you once more made you grip Rhea’s thighs to keep her close to your mouth. It took a moment for you to realize that the tempo between your legs felt so good, you were matching the rhythm with your mouth.

Whimpering moans punctuated the air.

“That’s it, just focus on how good she feels,” Rhea cooed as your muffled sounds increased with Dom’s rhythm, “Wouldn’t you just love to come inside of her?”

“Please, Mami!” he moaned urgently, grabbing your tits as he whimpered, “I’m getting close!”

Even though it hadn’t happened yet, being reminded that he could come inside you at any moment - that Rhea could make a mess on your face as well - made you finally give into a wave of pleasure that rapidly swept through you. Every sensation was made sweeter with your release as Dom and Rhea continued their conversation above you.

“You can wait a bit for Mami, can’t you?” she replied, her voice making you come just a bit harder before Dominik slowed down a bit and you went into aftershocks, “So we can come at the same time?”

“I’ll try,” he huffed, keeping a restrained pace.

“What a good little boytoy,” Rhea praised between moans of her own, “That’s right, keep your eyes on Mami.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, dripping sweat onto your stomach with every other movement, “Getting close again.”

“Just… a little bit… longer,” she moaned, and you felt Dominik’s thrusts become more erratic, “Fuck… come for Mami, bitch.”

The loud moan that began in Dom’s throat was cut off by what you could only assume was the two of them kissing as you did your best to swallow the cum that gushed into your mouth, a growing warmth inside you making you raise your hips to savor it.

When both of them had finished, Rhea lifted herself off you and the first thing you saw was her enormous grin.

“How was that for you, babes?” she asked you both, giggling at your surprised moan when Dom pulled out.

“Wow,” was all you could say after licking your lips clean, still coming down from being cumdrunk.

“Such a good girl,” Rhea praised, making you bite your lip, “Dom-Dom?”

“Maravilloso,” he replied, eyes flitting back to you for a second before continuing, “Can we do this more often?”

Taking note of your pleading eyes, Rhea laughed, “Both of my darlings at once, more than once? I could never turn down an offer like that.”

Grabbing her panties off the floor, she shimmied into them before getting comfortable on the bed and opening her arms invitingly.

“Now c’mere!”

[end part sixty-nine of ?]

Part 70: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/748406942351982592/absolute-smokeshow-part-70-of-demons-in-her

-

Tag list (thank you!)

@littlemiss-fanficlover , @babybatlover , @girlofpink , @kagome2909 , @domripley , @wiccanpriestess , @falloutboy-lover , @aut0luminescence , @riverina69 , @itsrheasgirl , @1-800-sinister

[feigeroman]

Saturday Movie Night: Railscale 1

Here's an idea I've been sitting on for ages, which I hope will become a semi-regular feature on this here blog. It's a pretty basic idea - every week (if I remember), I share a video on here which I think you guys would be interested in seeing. Naturally, that means a lot of the videos will be to do with Thomas, or real-life railways (real and model), or anything else I decide is worth sharing.

I don't know if anyone here has heard of Phil Parker, but yes, I am basically ripping off the Saturday Film Club feature he does on his blog.

You may well remember me talking about Railscale a couple of years back. Well, since then, someone's gone and uploaded all three issues to YouTube (see that earlier post for why there were no more). So I thought, what better way to kick off this semi-regular feature?

See above to watch the programme, and see below for more details about the contents.

THE BROMFORD & HIGH PEAK RAILWAY (7mm/O)

This huge, spectacular O gauge layout was deliberately shrouded in mystery by its creator, Ferrari importer Ronnie Hoare. For security and insurance reasons, he rarely allowed visitors to the layout - the Railscale team were thus privileged to be allowed to film it for this feature. The layout itself featured over a scale mile of track, and included models from some of the country's leading model makers.

INSIDE A SAWMILL (7mm/O)

We next look around Les Tindal's scale model of an American sawmill of the interwar period. The sequence shows how Les adds details and develops scenery, and finishes with a look at huge he achieves the authentic weathering of timbers and metals.

PECORAMA (Various)

Pecorama is a permanent model railway exhibition in sunny south Devon, own and operated by the PECO company. They believe that any house or flat can accommodate a model railway, and the layouts on display have been made with this philosophy in mind.

WINCHESTER CHESIL (4mm/P4)

The Scalefour Society was one of the leading pioneers in the great push towards greater realism for model railways. This exact scale model of the GWR's Winchester station was made by society members from the Southampton area, and they take up the story of how the model came into being.

BOYTON CROSSING - PART 1 (4mm/OO)

The first in a series of segments demonstrating the construction of a model building - based on the crossing keeper's cottage at Boyton, on the Salisbury-Warminster line. Railscale's resident model maker, Mike Jolly, talks us through the process of researching and measuring the prototype, before building up the basic structure with card and embossed sheets.

LIVE STEAM ON THE ISLE OF MULL (Live Steam/10.25")

 In 1984, a miniature railway opened on the Scottish island of Mull, linking Torosay Castle to the ferry pier at Craignure. The line has since developed into a tourist attraction in its own right. Nick Dodson of Railfilms shows us around, and talks with founder Graham Ellis.

PROJECT N - PART 1 (2mm/N)

Mike Jolly returns to commence the construction of an N gauge layout. After deciding on the plan, he chooses and cuts the timber, and makes a start on assembling the baseboard.

COACH CONVERSION (2mm/N)

Railscale 1 concludes with this short segment, demonstrating how to convert a Graham Farish BR Mk2 coach, to represent types not available in the ready-to-run market.

[thisisnotthenerd]

Happy New Year @shakespearestolemyurl !! I have the other half of your 2023 @d20exchange gift: Songs of the Celestine verses for the Bad Kids!

