#//time t'FIGHT

[butchersboobs]

Foxie, Becks and Butcher, Too

A Billy Butcher POV fic

'The course of true love never did run smooth' - as Billy Butcher's about to find out...

This story is based on several Butcher-yapping sessions I've had with the absolute legend @vulgarcupcake, whom I bloody adore.

⚠️ Smut below the cut, along with all the dark shit to be expected from a fic set in 'The Boys' universe - MDNI

-----

Seedy don’t even begin t'describe this fuckin’ shit'ole. 

Stinks o’stale beer, cheap aftershave an’ desperation. The kinda joint where the bouncers are too busy floggin' crack t'stop the strippers gettin' mauled by punters. 

But filf festers in places like this, so ‘ere I am - tryna find this fuckin’ z-list supe ‘oo claims ‘e knows summink that’d take them Vought cunts down f’good.

I lean against the sticky bar, scannin’ the room, when the lights dim and ‘Thunderstruck’ starts blastin’ frew the speakers - just about loud enuff t'make me fuckin’ ears bleed. The crowd shifts, all eyes look to the stage, and me - well, I turn t’look, too, more out of ‘abit than any real interest. 

But then I see ‘em.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

Two o’the most stunnin’ birds I’ve ever clapped eyes on, movin’ abou’ like they own the fuckin’ place. 

One’s a tiny fing, platinum blonde ‘air wiv these black streaks frew the ends, all sass and wicked smirks. Looks like she’d eat ya alive an' laugh while she's doin’ it. The uvver one- fuck me - she’s got curves that’d make a priest reconsider ‘is vows, a dark red pixie cut and these sultry eyes that flick over the crowd like she’s tryna choose ‘er next victim.

They strut t'the front o’ the stage as the beat kicks in, ‘ips swayin’ in sync, tits 'n arse cheeks bouncin’ about - the ‘ole fuckin’ rooms vibratin’ off their energy.

The blonde grabs the pole, spins ‘erself round so smoove, it’s like she’s weightless, then drops low, archin’ ‘er back jus’ right. The red’ead stalks forward, slow 'n deliberate, lockin’ eyes wiv some poor sod in the front row who's probly jus’ shot ‘is load in ‘is fuckin’ trousers.

I should be finkin’ 'bout me mission - the scumbag I’m sposed t’be huntin’ down, but all I can do is stare. Me mowf’s gone dry, me ‘ands tight on me glass, an’ f’the first time in fuck knows ‘ow long, I’m bloody mesmerised.

Then, just as that screechin’ guitar solo ‘its, the red’ead flicks ‘er gaze my way - looks right at me - an’ whips ‘er top off.

And fuck me if I don’t feel like I’m the one bein’ hunted now.

Then it ‘appens.

Some fat-fingered, lairy twat in a cheap suit - some banker or city prick, no doubt - gets it in ‘is ‘ead that ‘is front row seat means 'e can do more than just look’. ‘E reaches up, grabs an ‘andful o’the blonde’s arse like e’s paid for it.

Big. Fuckin’. Mistake.

Before I can even set me drink down, she swings round and chins the cunt. No ‘esitation, no messin’ - just a straight-up, solid fuckin’ right ‘ook to ‘is jaw. The crack of it’s fuckin’ beautiful. Prick goes down like a sack o’spuds, clutchin’ ‘is face, shock all over ‘is punchable gob.

Then ‘is mate - annuver greasy-lookin' wanker - jumps up from ‘is seat, all puffed up, actin’ like e’s about t’do summink about it. But before ‘e can even open ‘is gob, the red’ead’s there.

She don’t just step in - nah -she fuckin' flies. Legs 'round ‘is waist, fists in ‘is hair, draggin' ‘im down t'the floor like some feral fuckin’ cat. E’s too busy shriekin’ n flailin’ t'fight back. The bouncers finally decide to earn their fuckin’ pay, 'aulin’ the two twats off while the rest o’the room cheers like they just watched the main event at a fuckin’ boxing match.

I just lean back against the bar, chucklin’ to meself.

Fink I might 'ave t'come 'ere more often.

A minute later, the scent of vanilla and a bit o’violence ‘its me, and I don’ even ‘ave to look t’know oo’s just walked up. One on eiver side o’me. The blonde perches ‘erself against the bar to me right, knuckles still red, lips curled in satisfaction. The red’ead slinks up on me left, smug as fuck, shakin’ out ‘er ‘ands like she ain't just flattened some city wanker in record time.

They both signal the bartender at the same time. “Five shots,” they say, almost in sync.

Five? Each?

The drinks are lined up in seconds, and before I can even make a smart-arsed remark, they grab their glasses and knock ‘em back like it’s fuckin’ water.

I watch, properly fuckin’ transfixed, as they down every last drop. Neiver of ‘em even winces.

The blonde slams ‘er last glass down, licks ‘er lips, then glances up at me.

The red’ead does the same, then tilts ‘er ‘ead, lookin’ me up and down like she’s measurin’ me up.

I exhale slow, grinnin’.

“Evenin’, ladies,” I say, all smoove like, before downin’ me own drink. 

“Crackin' show, that…”

I glance between ‘em, still fuckin’ reelin’ from what I just witnessed. Ain’t often ya see a couple o’strippers deck two pricks. These are definitely the kinda gells oo’d eat a bloke alive and not even leave the bones.

I huff a laugh, leanin’ on the bar. “I’d offer to buy you boaf a drink, but summink’ tells me if I said the wrong fing, you’d rip me fuckin’ bollocks off.”

The blonde barks out a proper, froaty laugh, smirkin’ up at me, eyes glintin’. “You wish…” she purrs, flickin’ a bit of ‘er bloody gorgeous ‘air over ‘er shoulder.

The red’ead just grins slow, proper dangerous-like, and steps in closer - right into me space. She tilts ‘er head, eyes gleamin’ under the neon lights. “When I get my hands on your bollocks,” she murmurs - 'n fuck me, she's a Brit, “it won’t be to rip ‘em off.”

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

I swallow ‘ard, heat shootin’ straight t'me cock. I ain’t a nervous bloke - don’t get rattled easy - but fuck me if that didn’t just knock the wind right outta me sails. She knows exactly what she’s doin’, the little minx. And the blonde? She’s watchin’ it all wiv a knowing look, like she’s waitin’ to see if I’ll crumble.

Not a fuckin’ chance.

I grin, signal to the bartender. “Right then. Let’s get some more shots in, shall we?”

Few minutes later, we’ve got fresh drinks in ‘and, and I’m feelin’ the warm buzz o’whiskey makin’ its way frew me system. I clink me glass against theirs, eyes flickin’ between ‘em. “So, what do I call you, then? Or am I just gonna keep thinkin’ of ya as the two sexiest fuckin’ women I’ve ever seen in me life?”

The blonde chuckles, rollin’ ‘er eyes. “Foxie,” she says, tappin’ ‘er shot glass against mine before knockin’ it back like a pro. Fuck me. She's fuckin’ foxy alright.

“Becks,” the red'ead says, voice like warm fuckin’ honey.

Foxie ‘n Becks.

I roll their names over in me ‘ead, takin’ anuvver slow sip o’whiskey. Two of ‘em, right ‘ere, pressin’ in close, flirtin’ back just as ‘ard as I’m throwin’ it. And me? I’m in fuckin’ turmoil.

Because I genuinely can’t choose which one I want most.

Foxie’s all wicked grins and flirty, she's absolutely stunnin’ and is definitely trouble - a tiny little firecracker oo’d probly set me ‘ole life alight just for the fun o'watchin’ it burn. Becks is pure filf, wiv the most crackin’ set o'tits I've ever seen and a mouth that could fuckin’ talk a bloke into - or out of - anyfin.

I wan‘em boaf.

And if I ain't mistaken, they boaf fuckin’ know it.

-----

The booze is flowin’, the flirtin’s gettin’ filfier, and I’m ‘avin’ the best fuckin’ night I’ve ‘ad in years. Foxie’s perched on me right, leanin’ in every time she laughs, ‘er little ‘and on me arm, eyes flashin’ like she knows exactly ‘ow much trouble she is. Becks is on me left, battin’ 'er eyelashes and touchin’ me up, ‘er voice drippin’ wiv suggestion every time she opens that wicked mowf. I’d be lyin’ if I said I weren’t absolutely fuckin’ smitten - an’ absolutely fuckin’ torn.