Group Verses

On occasion, an adventuring party will receive a set of verses that encompasses the group as a whole—these verses are sung together as opposed to individually. Often, these are written by a bard within the group, taking the form to detail the exploits of their own adventuring party.

This set of written verses regards the Solesian adventuring party known as the Bad Kids, who defeated Kalvaxus and the Nightmare King during their first two years at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy. The author of these verses is technically unknown, but it is believed that Fabian Seacaster, during his early bardic education, composed these verses for his friends using the form learned from his pirate father, William Seacaster, after he joined the College of Swords during the Bad Kids' quest to retrieve the Crown of the Nightmare King. 1

______________________________

Adaine Abernant-O’Shaughnessy:

A wizard born

To endless scorn

Who chose the face the fighting storm

Upon her word

That she has sworn

The elven oracle

She’s stolen books

And taken looks

At futures she has now forsook

From tiny nooks

She found the hooks

Now categorical

With arcane hands

She made her stand

A mage come far from foreign lands

And as she scanned

She made her plans

And broke her manacles

For now she is

Second to none

The oracle for everyone

And free at last

She’ll have her fun

Adaine the oracle

______________________________

Kristen Applebees:

The cleric chosen

For devotion

Her heart in ever-changing motion

Questions Couldn’t

Remain unspoken

The Prophet now come free

So determined she

Can’t be deterred

She tried to fly with a Ribbon dancer

Oh she stands sure

Even though her

Dex is negative three

From Helio

To Yes? Or no

She understands what can’t be known

In philosophy

She seeks to grow

Cassandra’s only priest

A cleric’s light

Within the night

Guides darkened paths with clear sight

She walks alight

And fears no fright

Saint Kristen Applebees

______________________________

Figueroth Faeth:

The rebel bard

Cannot be charred

Flamboyant in her disregard

With warlock spells

She will safeguard

Fig the InFaethable

She changes face

In every space

And plays with skill electric bass

She’ll catch your soul

And take your place

While playing rock’n’roll

She gave request

For Aguefort’s best

But something she could not have guessed

Was to the west

And in her nest

Writing wizard’s scrolls

She’ll drink some gin

No fear of sin

Her secrets kept behind her grin

But when you’re friends

She’ll let you in

Fig the InFaethable

______________________________

Gorgug Thistlespring:

Barbarian bound

To hear the sound

Of metal music all around

He oft confounds

And breaks the ground

Gorgug Thistlespring

He looked for meaning

In the gloam

For heritage to call him home

Child of orc

And man and gnome

he is now the crab king

He fuels with fear

an endless rage

He came from deathly forest aged

Who is his dad

He cannot gauge

Insight is not his thing

He wields his axe

And hammer too

He’ll call across the world to you

He fixed his phone

Made sending stones

it’s Gorgug keep going

______________________________

Riz “The Ball” Gukgak:

The roguish goblin

Killed a dragon

With deepest passion he was gobbling

He’s hidden when

He gets his shots in

Riz Gukgak? Nay, “the Ball”

With arquebus

And sword to choose

The briefcase where he keeps his clues

Or healer’s kit

And clue tattoos

He makes good use of them all

The little shrimp

Of the bad kids

When seeking clues do as he bids

While counting fingers

He shot Biz

He’ll commit assault

Though self-contained

With party in reins

He thinks at night with buzzing brain

He’ll ne’er refrain

And fears no pain

The fury of the small

______________________________

Fabian Seacaster:

The bardic fighter

Sheet igniter

Hellish motorcycle rider

With dance and fire

He will reach higher

Fabian Seacaster

Born to pirate

Legacy and

Elvish smiths and fighters free

He made his way

From land to sea

And faced disaster

The warlocks slain

‘Twas only him

And erstwhile friend, Chungledown Bim

And on a whim

From battle grim

He fled and fell even faster

And from that moment

He was changed

His skill in elvish dance now trained

With sword and sheet

And crossbow ranged

Fabian Seacaster

1 Given the personal nature of these verses, there are a few deviations from how the song is typically sung for pirate heroes. While titles and epithets commonly feature in the Songs, this rendition features continual references to titles endowed upon the Bad Kids, formal or otherwise, save Seacaster's own verses. These include: the Elven Oracle [Adaine Abernant-O'Shaughnessy], the InFaethable [Figueroth Faeth], the Blessed Saint [Kristen Applebees], the Crab King [Gorgug Thistlespring], and The Ball [Riz Gukgak].

[snailor-bee]

(Re)Decorate My Heart

I participated in the @onepiece-blorboexchange ! I got @mirkaaaluv who had such lovely prompt ideas I ended up doing two. 8'D HAPPY CHRISTMAS! Sorry it's so early I got impatient and just busted these out... Hope you enjoy!

Kidx F!Reader / SFW  / 1.3k

Summary: Kid is working on something and you end up helping! Warnings: Some cursing.

Muttered cursing perked your interest as you made your way through the Victoria Punk. Your eyes examined the captain’s quarters door. You pressed a finger to the bridge of your glasses, pushing them up fully.

It wasn’t surprising that Kid was swearing loud enough to be heard through the thick wood but you debated if you wanted to poke your head in or not. Yelling in general couldn’t tell you what his mood would be, sometimes it was fine to interrupt and other times the red-heads rage was so extreme you had to beat a hasty retreat.

You hesitated more, trying to decide if it was worth it before the door suddenly slammed open and you jumped.

There was no one in the doorway but his voice growled out, “Don’t fuckin’ hover, get in already.”

Smiling wide you skipped inside, pulling the door closed behind you. Kid actually wanting your company was a relief and quickly you crossed over to his workbench and wound your arms around his broad shoulders. Leaning into his space you pressed your chest to his back and let him take on your weight. He wasn't wearing his metal arm today, content without the strain pulling down his muscles on that side, no matter that it might make his task a little easier. 

“Whatcha working on?” you asked.