An hour’s gone by in a blur o’whiskey, teasin’, and them takin’ turns windin’ me up so bad I can barely fink straight. The club’s windin’ down now, punters stumblin’ out into the night, and it’s clear as fuck where this is ‘eaded. They boaf want me. Boaf of ‘em. And I, in all me years of chasin’ skirt, ‘ave never been in such a fuckin’ predicament.

I push back from the bar, stretchin’ me arms over me ‘ead. “Right,” I say, grinnin’. “I need a slash. But when I get back, you two are gonna have to play Rock, Paper, Scissors over me or somethin’, ‘cause I ain’t got a fuckin’ clue ‘ow to pick between ya.”

Foxie just giggles, downin’ the last of ‘er drink. Becks smirks over the rim of ‘ers, archin’ a single, perfict brow.

I ‘ead off to the bogs, splash a bit o’ cold water on me face, and stare at meself in the mirror. Jesus, Butcher. What the fuck are you doin’?

I know EXACTLY what I’m doin'.

When I step back out into the club, they’re still at the bar, standin’ close, talkin’ low between ‘emselves. Their eyes flick up to me at the same time, and summink about the way they’re lookin’ at me makes the ‘airs on the back o’me neck stand up.

Foxie tilts ‘er head, smilin’ as she taps a finger against ‘er lips. “So, Butcher…”

Becks leans in, voice all warm and velvety. “What if…” She lets it ‘ang there, just for a second, before she grins.

Foxie finishes for ‘er. “You didn’t have to choose?”

I fuckin’ freeze.

And then, very fuckin’ slowly, a grin spreads across me face.

“Ladies,” I murmur, steppin’ closer, lettin’ me gaze flick between ‘em. “I fink I just ‘ad the best piss o’me fuckin’ life.”

Foxie ‘olds up ‘er ‘and, ‘er smirk widenin’. “Hold on a minute, big boy.”

Becks leans in, mirrorin’ ‘er, and I swear I’ve never been more fuckin’ eager to ‘ear what’s comin’ next.

“Just so we’re clear,” Foxie purrs, eyes glintin’ wicked, “we come as a pair, yeah, but not in the way you’re thinkin’.”

Becks tilts ‘er head, trailin’ a finger along the rim of ‘er empty glass. “You can have us both,” she murmurs, “but not at the same time.”

Foxie leans in close, ‘er breath warm against me ear. “We’ll share you. No questions asked. No jealousy, no moanin’, no nagging…”

Becks’ lips brush against me ear as she whispers. “The best of both worlds.”

I stare at ‘em, flickin’ me gaze between the two, and for the first time ever, I’m speechless. Two of the most stunnin’, dangerous, sexy birds I’ve ever laid eyes on, and they’re offerin’ me a fuckin’ dream scenario.

I let out a low chuckle, shakin’ me ‘ead. “This night,” I murmur, grinnin’ like the bastard I am, “just keeps gettin’ better.”

-----

We stumble into mine, the door barely clickin’ shut before the gells make ‘emselves at ‘ome like they’ve been ‘ere a hundred times before. Foxie kicks off ‘er ‘eels, stretchin’ like a cat, while Becks flops onto me couch, arms drapin’ over the back like she owns the fuckin’ fing. It’s a sight, I tell ya - the pair of ‘em loungin’ round me gaff like they belong ‘ere. 

I could definitely get used to this.

I grab a bottle o’whiskey, pour three glasses, then drop meself onto the couch right between ‘em. They don’t waste a bloody second - Foxie leans into me right side, ‘er little fingers trailin’ up me arm, while Becks presses in close on the left, ‘er thigh warm against mine. I take a slow sip, feelin’ proper fuckin’ smug.

“So,” I say, “right. ‘Ow’s this gonna work then?”

They share a look, Foxie’s lips twitchin’, Becks’ smile filfy as ever.

“You choose,” Foxie says simply, eyes dark and glintin’. “Whoever you want tonight. No hard feelings.”

Becks nods, draggin’ ‘er fingers slow over me knee. “We promised, didn’t we? No jealousy, no drama.”

I glance between ‘em, then huff out a laugh. “Oh, bollocks to that. I ain’t gonna choose.”

I dig in me pocket, pull out a coin, an’ ‘old it up between me fingers. “‘Eds, Foxie. Tails, Becks.”

They watch, amused, as I flip the bastard. The coin spins in the air, catchin’ the light, and when it lands on me palm, I flip it over t'the back o’me uvver 'and.

'Eads it is.

Foxie grins, triumphant, while Becks just chuckles, stretchin’ ‘er arms over ‘er ‘ed like she ain’t got a care in the world.

“Right then,” I say, pushin’ meself up. “Let’s get you sorted, love.”

I grab a pillow and blanket from me cupboard, tossin’ ‘em onto the couch. “Comfy as fuck, that couch,” I tell Becks, watchin’ as she flops down like she’s testin’ it out.

Before I turn t’leave, I crouch down, catch ‘er chin between me fingers, and press a slow, deep kiss to ‘er lips. She hums against me mouth, all warm an’ lazy, and when I pull back, I let a low growl rumble from me throat.

“Night, love,” I tell ‘er.

Foxie grabs me ‘and, tuggin’ me towards me bedroom, but Becks just grins up at me from the couch.

“Night, Butcher, night Fox - don't break him!” she says, only ‘alf jokin’. Fuck - what ‘ave I let meself in for?

And wiv that, me and Foxie disappear into me bedroom, leavin’ Becks stretched out, smilin’ to ‘erself, like she already knows ‘er turn’ll come soon enough.

-----

As soon as the bedroom door clicks shut, Foxie’s on me like a fuckin’ wildfire, pressin’ me back against it, ‘er li'le ‘ands already slidin’ up me chest. She’s tiny, barely comes up to me chin, but Christ, the way she moves - like she’s already got me figured out, already knows exactly what she’s doin’ to me.

I let out a low chuckle, thumbin’ a strand of ‘er platinum hair, feelin’ the silky softness between me fingers. “You’re a right little menace, ain’t ya?”

She grins up at me, all teeth and trouble. “You love it.”

She ain’t wrong.

I grab ‘er waist, pullin’ ‘er in flush, feelin’ the heat of her pressed against me. It’s been a long fuckin’ time since I’ve ‘ad a woman like this - one that’s all confidence, no ‘esitation, knows exactly what she wants and ain’t afraid t’take it. And fuck me, does she take it.

Her mowf’s on mine before I can fink, kissin’ me like she means to fuckin’ ruin me, ‘er ‘ands slidin’ up into me hair, tuggin’ just enough to make me groan into ‘er lips. She tastes like whisky an’ trouble, and bollocks, I’m in deep.

Me fingers skim under the hem of  er top, findin’ bare, warm skin, and she arches into me, hummin’ against me mouth like she’s already got plans for how this night’s gonna go. I back ‘er up towards the bed, ‘ands roamin’, touchin’, takin’ in every inch of ‘er like I need t’memorise it. Because fuck, I do.

This ain't just a quick fuck - it ain't just about scratchin' an itch. It's sumfin else entirely. Sumfin sharp an’ electric, a proper fizz in the air, like she’s got some kinda spell on me.

And the worst part? I don’t even fuckin’ care.

-----

I wake up to the smell of bacon. Proper thick-cut, none o’that supermarket shite. First thought in me head? Fuck me, I’ve died and gone to ‘eaven.

Foxie’s still sprawled out beside me, ‘air a mess, lips all swollen from last night. I let me fingers drift down ‘er back, lazy ‘n light, but she just grumbles, buryin’ ‘er face in me pillow. Right then - guess I’m flyin’ solo.

I pull on me joggers, drag meself outta bed, and wander into the kitchen, rubbin’ the sleep out me eyes. And there she is - Becks, stood at the stove like she’s done it a thousand fuckin’ times before, ‘air a messy li'le pixie halo, flippin’ bacon wiv the kinda focus usually reserved for bomb disposal.