“Fuckin’ Christmas shit, don’t know why I bother,” Kid grit out, annoyance laced through his tone. You tilted your head with surprise before looking down at the mess of his workbench.

Metal bits were scattered around, grease and oil stained into the chipped wood. A dirty hand held a perfectly round ball, chipped black nail polish on fingertips that spun the orb around. You blinked with surprise.

“A Christmas ornament?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “Missing somethin’ though, and it looks shitty.”

“The bauble is missing the part on top where you can put a hook through it,” you informed gently. It was just a ball with no topper with badly designed metal snowflakes that stuck out. It looked more like a weapon than an ornament, like something you could throw at an enemy's face. If you had to hazard a guess, you would bet the whole thing was solid and would just break a Christmas tree’s branches.

Kid shifted and crimson red eyes stared incredulously at you. “The what??”

“The bauble? You’re literally making it.” When his face didn’t change, still twisted up with confusion you went on, “The ball, Kid. It’s literally what they're called.”

“Is it? Sounds dumb.”

You laughed before unwinding from his torso and dragging over a stool that was quickly becoming ‘yours’. Hopping up onto it you squeezed into his side and grabbed the ball. As you expected, it was heavy.

“This should be hollow you weirdo, you’re gonna break the tree.”

Ignoring Kid’s offended ‘hah??’ you contuined, “Also maybe you could carve into the metal a design? You can do that can’t you?”

“’Course I can!” Kid said gruffly, as you knew he would. You hid your smile by ducking your head. Sometimes he was easy to gauge, easy to rile up and lead in the right direction.

“Let me grab some paper—” you began before he interrupted.

“Don’t bother.” He dropped the bauble and it made a dull thud as it hit the wood before raising his arm and digging in some overhead drawers. You watched with confusion until he withdrew a sheet of parchment and tossed it in front of you. He'd never had that before, did he specifically move this here just for you? 

A low oh didn’t stop him as he leaned into your space, and you felt the hard muscles and the heat of his body suddenly engulf you, making you flush. The metallic smell that constantly followed Kid around filled your nose making you vaguely dizzy. You loved the way he smelled, loved to bury your nose into the crook of his neck and breath him in, get past that metal exterior and bask in that scent that lingered underneath that was so uniquely his.

Straightening up he held out a pencil and slowly you took it, blinking away your thoughts as a smile broke over your face.

“Thank you.”

Kid grunted in acknowledgment before picking back up the ball and frowning as he looked it over. “Hollow you say…” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored it, knowing the statement wasn’t really for you. Quickly you started doodling out some designs, lines of ‘wind’ with snowflakes fluttering in between, another with pine trees covered with a heavy sheet of fluffy snow.

The two of you worked side by side quietly. These days were your favorite, you mused. Just a comfortable silence broken by random grunts or maybe a question or two. Just sharing a space. There were times when Kid would blast music, loud enough to make your teeth rattle but more often than not it was just this. When he got too involved in his work it was like everything else faded away. 

Sometimes you just hung out on the bed reading a book while he puttered about, but Kid preferred to have you by his side.

He was handsy, in a way you didn’t expect. He didn’t enjoy you prodding too much at him as he worked and it’s not like he had both hands free to touch you back but he made up for it in the way he frequently leaned into your space, his arm pressing against yours or how he’d look over at your stuff silently before kissing your template gently.

It was sweet, he was sweet in a way you didn't expect when the two of you first met, not with the way his gruff demeanor made every conversation an argument at first. Yet, here you were, silently enjoying each other's company. 

When you finished one page and silently slid it over, he took it without comment and you started on another page. This time instead of designs, you started drawing 3D designs he could do himself, sketching out the outlines of better looking snowflakes that wouldn't look like a spiky weapon but more as they should be. 

"How's this?" Kid asked, breaking the quiet and you blinked before he dropped the ball in front of you before wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in close. 

Picking it up, you were pleased by how light it was. Although still metal, now it wasn't going to break again. You smiled as you ran your fingers across the lines that had been carved into the metal, showing the snowflakes floating on the breeze. 

"It's lovely," you breathed. 

Kid sniffed. "'Course it is," he said with pride. Then his hand squeezed you tighter against his side. "Had a good design to go off of too." 

You giggled and pushed at him slightly with your body. "Sap. It's not that great, we could ask someone else who's a better artist to do something else." 

"Fuck no," Kid denied immediately. "It's amazing 'cause I said it's amazin' got it?" 

He turned to you, expression fierce, leaving no room for argument. You smiled. 

You wouldn't dream of it. 

"Got it," you said softly. 

"That's my girl," Kid said proudly, nuzzling your temple with his chin, making you laugh as you pushed on his chest but his strong grip on you didn't loosen at all.

"Kid!!" you cried through your laughter. "Stop, you'll ruin my hair!" 

"Hm? Oh yeah? Wanna stop?" He drew away leaving you panting and happy. When you looked up the intensity shining back at you in his eyes made you freeze. "Maybe we can do something better."

As he leaned closer, automatically your eyes fluttered shut as your arms wound around his neck. When his lips brushed yours, you sighed, butterflies erupting in your stomach and sending tremors throughout your body. 

When he drew back just the smallest bit, it was enough to whisper, "This is much better," you told him and he grinned before he pressed in a for another kiss, harder than before. 

And you got lost in it. 

[skyland2703]

Baby Pacha crashes Javelia’s wedding? Everyone is VERY surprised that Baby Pacha is alive.

Minific, pleeeeeeease?