She clocks me standin’ there and smiles over her shoulder. “Mornin’, Billy.”

I lean against the counter, arms crossin’ over me chest, watchin’ as she plates up eggs, sausages, the works. “You been out?”

“Course,” she says, like it’s the most normal fing in the world. “Figured you’d need proper fuel after last night.”

I huff out a laugh, runnin’ an ‘and frew me ‘air. “You takin’ the piss?”

She grins. “Maybe a little.”

I glance at the spread on the table - bacon crisped up just right, eggs lookin’ golden ‘n runny, black pudding, mushrooms, the fuckin’ lot. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, sinkin’ into a chair. “You tryna make me fall in love with ya?”

Becks just winks, settin’ a mug of tea down in front o’me. “Eat first. Declare undyin’ devotion later.”

Just then, Foxie staggers in, ‘air all over the shop, wearin’ one of me shirts that’s way too big on ‘er, lookin’ sexy as fuck. She lets out a delighted little gasp when she sees the food. “Good ol’ Becks - I'm fucking starving”

Becks just nudges a plate towards her. “Eat up, gorgeous.”

And so we do - three of us sat round me kitchen table, laughin’, nickin’ bits off each other’s plates, like we’ve been doin’ this f’years. It’s fuckin’ weird, in the best way. Easy. Natural.

I sip me tea, lookin’ between ‘em, and shake me ‘ead wiv a smirk. I dunno what the fuck I’ve gotten meself into - but I ain’t complainin’.

-----

I barely make it frew the day. Every time I look at Becks, I’m finkin’ about what’s comin’ later. She knows it, too - the little look she gives me every time I catch ‘er eye, the way she brushes past me, barely fuckin’ touchin’ me, but leavin’ me burnin’ all the same. Foxie clocks it straight away, the smug little cow, an’ she just gives me a wink over ‘er tea and says, “Well, you two are gonna be useless today.”

She ain’t wrong.

By the time night rolls round, I’m climbin’ the fuckin’ walls. Foxie gives Becks a li’le nudge  as she ‘eads off to the couch, tellin’ ‘er to “play nice,” and Becks just laughs, low and husky, shootin’ me a look that damn near finishes me off on the spot.

The second the bedroom door shuts be’ind us, I’ve got ‘er pinned against it, one ‘and tangled in that dark red pixie cut, the uvver already slidin’ down ‘er waist. She lets out a breathy little laugh, all warm an’ wicked, tiltin’ ‘er ‘ead back like she’s invitin’ me to do me worst.

Oh, love, you dunno what you’ve just signed up for.

I kiss ‘er like I mean to wreck ‘er - slow at first, deep an’ teasing, then ‘arder when she makes this little noise in the back of ‘er throat, fists tight in me ‘air. She’s all curves, soft in all the right places, and fuck me, she smells good. Like vanilla and sin.

“Been waitin’ f’this all day,” I mutter against ‘er lips, slidin’ me ‘ands under her shirt, finally gettin’ me ‘ands on them tits. Fuckin’ell - what a pair they are.

She grins, eyes dark wiv mischief. “Oh yeah?” ‘Er fingers tug at me waistband, draggin’ me closer. “Guess we’d better make it worth the wait then.”

Fuckin’ell. I’m gone.

I growl low in me throat, haulin’ ‘er up, and she wraps ‘er legs round me waist like she was made for it. Christ, the feel of ‘er - warm, soft, all smug confidence like she knows she’s got me in the fuckin’ palm of ‘er ‘and. And she does. Oh, she does.

I carry ‘er to the bed, droppin’ ‘er onto the mattress wiv a bounce, and she props ‘erself up on ‘er elbows, lookin’ at me like I’m ‘er next meal.

“Gonna stand there all night, big boy?” she teases, runnin’ ‘er tongue over ‘er bottom lip, an  fuckin’ hell, I nearly lose it.

I climb over ‘er, settlin’ meself between ‘er thighs, lettin’ me weight press  er into the bed, and she shivers, eyes dark as sin. “You’re a proper filthy fucker, you know that?” I mutter against ‘er jaw, kissin’ my way down ‘er neck.

She hums, archin’ up into me, ‘ands slidin’ down towards me cock, sendin’ a thrill right frew me. “Yeah, but you love it.”

Can’t argue wiv that.

I take me time, explorin’ every inch of ‘er, memorisin’ the sounds she makes, the way she moves under me. It’s different from Foxie - where Foxie was all wild energy, Becks is slow, sultry, like she’s enjoyin’ every second, makin’ sure I do too. It’s fuckin’ intoxicatin’.

She rolls us over sudden-like, straddlin’ me wiv a wicked grin, ‘ands pressed to me chest. “My turn,” she murmurs, leanin’ down to kiss me, slow and deep, stealin’ every last bit o’ control I ‘ad left.

I am so fuckin’ done for.

-----

The room’s all warm an’ cozy, tangled sheets and the scent of Becks still clingin’ t me skin. She’s out cold, one arm draped over me stomach, ‘er breff slow an’ steady against me chest. I slip out careful-like, grabbin’ me joggers from the floor, and pad out to the kitchen, needin’ a drink, a smoke, and a fuckin’ minute to get me head straight.

I light up, takin’ a deep drag, lettin’ the smoke curl in me lungs before breavin’ it out slow. The place is silent, just the faint hum of the fridge and the distant rumble of cars outside. It’s peaceful. Almost too peaceful, considerin’ the absolute madness of the last twenty-four hours.

I should be confused, right? I should be sittin’ here, tryin’ t’figure out which one of ‘em I want more, which one’s got me proper. But I ain’t. Cos I can’t fuckin’ choose.

Foxie, wiv ‘er magic li'le mowf. The way she fuckin’ owned me cock and ran ‘er ‘ands all over me like ‘er life depended on it. And Becks, all slow ‘n sensual, makin’ me feel I was summink special just by the way she looked at me. And the way she moaned my name when I first stuck me cock in ‘er. Fuck.

'Ow the fuck am I meant to pick?

And then it ‘its me - I don’t ‘ave to.

I don't want to.

They don’t want me to. 

They’ve already worked it all out, already set the rules, and bollocks if it don’t make perfect sense. I get ‘em both. No jealousy, no moanin’, no drama. Just me and me gells.

I let out a deep breff, then take another drag, a slow smirk spreadin’ across me lips.

Yeah.

This can definitely fuckin’ work.

-----

I dunno exactly when it ‘appened - one minute they were crashin’ at mine now and then, the next, their shit was everywhere - fuckin’ perfumes takin’ over me bathroom, bras ‘angin’ off the back of me chair, and me kitchen permanently stocked with Becks’ dodgy fuckin’ vodka and Foxie’s 900 different types o'soddin’ pasta. Proper fuckin’ nutjobs, the both of ‘em. 

But I wouldn’t change ‘em for the bloody world.

Foxie, me little crybaby, snivels over everyfin. Some daft advert on the telly? Tears. I fuck me fleshligh’ t'teach ‘er a lesson? Waterworks. I barely fuckin’ touch her with a joke punch, and she’s clutchin’ her arm like I just shattered the fuckin’ fing. But she’s got an ‘eart the size o’the fuckin’ moon, and it ain’t just herself she’s cryin’ over - she’s always lookin’ out for Becks ‘n me.

And Becks? Fuckin’ liability, that one. Proper mowfy gobshite, ‘specially when she’s ‘ammered, which is quite a lot. The amount o’times I’ve ‘ad t’drag ‘er away from some poor cunt she’s squared up to, pint in ‘and, swayin’ on ‘er feet but refusin’ to back down. Christ. And yet, some’ow, she always gets away wiv it, flashin’ her fuckin’ cleavage an’ battin’ them big eyes ‘til she’s the bloody victim of the ‘ole situation.

I keep tellin’ ‘em boaf to pack in the strippin’, but do they listen? Do they fuck. So now I’m sneakin’ into the club most nights, nursin’ a whiskey at the back, keepin’ an eye out - just t’make sure no cunt so much as breaves the wrong way near ‘em. They know, o’course - pair o’smug little bitches they are - always sendin’ me cheeky winks from the stage, Becks pushin’ ‘er tits togevver or blowin’ me kisses, Foxie wearin’ them tiny knickers ‘n knee socks she knows I can't resist ‘er in - just t’take the piss.