OH MY— this is SUCH. A. CUTE. IDEA. omg :3

Javi hadn’t expected the “Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace” to end with a screech of terror from someone in the crowd. He’d imagined his wedding day would go fairly normally and without much drama, but boy was he wrong, because the amount of chaos he’d endured since morning, what with Tarrick and Warden Garcia coming almost to blows with each other, Jane’s ice sculpture melting because some dumbass— J-Borg— had placed it right under an airvent, which was regulating the temperature in November, and the melted ice water making about three guests slip and fall and injure their backs before Javi himself had to take a mop and clean up the mess. And that was without knowing that his bride had almost runaway with cold feet and his friends had scanned the entire planet to bring her back…

Amelia looked at him, and he looked back at her, both of their eyebrows raised in confusion, because it seemed like she too had not expected any more obstacles in their wedding, at this point.

The next second, as the couple looked at the crowd seated in front of them, more screams erupted, with people standing up on their seats, flurrying about, as if there was a lizard crawling from under the chairs. It was chaotic at best, and Javi tried to control his laughter, looking at Amelia who seemed to be doing the same, and slowly inched towards him, gripping his hand tightly in hers, squeezing it, as they tried to see what had caused the entire commotion. Then they saw a tiny metallic snout peeking out from under one of the chairs. Followed by a very familiar little head and Javi’s head turned towards Amelia, instinctively, instantly, to gauge her reaction, as if to see that she was indeed seeing what he was seeing. And indeed, Amelia’s lips were also parted WIDE, in a giant ‘o’, as she also turned to look at Javi, a smile escaping onto both of their faces, and their eyes darted back to the little metal dinosaur who was peeking her head out from underneath the chairs, the guests still scurrying away in fright as if there was a lizard beneath their feet.

“BABY PACHA?!” Both of their voices echoed in unison across the wedding hall, and Javi and Amelia, actually dressed in their wedding suit and dress, ran across the hall to catch the little dinosaur.

The baby zord scurried across the floor tiles and Javi and Amelia could see the white satin sheets on top of the chairs flying by the speed. Javi looked at her, she looked back at him, a plan of action passed between their eyes, and seconds later, they split up to catch the zord. Javi crawled under the chairs, and the Zord yeeted away from and towards the opposite direction, and just as she emerged from underneath the chairs, Amelia, in her baby pink wedding dress, stood there with open arms, waiting and caught the little zord right in her arms and scooped her up, and spun her around like she was a little baby bundled up in her arms.

Aiyon, Izzy, Ollie and Fern ran up to Amelia just as Javi crawled back up from under the chairs and flexed his back, a loud cracking sound echoing through the hall that made Izzy grimace and the others laugh.

“Baby Pacha?! What’s she doing here?!” Ollie started, and Amelia looked just as clueless as Javi and the others did. Aiyon straightened his collars and decided to gently place his palm over the baby zord and try reading its mind.

“Hawwww…” he mouthed, then faced their friends, “when Zayto died… sacrificed the Zords… Baby Pacha wasn’t exactly a Zord type of Zord?? She’s a baby. She’s never fought a battle… the Grid didn’t take her.” He said, looking so sad it looked like someone had just kicked a puppy in front of him.

“She’s… an orphan?” Javi said, mirroring the exact same expression Aiyon had, absolute puppy dog eyes.

“I… think so…”

“Where was she all this time?” Izzy questioned, and Aiyon shrugged, “trying to find her way back to us…”

“Oh my grid—“

“OH MY GRID—“

“AIYON DO YOU THINK WE CAN ADOPT HER?!” All faces turned to Ollie who had the brightest expression on his face, and a sappy smile spread over all of their faces, “this was quite a way for her to make an entrance.” Amelia said, sticking her tongue out at Ollie, “if anything, Javi and I should adopt her,” she smirked.

“Noooo” Fern said, sweeping in and stealing the baby zord out of Amelia’s hands, “I’ve always wanted to have a pet Zord! I’m adopting her!”

Suddenly, the baby zord hopped out of Fern’s arms and seconds later, Javi’s voice erupted through the atmosphere, “we should’ve asked who Baby Pacha wanted to live with” and giggles followed as the entire team’s eyes landed at Solon standing at the altar, holding the little zord like a baby and tickling it’s tummy, and they all burst into huge smiles, realising it was decided!

Hesploro if you have an Ao3 lemme know👀

[ciaotoska]

Coming in hot (three days later than I’d hoped) with the conclusion to Bret’s investigative efforts:

(part 1) (AO3)

Bret got a call from Shawn early the next morning asking to meet him at the morgue.

Shawn was right: He did see Hunter next week. Only it wasn’t at home with an apology and an expensive gift; it was on a metal slab in a government building.

Bret had made to leave the room and give Shawn time alone — as much as he did want to gauge Shawn’s reaction — but stayed when he felt his fingers digging into his wrist.

The sheet was barely up before he’d thrown his arms around Bret’s neck and broken into a sob.

He rushed out of the room as soon as he could and Bret turned to follow, but he was out of sight before Bret made it down the hallway. He went back to the morgue hoping to swipe a copy of the report but found the door ajar.

“Real shame, huh?” A voice he’d been hearing a lot of in the last few days: Jannetty.

“Sure. Always is when someone dies so young.”

Bret could just barely see them through the crack in the door, but he could still make out Jannetty eyeing the report while the coroner slid Helmsley back into the freezer.

“I guess we were partying a little too hard. Had too much to drink and went overboard.”

“You were there?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re good friends.” Bret watched Jannetty put his head in his hands. “Were good friends, I should say.”

Bret rolled his eyes.

“I never took Helmsley for a big drinker. Surprising that he had enough to go overboard.”

Bret had twigged this, too — and the fact that Jannetty was apparently the lead investigator for something he’d witnessed.

“Kind of a lightweight, yeah. Upset about Shawn.” Marty flipped through the files with a finger. “They’d been having some money troubles — reckless spending, that kind of stuff. And then there was the cheating.”

“Hmm.” The coroner sounded barely interested —Bret figured the people in his office didn’t normally talk as much as Jannetty did — but Bret had heard more than enough to make him want a second look.