They’re a mess. But they’re my fuckin’ mess. 

And god ‘elp any cunt ‘oo ever fuckin’ upsets ‘em - cos I'll fuckin’ kill ‘em.

-----

Been fuckin’ burned, ain't we.

I’m fuckin’ dreadin’ this. Not the safe house. Not Vought breavin’ down me neck. Not even the fact me ‘ole life’s just gone up in flames again. Nah, what’s got me sweatin’ is me gells.

‘Cause I ain’t exactly told The Boys about ‘em.

Weren’t ‘iding it, exactly - just never got round t’yappin’ about me domestic situation. ‘Oi, lads, pass the whiskey - and oh, by the way, I’m shaggin’ two gorgeous but absolute nutter strippers. Oh, and they live wiv me…’ didn’t seem like natural conversation. 

But now, I ain’t got a choice - they got nowhere t’live. Turns out they ‘ad t'do a runner from their place after Becks chinned the bloody landlord cos the ‘cheeky cunt’ asked for the seven months’ rent she ‘just forgot’ t’pay.

So - they gotta come wiv me. Cos Christ - they ain't bloody safe t’be left t'fend for ‘emselves.

I glance over at ‘em in the back seat, where they’re pissin’ about like this is some bloody road trip an’ not me worst fuckin’ nightmare. “Right,” I warn ‘em as we set off. “I need you two to fuckin’ be’ave yerselves.”

“Yes, Billy,” they chirp in unison, like butter wouldn't fuckin’ melt.

It crosses me mind that I'd rather just put me foot down ‘n chuck meself out the bloody car door than try t’make this pair listen to a bloody word I say again.

“No - don’t you ‘yes, Billy’ me. I fuckin’ mean it. No windin’ M.M up. No flirtin’ with Frenchie or nickin’ ‘is stash. And for the love of fuck, do not - DO NOT! - get ‘Ughie involved in any of your bullshit.”

Foxie gasps, all fake innocence. “Billy, I’m hurt.”

‘Oi! Jus’ fuckin’’ listen, yeah? An’ don’ be startin’ any shit wiv Starlight or Kimiko, neaver. Do you fuckin ‘ear me?’

Becks smirks, spreadin’ her legs wide open, flashin’ ‘er minge, just t'piss me off a bit more. “C’mon, Butch - we’re angels.”

Angels, my fuckin’ arse.

I know EXACTLY ‘ow this is gonna go. 

And I know - wivout a fuckin’ shadow of a doubt - that I will never ‘ear the end o’this from the lads.

-----

I knew it. I fucking knew it.

From the second I stepped frew that door wiv me gells in tow, I knew it was gonna be absolute fucking carnage. And lo and bloody be’old…

M.M. just stares at ‘em - ‘n goes from nought t'ragin’ in 0.01 seconds. “Butcher,” he says, real slow. “Why the FUCK have you brought two hookers to this safe house?”

I damn near snap me own teef grindin’ ‘em togevver. “Oi - watch yer fuckin’ mowf, M. This is Foxie, ‘n this Becks - they're… well, they're me gells, ain't they.”

‘Ughie, the soft bastard, looks baffled. “Wait - wait… What do you mean, ‘your girls’?” He gestures wildly between me an’ the pair of ‘em, who true t'form are struttin’ ‘round the place like it’s theirs already. “Butcher… are you their fucking pimp?”

Foxie bursts out laughin’, wrappin’ herself round me arm. Becks just cackles.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, rubbin’ me face. “They’re me birds, alright? We’re -” I wave me ‘and, tryna find the right words.

Foxie hums, lookin’ thoughtful. “I wouldn’t call it dating, exactly.”

“No - I'd describe it as ‘fucking’‘- like - A LOT. A co-habiting fuck-triangle, maybe?” Becks cuts in, all bolshy. “And for the record, m ‘n m or whatever your name is - we’re strippers, actually.” And before I can stop ‘er, she flashes ‘er fuckin’ tits right there in the middle of the room.

‘Ughie looks like ‘es gonna ‘it the deck, and Annie practically dives in front of ‘im, tryna shield ‘is poor fuckin’ innocent eyes.

M.M. looks two seconds from murder. “That’s it. That’s fuckin’ it. We’re all dead.”

Frenchie, on the other hand? Absolutely delighted. “Oh, mon dieu, this is fantastic.” And before I can stop ‘er, Foxie’s climbed into ‘is lap, wrappin’ ‘er arms round ‘is neck an’ startin’ up a bloody lap dance.

Kimiko's takin’ it all in, clearly findin’ the ‘ole fing fuckin’ hilarious. Annie looks like she’d rarver go back to The Seven than stay ‘ere. ‘Ughie's rockin’ back and forth mutterin’ ‘why does this shit keep happening to me’ repeatedly. M.M. - well ‘e looks like ‘e might need a fuckin’ ambulance.

I just sigh, already headin’ f’the whisky. This is me life now.

I've not even left the bloody room before Becks pipes up.

“Skin up then Frenchie, there's a good'un. I’ll rack us up some lines, yeah? Where's your stash, babe? Grab some vodka, Fox. Let's get this party started!”

Foxie cheers. “Fancy another lapdance, French? Where's the stereo? Dry humping's better when music is pumping - that's my motto…”

Frenchie looks like e'd ‘appily 'stay on the run forever.

I don’ even bovver tryna find a glass - m'just gonna neck the ‘ole fuckin’ bottle. 

-----

Tags: @vulgarcupcake @dumpy-little-nobody @bluemerakis @karlurbanism @enchantedflameandflower @jax-the-oregonian @bobabilbil @frank3nfag @bohemianblasphemy @bluecalypso24 @galaxyshifting @jynx15 @lloquent @noonwardmoss @rustanddusted @scrmqwn @scxrchedearf

[sweatforged]

@bornatnightt

"hold  on,  you're  uh...  you've  been  with  us  at  the  ranch,  right?"  they'd  been  such  a  big  group  &  silas  had  been  so  busy  trying  not  to  strangle  alejandro  &  then  there'd  been  that  damn  horse.  he'd  needed  that  fight  in  the  end,  needed  it  to  cool  off,  but  it  appeared  like  they'd  been  led  there  for  nothing.  unless  the  cowboys  tricked  everybody.  he'd  been  so  close  when  the  zeus  kid  stopped  them. 

now,  silas  didn't  necessarily  support  taking  down  innocent  people,  but  he'd  really  ...really  wanted  to.  gods,  he  did.  he  knew  he  wasn't  the  only  one  who  didn't  quite  trust  them,  but  ...  they  didn't  have  too  many  options,  did  they?  go  against  the  group?  nah.  "we  never  got  t'fight,  but...  what's  it  you  do?  if  ya  don'  mind  me  askin'."  silas  had  yet  to  fight  side  by  side  with  everybody  yet,  find  out  what  their  powers  were  &  categorize  them  in  ...  well,  synergy  or  not. 

he  found  that  in  fights  like  they  were  facing,  with  unknown  enemies  &  barely  any  time  to  prepare  -  with  constant  adjustments  to  the  enemy  playstyle  being  key,  it  was  even  more  important  to  know  what  every  teammate  was  good  at. 

[ronmanmob]

"Scars make us who we are.”

She’d taken a break, pouring herself a cup of coffee and gone to join him. One hand wrapped around her mug, fingers tracing a jagged line in the wood on the table. Corinne found herself looking forward to those days he lingered in the cafe, their conversations covering a wide range of topics. She’d not realized at first she’d said the words out loud. Spoken in a quiet tone, but filled with a weight that nearly took up a physical presence in the air between them.

“Sorry, didn’t realize I spoke out loud.” She said after glancing up and a sudden awareness dawning that he’d heard. She gave him an apologetic smile, then decided as long as she’d given voice to the thought, she might as well ask. “Do you think that’s accurate?”

Scars Meme

Reflexively Ron waved off the apology, a slight motion of his hand and a single shake of the head doubling for words as he considered his newly returned pal's question. Time was she'd barely been able to get three words out of him, but as weeks trickled into months and his visits to this lovely little café became at least semi-regular, his comfort with its lady-proprietor (and hers with him) had slowly grown to the point where this, now, was possible. As to scars though--

"--If tha' was true" Ron began, his gaze lingering on Corinne's cup and on her hands more than it did her face or eyes as he spoke to her. He'd have worried once upon a time that that way about him tracked as dismissive or disinterested, but she'd never mentioned it to him and kept on coming over to see him when the mood took so...It couldn't be so onerous a thing.

"If tha' were true, lit'rally true, I'd be more ov a mess ov a person than I am now."

There was a laugh under there somewhere, just a breath's worth that aimed at making his comment sound jestful. On a penny though, almost as a testament to how false it'd been, this guise fell away. Ron moved one of his hands away from the steaming cup of tea he'd been cupping with it, reaching by inches towards Cory so she could see its back; see his knuckles and the spiderweb of pale lines and old, fading calluses that patterned them. There were so many more of them in so many places, but these...They hurt the least.

"All I'd be-" he went on, chancing a look at her face quickly before retreating again to their hands; his where it lay for her to see in the warm café light and hers on her mug, nice and warm. "-Is a ragged lump'a rage 'n pain b'cause mine-- Their legacy's fights. 'Avin' t'fight -- ovvah people, m'eself...I--"

A breath was drawn in and released as a thought came to him.

"Scars" Ron said, "tell th'tale'a where y've been, I fink. They don't tell th'tale'a 'oo y'are; don't make yah 'oo yah are." He glanced at Cory's face again. "S'tha' make sense?"

[umbralsound-xiv]

"They landed wit' a bang. Sayuri still standin', Eir laid out all bloody, Neoma yellin' at me t'get them inside.

Picked him up. Ain' all that heavy, 'f 'm 'onest. Managed t'get 'im downstairs th'the bed, where all what i can only assume th'medical stuff were.

...I seen things like this before. This whole... Frantic healin'. Seen it a time're two with Mhira. Ain' ever get any less stressful, but... Y'get more prepared for it. There's a time f'jokin', aye? A time f'levity, but this weren' it.

...Weren' much i could do save f'watch over 'em. Give what comfort i could t'Sayuri, not that she tore her gaze away from 'er fella all that much. Ain' blame 'er.

...Think she's still in shock, from th'way she were. It... Kinda hurts, y'know? Seein' folk you've always known as strong become so withdrawn.

...I wonder if that's 'ow i felt, when...

...Yeah.

Zihre's with 'em out there. Bexy'll look after 'er, i'm sure. She wouldn't leave her out there. Ain' often we get t'fight people, an'... It were a good way for 'er to practise. I ain' know how i'd feel, watchin' her kill someone, if it came t'it. Though i know she would. I know she'll be fine, 'course she will!

...Ain' stop me worryin', though. 'specially for what i'm seein' in front've me.

Ain' take too much imaginin' from th'wounds i'm seein' to make a guess what happened in there..."

[piers-official]

"Dark flying and maybe leaning on fightin"-Roya

@wyrdo01

Why does everyone want t'fight me? Did Raihan put y'all up to this?! He always wants t'battle...

As fer the flyin' response: Name's Piers, I'm an ex gym leader from Galar who specializes in dark types. Most of th' time though I'm a musician (Singer, lyricist, Guitar, bass, bit o' drums) and make dark music (mostly punk rock). Nice t'meet ya

[d-eadeye]

Hair, dark as a midnight shadow, tumbles over her thin shoulders like a crick-stream tumbles o'er boulders; lustrous, black, rife with the cloying scent of burnt wood and dying amber, @valeswolf, 𐚁.

"Easy, now.." Sonorous tenor dips to a low, brusque rumble that rustles night's velvet pitch. They are but two ambling chimeras of the forest, stumbling through bramble and bush. Her silver profile, like a waxing crescent, illuminated the tenuous space below him. He pondered, cursorily, who she might've been or was before wild nature'd mauled her pretty edges. Not even the moon dared peek within their restless canopy, bashful behind the dense trees.

"There she goes, easy does it. Watch that ankle now. Wolves'll mangle the corpses some, throw the leather-necks off our trail and give us enough time t'fight through this thicket." How had this happened..? Blurred carnage flashed against the dark wall of memory. "Over this rock. Y'need a hand..?"

[stormcried]

❝ you know the first rule of combat? shoot them before they shoot you. ❞

Cowboy Bebop Starters

A snort. As if insulted by Striker's comment. Drake's not new to combat. Sure, he's gotten into petty brawls before and he's KILLED people before to survive. Drake's not a weak baby like he used to be when he was nine and ten. He wasn't holding back anymore. Especially now that he's in Hell. His rock hard digits trace the rim of the revolver that Striker had given him. It's shooting practice. More like to give Drake a IDEA as to actually how to shoot something. It's loaded of course, so, it's now or never. Shit, he may have to use it one day.

"Pfft. Please, M'nah stupid. I know how t'fight people." Drake retorted back. Drake isn't sure how to use a gun at all. He's never HELD one much less SHOOT one. This is a real, actual gun that he's holding in his grip. Drake's orange hues glanced up to Striker. "So, wha's the plan? M'gonna shoot bottles or somethin'?" Half jokingly he asked. Drake figured Striker would start him off small. Or, at the least get used to shooting a real gun. Because if Striker is going to actually waste his time on Drake, then he better prove useful.

His eyes glance to a barrel. He kind of hoped it was filled with gasoline or something. In the Wrath ring, everything is essentially could explode. Drake would furrows his brows, gripping tight to the handle of the gun. Drake angled himself to mirror Striker. Both hands on the handle. His eyes furrow on the 'target' of their practice. It seemed that it were a few simple beer bottles that Striker either finished off or dumped for the simple purpose of getting Drake used to the revolver. A six shooter. It's gonna pack a serious punch. Finger on the trigger.

Drake's heart racing in his chest. Call it a small strand of nervousness in his system. Drake's survived the worst, yet, he's nervous of a GUN? Pitiful. Drake would shake the feelings off as best as he could. Striker is 'nice' enough to let him do this. Drake took a best aim as he could. Squeezing the trigger. No hesitation now.

'B A N G'

The shot itself had Drake stumble backwards slightly from the ricochet of the power of the gun. He's still not strong enough. Drake gritted his teeth. Miss. "FUCK!" Drake exclaimed in irritation. A exhaled growl follows. "Lemme try again. I ain' acceptin' tha'." Drake didn't wait for a response, taking back his position of the original mirror of Striker. Drake aimed back at the bottle of what he tried to originally aim at. This time, his grip tightens. If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally melt the gun itself. Focusing. His aim to be the bottle itself. The only sounds being his breathing... (also the internal furnace inside of his chest).

Take aim. Drake's getting used to it. Only for him to imagine his worst enemies. The bad people from before. Everything that was taken away from him. His happiness. His life. His family. Those memories burned strong in his head. Drake's anger growing again at this point. Picturing a vision of putting a bullet into every last one of them. Drake's teeth gritting and clenching his jaw. Slight orange wisps forming from his eyes. Eyes burning brighter until the same shot came forth, and sending him back a little bit, only for him to stand his ground again... although instead of a regular golden bullet, a lob of magma shot from the barrel and ending in the center of the bottle, creating it a shattered mess AND a messy after effect. Drake tilted his head. "How... did I do that?"

[spiinsparks]

QUESTION PROMPTS / @badnikbreaker / ACCEPTING !

“ are you going to kill me? ”   from surge

❝ TSCH. ❞ THE NOISE LEFT HIM and sonic was half inclined to leave it at that , with his distaste with the notion perfectly , plainly clear in the curl of his lip , the lowering of his ears.

it wouldn't be long before the hero lifted himself from his position. ❝ dunno how many times i gotta tell you this , surge , but i actually DON'T want t'fight you. ❞ though he would still remain ON EDGE. he may not want a fight , but that didn't mean he wasn't READY and WILLING to defend himself and his friends all the same.