If Bret felt any shock yesterday about finding Shawn — the one this one was pretending to be — it had worn off a little after this Shawn cried into his shoulder. Faking an identity didn’t make you a murder suspect, but it did make you suspicious.

Especially if one died in the same way as your husband.

Bret didn’t talk to him again until the next day, but his hand had hovered near the phone several times.

Shawn made the first move.

“Did you forget I was paying you, detective?” Shawn didn’t sound teary, but he could hear a sniffle on the line.

Bret wasn’t sure what to say, so he said the only thing he could think. “I’m not a detective.”

“You used to be. Detective emeritus, then.”

Bret had at least a hundred questions he wanted to ask him — about his real identity, about the “reckless spending,” why Jannetty had answered the phone the other day to talk about Helmsley — but he couldn’t do that over the phone. “What now?”

“Well, my husband is dead and I’d like to know why.”

They agreed to meet at the county records office later that day. It had been Bret’s suggestion, wanting to follow the money and look over property trust information. Shawn hadn’t been so sure and wanted to tell Bret exactly that while they stood outside the records room.

“Well, can’t you just tell them you’re my attorney? It’ll look suspicious for me to come in here looking for will information when the body hasn’t even left the morgue yet.”

“I could, if I didn’t come in here regularly in my official capacity as a PI,” Bret said.

“Official.” Shawn smiled. “Right.”

The clerk led them into the records room, and, as it turned out, barely gave them — or Bret’s PI license, which he’d also been sure so show Shawn — a second glance while they filled in the sign in.

Bret had been here before, so he wasn’t surprised by the rows of books and white-gloved amateur researchers lined around them.

“Like a library in here.” Shawn scowled at an old man who shushed them, dropping to a whisper. “Same kind of assholes.”

“I take it you weren’t the valedictorian.” Bret waved Shawn to the front end of the room. “That’s where they keep everything, but there’s no way they’ll let us in.”

“I would’ve thought paying you double would’ve given you a little more inspiration.” Shawn reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a key ring. “Maybe I did pay you to be my friend.”

The records room — the useful one — was a maze of metal shelves under dingy lighting stacked with records boxes that would’ve taken a year to browse, let alone look through.

“This was monetary, I’m assuming.” Bret looked at Shawn, trying to read his face. “If you think this is suspicious.”

Shawn blinked. “Well, I’m sure he didn’t just fall off the boat —” No. And Bret was sure the other Shawn — the real oil heir — hadn’t just fallen off a boat either.

“Right. So we should be looking for money moving. Obviously, the will hasn’t been filed yet, but we can look at the trusts.” Bret watched Shawn again for any hesitation. None.

He’d paused, but it seemed to Bret more like he was thinking than anything else. “Well, there was, uh, the Greenwich Trust.”

The Greenwich Trust. The same one that had paid Bret for his tail job on Shawn. But Bret and Shawn both knew Helmsley wasn’t the one who’s organized that, so who?

After being redirected through five different boxes, they finally found the collection of files with the Greenwich Trust — including a freshly-labeled overflow box that Bret volunteered to look through.

It was mostly newly-reallocated smaller trusts, all moved within the past few months.

They’d now been in here for maybe half an hour and without anyone catching them, to Bret’s surprise. But he couldn’t help but be tense; the clock was ticking.

He nodded his chin in the direction of the clerk’s office. “I’m surprised he’s not trying to supervise us in that other room.”

“You think we need a chaperone?” Shawn gave him that catlike smile. “I told him I was terribly upset, especially since my attorney made me come look at the records myself. I think he’s going to leave us alone.”

Bret watched Shawn leaf through his own box. “So you knew about the trust? You weren’t worried about getting in the way of things?”

Shawn glanced at him. “What things?”

Bret waved a hand. “Something like this. Something unfortunate.”

“The trust has always been there. I’ve never known much about it. His family liked me, but —” Shawn hesitated.

“They suspected something?”

Shawn raised his eyebrows, but Bret didn’t get the question he was expecting. Suspected what?

“Nothing like that. They think it’s unseemly to work for your money.” Shawn waved his hand. “Mayflower types.”

Bret hadn’t spent much time around the incredibly wealthy — his choice — but he was surprised to hear that living in a mansion near an oil field was considered work. At least, that’s what they thought this Shawn was up to.

Bret turned back to his own box and noticed a small card stuffed at the front — a newly updated trustee contact. The trustee name was still vague, but the phone number was different — and familiar.

He showed it to Shawn. “This your lawyer’s number?”

Shawn peered over his shoulder and went silent. “Marty.”

“Jannetty?”

Bret had known the Helmsley and Jannetty had a close enough relationship, considering the bribery — and the boat cruise, according to Jannetty — but not close enough to add him to a trust.

Bret was about to question him on this when they heard the man himself — and not alone, by the sound of it — in the clerk’s office.

“Let’s go.”

They ducked around the shelves, watching Jannetty and another detective Bret didn’t recognize enter. He was headed straight for their shelf — he knew exactly where he was going.

Bret pulled Shawn’s arm next to him and they edged around the shelves on the opposite side. Every scuff and squeak of their shoes felt impossibly loud and when they made it near the front of the room, they ran.

Bret needed time to think about what they ought to do next, but he knew the place to do it wasn’t at Shawn’s house — not with Jannetty making a move on the trust and already intending to pin Helmsley’s death on Shawn, from what Bret heard in the coroner’s office. And not with the police now on their tail.

But Shawn had other ideas. Shawn pushed the door of Bret’s apartment closed over his shoulder.

“What —”

Shawn ran his hand up Bret’s arm, then leaned in to kiss him. “Thank you.”

Shawn lingered down by his wrist, glancing up at him once from beneath his eyelashes, then pulled him back, guiding him into the bedroom. Unlike with most things in this case, Bret wasn’t surprised by it, but he knew expecting it would make him look like an asshole.