❝ so , no. — just , if you're gonna keep roping innocent people into your BEEF WITH EGGHEAD , STARLINE AND ME , then i'll just keep meetin' you right here , like this , every time. ❞

[ronmanmob]

@corinnebaileyrp snipped from here

"--Weren't f'preference, no."

Of all the details Ron wanted to pick through in all Cory asked of and told him over their respective steaming mugs, it was talk of his brother that drew him. Because of course it was. Even now, half a world and years of growing distance apart, reflexive was his perking up at mention of Reggie; that once upon a time ago quite literal other half of him.

"--Can't even say it was needed wiv 'onesty bu'...It came on natural 'n I didn't 'av it left in me t'fight t'keep it like it was b'fore."

Before his illness, before the stint in prison he'd copped defending the soppy twat, before Rose had gone and died on him- Before, before, before. Though she might have to squint to clock it fully, regretfulness wisped through Ron's expression, his posture, even his voice. His gaze averted to the table-top, shoulders fell a hint, words earned a vague rasp for a beat or so; an accidental inclusion he'd not thought to add to all those ways he tried to emote obviously enough that his companion would notice. Like Reggie'd seemed to, it just...escaped him and Ron--

Ron shook that thought out of his mind.

"When we was li'le-" he said, picking up another strand of their conversation. "-Even our mum mistook one f'th ovvah sometimes. Only way was th'mole on me neck." Were he feeling more at ease he might've flicked his collar down to show her, for it was nothing of a private thing. As it was though, all Ron's focus was on keeping his mind on what they were talking about; not letting it wander down into dark pits. He went on, "Reg didn't 'av one, so it was tha' or a wild guess. As we grew though, we filled aht different. I got like I am-" A vague gesture to the broadness of his shoulders; the power through his chest and torso. "-'N Reg got different - more lithe wiv 'is strenf where I'm biggah-lookin' wiv mine. Scars told us apart as well-" Another gesture, this time to the dusting of ragged but faint lines between his eye and ear on his left side - the legacy of a chancer who got him with a glass 'n wished to God he never had in the aftermath.

"--So...Yeah. Time made us different." Time and illness and all sorts else. Ron glanced at Cory's nose again, that old eye contact feint coming again. "S'nature 'n nurture I fink, t'yah question. Intricate, like y'said..." A slight pause came on, and in that brief moment's quiet the ghost of that regretful turn that'd wisped on through with talk of Reggie was pushed out in favour of something different. On stage came the rakish listener; the affable lad, always up for a natter and seen, by those looking in, in how Ron's lips tugged up faintly at the corners and in how the weight of long-lived-through discontent evaporated from his gaze.

"F'drinks tea's always th'front runnah, bu' if m'aht I like gin 'n tonic, whiskey, 'n if m'really lookin' t'enjoy m'self, Long Island Iced Tea." That last one there was a relatively new love, but a fervent one all the same. "Only trouble is th'Long Island? She don't taste like a spirit so yer f'ree in b'fore y'clock y've made a terrible errah in judgement." A snicker's rasp eased up in Ron's chest.

"Y've gotta tell us now, f'when y'visit me pub. Wha's y'faverit drink t'enjoy when yer aht? 'N siblin's too, since y've 'ad t'suffah 'earin' abaht me bruvvah. You got any or is jus' me 'oo's afflicted?" There was a joke's implication in how he spoke of affliction. He didn't mean it. It was all...just part of what he hoped read somewhere close to friendly charm.

[umbralsound-xiv]

😘 - For: Zhav, About: Sayuri!

Them as a person : "She's pretty headstrong, y'know? Wanted me t'teach 'er wit' th'axe, an' now it's 'ow w'mostly know eachother! Y'know, asides bumpin' into eachother in th'company house every so often. I like 'er!"

Level of attractiveness : "Look, i try not t'think about that too much t'folk i'm trainin'. Tends t'get distractin', aye? But now i'm thinkin' 'bout it..." Zhav slowly rocks her head to one side, as a grin forms at her lips. "Oh aye... I would. She's pretty, an' i reckon could kick m'arse proper if she ain' hold back! An' them scars!" Zhav sighs pleasedly, clearly lost in thought.

What annoys them most : "I ain' sayin' she's got anger issues -exactly-, but she does seem t'get pretty irritable pretty quickly, aye? Needs t'lighten up a lil, 'm only teasin'!"

What they like the most : "She's a good student! Dilligent t'turnin' up f'lessons, an' even when knocked on 'er arse fer th'umpteenth time still gets up t'fight, over an' over. Ain' give up easy! I 'ppreciate it!"

What they’d do if they were locked in a closet together for 4 hours : "...I'd probably annoy 'er senseless. A closet ain' exactly prime trainin' space, so that's out've th'question! So, eh... Probably talkin'. I ain' know! It'd be fun t'talk t'her, i reckon!"

Overall opinion : "I like 'er! I mean, she's a nice 'nough lass, holds th'things she considers dear close t'her chest. Can respect that!"

Rating : High! -- A good student, and a saint for putting up with Zhav's endless teasing!

[halfdent]

❝   Well  some'll  call  it  𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊  .  I  figure  it  better  to  call  it  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄   .   ❞  That  damn  clown  had  been  prattling  on  with  his  ' one  bad  day  philosophy  '  a  theory  for  the  specimen  now  bisected  into  two  .  Great  theory  .  Too  bad  it's  easily  disproved  .  That  day  in  the  court  never  created  𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄  he  was  already  there  ,  he  had  always  been  here . 

Removing  the  mask  from  their  face  ,  revealing  the  unexposed  𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑  beneath  skin  ,  no  thanks  to  that  acid  throwing  bastard  that  one  fatal  day  ,  no  facial  mask  on  one  side  to  hide  what  resulted  of  not  one  bad  day  but  an  entire  life  time  .  A  string  of  bad  luck  .

❝   I  think  it's  𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄 ,  even  .  Try  t'fight  it  ,  try  to  be  a  good  but  it  ain't  up  t'you  or  me  .  Some  of  'em  scales  just  tip  one  way  more  than  the  other  but'cha  can  try  balance  the  books  an'  maybe  yer  get  lucky  .   ❞   Glass  held  up  to  that  .  ❝   So  lets  hope  yer  a  𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘  𝐌𝐀𝐍  .  You'll  need  it  'round  here  ,  if  not  jus'  blow  someone's  head  in  .   ❞  And  the  glass  is  pulled  to  their  mouth  ,  the  action  unpalatable  as  some  of  the  dregs  spill  from  their  gaping  maw  .

.........WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT... definitely someone who's not heard of him before. let alone seen him. most days his reputation precedes domino. it made the don wonder what he missed out on for this man not to have any idea who he stood in front of. ❝ not at all. ❞ he said casually. ❝ but-a i'm sure you're going to tell me about what-a luck is, aren't you... ❞

maybe it would be best to keep that wall up and just remove a fragment from time to time. don't want the other to lose interest after all. he seems like someone who's in need to impress. well go on... impress the don. and maybe he'll tell you more about himself when the time is right.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Maybe a story about Norman being a good parent?

Summary: Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was a Polk, and the Polks did not hurt their young, or whatever they perceived as such.

You all knew it was coming inevitably...

---

[[MORE]]

     Norman's and Margarite's marriage had come as a surprise to the entire Polk family. A simple signature on a piece of paper, and a pair of battered rings that had belonged to Nanna and Poppop Polk (gifted to him by the former who always knew he'd be a better fit for them). No fanciful ceremony with pretty dresses or suits, expensive cakes and extensive guest list.

A disappointing waste, his mama had proclaimed over the letter she'd sent as a reply to his own that detailed his status as a married man in a far off city. She'd wanted to witness the event, shed her motherly tears as one of her little ducklings became a real man ready to start a family.

But, to Norman and Maggie, the marriage wasn't a motive of celebration like his mama thought. It was insurance against further discrimination towards them. They were, after all, the black couple that lived in a quaint apartment in New York city.

Already that was a challenge of its own, as said apartment was populated primarily by white hot-blooded tenants, with only one more laying vacant for a (hopefully) friendlier family.

Their downstairs neighbor clearly hated them from sight alone, and the others were unsure how the new additions fit into their "perfect" lives in the Big Apple. If any of them were to discover that they both enjoyed the full spectrum of the gender binary, well... Accidents happened in the big city. Accidents that targeted specific minorities for some "unfathomable" reason.

So yes, as shameful as it may be, their wedding was strictly business. Rings for show, public displays of affection to dispell the gossip, and overall just the usual married life arguments in the grocery store to sell the deal (neither of them could care less about which type of sugar made the best apple pie crust, or what brand of soap was better, but it sure made the couples they passed by smile knowingly at the common domestic disputes). There was just one thing left to do to really make a statement on their relationship status.

  "Three of my coworkers are getting maternity leave. It's been a few months, I think it's time."

Children were a sensitive topic. Both Norman and Maggie wanted kids, had a vague idea of how many they planned to raise, and were quite certain they'd make beautiful and healthy younglings with one another. The question was: Was it fair to bring in chidren into a farce of a matrimony? What if one day they found their actual ideal partner?

  "Yous better be sure it's the right time darlin'..." He'd urged her to think more on the subject. "Don't want to rush things like that now, do we?"

  "I'm ready." She'd stared him in the eye with a certainty and confidence he couldn't begin to imagine. He knew she was, but was he? Was he truly ready to bare such a responsibility?

That night he relented to her wishes and they had finally consummated their marriage. Nine months later, little Nancy was born a small but relatively healthy baby. Upon seeing his firstborn for the first time ever, and then holding her gently in hands that dwarfed her little head greatly, Norman immediately understood he was ready to be a parent. And a loving one at that.

-

     In total, Norman and Maggie had five children. Three boys and two girls. Nancy was their eldest child and the more levelheaded of the bunch. The apple of her mother's eye, and her father's baby girl, she was the perfect balance of their greatest qualities and teachings. A clever and determined young girl with big aspirations for her future. She wanted to be a doctor.

Aaron was the second eldest child and the one most like his father. Clever and with an eye for detail, enough so that he had taken up an interest that fits his perceptive nature: Photography. The walls of the Polk household were filled with his works, at first done with Norman's own old and battered camera, until he'd bought the young lad his very own fancy new model.

Louise was the middle child, and the troublemaker of the bunch. She was a bit of a tomboy, and liked to scrap with the boys in her class, to the point where it wasn't uncommon to see her with several bruises and band-aids, and haphazardly taped wireframed glasses. She kept both Norman and Maggie on their toes.

Albert was the second youngest and the quietest. A little bookworm that appreciated the art of literature over anything else. He wanted to be a novelist, even at a very young age, and often shared ideas for stories at the dinner table. There was no doubt in Norman's heart that his little boy would write a best-seller one day. Maggie fretted for his social life, however, as he was the least sociable of their children. Far too shy.

Finally the youngest child was Willard. An outspoken young toddler that was definitely as confident as his mama. A little tot with a very big personality indeed, that Norman couldn't wait to see grow up into yet another fine young boy. If any of their children was to ever get what he wanted in life, it'd definitely be Will.

Truly there was nothing in this world that Norman loved more than his offsprings, and indulging in their interests was always an adventure. One to be shared with three other members of the family.

The vacant apartment had been occupied by Norman's younger brother, Alfred, and his own two children. By then almost all their neighbors (minus the one that hated them from day one) had warmed up to them. So another set of friendly faces was a good addition to their home life.

Norman absolutely loved watching over his nephew and niece, especially because his children were delighted to have other kids around their age to play with.

It reminded him of being back home in Louisiana, his own brothers and sisters sparring with him and playing whatever games they could come up with on the spot. Watching Louise and Nelson tumbling about fighting as equally dirty as the other, really stirred up some good memories he had of his older sisters.

"Bite her Nelson! Bite her!" Lydia cheered as her older brother pinned their cousin to the ground.

"Louise tug on his ears! Pummel him!" Aaron called out to his little sister, encouraging her to fend off her opponent.

"Lydia and Aaron! What I tell y'all 'bout encouragin' yous's siblings t'fight all nasty?!"

"Not to...?"

"Exactly."

Granted some play-fighting needed to be monitored when most of the audience were enablers, and neither his middle child nor his nephew had any qualms sending each other to the hospital. They were still learning about consequences after all.

Still, there wasn't anything else in the world that built better character than teaching the children that they were equals to one another in all their shared activities. Respect was an important lesson to be learned. One Norman wished every parent taught their child.

The world would be a better place otherwise...

-

Sometimes the Projectionist would inevitably be unable to fend off sleep. The exhaustion would wear it down and give way to the nightmares of a life it could barely remember. Then it would wake up and scream, trying to rid itself of heinous visions of itself ripping its offsprings apart.

Norman Polk would reawaken inside its brutish body and lash out, hoping to either physically fight away his own broken psyche or perhaps cripple the Projectionist so that it could never fulfil these dreamt up acts of violence.

A Polk was all about family, and the thought of becoming the sort to bring harm upon his own children... Well, Norman had heard the stories. Knew why Poppop was such a taboo topic. He did not want to be the man besides his Nanna in the portrait above the fireplace... One he'd resembled if his eye wasn't wrong and he'd grown out his beard...

The Projectionist didn't have the mental faculties to understand this distress however, but it seemed to recognize that what it saw in dreams was bad. That what it did to the vermin, it should never do to those innocent little youngsters that looked at it with love instead of fear and hatred. So... Why did it do it in dreams? Why did it kill when it wanted to be docile? The children were not a threat, so why...?

It made no sense... But it didn't much care for elaborate existential crisis like that. Norman's consciousness would freak it out, but ultimately loosened its grip and go back to being dormant. The lumbering beast resuming its tiring trek through the endless maze. A cycle that would repeat itself the next time it fell asleep.

It was in the aftermath of yet another nightmare that the Projectionist came across something completely new to it. Something small and living, and very much intruding on its space. Something that very vaguely looked like it...

A living being with a body similar to the ones the horrible botched critters that ran around in packs had, yet with no visible imperfections to it. Its head though... It was kind of like a projector, but not. Square in shape, with a lens, a tube, dial and something very round that kind of looked like a big ear. A camera, like the one Aaron had gotten for his birthday.

It seemed to have gloves, shoes and a belt that sort of looked like the speaker lodged in the Projectionist's torso, but it was hard to tell since the strange being was on the ground flailing about like a dying fish.

The towering amalgam stared at the tiny new thing in dumbfounded silence, unsure how to react to such a strange discovery, until it realized why the thing was flailing about to begin with.

One of its legs was pinned under a crate that appeared to have fallen from a nearby stack, and the Projectionist could tell the limb was broken. Nearby lay a series of Ink Hearts that had been resting on the fallen crate.

On any other occasion it would have simply walked over, raised one heavy foot, and crushed the intruder's skull for daring to try to steal from it. This time however, was completely different... Something primal was urging the Projectionist to do something completely alien to its usually aggressive nature. Something instinctive.

The poor creature grew agitated upon finally noticing the Projectionist's presence as it approached, but its broken limb ensured it stayed put even after the crate was picked up and tossed aside. It shook fearfully once the Projectionist knelt down to pick it up by the torso. It stopped shaking once it was brought to rest against the much larger beast's chest, cradled gently like an infant. The Projectionist rumbling softly so as to reassure it that no harm would befall it.

The little creature, with a head that was not a projector but a distant relative of a sort, stared up with its own dark lens before reaching out to gently pat the Projectionist's "face". It seemed to understand its intention to help it, rather than exterminate it.

The lumbering beast carried on in its path, now carrying a most precious cargo. It would find something to help treat the injury and then it would begin teaching this newly adopted offspring to survive in the studio.

Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was still a Polk, and the Polks cared for their younglings. This tiny sentient camera was its child now, and the beast would protect it from the horrors of this horrid studio.

[surlymccoy]

"What happened to you?"

Reaction Meme | @traiilblazer | accepting

         Leonard’s gaze flickers from where he’s focusing in the mirror, a dermal regenerator held carefully over a purpling swell along his cheekbone. The doctor looks rough, with a cut above one eye and bruises staining his jaw. But he also… maybe… looks a little bit guilty.