Bret had only known Shawn for a few days, but he’d now seen him in as many bathrobes as regular outfits. Shawn pulled the shoulder of Bret’s robe up where it had slipped down, now deciding for some modesty.

They’d both been quiet for a long time and the only sound in the room was the tinkling of Shawn’s spoon against his mug.

Bret broke the silence.

“I, uh, have some stuff to show you. Back at my office. I thought we could look at it later, but —”

Bret pulled out the newspaper photo he’d taken from the archives and slid it in front of Shawn. He hadn’t meant to set this up like a police interrogation — him standing behind the table, Shawn sitting in front of it — but old habits died hard.

“Do you know who this is?”

If Bret was looking for a big reaction, he didn’t get it.

Instead, Shawn ran his pinky over the caption. “Sure. Could probably name all of ‘em if you want.”

“Well, Shawn Michaels — a different one — died in a boating accident. Like your husband.”

Shawn laughed. A bitter, hollow one. “You’re really unbelievable.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You are. You get me into bed and then turn around and accuse me of killing some guy!” Shawn pointed his spoon at him. “Can’t help but notice you got fully dressed, by the way.”

Bret leaned on the table. “Hang on. Some guy?”

“Yeah. ‘Oh, Bob Smith died. Let’s round up all the Bob Smiths and see which one did it.’”

Shawn left the table, and Bret followed him to where he was picking up his clothes from Bret’s floor.

“Yeah, maybe if one Bob Smith came out of the woodwork and decided to start pretending to be an oil heir, it would be cause for investigation.”

“You couldn’t think of anything better than a one-to-one example?”

“Shawn —”

Shawn was already halfway into his jeans.

“Listen: I’ll see you later, okay?”

And before the door slammed: “Prick.”

At a certain point, Bret had known he was hired just for show — mostly after Shawn had told him as much at that Mexican joint. What he didn’t know was why.

But one thing had bugged him out of all of it: why the hell Jannetty had even been on the boat in the first place.

If Shawn hadn’t been so shocked by the death, as real and genuine a reaction as Bret had ever seen, he would’ve written it off in the obvious way: Shawn and Jannetty killing Helmsley and taking the funds.

But with the way Shawn never seemed concerned about Helmsley’s disappearance, and the way Jannetty was desperate to tell anyone who would listen that Shawn was at the root of it — maybe they were all in on it. Especially with all of the funds siphoned into the Greenwich Trust months before Helmsley’s untimely demise.

Bret had seen things like this before. When you were that rich, you always owed money to the wrong people and sometimes the easiest thing to do was disappear. At least, that’s what had happened in the last case he’d ever worked with Jannetty on the LAPD.

Bret showed up to his office to find the window broken out and Shawn leaning against the wall next to it, cigarette burned to the filter in his mouth.

Bret stopped to watch him. It didn’t even seem like he knew Bret was there.

Bret nudged some glass into a pile with his foot. “Did you hate the Hart & Associates thing that much?”

Shawn looked down at the glass like he was noticing it for the first time. “Like that when I got here.”

Bret put his hear to the door — what was left of it — and shined his penlight through the window. Whoever had done it had left, but not without doing some more damage.

Bret’s desk was flipped in his office, covered in scratches from a crowbar and the dents of more than one frustrated kick.

“Pretty impatient, whoever it was.” Bret reached into his coat and pulled out something he knew would interest Shawn: the autopsy report he’d found in the archival box.

Bret pulled the desk back up and Shawn fell into the desk chair and ran his fingers over the page, reading and re-reading what seemed like dozens of times.

Bret locked the door and leaned against it. In case Jannetty made his way back. Or Shawn tried to make his way out.

Bret gave him a minute then crossed his arms, back in interrogation mode. “This wasn’t part of the plan, then.”

Shawn barely glanced up from the page. He knew the jig was up.

“No.” He leaned back in Bret’s chair. “The plan was for him to call me when he got there. I’d play the grieving widower for a couple of months. Sell the house, act like I was going back home. Then go meet him.”

Bret didn’t bother to ask where ‘there’ was. Probably not the bottom of the bay.

Shawn spread out the pages on the desk. “Isn’t it funny? Seeing the coroner’s report made it more real than seeing his body. Didn’t even look like him.”

There was a squeak in the hall. They both looked at each other, both suspecting the same thing. Bret cracked the door to look out but found nothing out of the ordinary. Outside of the break-in that’s happened earlier tonight, the worst thing that happened on this floor was kids breaking into the dentist’s office next door to swipe Novocain.

But Bret didn’t have time to police them tonight. He still had questions for Shawn. “Who was the divorce lawyer who called me that first day?”

Shawn drew his mouth into a hard line. “Marty, I’m sure. Didn’t he say something about blackmail?”

“Yes.”

“He knew about the blackmail because he was the one doing it.”

“About your identity?” Bret asked.

Shawn cleared his throat. “We were —” He made a vague gesture. Bret nodded. He’d remembered that brief announcement in the paper.

“Were you in love?”

“We were engaged. Only kind of thing to do in that place: be a ranch hand or marry one.” Bret could tell he was glossing over a lot, but Bret didn’t need the nitty gritty right now. “He found out I married Hunter and turned up here.”

Bret hummed. “He was getting a cut to help you two out? Smooth things over with the LAPD? I’m assuming.”

“Yes. A cut. Obviously, that wasn’t enough.” Shawn scoffed, putting his head in his hand. “I told him it should’ve been Kevin.” The last part was more to himself than Bret.

Bret watched him. “Being awfully forthcoming now. Called me a prick earlier.”

Shawn’s head snapped up. “You were being a prick earlier. But you’re not a detective, remember? Not like you can arrest me.” Then his face softened. “When did you know?”