         "…Jim.“ McCoy greets, his tone making an effort towards annoyed but only managing to land on resigned. “Good t'see you, too. By all means, barge into my personal quarters…” Setting down the regen wand, Len twists to lean his hip against the bathroom sink. He crosses his arms over his chest and levels a chagrined, if mulish, expression in his friend’s direction. 

         "….Look.“ McCoy sighs, already glancing away from making eye contact, ”… I know y'said not to interfere with the Kazon sects, and all… But…“ And here the doctor deflates slightly, one hand reaching up to gingerly rub the back of his neck. ”…Well, you saw their medical equipment. They still use lethal levels of unfiltered radiation on curable diseases, fer god'ssake. I couldn’t just….“

          {{ He couldn’t just leave them like that, dying from their own ignorance.                                                                                Not when he could help. }}

        Cards on the table now. McCoy spreads his arms wide, his palms open in a gesture of entreaty. ”— There were kids there, Jim. Kids that were hurt, seriously hurt. And I could treat them. I did treat them. I just…uh…“ 

        Grimacing slightly, Leonard tongues at a hidden split on the inside of his cheek, testing for the taste of blood. ”….well, I had t'fight one of ‘em first… to prove myself worthy.“ 

        It might be the only time he’s ever been grateful for those required combat training classes at the academy. 

[st-riley-the-brave]

💝 (for Hanzo) I don’t remember if I sent this already. If I did.... ignore this XD

[ And now for something completely different! / (Accepting by the way!) ]

"...and he has been teaching me JAPANESE, Elysium! He has been very patient with me, and I with him -- when I first swore in Scottish Gaelic during one of our spars 'is jaw bloody dropped. I was mortified at first and 'ad t'explain m'other primary language. He laughed and understood right away, then taught me th'Japanese equivalent. So between learnin' t'fight an' learnin' t'cook, I'd say we're in for a mighty fun time learning languages! And did I mention he's... oh dear God what's th'word... かわいい, I think it is. It means cute. I think I got that right..."

[pcrdita]

Just... let me in. Eye's tightly closed, Jude senses Luciana's hands gently resting against his legs. Opening up, he catches a glimpse of her features. He remembers Jane asking him to be let in more times than he could count on his own hands. He can't quite put a reason to why he couldn't fully fill the woman in on his past, after all the time they spent bound together by an intoxicated stupor. But it did mean he was out of practice, unsure of how to translate his complex feelings into words to adequately describe how torn apart he felt on the inside.

He certainly didn't want a repeat of what it felt to lose Jane.

A semblance almost melancholy settles on his features. If Jude wanted this relationship to work, he needed to be honest with her. As excrusiating as it may be. And right now, that meant he had take her back in time and explain what his father had done. Perhaps it would convey to Luciana why Jude became the man he was today, both for good and bad.

"He's was charged with... " Jude clears his throat, running his palm roughly over his mouth and beard. There was simply no way to easily explain things, make it palatable. "...Uh, second degree murder." Jude still didn't exactly understand the difference between the 'levels' of murder. First, Second, Capital... It all meant the same to him. Except he knew if the prosecutors had pressed for 'Capital' charges he wouldn't be cursed with the need to go appeal his parole every year.

Just getting that initial sentence out and verbalised into words was hard enough, but it was a start. While difficult, it wasn't as agonising as he feared it might be. Though tears still do threaten in the corner of each eye. "...He killed my mother when I was seventeen." The situation was a lot more nuanced than just that, while he knew his father was a violent man a younger Jude couldn't have conceded the final swell of anger that brew in the man would come out the way it did. Maybe he was just naive, maybe his brother saw it years before Jude did — and was why he left town before the implosion.

"He got a minimum sentence of ten t'life. He's been in prison for .... twenty years now, I think?" He anchors his vision onto a smudge on the wall, wiping at his eye with the back of his palm. Sniffling. "Up for parole for seven.... So I been going back on my own t'fight the them approvin' it every year since then."

No one else was coming to fight for the memory of Jude's mother. it's a decision he didn't have to think twice about, but held the heaviness of the woman's tumultuous thirty year marriage she found herself trapped in.

This isn't something she's good at. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Instead of having the big conversation she should have with Xavier before she packed up and left their little town in Texas. She left a note and headed on her way because she couldn't bring herself to have the hard conversation so if there is some unwritten expression her features then it's not one she's meaning to have. If she had it her way she would just strip naked and not make him talk about the situation at all but that's not the way a relationship. She knows it. And by his expression when she said the word girlfriend, he does too.

They've been doing this dance for months now and haven't even touched the baggage that's clearly in the corner for each of them. She leans against the frame of the door way, not wanting to invade too much of his space when he's let something so personal slip despite the fact she'd like to come closer and let him know whatever choice he decides to make she's still here regardless. She brushes her tongue along her lower lip as she tilts her head down to look at her feet. "I'll go if it's what you want," she knows something like that could never be easy.

She shifts away from the door way and makes her way over to him, finding herself kneeling on the ground in front of him. She places her hands on his legs. "So walk me through it and let me make that choice on my own. It's not a big ask if I'm putting it out there." She says in a soft voice, her eyes drifting across his. "Start slow, write it down, whatever you want to do. Just.. let me in, Jude."

@pcrdita

[fearless2ndmate]

Afton lifted a brow at the boy’s ominous words. He seemed to not doubt the people coming for him yet the boy was still…off.

“If yo'r so sure o vat, why’re still so down, laddie?”

“B'cuz!!! This-!! This ain’t their battle t'fight..” Link sighed. “I’ve fought people, things, much more threatenin’ than yer crew. I could’ve swept though all of ya…but I con’t. I’ve got courage in m'blood, ’m soul. It’s who I am…but I con’t ovacome her..”

Confusion once again struck the man as the hero griped; what has this child gone through to talk like this? “Kid…yer losin meh ‘ere.”

Link hesitated for s moment before looking to Afton. “D'ya believe in th'legend ov'th'hero that slain th'darkness…?” He asked.

A tense air filled the room at the question, the pirate’s concern showing as he slowly began piecing together Link’s appearance. No, him being a legendary hero? That’s…ridiculous right..?

“Uh…aye, a li'ul bit yes? But whot does that 'ave t'do wiv'anyfing..?”

Link offered the man his left palm to which he looked at a tad nervously; he slowly turned over the boy’s hand and felt his heart drop. There marked the holy crest of the Triforce etched into his skin; the triangle symbolizing courage filled. Afton’s hands grew clammy as he paled at the sight.

"Y..ye...o-oh gods-- If th'legend is true n yer here-- Is it end times--!? Did vat thing come back--!?"

"No no, I mean, yes, but I already killed 'im which is why 'm so angry at m'self. I con seal away th'King o Evil but I don't stand up fer m'self t'some pirates..." he sighed, holding his face in his hands.

Afton...tried his best to calmly process the situation; how could the kid just mention fighting the King of Evil so casually!? What the hell did he go through?! Either way, the ravenette pushed those thoughts to the side to encourage the boy both because he had a soft sport for him but also to get his mind off of a crisis.

"Oich, look laddie." He grunted, lifting Link's chin up to look at him once more. "Don'get so down on yo'rself. It's b'cuz these 'r scars from yer childhood o'vcourse it's ' ard. Y'ov all people should know...theres No courage without fear...loik light n dark need t'coexist. Y'just need t'stop bein'a 'ero fer everyone else n be a 'ero t'yerself, y'undastand?"

Link nodded giving a small grin. "Thank ya'Afton."

With that Afton lifted Link and placed him back on his feet as he stood up. "Heh...no problem, Link."

Though...now a new feeling of...guilt..filled his chest. "But...when they come...whot'bout you..? They're gonna kill y-"

"Feh," he brushed off, waving his hand dismissively at Link. "Whot'd I jus'say?" He growled slightly. "Be yer own 'ero. 'Sides, don'worry about me. I need t'repent fer whot I've done...That n..heh, m'death will finally let me leave this crew. I've 'ad m'run here...jus'worry about yer own." The pirate smirked, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Go on scamp, get outta 'ere. N don'ferget whot I've said."

With that, Link nodded and left.

Be his own hero...?