Bret had always known Shawn would be up to something; he just looked like the kind of man who was.

“I had my suspicions when you showed up. I’m sure you know honest people don’t offer to pay double.”

“Not a lot of honest people can afford to.” He smiled weakly.

“How’d you two even meet? You and, uh, Hunter.”

Shawn brightened at the mention of Hunter. At their past.

“In New York. I talked my way into some party or another. He recognized my name — as the other Shawn, obviously, and he said ‘Oh, I think our families used to do business together.’” Shawn laughed. “I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, but I wanted to see where it would go.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Not quite. Marty had started doing some work for that family. Total coincidence — well, I thought it was at the time.” Shawn looked at him. “But when I told him about it, he said maybe we should start using the kid’s name, if it’s that easy. Like, to get into clubs and restaurants. But then he started wanting to do bigger and bigger stuff. I didn’t even know what that Shawn looked like.” Shawn nodded at the photo. “Not like me, obviously.”

As ridiculous as it seemed — they really didn’t look alike — Bret didn’t think it would’ve been hard to pull off. How many people know what an oil baron’s kid looks like?

“Let me guess: Jannetty started hanging out with that Shawn — like he did with Hunter —”

“I didn’t kill him. As far as I know, he fell off a boat.” Shawn sounded more defeated than defiant. Like he was just tired of talking about it.

“I don’t think you committed that crime. I do wonder if you knew about it. I think you didn’t see what you didn’t want to see.”

Shawn scoffed. “What is that? A fucking riddle?” He took a breath. “Obviously I don’t see what I don’t want to see. If I think somebody killed somebody else, I’m not going to hang around and find out. I’m not stupid.”

Bret already had what he wanted — he was sure Shawn hadn’t killed anyone on a boat at this point — but he wanted what he could get while he had him.

“So?” Bret asked.

“So, I had Hunter’s number and told him I’d meet him in LA.”

“That easy?”

“He had some fiancée he was ducking. I guess I seemed a lot more appealing.” Shawn looked at him from under his eyelashes. “I did love him. I didn’t do this.”

“Well, listen —” Bret pulled a key from his coat and yanked open his drawer, now off its rails thanks to his desk being tipped on its side. “He inadvertently gave you an alibi.”

Bret pulled out the pictures. The more private ones, still present and accounted for. Shawn gave him a knowing look.

“You were doing this with a witness —”

“And a photographer.”

“— when Hunter died.” Bret pointed at the estimated time of death on the coroner’s report.

“Impulsive son of a bitch.” Shawn laughed. “He set everything up and couldn’t even wait for it to pay off.”

“What do you mean? Set what up?”

“‘Oh, Shawn was spending all this money. Couldn’t wait for his husband to die so he could get more.’”

Bret remembered Jannetty had mentioned that to the coroner, but he hadn’t known what he’d meant. Then he thought back to what Shawn had said about a new rug.

“The what — oh, the rug?” He’d never heard of a court case hanging in the balance over a rug.

“Obviously, it wasn’t just the rug. Around the time Hunter left, all this stuff started showing up at the house.” Shawn looked him in the eye. “Stuff I didn’t buy. Like, in the hundreds of thousands.”

“He wanted to make you look reckless.”

“That’s what he would turn around and prove in court when it came to split things up. Or have the trust’s lawyer prove in court. Obviously.”

And Jannetty hadn’t even waited until court to start saying it. He was already spilling everything to the coroner.

After a beat, Shawn put his feet up on the desk, like he worked there.

“Well, I think I just solved your mystery. So what’re you wondering about?”

Bret thought through his list of questions, getting shorter by the minute now that Shawn had decided to talk.

“Why you decided to play Prince and the Pauper with a rich guy.”

“I think in that story they looked alike, they didn’t have the same name —”

“Whatever.”

“I was living in Middle-of-Nowhere, Texas, engaged to a guy who has now tried to ruin my life, what? A half dozen times? Why do you think?”

That was true, Bret conceded.

“But you didn’t know about this?”

“I knew about the fleeing the country thing, I didn’t know about the boat murders.”

“I’m starting to think you should stay away from boats.”

“They concocted their little scheme together. He basically had Marty on the payroll, but he thought it was because Marty was such a fun, cool guy.”

“I am a fun, cool guy.” Jannetty leaned in the doorframe. Bret had practically invited him in when he forgot to lock the door back. “I remember you used to think so, Shawn.”

Bret rubbed his hand on one of the crowbar marks marring the desk. “I’m guessing you figured out you gave him an alibi.”

He sat on the desk, blocking Shawn from Jannetty.

“Wouldn’t have mattered if you got to the pictures anyway because he had two witnesses.”

Jannetty stepped around him. “Yeah, one he was sleeping with and one who was fired from the LAPD.”

Jannetty didn’t need to know now that the former now also applied to Bret. “I left. You know that.”

Jannetty shrugged. “What I do know is that it looks a little suspicious.”

Shawn stood up, putting his hand in Bret’s shoulder in front of him.

“Marty, what is this?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I know now the random expenses, the tail taking pictures of me and Kevin — that was all you. Are you telling me now that hiring him was a part of it, too?”

Bret had the same suspicions, but Jannetty probably wasn’t here to lay out his grand plan.

“I’ll need to requisition everything in this office, Hart. Police evidence.” He flashed his badge. “You know you’re not a cop, right?”

Bret stepped back around his desk. “Could be police evidence with a warrant. You have a warrant?”

He slid his fingers under the edge of the desk but only found an empty space.

“Are you reaching for a gun?”

He had been reaching for his gun — discreetly, just to have — and figured Jannetty had taken it in his earlier sweep.

Jannetty made for his holster, but not before Bret leapt at him. He wasn’t going to die in this office, and certainly not because Jannetty shot him. He didn’t even have the dignity of having a secretary for the cops to interview.

He heard a gunshot — but not next to his head, where he’d been expecting it.

It was from across the office. Shawn had pulled Bret’s desk gun out of his coat and grazed Jannetty’s arm. Bret couldn’t help but smile.

Jannetty gritted his teeth and used Bret’s distraction to flip them over. Bret — normally a very proficient grappler, if his award from the Army had anything to say for it — was simply caught off guard.

He wished he hadn’t been when he felt the crunch of his shin splitting under Jannetty’s weight.

He was off of Bret and wheeling on Shawn again, but not before Bret heard glass breaking.

The searing pain made it hard to hear — or even see — but Bret blinked around it and could make out Shawn at the phone on the wall. In a haze, he watched Shawn come to kneel next to him.

“Ambulance is on its way.” Shawn looked him over. “You blacked out for a minute.”

Bret gritted his teeth and let Shawn help him lean against the desk. “Leg breaking is not an emergency.”

“Well, you’re acting like a lot more than that happened. Anyway, ambulance is probably more for Marty.”

Bret sat up as much as he could and realized the other man was gone. “Where is he?”

“He came at me and I knocked him out the window.” Shawn stopped him from trying to get up. He could’ve done it a little more nicely than with a boot to the shoulder. “He’s fine. Fell in a bush. I saw him moving around down there.”

Bret leaned against the desk and smiled.

“Thanks. You know —”

“For saving your life?”

Bret laughed.

“I was sick of his ass. Don’t flatter yourself.” Bret stopped, until Shawn looked at him and smiled back.

“This was kinda fun, huh?” Shawn looked at him dead on again. “I mean, unless you’re gonna have the cops haul me off when they get here.”

“I think your secret’ll be safe with me.”

Almost forgot to add my author’s note:

- I initially envisioned this as a one-off, but then I was like, “What if I just made Bret and Shawn Nick and Nora Charles but in dingy 1970s LA? And they solve mysteries and get on each other’s nerves and fall in love?” So…

- Also, this takes place in the 70s and I made absolutely no mention of it in this entire story lol

[beardedmrbean]

How about a friendly game of cheese?

Hello today we will make an edible Chess with CHEESE.

Yeah, you read well.

This chess will be decorative and the final dessert for our parties. and believe me when I say it, the taste of our guests.

But stop there. This Chess will not only serve us as a dessert or snack for any type of party or important meeting. of course not, it goes further. Not only will you have style in your centerpiece, you will also be able to play a real game of chess.

so let's get started.

Hello There. today we are going to make a Cheese Chess

For our Chess we will need a lot of Cheese. in addition to other companions that will delight our guests. Here are the main ingredients:

4 X 400 grams Cheese blocks

5 X 300 grams of Guava Paste bar (also known as Bocadillo)

500 grams of mixed grapes (in this case I chose green and purple Chilean grapes)

500 grams of sliced ham

And the materials:

Knife

Cutting board

Toothpick box

Gold metallic paper, or whatever you prefer

A thick sheet of polystyrene (at least 2 centimeters in gauge)

Wooden tray (I'll use a square one, but you can use whatever you have)

Glue gun

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

This 1970 Pontiac GTO convertible was first delivered to the A.C. Morris Garage of Summersville, West Virginia, and during prior ownership it underwent a body-off rotisserie refurbishment that was completed in 2006. The car is claimed to be one of just 241 examples that were ordered with 455ci V8 and an optional automatic transmission for the model year, and it is finished in Burgundy over red vinyl upholstery. Other equipment includes a four-barrel carburetor, a Ram Air hood, a power-operated convertible top, power steering, front disc brakes, and a 12-bolt rear end housing a Safe-T-Track limited-slip differential. Acquired by the selling dealer in 2013 out of Arizona, this GTO convertible is offered in Missouri with refurbishment photos, manufacturer’s literature, build sheets, a reproduction window sticker, documentation from Pontiac Historical Services, correspondence with the GM Heritage center, and a clean Missouri title.

The car was finished from the factory in Burgundy, and the body was stripped, mounted to a rotisserie jig, and repainted during the refurbishment, at which time a replacement convertible top was installed. Features include a color-matched Endura front bumper, a chrome rear bumper, a Ram Air hood, and quad exhaust outlets with polished finishers.

Rally II 14″ wheels are mounted with 215/70 Firestone Wide-Oval tires. Braking is provided by power-assisted front discs and rear drums, and the car was optioned with power steering when new.

The cabin has been retrimmed with red vinyl upholstery (2254) as well as color-coordinated carpets and interior trim. Equipment includes front bucket seats and a rear bench, a woodgrain steering wheel, an AM/FM radio, and an 8-track player. A pre-delivery-style instruction tag is attached to the steering column, and Pontiac-branded rubber floor mats line the front and rear footwells.

The turned metal and woodtone trim-accented cluster houses Rally instrumentation consisting of a 140-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge. The five-digit odometer shows under 96k miles, approximately 50 of which have been driven by the seller. True mileage is unknown.

The optional 455ci V8 features a four-barrel carburetor and a Ram Air hood, and it produced a factory-rated 360 horsepower and 500 lb-ft of torque when new. The engine stamping shown within the gallery ends in 0P121234, which matches the final eight digits of the car’s serial number. Additional identification numbers are presented in the gallery.

Power is sent to the rear wheels through an optional Turbo Hydramatic 400 three-speed automatic transmission and a 12-bolt rear end housing a Safe-T-Track limited-slip differential. Additional photos are provided in the gallery to illustrate the underside, drivetrain, and suspension components.

Photos showing various stages of the refurbishment are depicted above.

Additional items accompanying the car include manufacturer’s literature, build sheets, a reproduction window sticker, documentation from Pontiac Historical Services, and 2012 correspondence with the GM Heritage center confirming the car’s specifications and equipment, photos of which are provided in the gallery.